At 12:25 pm on a Sunday afternoon the foyer of the Ballet Tucson rehearsal studio is buzzing. About fifty supporters, dancers, and aspiring ballet students chat enthusiastically about the upcoming performances scheduled for March and April. Thomas Gilliam, the managing director, pours wine into tall glasses; I slowly walk the hallways admiring framed posters—mementos of dance seasons long gone.

As I sipped my Chardonnay, Ballet Tucson’s President of the Board of Directors, Cynthia Hansen, stood up to deliver a warm welcome, followed by a sobering message: “It’s a difficult time to maintain operations for a non profit. The Tucson Pima Arts Council funding budget has been cut, meaning funds that were allocated to Ballet Tucson will not be forthcoming.” (David Hoyt Johnson, the Deputy Director of TPAC told me that our city manager has recommended a 60% cut in arts awards for next year; more on that matter in a future column). The deficit has to be made up somehow, and Ms. Hansen thanked some of Ballet Tucson’s sponsors, including Long Realty and McDonalds, and notably a significant advertising package donated by Clear Channel Communications.

An uncertain economy and dwindling grants paint an unpleasantly familiar picture in our home city: Artists, performers and educators are struggling to continue doing what they love most. But Ballet Tucson remains determined and courageously optimistic. Next year will be their 25th anniversary season and as Ms. Hansen noted: “Public and private funding is shrinking, but despite these challenges Ballet Tucson is forging ahead. Now more than ever, our partnerships within the community will continue to be creative and innovative.”

Ballet Tucson's full company in "Joplin." Photograph by Tim Fuller.

To survive in challenging economic times, theatre, dance, and arts groups need to be innovative, and survival often requires a small army of unpaid volunteers together with resourceful staff members who are willing to wear multiple hats. The foyer in which we were sitting, “Our humble little home,” as Mr. Gilliam described it, “is also our costume shop. We have three incredible volunteer seamstresses.” And as an example he told how June Mullin doubles as office manager and also designs and builds masks used in performance by the dancers.

My parents were ballet enthusiasts and—growing up in London—I several times had the good fortune to see the Royal Ballet Company in action. But I have to admit that my own knowledge of the most graceful of the performing arts is little more than that of a novice. However, I happen to have a personal interest in Ballet Tucson: My friend Libby Egleson is in her first season with the company and—eager to learn about her work as she has learned about mine—I had the happy opportunity to represent TucsonCitizen.com at an invitation-only open rehearsal and lunch. Held annually, the event serves as a thank you to Ballet Tucson’s sponsors and subscribers.

That particular Sunday, the company was focused on rehearsing for their annual Dance & Dessert performance. While Ballet Tucson also performs classical crowd pleasers such as “The Nutcracker” and “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” the Dance & Dessert presentation is something special. “It is the one time in the year when we get to showcase the versatility of our Ballet Tucson dancers,” notes Founding Artistic Director Mary Beth Cabana.

As the spectators divided into two groups, June came up to me, winked discreetly and whispered: “You want to be in Studio B,” as that was where Libby and her colleagues would be rehearsing “Ritmos de la Noche” (Rhythms of the Night), a modern ballet in three movements, under the direction of Mary Beth. “This is piece we haven’t done in five or six years,” she explained to our small group of guests. “And we’re going to attempt to do a run through but might do a little stopping and starting.”

“Ritmos” opens with a vibrant and exciting flamenco piece, but becomes an eclectic musical journey including breathy, heartfelt Andes-inspired melodies, Middle Eastern themes, and a percussive, energetic piece by pop singer Shakira. It’s a bold and exciting mix, and a long way from “Swan Lake.”

I am a nuts and bolts person. I am fascinated by the mechanics of performance: set design, lighting, the fine tuning of choreography, even the duties of guitar techs. As I sat on a folding chair, a few feet from Mary Beth—elegant, energetic, focused, and dressed in her black Ballet Tucson sweats—I was intrigued to witness a small part of the process that a dance movement undergoes in its evolution from a digital recording on a compact disc, and an idea in a director’s mind, to a flowing live performance.

