Yulia Yakovleva. Great Mute

After the death of the owner, Galina Ulanova’s apartment in one of the famous Stalinist skyscrapers went to the Bolshoi Theater. Public opinion wanted to turn this apartment into a memorial to the great ballerina - another museum object of no particular interest to anyone, of which there are many scattered throughout Moscow (and throughout St. Petersburg too). The theater had the floor. But the theater did not pronounce it. The fate of the apartment has not yet been decided. Among the plans is to arrange a hotel in it for honored guests of the Bolshoi. When rumors leaked outside the quadriga building, public opinion fell into a trance. In vain, in my opinion. A dwelling without an owner, without a face... The ideal point in Ulanova’s myth.

Ulanova, like no one else, sought to hide in the shadows - away from prying eyes. And she was exposed like no one else: in articles, monographs, memoirs, photographs, films, and oral traditions. Each type of source (print, celluloid, folklore) repeats its own story. Moreover, they refute each other. Films cast doubt on the enthusiastic testimony of witnesses. “Ulanova’s art has not been captured even in a hundredth part by cinema,” the printed page authoritatively asserts. A sobering and terrible thing is said out loud that, apparently, will never be entrusted to the press, but even without that it undermines the image of the great recluse and modest woman, legitimized by the memoirs. Ulanova on stage is not at all the same as Ulanova in life. And not who she pretended to be in public. Finally, two more reflections: the Leningrad pre-war Ulanova and Ulanova - the prima of the capital's Bolshoi Theater. There is no monumental unity befitting the status of the first lady of Soviet ballet. Some kind of bird market.

First of all, it would be good to figure out what Ulanova herself wanted. The prima's everyday appearance was calculated once and for all. The basis is an effective contrast with the brilliance of official regalia and titles: the tastes of the era recommended highlighting the orders with a cloth background. A formal suit, a modest blouse, hair pulled back into a bun. The portrait canon for the “Honor Board” was observed in an exemplary manner. Clichéd and therefore instantly recognizable. No questions asked. The only deliberate glitch is a discreet brooch: in a place where not artists, but deputies and drummers wear all kinds of badges.

A spectacular contrast with the entire population of ballerinas' restrooms at the country's main theater. This is not Marina Semenova (a senior colleague in the Bolshoi etiquette category): restrained chic, a hat with a veil pulled to one side, a boa, a sleek manicure. And not Maya Plisetskaya (younger colleague): victorious self-presentation, red hair, bare shoulders, Cardin toilet. And not even the most democratic Olga Lepeshinskaya (peer): coral plump beads, puffy bracelets, coral lipstick, perm. Not at all. Stingy remarks. If it is possible to remain silent, he will willingly remain silent. But if he says it, the words will be remembered for decades. A quiet voice - the interlocutors are forced to strain their ears, which gives Ulanova’s rare words even more weight.

I didn’t have to break myself for this image. Having soared to the unattainable heights of official recognition, Ulanova only developed and clarified what nature had laid down. People were ready to recognize her on the streets even in pre-war Leningrad. Alas, Ulanova was not memorable enough to be constantly mistaken for someone else. You never know in Leningrad there are fair-haired, dull women, and the ballet bearing is so easy to confuse with the then popular sports one. Young Ulanova really did not contradict the “collective type of girl of the 1930s” in any way. Ulanova never contradicted anything, anyone, ever. Leningrad philologist V.A. Manuylov, who was seriously interested in palmistry, once on the Sochi beach “asked for the pen” of Ulanova, already a world-famous artist. And he was shocked: the lines of the palm spoke of an ordinary character, modest talents and an inconspicuous fate.

Her stage existence was also an apology for silence. A closed, as if slightly sleepy face, blurred features, downcast gaze, the legendary gesture of an evasively raised shoulder, a gentle sotto voce of dance (“The technique is sufficient, but not amazing,” was the general verdict). Unique plasticity.

