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Forever On His Toes

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Stevenson's shoes certainly will not be as difficult to fill as Balanchine's, but there don't seem to be a lot of very large feet out there ready to fill them. Stanton Welch's name has been batted around, but some of the dancers complain that he can be difficult to work with and would change the company too much. Associate artistic director Trinidad Vives hopes to use her new title to develop her abilities over the next two years and position herself as a serious candidate if Stevenson does leave then. But Vives is not a choreographer, and while some companies -- notably Boston Ballet -- are moving toward non- choreographing artistic directors, it doesn't jibe with the history and current mandate of Houston Ballet.

Trey McIntyre is perhaps the most interesting prospect. A student of the Houston Ballet Academy and later a corps de ballet member here, he apprenticed as a choreographer under Stevenson, and currently serves as the company's choreographic associate and as the resident choreographer for the Oregon Ballet Theatre. He has produced works for companies around the country and in Europe and South America. On the London tour in April, his jubilant neoclassical short work Second Before the Ground won rave reviews, while Stevenson's more old-fashioned Cleopatra was panned. McIntyre says he is turning now to full-length ballets, such as the Peter Pan he is creating for Houston Ballet's next season. He is also entertaining offers of artistic directorships from other companies. Still, he is young and inexperienced, and as the dancers point out, not Ben.

The 65-year-old Stevenson does not dismiss talk of his own retirement, though he hopes it will be an active one. Perhaps he'll limit his purview to the academy, or teach in China, or do a Broadway show. The director isn't speculating on the time frame, though. Now that the dust has settled, he's feeling more secure than he has in a long time. "You want to feel that you're a part of it and not just some person on the outside trying to get back in," Stevenson says. "But I'm back in, and I'm enjoying it."

He is clearly enjoying teaching a recent summer class of the academy's upper-level students. He strolls casually through the rows of perfect bodies in maroon leotards, touching them, talking to them, placing them in the correct positions. He tells them to "dazzle," to dance rather than exercise. He breaks into a silly waltz, then a tango, then a campy bit from Sweet Charity. He tells jokes: "Don't go back! You're from the Ukraine -- it's a long way to go back."

The dancers struggle -- their faces hard and their bodies strained -- to please him, the man who will later determine whether they get into the company, the man who might make their careers. There are clearly a few favorites. Some he looks right in the eyes and whispers fast, intense, almost angry words. With others, he takes their hands gingerly, giving them confidence, security, strength, perhaps even love. The attention is carefully, selectively given. It is no doubt inspirational to the insecure students who receive it. How lucky they must feel to have caught the director's attention, how hard they will have to work to live up to his expectations, to be perfect.

But Stevenson himself ignores the fourth wall that is a mirror. He ignores the dance teachers from around the country who have come to watch him work. He ignores the archival video cameraman who is following him around the room. He ignores the reporter who is writing down everything he says. He ignores his problems with C.C. Conner. He ignores the power struggles that have nearly pushed him out of the organization.

Here, he knows all the steps. Here, he doesn't worry about whether he is liked or disliked. Here, he is comfortable.

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