Can a World-Class Ballet Dancer Be Trained in Jerusalem? Part II

(Continued. Read the first part here)

The Ballet School as Cultural Resistance

Can a ballet school today function as a form of cultural resistance—not politically, but humanly? A resistance against superficiality, haste, the erosion of attention, and the loss of grace in gesture?

Nadya Timofeyeva: That is precisely my dream—to establish a ballet school as a form of cultural resistance. A sanctuary for nurturing refined human beings—in their relationship to culture, to our planet, to our land, to animals, to plants, to everything.

So it wouldn’t be merely a ballet school. Classical dance would form a specialized department within it, where professionals would be rigorously trained through an appropriate curriculum. Others might devote themselves more to painting or other disciplines. My vision is an all-encompassing haven—a home for children, but also, ideally, for animals and the elderly. After all, people in their later years—retired masters and specialists—often find themselves in heartbreaking isolation. Yet they possess a wealth of wisdom to pass down to the young. These are my dreams.

I simply long for us to learn how to inhabit this world together. Our universe is structured so mysteriously, its secrets so vast, that we cannot fully comprehend it. Yet some keep trying. We are hurtling around the Sun at a breakneck speed, traveling in a cosmic spiral alongside the entire solar system. We are constantly flying toward the unknown. Our planetary system is like a massive starship; we are all aboard, endlessly quarreling and squabbling. Some of us soar, while others crawl—yet even those who crawl are still flying. That is the ultimate paradox of the universe: even as we crawl, we are in flight. The tragedy is that we fly without realizing it, dirtying our shared nest and ruining each other’s lives along the way.

We could choose instead to grace this planet, if only we treated it with greater mercy.

                  Nadya Timofeyeva. Photo by Leonid Khromchenko

What Can Artificial Intelligence Offer?

If, ten years from now, artificial intelligence can analyze every movement of a dancer and correct errors with greater precision than a human teacher, will there remain anything that only a human can impart?

The essential task of teaching is not merely to explain. The real challenge is to inspire a human being to undertake an act of heroism. To mold a ballerina, a master’s role goes far beyond saying: “Do this, this is correct, and that is wrong.” Ballet is built upon a daily confrontation with oneself, upon the cultivation of willpower and character. Artificial intelligence cannot offer motivation. You will never feel the desire to transcend yourself in order to impress an algorithm.

Even if AI eventually masters technical analysis, it cannot transmit a living tradition imbued with love. It cannot say: “I saw this with my own eyes.” When you share a memory, you infuse it with your lived experience, your own emotion—and emotion is energy. AI has lived through nothing. Therefore, at this stage, it is fundamentally impossible.

I have no doubt AI can mimic facial expressions, tone, and vocal timbres. But there is a sacred mystery in the oral transmission of art, passed from mouth to mouth, soul to soul. I see no way an algorithm can replace that, given the intricate psychological nuances involved.

Furthermore, AI’s current propensity for flattery poses a genuine danger. I work quite a bit with ChatGPT, and every time I begin, I have to say: “Could you please refrain from telling me how wonderful I am? Don’t tell me what I should do. I asked a specific question—answer it. Don’t immediately shower me with unsolicited advice.”

This is a grave issue for children. AI pulls you away from personal perception, instantly offering a cascade of pre-packaged advice. That can be useful when an adult is stuck and seeking a spark of inspiration. But when a mind is still unformed, AI cannot properly shape a human character. For that, you need human beings.

Does “School” Still Exist in the Classical Sense?

Does the concept of a “school” still exist today in its classical sense? Or has the 21st-century master evolved into a curator of an individual student’s path?

It still exists. I believe true systems endure. Older masters from previous eras are still among us, and some of them are absolute geniuses. When they leave us, an entire epoch vanishes alongside them, taking a vast repository of knowledge with it.

There are true masters for whom students are not stamped out from a single template. They understand who requires deep investment. Talent needs nurturing; mediocrity will always push its way through. Yet a master can never be entirely certain: what if you made a mistake? What if a student isn’t mediocre at all, but was simply overlooked? Such misjudgments happen often.

Therefore, a teacher must remain deeply self-critical and intellectually open. Everything depends on your value system. If you operate from a place of fear—no matter what that fear stems from—it compromises everything. When people are governed by fear, the consequences are inevitable.

