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Forever On His Toes

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Stevenson was a gifted dancer. His résumé reads like a who's who of the ballet world. He trained at the Arts Educational School in London. By the age of 18, he had performed with one of Britain's biggest ballet stars, Alicia Markova. At 19, he joined Sadler's Wells Royal Ballet and worked with dance luminaries Frederick Ashton, Kenneth MacMillan and John Cranko. Later, he became a principal with the London Festival Ballet and staged a Sleeping Beauty starring Margot Fonteyn. But at 29, a riding accident resulted in a broken ankle and the end of Stevenson's performing career. He turned to teaching and choreographing, heading up first the Harkness Youth Dancers in New York and then the short-lived National Ballet in Washington, D.C. In 1976 George Balanchine hired Stevenson to set his Cinderella on Balanchine's Geneva company. It was there that Houston Ballet's search committee found him.

If his ballet training didn't provide Stevenson with enough insecurity, his experience with Houston Ballet would make up the difference. When he came to Houston, the company was only six years old, but it had chewed through three artistic directors -- first Tatiana Semenova and Nina Popova, both of the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, and then the young American James Clouser, who had been promoted from his position as resident choreographer. When Stevenson was appointed, he already faced an uphill battle with Clouser's supporters. A newspaper headline announced, "Choice of Ballet Chief Stuns Dance Community."

It was not at all clear that Stevenson would last, but it seemed that he and the ballet board were on the same page. They wanted to build a company from the ground up, focusing on the classics and an academy to produce their own stars rather than renting them. Judging by the current face of Houston Ballet, the plan largely has played out. But behind the scenes, there were problems.

In the mid-1980s a faction of the board led by Louisa Sarofim decided Houston Ballet should be more like the Balanchine-founded New York City Ballet. If they were looking for the next Balanchine in Stevenson, they were looking in the wrong place. The daring New York neoclassicist had pushed ballet's boundaries and forever changed its form. As a choreographer, Stevenson was more interested in preserving the old ways, if tweaking them slightly to maintain their relevance. But Stevenson also was building the kind of company that would later dominate the American landscape: well-trained dancers who could handle any style of choreography, and an eclectic repertory that could entice subscribers with everything from Swan Lake to a contemporary program of up-and- coming choreographers. Balanchine ballets would certainly be welcomed into the mix, but it is said that for years after Stevenson enticed Janie Parker away from Balanchine's Geneva company, Houston Ballet had a tough time securing permission to do the famous choreographer's works.

Stevenson stood his ground with the board and reiterated his artistic vision -- a task that must have been made easier by the overtures he was receiving from San Francisco Ballet and London's Festival Ballet. He was successful in keeping control of the company, but longtime ballet-watchers say he was shaken by the ordeal.

Round two of the battle for the ballet came in 1993, with the arrival of managing director Joyce Moffatt. It was rumored that Moffatt, who had managed both the American Ballet Theatre and the San Francisco Ballet, was brought in to find a replacement for Stevenson. "She seized a moment," says Parker, "whether it was because she didn't know or understand Ben, or whether it was because it lined up with the agenda."

Stevenson, who has health problems ranging from sleep apnea to high cholesterol and blood pressure, wanted to take some time off between productions to go to the Betty Ford Clinic. Parker says Stevenson thought of the clinic as a glamorous place where he could take care of himself and rub elbows with the rich and famous. "I'm sure he thought if he went somewhere like that, not only would he get his weight all nice [but], you know, he would come out like Liz Taylor. Suddenly people would go, 'Oh, wow, Ben! You look fabulous!' " she says. "I think he wanted to do something for his self-esteem."

Parker says Moffatt presented Stevenson with a choice of press releases, one that made it sound like he had AIDS and another that suggested he had an alcohol or drug problem -- neither of which was true. But the seeds of scandal were planted, and the board prevented him from teaching class and rehearsing the dancers. "Suddenly they decided he was incompetent or something," says Parker. "It's so hurtful. The things that he has gone through -- can you imagine what that would do to your health? To constantly have things come up every two or three years where it feels like you have to prove yourself."

No one knows exactly why members of the board wanted Stevenson out -- whether there was another Balanchine movement, whether they felt the company was becoming too tied to Stevenson's personality and vision, or whether they just wanted a change. But this time the dancers saved him from the ouster. Acclaimed principals Parker, Li Cunxin and Philip Broomhead reminded the board that they were at Houston Ballet because of Ben Stevenson and Ben Stevenson only. If he were no longer there, they wouldn't be, either.

But today, some dancers say, Stevenson may not have the same pull with the company. Broomhead is the only one of the original contingent left, and half of the six female principals retired last season. Houston Ballet is suddenly a very young company. And because Stevenson is away from Houston for up to 12 weeks a year -- setting his ballets on other companies, teaching, and arranging future touring engagements -- he has not made the same kind of codependent connections with the younger dancers that he had with Parker.

The time was potentially right for another takeover attempt.

In 1993 Houston Ballet experienced the first deficit in its history. The financial shortfall was attributed to a variety of causes, including low interest earned by the endowment and the death of choreographer Kenneth MacMillan, whose Manon had been expected to be a box-office draw. But by 1995 that deficit had grown to more than a million dollars.

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