The Pea, the Pearl, and the Mermaid’s Tail

Somewhere between sleep and waking, between a dry desert wind and a soft flurry of fog on the pillow, this ballet quietly unfolded. Was it yesterday? Long ago? Or perhaps tomorrow? After all, Andersen, as we know, writes stories that never quite know how to end.

And Nadya Timofeyeva, artistic director of the Jerusalem Ballet, follows in his footsteps. Her Princess and the Pea plays like a musical sleight of hand—just as the audience braces for the next familiar twirl of the fairy tale, the choreographer swaps the expected for the quietly subversive. The kind of unexpected that hums beneath the skin of the action, where fantasy begins to masquerade as truth.

That’s because Nadya Timofeyeva has a rare gift: the ability to conjure theatrical magic from the simplest gestures, the most unassuming elements. And somehow, her spell always lands—modern audiences, it turns out, are hungry for exactly this kind of wonder.

At first glance, it’s a classical—or let’s say neoclassical—ballet: jetés soar, chaînés spin on demi-pointe, dancers strike their aplomb, sketching space with en dehors and en dedans, as in the grandest ballet houses. And in the final moment, the prince lifts his newly-found princess into an overhead arc so breathless the entire audience gasps. A ballet with charming entrées and witty codas, with portrait-like variations and moments of pas d’action laced with humor—especially in the case of the royal couple. A ballet that might be for children, or for adults, or for anyone at all, because ultimately, it’s a fairy tale. And fairy tales, like dreams, never belong to just one world.

                                  Photos by Eduard Markovich

In this fairytale space, the dancers of the Jerusalem Ballet write a story with their bodies—a story of doubt, grace, and vulnerability. Nadya Timofeyeva’s choreography is both precise and delicate, like a living organism constantly discovering new folds of movement, new ways the joints can turn, new resistances offered by the body itself. Even the “main” princess here is not some weightless, ethereal wisp—she is a pulse, a physical nerve, responding to the gentlest of touches.

And it all begins with a pearl. No—not quite. It all begins with a ragged princess (the luminous Noa Levy, a ballerina of pure lines and immaculate plastique), who simply cannot bring herself to step into the royal palace. The king (the delightfully comic Dmitry Shevtsov) tries to push her in; the queen (Naama Beller) welcomes her instead. And the prince? That Apollonian figure with the sculpted torso looks familiar. Ah yes—last time, he (Mikhail Botsok) was Harry Houdini. Now, he’s a Prince in perpetual motion.

He rides in a carriage drawn by ballerina-horses, wheels spinning like umbrellas. Garden after garden, kingdom after kingdom. He meets the Melancholy Princess (the gossamer Anael Zateykin), delicate on the outside, but inside—like undercooked rice: neither this, nor that. He meets the Mermaid (Ariel May Ron), a wondrous creature with a tail and an enchanted body that seems to belong not to the air, but entirely to the sea. But the Prince—he is human, and humans breathe. And then he meets another—the Bird-Princess (Avital Barsukov), predatory, with a nightingale on a leash. She wants the bird to sing only for her—but birds, you see, don’t quite work that way.

                                      Photo by Boris Shahnovich

In the ballet about princesses, music is also a character, especially the music by Tcherepnin (and there are many pieces, from which Nadya, as always, weaves a unified tapestry). Tcherepnin takes his time—he is like an old master, who, without haggling, offers you a piece of everything he’s accumulated. There’s no frantic expression or over-emphasized accents here; on the contrary, each chord seems to blur the contours just enough, only to unexpectedly reassemble them into something whole—like a multi-layered mirror that reflects not only the outside view but the inner one, and everything in between. Impressionism? Yes, but with a certain modesty. Tcherepnin’s melodies are refined, yet without estrangement—they are like old porcelain cups, unadorned, but with such simple grace that they compel attention. The chords scatter like drops of water, then surge in thick layers, and at moments of maximum tension, it feels as though the very sound could shift the axis of the stage itself. The choreographer works with this sonic density, pulling it into the fabric of the dance: at times leaving pauses, at other times intentionally delaying movement, as though giving the body time to contemplate its own existence.

A special kind of plasticity and haunting beauty are given to the Mermaid—a ballerina doomed to dance without legs. Her tail, instead of the usual limbs, dictates not only the character of her movements but also the very logic of the sea princess’s existence: she slides, twists, crashes to the ground (or rather, to the water) with unexpected grace, and then shoots her body into the air, as if rejecting her nature. Her arms—extended, broken—seem like separate creatures, searching for salvation or avenging their lost freedom. In her duet with the prince, her dance becomes unbearably sharp: barely perceptible pulses beneath the skin, tense pauses before the fall, attempts to regain balance, which she cannot find (during the bows, the Mermaid must jump—and therein lies her unique touch, perhaps even her pea).

                                    Photo by Eduard Markovich

Yes, the king and queen in this fairy-tale ballet are not old monarchs with crowns, but mysterious, light beings, with eyes still glowing with the light of their first love. The science of tender passion, which Nazon once praised. That’s why they dance in such a way that the air quivers with happiness. And the maids serve with such grace that you’d wish to swap places with them. The little horses are an absolute marvel, truly beyond belief. Children of Generation Alpha, do you even understand what’s happening here?

Children of all generations—they understand. They listen intently, sitting still. They applaud with eager enthusiasm at the end.

And the dolls. Of course, the dolls. We won’t say which ones, nor why—let that remain a secret. Dina Giber, the ballerina who dances and reads text (yes, yes!), makes the space even more fleeting: the dance becomes the word, and the word becomes the dance. The ice-cold words slip across the skin, trembling at the tips of the fingers, hopping in tiny steps. The body and voice argue, echo, agree. Music, light, costumes—everything in this ballet floats, slides, breathes. Waves from which Neptune will soon emerge, and in which the fish-mermaid flounders, colored with the true hue of the sea. Unique sets by Inna Polonsky, which light can transform into anything.

                                Photo by Eduard Markovich

                                   Photo by Boris Shahnovich

Dance stretches time, makes it as pliable as dough, and suddenly it becomes clear that between the steps, entire universes can find their place. And then, just near the end, the pearl is tucked beneath the mattresses, and the world immediately begins to be tested for its strength: who feels, who doesn’t, who sleeps, and who sees the moon. The main princess is one of those who doesn’t sleep. Not because of the pearl, but because of the moon. The moon—an eternal unsent letter, an unfinished poem. To shine—is to love. To love—is to stay awake. That’s why she rises, spins, and writes words in the air that don’t even need to be read.

What you need to do—is watch, both children and adults. Because Andersen would surely watch and marvel: “So this is what I was writing about!”
And check, too—perhaps there’s a pearl beneath your pillow?