A musician may perform on several instruments over the course of a career; a dancer has but one. Many a dancer’s life has been shaped by the need to accommodate a physical vulnerability in order to extend one’s career. Faculty member Jane Kosminsky, a dancer who came to Juilliard in 1971 to work with actors, discovered they had a “secret weapon” to combat injury. Here, she writes how that—along with recent advances in medical technology—have opened up new doors. This is the second in a series of articles in celebration of the Juilliard Dance Division’s 50th anniversary. The first can be found in the September issue of The Journal, online at: http://www.juilliard.edu/journal/archives.html.

It is August. It is hot. I am staring down at my left knee. What an extraordinary journey it has taken me on—this silent navigator of my professional life. How carefully I have had to listen, in order to hear its guidance over the years. This spring, after knowing it would be coming for 18 years, I had knee replacement surgery. It is astounding how quickly we accustom ourselves to miracles. For the first time in 30 years, I have a straight left leg! I look down and I can’t quite believe it, but already I am practicing pliés and admiring the line. (Will the dancer’s ego never retire?)

The author in the 1970s, performing in Bill Evans’ Bach Dances (Photo by Jack Mitchell)

It began when I was very, very small—possibly only 3. I remember adults asking, “What do you want to be when you grow up, little girl?” I hear my high, squeaky voice answering with authority, “I want to be a dancer.”

So began my intense love of movement—jumping, spinning, running—all filled with music and ecstasy, an endless delight. My enlightened mother took me to New York for lessons—pre-dance with the Rom sisters; piano lessons, first with my mother and then with her Juilliard teacher, Gladys Mayo; and later, Saturday dance class at the Hanya Holm school. My knee hadn’t uttered a word—just the usual “ouch” at childhood scrapes.

When I was 15, we moved to New York City and—by the grace of God and Hanya Holm—I was accepted at the High School of Performing Arts. I was going to be a dancer. It was the first time I had met so many other children who liked what I liked, who were impassioned by dance. It was the first time I had seen so many boys in tights: 10 of them in my class alone.

I was in heaven. Like Jean Brodie’s “girls,” we knew we were “la crème de la crème.” We saw every dance concert we could, “second-acted” Broadway shows, and danced every second it was humanly possible. We danced at school, after school and, when we were lucky, all day Saturday, too. We were adolescents drunk on dancing.

At the end of my sophomore year, my knee proved to be less than intoxicated. Doing prances in class at the O’Donnell-Shurr studio, I tore the lateral meniscus—the cartilage. The knee swelled up, I could not walk, and summer plans to attend a dance/theater workshop in Utah that was organized by Dr. Rachel Yocom (director of Performing Arts’ dance department) were seriously threatened. This was the first time I heard the words, “Maybe you should give up this dancing. Maybe you should find another career.”

These were the words of my first orthopedist. Knee surgery, then in its infancy, was not an option. The field of physical therapy had barely been conceived. I smiled politely, died a little inside, and simply didn’t listen. I was very, very stubborn. I was a dancer.

Off I went to Utah. Since I couldn’t dance, I studied acting, made props, painted scenery, took a make-up course, helped in the costume shop, and made a brief appearance sitting down onstage and waving my arms in “Anitra’s Dance” in Peer Gynt. What a wonderful opportunity it was, and how utterly courageous Rachel Yocom was to take a group of teenagers along with the May O’Donnell Concert Company across the country and back by bus. I had learned the first lesson: if you can’t dance, do everything that is related. Six months later, I was dancing again.

The second lesson was more painful. At the age of 20, my knee sent me someplace new: the ongoing imbalance in my legs caused my back to spasm. I spent a year bent at a right angle to the floor or locked in upright rigidity. This wasn’t fun. Clearly, once the spasm cycle was broken, I had to look for a different way of working. My early training had, in part, included the “grip-and-tuck, pain-is-gain” approach to movement. It wasn’t working. My doctor had me strengthen my abdominal muscles by lifting the N.Y. telephone directory between my legs. That worked, and I began to experiment. Could I dance without gripping every muscle in my butt—using, instead, my newfound abdominal support? Yes! Dancing became easier and at the same time more complex: there was more to think about, and to accomplish. Best of all, I could keep dancing. And I did.

I danced ferociously, with every choreographer I could find. It was always all about dancing. Unknowingly, I was preparing for the next great adventure. As college days cadenced (I began at Juilliard and finished at City College), I was invited to join the Paul Taylor Dance Company.

Paul had lost two dancers unexpectedly. He needed a quick study to join the company for the Paris season. Would I like to go? Of course I would! (What knee problem?) In the next three weeks, I learned and rehearsed seven major works, studied for finals, read two novels by Jane Austen, wrote one last paper, took eight hours of finals (including a physics final), and was picked up, driven to the airport, and given a champagne send-off. My mother packed for me. Thank God! I had no time.

Jane Kosminsky. (Photo by Peter Schaaf)

Those were very exciting years. The company was small—eight dancers plus Paul, who was still dancing. We rehearsed all afternoon, every Monday through Friday. We danced everything full-out, every time—no marking. I’ve never jumped so much in my life. We worked very, very hard. On the weekends we tried to recover. I remember sitting down at the bottom of the stairs in my apartment building and literally crawling up; I was 23 years old. Exhaustion and ecstasy, ecstasy and exhaustion—deep friendship bound by a love of the work—this is how I remember the Taylor Company. Was it glamorous? Sometimes. After all, we did tour the world. I met Ravi Shankar in Calcutta and Edward Albee in the bar of the Semirimis Hotel in Cairo. I was feted, wined, dined, and occasionally adored. Ah, the magic and illusion of dance!