“It’s supposed to look effortless,” Libby told me later. From a seat in a darkened theatre, some distance from the stage, the performance is expected to appear effortless. But when you are perched on a folding chair in a brightly-lit rehearsal space, ten feet from the dancers, you see the hard breathing and perspiration, feel the concentration and hear the sound of contact. Up close, it’s a little shocking to discover just how forcefully dancers’ feet—and sometimes hands and knees—connect with that hard wood floor.

Meredith Dulaney and Peter Lisanti in Ballet Tucson's "Hibiki." Photograph by Tim Fuller.

Mary Beth strikes me as a hands-on artistic director, completely involved with every aspect of the production. She is ready to jump up at any moment and interact with her company to demonstrate the throwing of a shawl, or a precise flip or turn, or to point out specifics of timing and placement: “What happens in this section is the adrenaline gets going, and it’s really important that you don’t rush.” And in reference to the motion of the flamenco dancers’ skirts: “Think of the bullfighter with his cape.”

And while Mary Beth worked with the principle dancers in “Ritmos de la Noche,” their understudies, positioned around the edges of the dance floor, practiced the same parts.

After a short break, I moved to Studio A, where husband-and-wife dance team and Artistic Associates Amanda McKerrow and John Gardner were quietly immersed in setting “Dark Elegies”—a 1937 piece by legendary choreographer Anthony Tudor. Inspired by Gusav Mahler’s “Isset to Kindertotenlieder” (Songs on the Death of Children), a composition that was, itself, inspired by a Friedrich Ruckert poem, “Dark Elegies” it is a complex, moody and highly unusual piece. Amanda explained the premise to me: “It is about a community who lost all their childeren; they were swept out to sea. The parents support each other through their grief. They move forward with hope, but only together. A loss that great can never be overcome, but can only be dealt with through support.” “Dark Elegies” is the fourth Anthony Tudor piece that Ballet Tucson has performed and the company’s strong association with the famous choreographer is a result of John and Amanda’s long professional relationship with him.

In rehearsal, the somber nature of “Dark Elegies” contrasts with John and Amanda’s gentle and encouraging staging. This couple are not only visiting artistic associates, but also highly accomplished ballet dancers in their own right. Mary Beth Cabana and John Gardner went to art school in Illinois together, and Amanda and John originally came to Ballet Tucson as performers, gradually making the transition to teachers. When Mary Beth founded Ballet Tucson, John was performing with the American Ballet Theatre in New York City. Mary Beth asked if John and Amanda would be willing to come out to Tucson to perform, and to teach, and the couple have worked with Ballet Tucson ever since.

Amanda reflects: “There aren’t that many husband and wife teams in ballet, for whatever reason. But we can be much more efficient as a team. We can go much faster and we can bring different sensibilities to each piece. It allows us to come at our work from different angles and be much more thorough. In rehearsal one person can’t see everything, no matter how hard you try. It’s really helpful to have two pairs of eyes, and to have someone who is a different gender too. We can be a lot more specific than if it’s just one of us.”

A few days after the open rehearsal, I received another not-to-be-missed invitation, from another husband-and-wife team: Dinner at the house of Ballet Tucson dancers Jenna Johnson and Daniel Precup. Tall, poised, and worldly, they are as elegant a couple as I have ever met. Daniel’s charming Old-World Romanian manners reminded me of my childhood travels in Europe, and the plum brandy we were served as an aperitif was as strong and warming as a winter bonfire.

And so, after half a lifetime spent in the performing arts—in my case as a rock ‘n’ roll bassplayer and singer, and later as a television host—I find myself becoming acquainted with a fascinating circle of talented and passionate performers from a world almost entirely new to me. Ballet Tucson is both a family and a labor of love, and also an unusual opportunity to watch romantic partners following their muse together. Commenting on the working relationship with her husband, Amanda McKerrow told me, with more than a little joy in her voice: “I love what I do but I love it a lot more becuase I do it with him.”

