I see when I was younger that I wrote with a kind of prognosticating assurance that seemed almost pontifical. I had no business making pronouncements. I had no earned authority, no justifying expertise, I was sometimes abrasive, dogmatic as if I were the Dog Itself. But I was almost never wrong.

I try to humble myself by example. I think, for instance, of early unlearned judgments, chalk them up to youth and inexperience. I think how Shirley, my beloved wife, knew ballet and dance, and I did not. I parroted her judgments until I learned enough to make my own and then go back to revise my earlier brashness.

I had never learned to dance. I was apart from the scene of my generation, which is why I remain socially awkward to this day. When early on Shirley wanted me to dance with her because she had been to parties and knew how, I displayed that I knew nothing and the thrust into awkwardness made her laugh at me. I said to myself, almost aloud, “That’s it! You had your chance. Now I’ll never dance.”

I can be very stubborn, for a lifetime, and only cracked my resolve a few slight times in a life too late for regret to do any good.

I imperfectly absorbed Shirley’s disappointment with Balanchine’s later routine choreography on demand, and pronounced without authority that “Balanchine’s senile. Just look at Stars and Stripes.” The judgment of the work, yes. The senile, no. I was young, in love, following like a puppy, not understanding until I understood enough.

I’m better now, but still make judgments that may be correct but unsupported. I’m a little less insufferable. But back when, I sometimes really let go, didn’t consider my audience as I should have, didn’t tone down so people could hear what I said. I made a few mistakes that I know about, fewer misjudgments that I can revise. I was a severe critic, almost always accurate, just, but sometimes hurtful. Sometimes the object of attack needed to be hurt, prodded to be better. I swallowed others’ critical pronouncements and made them my own. Which is not to say that I was wrong. It’s the brashness of youth and I have never grown up. A problem is that I didn’t always know when to keep my mouth shut. If someone knows they’re ugly, you shouldn’t have to tell them. Should we hurt someone’s feelings if it won’t do any good?

I’m reading now some of the things that Shirley wrote. She had a sharp eye and a sharp tongue. I know enough to recognize the rightness of her criticism, the depth of her feeling, the height of her estimation.

She wrote reviews of performances, as I did. Some of hers were printed in the paper and made waves of assent. Because I have a blog now and can put things on it, I want to share some of her with the world. I think she wouldn’t have minded. Some were already “out there.” By sharing some of her with the world, I can keep her close to me.

Here’s a review she wrote maybe forty years ago. It may have appeared in the paper. It certainly should have. It shines a light on Pasadena and shows again the world presence of a city small in size but great in stature.

The week leading up to the Third International Gala of Opera and Ballet seemed touch and go. Not enough notice to the public, slow ticket sales, cancellations by featured artists, and recriminations in the press. But despite all, the show went on almost as planned, a major cultural event of true international significance.

The Pasadena Civic Auditorium was nearly filled Sunday night as the program began with Frank Fetta conducting the Pasadena Symphony in an overture to Aida that Verdi had written but did not include when the opera was premiered.

The overture was followed by words of welcome from impresario Alan Sievewright, the host and producer of the Gala. The entire evening was presented by From the Heart Committee to benefit the Aids Hospice Foundation. Co-hosting were actresses Jane Seymour, Morgan Fairchild, and actress-singer Kathryn Grayson, each of whom shared anecdotes from their own experiences with the performing arts.

Martina Arroyo opened the vocal portion with “Ritorna vincitor!” from Verdi’s Aida, a role which has earned her international fame. She sang well, but with a trace of fatigue in her lovely voice.

Damen Rhodes, last minute replacement for the scheduled Dean Peterson, sang the Toreador Song from Carmen. Rhodes has a promising voice, youthful appearance, and energy on stage. His voice tended to drop out in the lower range, to force at the top, and he seemed not to know what to do with his cape. All the artists were not quite warmed up.

Those who came to this Gala for the dancing were rewarded by the next two artists, Alla Khaniashvili and Vitaly Artiushkin from the Bolshoi Ballet. Neither Jane Seymour nor surprise host Morgan Fairchild seemed able or willing to pronounce the Russian names. The Bolshoi artists performed Crassus’ and Aegina’s pas de deux from Spartacus. Artiushkin is an attentive, able partner, and the two dancers work well together. Khaniashvili has a warm, vibrant presence that reaches out to the audience. Her arms are fluid and lyrical and she has a beautiful line. However, she and Artiushkin did not bring the sensuous tension this pas de deux demands to create an atmosphere of decadent eroticism.

