Christopher Boatwright over came deafness to transform dance. Boatwright died of complications from AIDS in 1997

Dance Magazine, May, 1996 
by Valerie Gladstone

Christopher Boatwright may have lost most of his hearing, but his matchless musicality remains. In fact, having been forced to find tempos and rhythms within himself, he has made his dancing increasingly profound. He has developed new sensibilities in the process of learning sign language and lipreading. These new accomplishments, combined with the technique, line, and ballon that made him a classical ballet star in Europe, have made his performances in the contemporary repertoire of Alonzo King's Lines Contemporary Ballet Company an amazing thing to behold. Audiences saw Boatwright's achievement when Lines performed in San Francisco's Center for the Arts (April 19-28), and New York City audiences will see him at the Joyce Theater (June 4-9).

"Chris is a master musician," says King, who brought him to Lines three years ago, "and as his love for dancing continues to grow, so does his ability to transform himself so thoroughly that he seems to disappear into his roles. Most dancers exhibit themselves first, but he makes the works visible. He is one of the great artists of his generation."

For a young African American from Brooklyn who excelled in football, tennis, and swimming, becoming a dancer seemed quite unlikely. Boatwright changed direction while a scholarship student at Fieldston, a New York City private school. He would be doing warm-up exercises in the gym while the girl students were taking modern dance class. Gradually he was drawn into another world. He had considered becoming a lawyer to please his family, but once he started studying with Merce Cunningham after school, there wasn't much chance of his doing anything else but dance.

Cunningham excited Boatwright, but the atmosphere of the School of American Ballet, which he attended for six weeks, was just too cold for him. A career in ballet did appeal to him, however, despite the fact that so few blacks were classical dancers. The outstanding exception was Arthur Mitchell, then dancing with New York City Ballet. To further complicate matters, Boatwright was seriously injured after graduating from high school.

He hurt his knee while auditioning for Harkness Ballet. X rays showed that he had splinters in his femur. After surgery and three weeks in the hospital, he needed extensive therapy. It took him three months to walk again. Once back on his feet, he auditioned for American Ballet Theatre's school and won a scholarship. After classes there, he'd study at the Alvin Ailey American Dance Center in the evening.

"What a wonderful time we had!" recalls Boatwright. "My friends and I were all flower children. We'd take classes all day and then go out all night together. I moved to Greenwich Village and became a part of the disco scene," he recalls. "But it took its toll. I hadn't learned the discipline required for ballet. There were too many distractions, and I wasn't taking care of my body. In late seventy-two, I began to look for a way out of New York. I knew I needed to be a monk in my work."

Stuttgart Ballet seemed like a good alternative. When Boatwright saw the company perform Eugene Onegin at the Metropolitan Opera House in 1973, he was inspired to audition--in part because Stuttgart had black dancers. "I thought maybe they'll be liberal enough to take me," he says. At the time, there were six black dancers in Stuttgart's sixty-two-member troupe, three times as many as in ABT and in NYCB combined.

Company director John Cranko noticed Boatwright at the audition and called him forward to do some especially difficult combinations. His performance was enough to make Cranko want him in his school in Germany. Boatwright explained that his family couldn't afford the cost. Undaunted, Cranko met with Boatwright's parents and suggested they all go to the Ford Foundation in Washington, D.C., to try to get scholarship money. Cranko's efforts paid off, and, at twenty-two, Boatwright became the first recipient of the John Cranko Scholarship.

Ron Alexander, a faculty member of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Center and former principal with Hamburg Ballet, has known Boatwright since those days. "From the beginning," he says, "Chris was an incredible classical dancer, with the qualities of an Erik Bruhn. He had--and still has--a magnificent presence; his gorgeous smile shines all the way to the back row of the theater."

"I was eager to go to Europe because I wanted to be where the classics originated," explains Boatwright, "and to understand the feeling of courtliness that infuses so many of them. It didn't disappoint me. This new world gave me everything I wanted--discipline and beautiful, beautiful ballets. I loved it.

"Every day was enthralling--being around Marcia Haydee and learning from John Cranko. I'd only known the choreography of Balanchine, Joffrey, and Ailey, and American dancers. Stuttgart had an international repertory and many French and English members."

The atmosphere outside the studio was as new to Boatwright as the activities inside. "In the United States, you're told you're a black American; in Europe I was a person, just someone from a different country. It took years for me to get used to the openness. So many races go through Europe that there is hardly any bias. The Germans were very sharing and giving, and very respectful. It felt more like home than being here in America." Boatwright flourished. For nine years he starred with Stuttgart Ballet, getting opportunities he probably would never have had in the United States. During this period he danced in many of Cranko's ballets, including Romeo and Juliet, Swan Lake, The Taming of the Shrew, and Jeu de Cartes.

The role of Romeo was a turning point for Boatwright. "I never thought I was going to be Romeo. I didn't look like an Italian boy. When I told Marcia [Haydee] that I couldn't do it, she said, 'You can be anything you want.' She made me realize that I shouldn't let something petty like race take away the joy of dance.