Ballet Tucson’s Dance & Dessert will take place on March 12, 13 and 14 at the Stevie Eller Dance Theatre at 1737 East University Boulevard on the U of A campus. Enjoy an “electic program” plus “gourmet desserts from may of Tucson’s favorite restaurants.”

Tickets can be purchased directly from Ballet Tucson. Call (520) 903-1445 for more information, or visit the Ballet Tucson website.

I first became acquainted with the work of the great, enigmatic American artist Robert Smithson while attending New York’s School of Visual Arts during the 1980s. He was fascinated by geology, maps, landscape, earth moving equipment and enjoyed relocating piles of rocks and dirt into fancy galleries. I liked him immediately.

Robert Smithson was born in Passaic, New Jersey in 1938. His father was a natural history enthusiast who built his own small museum, and young Robert planned family vacations (as did I) to include such wonders as the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone National Monument. In 1948 the Smithson family moved to Clifton, NJ and Robert fought the boredom of suburban life by making frequent visits to the American Museum of Natural History and studying at the Art Students League, both in New York City.

As Eugenie Tsai wrote in a collection of essays on Smithson beautifully presented by the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles:

Robert Smithson is perhaps best known as a pioneer of the Earthworks movement and the creator of the iconic Spiral Jetty (1970). However, his involvement in the development of Earthworks is only one of his many contributions to postwar American art. One of the most important concepts Smithson advanced was that of the “site,” a place in the world where art is inseparable from its context.

Smithson picked Rozel Point, a remote spot on the north shore of the Great Salt Lake, Utah for the location of the Spiral Jetty. Over 6,000 tons of basalt rock and boulders were moved into position by dumptrucks in order to fashion the elegant spiral. At the time of construction, the water level was rising and Smithson knew his most ambitious work would soon be entirely—and intentionally—submerged.

I learned from the Dia Art Foundation’s SpiralJetty.org website (Smithson’s estate left the Jetty to Dia after his tragic death in an airplane accident in 1973) that, during the past few years, the water level had subsided enough to make the Spiral Jetty temporarily visible again. I so wanted to visit the site that I had once even suggested to a group of scuba diving buddies that we plan a dive trip there (that idea was met with considerable laughter). Now, after 25 years of daydreaming about the Jetty, it seemed I might at last be able to see it.

Rough road to the Jetty

I telephoned the Golden Spike National Historic Site, the nearest sign of civilization to the Jetty, and spoke with a charming park ranger named Grace, who was most encouraging and assured me that “Now is an excellent time to visit. The water levels are very low.”

I chose Thanksgiving Day for my personal pilgrimage. I have to say the timing was partly convenience and partly strategy. I happened to be within striking distance of the Jetty in late November, and I also figured it would be pleasantly deserted on America’s most family oriented day. The long trip from Salt Lake City is not really that far in terms of miles—my roundtrip mileage amounted to about 220—but it is a little tricky to find your way. There is a lot of travel to be done on gravel roads, while following directions (very kindly supplied by Dia) along the lines of: “Drive 1.3 miles south to a second fork in the road. Turn right onto the southwest fork, and proceed 1.7 miles to cattle guard #2.”

My rental truck had already suffered one flat tire before departure for the Jetty. At that time I unhappily discovered that the rental company neglected to include a jack with the vehicle. Just a small oversight. I was able to borrow a jack from a colleague (it didn’t fit but we made it work anyway), but only for the duration of the tire change. There were now no tools of any kind in my truck and if I had another flat on Thanksgiving Day, on a dirt road somewhere northeast of the Great Salt Lake, there would be no help on the way.

It was a lovely drive, and chilly. The air felt clean and clear and winding dirt roads were surrounded on all sides by green and sculpted mountains. At some point I realized that the extensive lowlands I’d been traveling through for hours were all once part of the lake, an indication of the great changes that northern Utah has seen over the millennia.

