Here are two interesting articles I came across, about the ballet choreographer George Balanchine:
Balanchine’s choreography is great with musicality. His love for Tchaikovsky well explains this. (Note: Ballenchine borns 10 years after Tchaikovsky passed away).
For Balanchine, the process of creating ballets to Tchaikovsky’s music was like learning from a beloved mentor. “Without Tchaikovsky’s help, I would not have managed… I’m not smart enough for it.”
“Imagine yourself in a church, and suddenly the organ starts playing overwhelmingly grand music in all registers,” Balanchine said during a conversation recounted in Solomon Volkov’s 1985 book Balanchine’s Tchaikovsky. “And you stand there with mouth agape in astonishment. That’s how I always felt about Tchaikovsky.”
Also a gifted music student, Balanchine came to see beyond Tchaikovsky’s lilting tunes and dancing rhythms. “I played piano, and I started to compose,” he told Volkov. “I understood what a smart composer Tchaikovsky had been. He is a composer for wise and subtle listeners. He is a refined artist.”
Somewhat, Ballenchine mostly ignored Tchaikovsky’s full-length ballet scores (Except for the 1954 Nutcracker production for the New York City Ballet). Partly because Balanchine didn’t much like ballets that told stories, also because Ballenchines appeals more to Tchaikovsky’s concert works that has richer musical complexity (e.g. Symphony No. 3, Serenade for Strings)
With a little help from Stravinsky
Stravinsky and Balanchine were ideal collaborators working toward Balanchine’s vision of plotless ballets, abstract yet deeply engrossing works.
In vibrant contrast to their lofty goals, one of the most endearing traits of the Balanchine—Tchaikovsky—Stravinsky troika was their refusal to see themselves as divinely inspired geniuses. Each was well aware of his phenomenal talent, and all three aimed for the stratosphere with their art. But they liked to describe themselves as craftsmen rather than cosmically anointed artistes waiting for inspiration from above.
“I make my ballets on union time,” Balanchine often joked.
“I sit down to the piano regularly at 9 a.m.” Tchaikovsky said, “and Mesdames les Muses have learned to be on time for that rendezvous.”
Stravinsky and Balanchine carefully plotted every gesture and the timing of every musical bar as they worked on their ballets. Maria Tallchief often told the story of how Stravinsky composed the music to Orpheus, Balanchine’s 1948 retelling of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth. At the end of the pas de deux Eurydice dies when Orpheus looks back at her, defying the gods’ orders. “Maria! How long will it take you to die?” Stravinsky asked. As she slowly sank to the ground, he snapped his fingers, counting the beats. He stopped at four beats. “That is enough,” he said. “Now you’re dead.”
Inspiration, perspiration; the ratios are infinitely variable for all of us. But it’s refreshing to realize that some of the world’s greatest artists have spent hours tussling with the nuts and bolts of their craft.
I very much recommend to read the original articles.
One more miscellaneous: so who’s Tchaikovsky’s biggest fan?
Madame von Meck
It began when Madame von Meck wrote Tchaikovsky a fan letter, in which she told him of her love for his music. She offered him a generous yearly allowance with the sole proviso that they were never to meet.
For fourteen years Madame von Meck secretly sent Tchaikovsky a huge yearly stipend, allowing him to write without hindrance the music the world now loves, especially his children’s masterpiece, the Nutcracker Suite.
They corresponded regularly, if not voluminously, leaving a legacy of personal letter writing rivaled only by that of Mozart. She was his confidante in their letters, and he poured out his heart to her as he could to few others.