She was described in words that did not imply mystery: she is simple, she is natural, artless, intelligible, harmonious and pure. And with one voice they spoke about the psychological richness, complexity, and mystery. Even the everyday change of ballet shoes became a fact of art: the arch of the back, the bowed neck, the lowered face, the quick, confidently smooth movements of the hands, throwing the satin ribbons crosswise, were firmly etched in the memory of eyewitnesses. The self-contained simplicity of the manner was considered anti-theatrical. But that is precisely why Ulanova, dancing Petipa’s classics and the latest choreodrama, managed not to belong entirely to either one or the other stylistic system. Neutralizing the harsh chiaroscuro of the ballet academy with the “naturalness” of the manner and epically summarizing the chatty specifics of the choreodrama with the silent simplicity of the lines. This is the Leningrad Ulanova. Ulanova is the best - if you believe the nostalgic sighs of today's balletomaniac elders. And the fact that the main text (among everything that is written about her) - the article-portrait of Vera Krasovskaya - ends just in the pre-war year. It is generally accepted that Moscow has completely betrayed Ulanova. Which, however, is debatable. The plastic gift has not disappeared. “There was a long conversation, more than an hour <...>. Ulanova had a cold and was wrapped in a warm robe. In the middle of the conversation, carried away by it and not thinking about anything else, I suddenly stopped: Ulanova, listening, raised her hand and pulled her collar deeper robe. This simple everyday movement was so harmonious, so perfect that I involuntarily froze. Transferred to the stage, it could become a revelation in some role, go down in history, become a myth" ( D. Cherkassky, "Notes of a Balletomane") - this is the beginning of the 1950s, with almost ten Moscow years behind us. The landscape around Ulanova has changed. There was no partner equal to Leningrader Konstantin Sergeev. There was no refined artistic ensemble equal to that of the Kirov Theater.

Silence is traditionally considered a sign of consent. Ulanova proved that it means nothing at all: an emptiness that can be filled with any meaning. In the silence of her heroines one could read tragic doom, Christian humility, and heroic stoicism. And that, in turn, can be interpreted as a position chosen in the face of the disasters of war. Or Stalin's tyranny. Indeed, in an era of omniscient communal apartments and collective meetings, Ulanova set an example of impenetrability. But she, at least on stage, at least in her Moscow period, strove for absolute transparency: she developed the part’s design in detail, strengthened psychological motivations, firmly connecting episode to episode, gesture to gesture with irrefutable cause-and-effect relationships. Left in Moscow without a partner and an ensemble, she was forced to speak in the first person: there was no one to give a voice that would echo in her silence. This is Ulanova - Giselle and Juliet - on film. Ulanova, playing the great Ulanova. A ballerina, depressed by the burden of responsibility that the ever-increasing fame and status of the main dancer of the main theater of one of the world's main powers can shoulder. Ulanova sought to take control of even her own gift - at a deadly risk to the gift. And in this sense, talent - if she had not been able to bend it into an arc - would have been a curse for her. And perhaps there was.

She has taught her silence in life too. They began to demand from her that she be what they wanted her to be. Her everyday integrity was mistakenly called “modesty” and “tact” - and they were severely disappointed when faced with a stony will and sobering sense of purpose. Pharisee, hypocrite - this is the image assigned to Ulanova in oral traditions. ...It was during the war. Kirovsky went into evacuation. One day, Ulanova allegedly came to the then editor of a theatrical circulation. She had a newspaper clipping with her: a sentimental story about a photograph of Ulanova-Odette, found in a front-line trench. Ulanova demanded that the article be reprinted in large quantities. A tear even rolled down my cheek. "Miner! Gornyashka!" - this is how the Leningrad beau monde appreciated her innocent comedy. It’s amazing how readily they were indignant and embellished dubious stories with details, since rumor counted Ulanova among the characters. Of course, they suspected devils in the still waters. But the main thing is that they compensated for the sparingly supplied material for rumors.

Ulanova nevertheless mastered the art of not remaining silent, but dosing out the information about herself coming from outside. Apparently, not brilliantly: they admired her (they would try not to admire her), but did not particularly love her - she was accustomed to the fact that any of her actions was carried out for a reason. Confused in search of background plans, subtexts and contexts, they fled from it. “From an early age, having miraculously realized the danger, Cincinatus vigilantly tried to hide some of his peculiarity. Not letting in other people’s rays, and therefore, in a state of rest, producing the outlandish impression of a lonely dark obstacle in this world of souls transparent to each other, he learned still pretend to be see-through, for which he resorted to a complex system of, as it were, optical illusions, but as soon as he forgot for a moment, did not watch himself so carefully, for the turns of the cunningly illuminated planes of the soul, the alarm immediately rose. In the midst of common games, peers suddenly they fell away from him, as if sensing that the clarity of his gaze and the blueness of his temples were a sly distraction, and that in reality Cincinatus was impenetrable." (Nabokov, “Invitation to Execution”). In the last months of her life, Ulanova visited her hometown frequently. Suddenly - to the reverent shock of the St. Petersburg residents - she tried to speak. She always considered herself a Leningrader and was not used to Moscow. She was afraid of Stalin, like everyone else: she was numb with horror when it turned out that in the concert pas de Diane she had to “shoot” with a fake bow directly at the leader sitting in the side box. She is confused and depressed by the creative inertia of her Moscow pets. She doesn't know how to talk to them. She's a stranger. She can’t light the gas burner in the kitchen herself - she burns her fingers... She said a lot. But they never learned anything about her.