We were held together by dance class and by the “dancers’ underground”—those doctors and healers (often off the beaten track) who could help keep us dancing. A chiropractor, Dr. Rose Smart, taught us to take vitamins and carry our therapy equipment on tour, and how to work on ourselves and each other. The modern dancers found Don Farnworth, a ballet master who taught us to stand “on our feet,” to stop tucking, gripping, and pushing.

Despite this help, my knee had finally had enough. During rehearsal for a New York season, my leg collapsed. What was left of the cartilage had turned to sand. This time, it meant surgery—and in 1969 that meant a week in the hospital, six months of recovery, and the risk and deep fear of never dancing again. “Start thinking of another career,” urged my surgeon. I was still very stubborn. You cannot dismiss a grand passion so easily.

Oddly enough, this was a positive time—a chance to discover that I existed whether I danced or not, a time to touch the transcendent that draws us over and over again to answer the question “Should I still choose this?” with a huge “Yes!”

Several weeks after surgery, I sat down on the floor with Don Farnworth. We began by bending my knee. It took many weeks. Paul gave me a key to the studio, and slowly I began to put myself back into my roles. I had no strength. Could I still dance? What would it actually take? What really worked for my body? I spent hours each day physically exploring these questions. And I learned—not just to do less and less, but to do the right amount of “less” so that I could dance dangerously again. It was a very rich time. When the company returned to rehearsal, I was ready.

In 1971, my life shifted again. Bruce Becker and I formed the dance company we named “5 by 2,” and I was invited by John Houseman to join the faculty of The Juilliard School’s Drama Division. Both these events are stories unto themselves.

I had known Bruce since high school. I had gone to his bar mitzvah. He had been my first dance partner, and certainly my favorite. He was an extraordinary dancer: no one could dance faster or leap higher; no one was more musical. But it was his great capacity to move you to tears or laughter that set him apart. He was unique.

At a time when most companies revolved around the work of a single choreographer, we decided to do repertory. We did classics (Tamiris’s Negro Spirituals, Taylor’s Duet, two duets from Limon’s There Is a Time, among others). We invited established and new choreographers to create works on us—Anna Sokolow, Mario DeLamo, Mark Haim, Moses Pendleton. We were both injured dancers, but by then, we had developed strong survival skills and we helped each other. We were still dancing. It was glorious.

By the beginning of the 1980s, 5 by 2 had grown to 5 by 2 Plus, and we discovered—like many company directors before and since—that the demands of running a company ate into the time to attend to our own dancing. My knee developed osteoarthritis and a permanent bend. The road’s cold theaters took their toll, and it became harder and harder to do mechanically what my talent was capable of. It was time to come off the road, to retire from performing. As usual, Bruce and I agreed. But what was I going to do next?

My silent partner, my knee, led me organically and unerringly to a second career. When I joined the Juilliard faculty to teach dance to the actors, I met the legendary Alexander technique teacher Judith Leibowitz. Judy became my colleague, friend, and fýnally, my mentor. I had absolutely no idea what the Alexander technique was, but I did know that “my” actors could move with enormous ease and fluidity. At the end of the year, I had my first lesson with Judy. By the end of that first lesson, I knew I would train as an Alexander teacher when I retired.

The Alexander technique united so many of the ideas and concepts I had been working with for years, and placed them in a clear framework. It so obviously provided a way for dancers to dance longer and better, and without injury. How could I resist? My students urged me on.

Since 1985, I have been totally spoiled. I work with gifted performing artists, diving right into the important issues, the ones that continue to fascinate us all—energy, focus, dynamic. I actually get to share what I know, and to continue to explore. All this from a torn cartilage!

Although my knee had moved me off the stage, it eventually moved me in front of the camera. In 1997, a friend suggested that I create a video about the Alexander technique for the general public, so that everyone could benefit from the “performers’ secret weapon.” Absolutely everything we needed arrived on cue—including a wonderful actor, William Hurt (Group V). I hadn’t seen William in years, but there he was in my favorite Japanese restaurant, saying, “Count me in.” Right before Christmas in 1998 we created two videos. I hadn’t had so much fun since I stopped dancing.

Last January, I paid a visit to Dr. Phillip Bauman, one of the great dance doctors of this generation. I could no longer take class. There was no potential for improvement; I needed help. With medical technology having made huge advances, I could now replace my knee with titanium. I could become bionic! Today, a torn meniscus is a one-day affair handled by laser surgery. Physical therapy is highly sophisticated and hugely helpful. Today, mind/body approaches abound, and a myriad of healing modalities have joined the mainstream. How lucky we dancers are.

The author in the 1970s, performing in in Paul Taylor’s Duet with Bruce Becker. (Photo by Jack Mitchell)

Several years ago, a psychologist asked me why people dance if it is so painful. I looked at her in amazement. Pain and suffering are neither interesting nor important. They bore me (and I hope they bore you). What might be interesting, and possibly important, is what we learn from them, what we gain that we can share with others. My knee story, like that of any other dancer’s injury, provided a point of departure for personal exploration. Dancing brought me the world—literally. It also brought me great friendships that have graced my life for decades.

Why do we dance? To explore what is most true in us, most real, most honest. I believe we dance to explore the “crack in the cosmic egg”—to resonate with our own deepest vibrations, to touch the transcendent with delicacy and clarity and strength.

It is August. It is hot. I stare down at my left knee and wonder where it will lead me next. This summer, I am resting, reading a ridiculous numbers of murder mysteries, and doing my physical therapy exercises religiously. In reality, I am doing what any dancer would do: I am preparing to go back to class.