Backstage With Baryshnikov
by
Michael Dare

 

I'd been a fan of John Sanborn and Mary Perillo ever since I saw Fractured Variations/Visual Shuffle on Alive from Off Center, a PBS show in the late '80s that featured the work of lots of wacko experimental video artists like Laurie Anderson and William Wegman. I finally met Sanborn when he was hired to do the credits and interstitials for Overview, a TV show I was starring in for Michael Nesmith. It was great to see myself fly into the screen in a whirl of Sanborn special effects for my segment of the show, The Bottom Shelf. He called me up the next time he was in town, maybe a year later, to go to a Dodger game. He had two tickets and he didn't drive. Would I mind picking him up at the studio where he was shooting a video with Mikhail Baryshnikov? No problem.

They were between takes when I showed up. I knew enough not to bother John while he was setting up the next shot, so I stood back and waited for a spare moment. I asked if it was okay to snap some shots and he said fine, as long as it was okay with Baryshnikov and his dance partner and choreographer, Valda Setterfield. They were both waiting on the set, which was a simple green screen to be filled in with effects later.  I approached Setterfield, she acknowledged me, I asked if I could take her picture and she said sure. An elegant lady who has since danced in a couple of Woody Allen films.

Baryshnikov was another matter. I was intimidated by meeting Mikhail Baryshnikov because I wouldn't know a plié from a platypus, a pas de deux from a Patty Duke, a grand jeté from a grand mal seizure, or a pirouette from a pair of slacks. He was sitting in a chair, facing another way, when I snapped the first shot. No acknowledgment of my existence. I stepped a little closer and snapped a second shot. No acknowledgment of my existence. I stepped closer still, right in his face, and snapped another shot. No acknowledgment of my existence. I considered saying "Hey, Mikhail, what's your problem?" I considered getting my head bitten off. I backed away.

 

The atmosphere was like that of a concert hall. Extreme silence when the masters were at work. There was no rehearsal where I could just snap away with my flash. Camera was rolling, music was playing back, nobody was making a sound, and here I was with this clunky old Polaroid that was incapable of taking a picture without ejecting it with a mighty KAA-CHUNG, WHIRRRRR. Normally the sound wasn't too disturbing, but while they were dancing it sounded as subtle as shooting with a broken Waring blender. I stood well away from the performance area, on the other side of the camera, where I was sure the sound of my Polaroid wouldn't disturb Baryshnikov. I knew a flash would piss off everybody so I disconnected my flashbar. SNAP. No problem. I moved a little closer, just behind one of the lights. No one seemed to mind and I snapped another shot. No problem. Then I moved close enough to take a shot without equipment in the way. Close enough for them to see me. Close enough for them to hear the camera, get distracted, slip and fall. I pictured the headlines the next day. "Mikhail Baryshnikov Breaks Leg because of Michael Dare." They went into a pose, I took the shot, without a flash the time exposure caught them in a blur, and I ran away, getting as far from them as I could before the camera spewed out the shot. No problem. Yep, this is the shot you've been waiting for. Murky, huh? Well it's the best I could do and I sure wasn't going to try again. You want clarity? Go to Herb Ritts. You want murky, give me a call.

 

 

Emulsional Problems