NOTE
book
by Michael Crabb
Arnold Sphor accepting an ovation at his 25th gala (1983)
T
he outpouring of affectionate tributes that followed the announcement of the death of Arnold Spohr speaks volumes. It was not just the warm tones that coloured the many reports on radio and television and in newspapers and magazines across Canada and abroad. It was manifested in the immediate stream of fond reminiscences, vivid anecdotes and heartfelt sadness shared through email, message boards and similar electronic media. They flowed among those who knew Spohr personally and also from people who connected with his spirit through the dancing he put onstage as a ballet director. The Spohr touch was magical, palpable, unmistakable and unforgettable. Within hours of his death, Spohr’s friends were discussing the need — their need — to hold memorial gatherings not just in Winnipeg, the epicentre of his life’s work, but in Vancouver and Toronto as well. Partly this reflects the extraordinary sense of kinship among geographically dispersed Royal Winnipeg Ballet alumnae from the years of Spohr’s directorship, a virtual family of which he was the undisputed father figure. But there’s a much larger extended family, those around the globe who from decades ago still remember the thrill of a Royal Winnipeg Ballet performance, its programming blazingly reflective of the man at its helm. Yet, fiercely devoted to the Royal Winnipeg Ballet as he undoubtedly was, Spohr’s love of dance and desire
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DanceInternational International Summer Summer2010 2010 Dance
to further the art wherever and however he could knew no bounds. He taught, coached and mentored widely. His influence, if only by example, was felt across Canada and beyond. He inspired people he’d never even met. This extraordinary response to Spohr’s death reminded me of the time, more than a decade ago, when I began work on his biography. Naturally, some of my interview candidates had to be tracked down, but there were many who, when they learned through the ballet grapevine what I was up to, were eager to be heard; so many in fact that eventually I had to draw the line for fear of never getting the book finished. They were powerfully motivated to share their impressions of Spohr for the simple reason that he had touched their lives profoundly. There was much laughter; sometimes tears. When the Canadian Conference of the Arts awarded him its coveted Diplôme d’honneur in 1983, the citation described him as “the best-loved man in Canadian dance.” It is one thing in a career to command the respect and admiration of one’s colleagues, quite another to earn their love. Remarkably, Arnold Spohr achieved both. There was, of course, something naturally lovable about the man. Spohr retained throughout his life a childlike quality of wonder, delight and excitement in the world around him. It could be a gasp of sheer exhilaration unleashed by a great performance or an almost conspiratorially
mischievous smile at the first taste of a delicious dessert. Once, when he was staying in my home, I asked him if he’d like me to put some music on. He expressed a desire for Bach. I reached for Glenn Gould’s historic 1955 recording of The Goldberg Variations. Almost immediately he was transported. He sat there silent and motionless throughout. Afterward he simply got up and disappeared to his room. I knew better than to disturb his spiritual reverie. In his travels and official duties, Spohr met grand people of every stripe, from crowned heads, politicians and corporate moguls to the most eminent artists, but there was nothing grand about him. He certainly did not disdain the champagneand-caviar circles in which he sometimes moved, but his own modesty, humility and simplicity remained unaffected. He would be as courteous to the meek as to the mighty. To coin an English expression, he was “a man without side.” I’ll never forget the gala celebrating his 25th anniversary as artistic director. Audience members were informed that following the performance they could if they wished greet him personally in the lobby. There he stood as well-wishers waited their turn to shake his hand or give him a hug. Watching from the mezzanine where an invitation-only reception in his honour had already begun, I’d guess at least half the audience stayed to speak to him. The process took so long that he missed his own party. I know he was exhausted, but he hid it well. Of course, to be an effective ballet director you can’t pussyfoot. You have to make decisions that will please some and wound others. These were always hard for Spohr and could cause him great distress. Ideally, he would have preferred to please everyone and indeed often tried to do so, almost to a fault. In the end, however, he knew where his duty rested, to the company and art form he loved beyond everything. What’s truly extraordinary is that for the most part even those who, in their own terms, were adversely affected by his decisions did not bear a grudge. It’s almost a cliché to recount the personal sacrifices leaders in all walks of life must sometimes make in pursuit of a cause. Arnold Spohr certainly sacrificed a great deal, not the least in terms of his health, but he would have had it no other way. I remember him once, with great particularity, talking about the difference between a life in dance and a life for dance. His was most emphatically a life for dance and we are all the richer for it.