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THE STRESS OF STORMS GALATEA |
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THE STRESS OF STORMS GALATEA |
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ISADORA DUNCAN
(1878-1917)
On May 27th,
1878, Isadora Duncan was born in San Francisco, California,
USA. When she was ten years old she abandoned school to
devote herself exclusively to dance. In 1895, she
traveled to New York to become a professional. In 1897, she moved to London
where she succeeded as a dancer: her audience called her “The Nymph.” Due to her
revolutionary innovations in dance she was awarded the title “Creator of Modern
Dance.” She proposed a style that broke the rigid rules of classical ballet.
She was passionate, extremely beautiful and delightful. She had a great power of seduction over those who surrounded her. Many male names were linked to Isadora, but soon a rumor was spread that there seemed to be a curse that emanated from her that brought misfortunes upon those she loved.
Between 1899 and 1902 she traveled through France, Italy and Greece where she started the construction of a temple dedicated to dance. In 1904, she opened a school near Berlin. In 1905, she traveled to St. Petersburg. In 1913, her children Deidre and Patrick died in a car accident in the Seine. In 1922, she settled down in Moscow and married the Russian poet Sergey Esenin. In 1925, after her divorce, she returned to Europe and settled in Nice. In 1926, she found out from the newspapers that Sergey had committed suicide. On September 14th, 1927, while out driving, Isadora died, strangled by her own shawl.
***
GALATEA
On the shores of the Moscova River, the Byzantine Barma Theater of Moscow (recently snatched from the tsars) rose to receive Isadora Duncan, the incomparable dancer who, only four years after that unforgettable presentation, would die tragically in Nice strangled by her own shawl. The same shawl she had waved to the crowd that waited for her when she returned to the Soviet Union. A long and wicked red silk shawl that would become entangled in one of the sports Bugatti’s wheels, one windy afternoon, during a pleasure drive.
Thousands of spectators waited eagerly on the many seats at the Barma for the Californian Nymph. The people knew she had been born on the shores of the sea and had inherited from it the voluptuous rhythm of the waves. Sergey Esenin, who was late, looked for his seat number holding the coveted ticket in his hand. The good looking, blond, athletic young poet of the Revolution pushed and stepped on the other spectators.
Finally, the anxious boy found his orchestra seat; it was next to the ghost of Luis de Gongora and Argote, who never missed a single performance by Isadora: from California to New York, from London to Italy, from Spain to Greece, from Berlin to St. Petersburg, from Moscow to Nice, from Nice to…
Charming and respectful, Sergey greeted the mysterious figure, who had a long, hard face.
Gongora returned the gesture with a cold smile on his face. However, Sergey could not help a shiver that ran down his spine when the Spanish ghost’s small eyes bore through him, full of foreboding.
The crowd rose in an ovation as the red velvet curtain rose and Sergey shook off the strange sensation with ten minutes of frantic applause. Thousands and thousands of clapping hands shook the foundations of the theater. Only Luis de Gongora’s hands could not make any noise. However, no mortal was going to notice that.
Then Isadora Duncan’s presence silenced even the breathing of all the spectators.
In the middle of that huge stage stood the Nymph. She had covered her voluptuous body with only a simple Greek tunic of translucent silk.
Modern rhythms moved the bare feet of that pagan priestess around the whole stage.
Isadora’s body and mind became one, as she seemed to float when she danced. With sublime emotion, with the energy of her body and soul carried by the music, she transformed herself into art.
Her dance became a beautiful harmony between living things and life.
Moved only by the simple joy of living, the Nymph, the very image of beauty, happiness, and abandonment, filled with excitement every wall, column, chair, body and atom the Muscovite theater sheltered that cold night.
“May Greece be blessed, since Isadora Duncan has chosen the Athenian Kopanos Hill to build her temple devoted to dance!” said the enchanted Luis de Gongora to himself.
The applause returned again when the fall of the curtain announced the interlude.
From that day on, Sergey was lost, bewitched by the extraordinary dancer and with a great sigh he said, “No poem can evoke this.”
On hearing this, Gongora’s ghost warned him in a prophetic voice, “Be careful, boy! All who have wanted the daughter of Nereus and Doris for themselves have been lost in the Cyclops’ giant throat.”
“Whatever do you mean, sir? The gossip from the morbid reporters? Those stupid and ill intentioned rumors! And what do you know, old man?” said Sergey very upset since he had heard about the strange curse that Isadora had upon her and which had already made headlines in all the newspapers of the world.
“If you have ears and are willing to listen, I will reveal the secret of her curse,” said Gongora with a long and serious face.
Sergey shook his spiked hair; he could do nothing but accept.
“That nymph,” continued Gongora, “that delights us with her twirling is Galatea herself. Polyphemus, Poseidon’s deformed son, fell madly in love with her.
Nevertheless, Galatea preferred the love of the holy Acis, and the Cyclops, unable to bear the rejection, killed her lover. You don’t want to unleash the Titan’s jealousy, do you? All who have contended for her love have been devoured by the Cyclops. All of them! The evil Polyphemus did not even spare the life of Isadora’s children… He swallowed them in the dark waters of the Seine River… Polyphemus’ victims are now too many to think that it’s only a rumor. If you continue with this foolishness you will waste your life.”
Gongora’s ghost vanished before the handsome young man’s fearful eyes and a new and even deeper chill shook him. Nevertheless, after the intermission, the dynamic and original interpretation of Botticelli’s, Rodin’s and Bourdell’s spirit in Isadora’s performance, which she had garnished with the ancient Greece tradition, made Sergey forget entirely about the warning from beyond….
After the show was over, Sergey ran in a haste, pushing people and paying bribes so he could reach Isadora’s dressing room. There she was unable to resist the young poet’s charms, since he reminded her of the image of her beloved Acis. A few weeks later the ill-fated couple got married in Moscow.
Soon after, the Cyclops would torment Sergey, driving him to alcoholism and finally to suicide. One day when he was drunk and delusional, the already troubled poet remembered the ghost’s warning. At that same instant he saw the deformed Polyphemus rise like a titanic wave in front of him. Frightened, Sergey crawled through his filthy house and hid from his misery.
“Don’t be afraid, insignificant mortal, I’m no going to hurt you,” said Polyphemus, “because my Galatea has already decided to leave you. Soon she will take refuge in Nice… Just give her this package and do not mention that you saw me.
”The treacherous son of Poseidon left a beautiful package at the feet of the already unconscious poet and disappeared.
At dawn the sunlight started to hurt Sergey’s red eyelids and amidst rats, empty bottles, torn furniture and a stubborn hangover, he remembered the nightmare.
However, he was not surprised to find the package on the floor. Taking the Cyclops’ gift, he ran with it as if his life depended upon it. He arrived, breathing loudly, to the house where Isadora was finished packing her bags. Holding it out, he showed the present to the Nymph. She gave him a look of mixed rage, compassion and love, and tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Forgive me, Sergey, but you know well that our love is lost.” She pushed him away and headed to the taxi that was waiting for her.
“I will not stop you, Isadora; I swear I won’t try to anymore. Just take this torment away from me!” the poet begged in despair.
The driver picked up the bags and Isadora kissed Sergey’s wet face tenderly.
She took the package and, opening it slowly, she revealed its contents to the wind; then she wrapped the shiny shawl around her slender neck.
A shawl as soft as dance.
A shawl as red as Sergey’s destiny.
A shawl as long and murderous as Polyphemus’ arms.
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© Alberto Sibaja Álvarez. San José, Costa Rica
® The Stress of Storms
