In a bare Manhattan studio last week ten very serious young women worked like demons night & day, flinging themselves into the air, jumping frogwise, stomping, crouching, twisting their torsos. All were barefoot, wore scant jersey tops, long trailing skirts. On a chaise longue sat their director, an alert, thin, ashen-faced woman who stopped them abruptly when Anita's arm was too high or Bonnie's feet too far apart. The Martha Graham dancers were rehearsing for one of their periodic Manhattan recitals. Their leader had more in store. This week she was to start...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
