An Exchange of Letters, Packages, Moonstones and Mailbox Entertainment - Allegra Kent remembers Edward Gorey

Dance Magazine, July, 2000 by Allegra Kent

Edward Gorey, the fabled illustrator and storyteller who died April 15 at age 75, was also a committed fan of the New York City Ballet (ever seen that cartoon emblem with the feet in the five ballet positions? That was his work). Allegra Kent, renowned as a Balanchine muse at the City Ballet, remembers her long association with him.

WAY BACK in 1976, I wrote a book about water exercises. When I looked at the finished product--odd, underwater photos, with unusual shadow shapes--they seemed to suggest the art of Edward Gorey. I had just seen a drawing of his reproduced in a newspaper, and I thought that this man could design a fantastical water suit for swimming. I sent a copy of my book to him and proceeded with my life as a mother of three children, a danseuse and a new author. About three weeks later, I received a frog in the mail--a stuffed toy, about seven inches tall, embroidered perfectly in Bodoni bold script, with these words in different colors on its tummy: "It's Allegra's water exercise for me." This hand-sewn, rice-stuffed, nineteenth-century creation, which could have been made in a convent, was from Edward Gorey. As a thank-you, I tried to make a bat embroidered with the words, "It's Texas and echolocation for me." (Texas has a huge bat population.) But I couldn't even begin to do it. I, with naturally nimble fingers, simply did not have the skill. I sent a letter instead.

I began taking the frog to music and dance events, placing the creature in my purse as if that were a pond. One afternoon, I showed it to a friend, and she said, "Why don't you ask Mr. Gorey to make a book-party invitation for you?"

"Oh, I couldn't."

"Do ask, Allegra. It would be great."

"I know it would be great, but it seems like an awfully big request."

Nevertheless, I girded my loins to make a phone call. I'd learned there was a secret to Mr. Gorey's pattern of picking up the telephone: He'd only answer if you rang three times, hung up, then called back. Or perhaps it was one ring, hang up, call back? I pondered this for a while and then wrote a letter to him; it felt less presumptuous than a call, and I did not wish him to do something he did not want to do. As it happened, Mr. Gorey consented.

When I heard of Edward Gorey's recent death, I felt as if another important part of the New York City Ballet was missing, for Gorey was a well-known longtime member of the company's audience, someone who saw so much, understood so much, and so loved George Balanchine. I picked up my copy of his book The Gilded Bat. The cover is beautiful--black, with a white line revealing three men in tuxedos. A ballerina, costumed as a bat in gold and black, is flying (or leaping) above them. The cover possesses the feel of a pen-and-ink drawing, on indigo paper, by a Japanese master from long, long ago.

Most drawings of ballet dancers are over-idealized and lack subtlety, but not Edward Gorey's. His have grace, oddity and sinuous, serpentine design. What is important in Edward Gorey's drawings is the oddity. Inside The Gilded Bat, Madame Solepsiskaya's hands and feet, overcrossed in fourth position, are huge. Her ballet discovery, little 5-year-old Maudie, has fingers posed upward, in attentive awe of ballerina-dom as her intended destination. She is one of the chosen in childhood. Later, in class, we see her slumped body positions, as she works with diligence and exhausted arms. We perceive the unrelenting nature of daily ballet practice. The book, published in 1966, was dedicated to Diana Adams, one of the glorious ballerinas of the early days of NYCB. Gorey adored her. Her length of limb and perfection of posture, plus her natural elegance and finesse, made her a unique creature and one of Balanchine's special interests. Later, I was to learn that Gorey had three such favorites: Adams, Patricia McBride and myself. Years after, some youngsters were added--Maria Calegari and Kyra Nichols. I was thrilled to be on his list.

He had an uncanny sense of theater. In 1987, a dark moment in my own life, a package arrived with a book, The Raging Tide ... or The Black Doll's Imbroglio, and a hand-sewn animal being in black cotton. The doll was Figbash, the handsome hero of the book.

Lo and behold, his book was dedicated to me. I screamed. Figbash's strange body parts did not fit the usual proportion for a biped. And the book does not ask itself to be read in the usual way. Every page gives the reader two choices for continuing. On page six, for example: "Naeelah went for Skrump with a feather-duster: If you find this detestable, turn to eight. If you are charmed, turn to ten."

Once, while combing through the dictionary, I noticed that a sentence by Gorey--not Milton, Shakespeare or Sheridan--was cited for the definition of "drudge." That Edward Gorey, someone with unbounded imagination, should provide the sentence to illustrate the word for a person who does menial work without inspiration strikes me as wickedly appropriate.

Around 1978 I received a long letter from Edward, the name that I called him for the entire quarter-century that I knew him. He had written a ballet scenario, and Peter Anastos was creating the choreography. The piece was called Fete Divers or Le Bal de Madame H. He wrote to ask if I would consent to be Madame H. I leapt for joy and agreed. And so choreographer and cast went into daily rehearsal above a bagel factory. It was to be danced by Andre Eglevsky's company on Long Island. I went for a costume fitting. The dress was the color of pale sea foam. At the last minute, Gorey gave instructions for the finishing touches to my costume: Five hundred safety pins of various sizes were to be placed at random over the expanse of tulle. In all the years I knew him, I actually met Gorey no more than two or three times. How on earth did he know about my affection for safety pins as ornaments on clothing? Cracking up completely, I watched as many pairs of hands, mine included, began the pinning process. Every pin had to go in and out of the tulle, a thousand holes. (In the early 1980s, when fashion designers latched onto safety pins, I gave them up.)