When I rounded Rozel Point the road became so rough I had to leave the truck and hike it. Normally I would have barreled through, but I wasn’t taking any chances without that jack. My first view of Spiral Jetty, lying grand and still against a vast table of white salt, was much the way I felt the first time I saw the actual Mona Lisa or the Golden Gate Bridge. These are images so firmly implanted in the collective unconscious that gazing upon them in real life can be rapturous and slightly unsettling, as if they are vespers from other dimensions that have crossed over into our reality.

The lake had receded far indeed, leaving the Jetty starkly stranded on expansive salt flats. The sky reflected perfectly in the distant waters, creating a seamless chrome-like backdrop. And the whole place was blissfully deserted. I passed a couple of happy hours taking photos, and walking the spiral inside and out. I didn’t want to disturb Smithson’s greatest work, but I did want a souvenir, so I filled a small vial with white sand from the shore next the Jetty.

As I began to contemplate heading back to Salt Lake City, a Land Rover pulled up and parked on the shore. Four people and two dogs piled out, happy and laughing. At first I was slightly disappointed that my reverie had been disturbed, but I quickly revised my opinion: How wonderful and surprising that I’m not the only art enthusiast who is a big enough nut to come all the way out here on Thanksgiving Day. So I went over, said hello, and received a most generous invitation. But that’s a story for another day.

I remained by the Jetty, and the hills above it, almost until sunset. During my slightly melancholy drive back to Salt Lake City and a lonely and empty motel room, I realized very clearly that one of the most memorable days of my life was drawing to a close. A dream come true; a solitary journey into the wilderness for a unique and truly happy Thanksgiving Day; and a close encounter with the progeny of one of the Twentieth Century’s most puzzling and original artists. All things to be thankful for.

To learn more, I recommend the exhibition catalog Robert Smithson (2004) organized by Eugenie Tsai with Cornelia Butler in association with The Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, published by the University of California Press.

Photographs © by Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

Back in June I wrote a piece about Lynx rufus, the magnificent Sonoran lynx affectionately known in these parts as the bobcat. And that’s a little confusing because there are eleven different subspecies of wild cats in North America that go by the title of bobcat, including the rather wonderfully named Lynx fasciatus (British Columbia) and Lynx superiorensis (Northwest and Central US).

As a confirmed cat person I have been, for several years, delighted and thrilled by occasional visits to my small desert kingdom by a solitary, wary and very beautiful adult Lynx rufus. He periodically made a tasty lunch out of one of my mourning doves, but I couldn’t really be mad at him as that is the way of life in the wilds.

Recently, while preparing a tasty vegetarian breakfast I looked out my kitchen window to see a bobcat cub frolicking in my fountain. About the size of a house cat, he already had the distinctive glaring eyes and radiant stripes of the desert lynx. I tried to snap a few photos, but he scampered off into the sea of cactus and agave.

The very next morning the cub returned with two siblings and, a little later, his cautious and protective mom. This time, I had no trouble capturing them on camera. The cats just moved right in and made themselves at home: splashing in the fountain, dozing under a mesquite, and climbing like goofy monkeys on a large prickly pear tree that used to stand on the east side of my house. I say “used to” because the diminutive hunting cats had so much fun on the tree they broke off its largest limb. It crashed to the ground and quickly became fodder for javelinas and desert hares.

Some mornings, the four cats walked brazenly onto my patio, scaring the daylights out of my indoor house cat, whose tail fluffed up like a busby—the black, bushy hats worn by the Queen’s Coldstream Guards at Buckingham Palace in my old hometown of London. One of the inquisitive cubs came right up to the sliding door, curious enough about what was going on inside the Logical Lizard’s abode to bump his feline nose on the glass.

Bobcats cover a lot of ground when they’re in the mood, and the family has sadly moved on. I hope mom brings me a new litter next year. They were the most illustrious visitors I’ve had in some time.

Photographs © by Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.