One of the high points of the evening was to have been the final scene from Richard Strauss’ opera Salome with Hungarian soprano Sylvia Sass in the title role. She was adequately supported by tenor William Trabold as Herod, and by mezzo-soprano Georgetta Psaros in the few lines of Herodias. The stage was filled with supernumeraries from the Mark Jones Group/Athletes Unlimited. Sass is strikingly suited to create a believable and exciting Salome. But she seemed to be distracted with her costume, as was the audience, and vocally unable to ride the climaxes. The shocking interplay with the head of John the Baptist never happened. At this point in the opera she has already danced the dance of the seven veils for Herod, and her physical movement on stage should convey her inner state of agitation and loss of control. Instead she moved and posed awkwardly, drawn to the head as a kind of “magnetic north.” Still, this scene made one hope that Los Angeles would get another chance to see more of her.

After intermission, Richard Wagner’s Die Walkure started the second half of the evening with the opening of Act II and Brunnhilde’s Battle Cry. Promising American soprano Veronica Diamond struggled with her first Brunnhilde and a stage hand dropped the curtain on her head. Louis Lebherz made an immediate impact as Wotan, with a large voice, well-placed throughout his range, and a large physical presence on stage that focuses the audience’s attention. The mythical mountains were a design by David Hockney. This scene seemed truncated as though stopped in mid-air.

Khaniashvili and Artiushkin returned, this time better suited to dance the Black Swan pas de deux from Act III of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. Artiushkin is a thoughtful, considerate partner, and the two dance together with warmth and rapport but no sparks, no tension, no surprise. He is tall and has a classic physique. Unfortunately, on his first solo turn in the pas de deux, he mislanded and this seemed to put him off a bit, although he recovered as the pas de deux progressed. Khaniashvili made this pas de deux hers. Her movements were spontaneous and fluid. She has a natural lyricism and communicates her mood and character right to the audience. Her fouette turns, bracketed in sets of threes and fours by double turns, were easy, musical and showed no signs of the grim challenges which daunt many other dancers. The audience loved her.

Another favorite was Irish soprano Elizabeth Connell who sang Lady Macbeth’s recitative, aria and cabaletta from Act I of the Verdi opera. Connell has a big voice which filled the auditorium and immediately created the drama of the moment. Her exciting musicality and fearless phrasing were surprises of the evening. The audience wanted more, and only reluctantly let her go.

Louis Lebherz returned to sing Mephistopheles’ serenade, “Vous qui faites l’endormie” from Gounod’s Faust. Tall, dressed all in black with a black cape and in sinister white face, Lebherz made a visually strong impact. His voice is rich, round, and generous. Luckily, Los Angeles audiences will be able to hear him many times during the forthcoming L.A. Opera season.

Martina Arroyo returned, beautiful and glamorous in liquid silver, to sing Leonora’s aria, “Pace, pace, mio Dio” from the last act of Verdi’s La Forza del Destino. She sang beautifully and with a moving pathos. In fact she sings everything with great sincerity and always creates a strong rapport with the audience.

And finally, as though everyone had held a collective breath, the very special moment of the evening arrived. Maya Plisetskaya, legend, prima ballerina assoluta, danced Fokine’s Dying Swan, a piece created long before this unbelievable sixty-five year old ballerina’s time for another legendary dancer, Pavlova. A black stage, no sets, no props, Camille Saint-Saens’ haunting music – it all seems so simple, but only those with a deep feeling soul should attempt this piece. Plisetskaya was virtually unchanged from memories of her. She was still the paradox of suppleness and steel. Her arms were still unique in their fluidity and variety as though they had a life of their own or were another section of the orchestra in the music she creates with her body. You couldn’t help but remember her other roles over the years – Carmen, Swan Lake, Don Quixote, Anna Karenina, Stone Flower, The Fountain of Bakhchisarai….There is a permanent place left in the memory by this great artist and it was a joy to see her again.

The evening ended with the charming, intelligent remarks of Martina Arroyo as she presented awards and thanks to Alan Sievewright and Jane Seymour. Then with much tossing and presenting of flowers by the loyal and passionate balletomane Dwight Grell, the Gala was over.

— Shirley Sterling, Pasadena, February 1992