Jennifer Homans is the author of Apollo’s Angels: A ­History of Ballet and the Founder and Director of the Center for Ballet and the Arts at NYU. She is working on a biography of George Balanchine. (January 2019)


Balanchine at the Crossroads

George Balanchine and Mikhail Baryshnikov rehearsing Prodigal Son at the New York City Ballet, 1979
George Balanchine could never quite let go of Prodigal Son. He made the ballet in 1929 in Paris several years after emigrating from Soviet Russia; he last worked on it in New York, a few years before his death. Along the way, it died many deaths in his mind. He …

Hail Balanchine

Dancers of the New York City Ballet performing George Balanchine’s Serenade at the Mariinsky Theatre, St. Petersburg, Russia, July 2003
On March 14, 1934, in New York City, George Balanchine began working on a new dance set to Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings, Op. 48. He had arrived in the United States from his native Russia via Europe some five months earlier, and had just taught a morning dance class at …

Robert B. Silvers (1929–2017)

Robert B. Silvers in his office at The New York Review of Books, early 1980s
From its first issue in 1963, Robert Silvers was either co-editor with Barbara Epstein or, after her death in 2006, editor of The New York Review. Bob worked almost to the very end of his life, which would be no surprise to those who knew him well, including those who have written these brief memoirs.

Agon: ‘The Acute Edge of Risk’

Diana Adams and Arthur Mitchell in a production of Agon by the New York City Ballet, 1963


a ballet by Igor Stravinsky, with choreography by George Balanchine, performed by the New York City Ballet
The curtain rises in silence. The stage is empty except for four men with their backs to the audience evenly spaced across the rear of the stage. They are lean and long in their simple white T-shirts, black tights, and white ballet shoes, and they are doing nothing. Just standing.

Balanchine: Making & Being Don Quixote

George Balanchine (right) and the composer Nicolas Nabokov at a rehearsal of Don Quixote, with Suzanne Farrell dancing in the mirror, 1965
On the evening of May 27, 1965, something extraordinary happened on the stage of the New York State Theater in Manhattan. George Balanchine, artistic director1 of the New York City Ballet, had not performed for many years, but that night he put on full theater makeup, hoisted himself into …

In Balanchine’s Beautiful Forest

George Balanchine with ballet dancer Jacques d’Amboise on the set of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, circa 1963
When George Balanchine choreographed A Midsummer Night’s Dream for the New York City Ballet in 1962, he had been living with Shakespeare’s play for most of his life. He was fifty-eight years old and recalled playing an elf or bug in a production when he was a child in St. Petersburg in the years before the 1917 revolution. He liked to say that he knew the play “better in Russian than a lot of people know it in English,” and his dancers remember that he quoted the text in English freely from memory. It was a play, and as importantly a musical score—Felix Mendelssohn’s overture and incidental music—that seemed to follow him through life.

The Unknown Young Balanchine

George Balanchine, seated, and other members of the State Academic Theater of Opera and Ballet, Petrograd, circa 1921

Balanchine and the Lost Muse: Revolution and the Making of a Choreographer

by Elizabeth Kendall
Elizabeth Kendall has unearthed the world of George Balanchine’s childhood. She has sought out every living member of the family and immersed herself in their lore and examined the scant sources from every possible angle. Where the facts fail, as they often do, she raises questions and fills in the picture with history. At its best, her book is not only a portrait of Balanchine’s youth, it is a portrait of Russia in collapse—of the world that was dying as Balanchine was coming of age.

Tony Judt: A Final Victory

Tony Judt in his office at New York University, June 2006
Memory was Tony’s only certainty and he clung to it as a lifeline. It was the thing the disease could not take from him. It was another way out of the bubble and the only form of independence he had, and kept, to the very end. To retrieve a memory, he didn’t have to ask anything of anyone: it was just there, in his mind, and as long as he could still talk, he could use his memory at will. It was all his. This is why Thinking the Twentieth Century is a work of memory, not history, even if the twentieth century is its subject.