"In Europe they loved me in the role, but when we went to Washington, D.C., the theater didn't want me to perform the role with a white ballerina. They said they'd only present a black Romeo with a black Juliet. But the company put me on anyway. It caused a little scandal but it went well. In New York City there was no fuss, and I played Romeo with more enjoyment than fear. The Brooklyn kid had made good."

The following year Boatwright danced The Sleeping Beauty, a ballet also usually off limits to blacks, and three more black dancers joined Stuttgart Ballet, making the company truly multiracial. "I felt completely at home there," says Boatwright. "It was a small town, and the Germans really made us feel like family. I learned German and got to love German food."

There were also opportunities to dance works of innovative choreographers. "Glen Tetley worked with the company in seventy-four and seventy-five. He liked my dancing, and pulled me out of the corps. Glen had this way of moving organically. I danced his Greening and Daphnis and Chloe. I also worked with Jiri Kylian, and did Billy Forsythe's Love Songs and Orpheus."

By the mid-eighties Boatwright felt he needed more challenges, and decided to accept an offer to dance for a season with Los Angeles Ballet, then directed by John Clifford. Following his stint in Los Angeles, he took a year off and lived near the beach in Venice, California, keeping in shape by giving himself class. Unsure of what to do next, he even tried working in the movies. "I considered going back to New York and auditioning for ABT, to be close to home," says Boatwright. "And it crossed my mind to try Dance Theatre of Harlem. I love DTH, but . . . I felt that Arthur had been just as racist forming an all-black company as anyone establishing an all-white company."

He decided to stay in the West, and danced with Arizona Dance Theatre for a year and a half. In Tucson, he encountered a different audience--one that included cowboys--and it proved therapeutic. He liked introducing his art to people who hadn't seen much ballet. ADT director Jean-Paul Comelin featured him in Coppelia, The Nutcracker, and the William Forsythe pieces Boatwright had danced in Stuttgart.

In 1985 Helgi Tomasson had just taken over San Francisco Ballet, and that company was going through great changes. Boatwright liked what he saw, and decided to audition, once he realized that he'd be able to dance an eclectic repertoire, as in Stuttgart. Also, by moving to San Francisco, he could guest with his friend Alonzo King's Lines company, which was just getting off the ground. Within two years of joining SFB as a member of the corps, he was promoted to principal.

Until 1991 everything went wonderfully. Boatwright performed a varied repertoire that included Frederick Ashton's Monotones, David Bintley's The Sons of Horus, Peter Martins's Calcium Light Night, and Paul Taylor's Sunset. Then his hip started bothering him. He would limp into rehearsals, trying to ignore the pain. Finally, he went to a doctor. He learned that, like many male dancers, he'd worn away the cartilage in his hip joint. He struggled through the season, trying to put off what he saw as the inevitable end of his career.

"I thought, It's time to go," says Boatwright. "I'd had a great career; I should give up gracefully. I was prepared to be a teacher. I started giving class at Helgi's school. The kids loved it. I saw such joy in them. Meanwhile, I was getting physical therapy, swimming, doing Pilates and floor barres. During those two years teaching at San Francisco, I never thought I'd dance again."

Boatwright might not have consciously thought he would dance again, but he did begin to go over to King's studio to take classes. He liked the unpressured atmosphere and being around mature dancers. Just for fun, he learned King's Shostakovich Pas de Deux. It turned out to be a fateful decision. When Greg Dawson fell ill and couldn't perform, King asked Boatwright if he could replace him.

"I still had the hip problem and knee trouble," says Boatwright, "but I danced anyway. I had a challenge. After that performance, I left teaching and joined Alonzo's company. Because his company is small, we can have personal relationships that allow us to go further with one another and explore the choreography. It pushes me to give one hundred percent and take more chances. I've learned to channel my energies. Now I feel something magical developing between me and the audience--a connection--that I never experienced before.

"Some of this gas to do with Alonzo's choreography. It always has a lot of meaning; it's not just about formations. For instance, in his Ocean you feel all aspects of the ocean--the ebb and flow--and how that relates to our lives. It transmits a beautiful feeling."

Boatwright's partners feel that he does, too. Chiharu Shibata has often danced with him during her five years with Lines. "I always dreamed of dancing with him when I was in the San Francisco Ballet school," says Shibata, "and it's been wonderful. He has so I many ideas about how to approach certain combinations and . . . he can sense what I'm trying to do."

Except in passing, he doesn't talk about his knee operations or his tinnitus, a form of deafness caused by the painkillers he took over the years. Dancers often have physical difficulties; he's had more than usual, and yet still performs with tremendous physical and emotional intensity.

"I'll always remember Marcia Haydee telling us we had to go on, no matter what," says Boatwright. "From her, I learned not to dwell on physical problems. She proved that someone need not be perfect to be a great dancer--that feeling or soul is more important than what the body can do. As a result, there was truth in her dancing.

"I feel that realness in Alonzo's choreography. There comes a time in an artist's life when he should be able to enjoy himself. I needed a choreographer who would allow me that. Alonzo gives me that freedom because--as with Marcia--there's truth in his work."

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