There are young teachers who lack depth, and others who are exceptionally gifted. It is entirely individual. It depends on where you trained, under whom you studied, your practical experience, your intellect, and your personal appetite for learning. A true teacher must remain a student until their final breath. You cannot simply say: “I am a master now, and that is that.” The system requires continuous updating because generations shift endlessly. I have watched generation after generation pass through my studios, and each one is fundamentally different from the last.

Adults at the Barre

Why do adults voluntarily come to the ballet barre? What are they truly seeking?

Ballet is a unique synthesis of inspiration and athleticism. Adults come to the barre for several reasons.

First, there are those who longed to become ballerinas in their youth, but life took a different turn. They harbored that dream for decades, and finally, they have found the freedom to pursue it. They have no ambitions of turning professional, but they fall in love with the process of learning. They seek to understand the inner architecture of the art form, which they find captivating.

Second, some crave a physical discipline that is elevated by beautiful music and artistic depth—something far removed from the monotony of a gym.

Third, some parents sign up simply because their children have begun dancing. They realize that a vast chasm opens between children immersed in ballet and parents who remain aloof from that world. It becomes impossible to explain to a parent the grueling journey their child is undertaking unless they experience it themselves.

Ballet as a Path to Self-Discovery

At what point does ballet cease to be merely a profession and become a path toward self-discovery?

Instantly. It is a profound voyage of self-discovery—of your character, your inclinations, the inner workings of your mind, and your physical form. If you do not understand your own existence, you cannot guide yourself.

This is what I try to convey to my younger students. I have a young student who told me: “I want to be famous.” I asked her: “In what field?” She replied: “Like a pop star who fills entire stadiums. I want to be like that.”

I realized my task was to take that raw ambition and redirect it. To explain to her: What does true stardom mean? What kinds of stars exist in the world? What unites them? That is a monumental pedagogical challenge facing me right now.

Is there a fundamental difference between how you instruct a ten-year-old child and a forty-year-old adult?

Of course. The cognitive framework is entirely different. A ten-year-old grasps physical commands more fluidly and executes them with greater physical ease. For a forty-year-old, it can be far more complex, depending on their physical conditioning.

Furthermore, an adult who takes up ballet usually realizes they will never be a professional ballerina. Starting from that premise can be psychologically challenging; adults tend to put themselves down. My job is to help them step back and realize: We are not trying to become Diana Vishneva, Svetlana Zakharova, or Marianela Núñez. We are studying a precise technique. There is immense beauty in that process alone.

With adults, I can use a more mature vocabulary—though, truth be told, I speak to children as adults as well. We examine the skeleton, the alignment of bones, the mechanics of movement—so no one feels like we are conditioning Pavlov’s dog. In the old system, education often came down to: “Turn out, hold it, and stand there until you drop.” That method produced results, but it is far better to understand which muscle is executing which action.

In the past, such mechanics were rarely explained. Today, we teach much more on an anatomical level. I studied anatomy as a separate subject in college, but after graduating, that theoretical knowledge hadn’t settled into my physical body. Theory and practice were disconnected. Later in life, I was able to bridge those gaps in my own education, and now I can pass that understanding to my students.

When you simply tell a child: “Stand still and hold it,” the natural reaction is: Why? What for? Children today ask questions. In my youth, we didn’t dare ask. Opening your mouth could get you thrown out of the studio. Today, students come up to me and ask: “Why isn’t this specific muscle firing?”

The Body: Command or Listen?

Until recently, ballet demanded absolute submission from the body. Today, the prevailing philosophy insists we must listen to the body. How do you reconcile these two ideas?

The body must obey regardless. But for the body to obey, you must possess a fierce internal motivation. Laziness is hardwired into our biology as an evolutionary survival mechanism. Laziness is a wonderful thing; the brain wants to rest, the body wants to rest, and neither inherently wants to endure ballet.

When a child is small, they do not yet grasp the demands of ballet. By the time they realize how arduous it is, how much labor it demands, a teacher must have already instilled a habit of work. And working is never inherently pleasant. A professional dancer does not leap out of bed every morning eager to run to the barre. Usually, when a professional wakes up, they think: If nothing hurts today, I must be dead.

You are perpetually exhausted, almost always in pain, but your willpower and your passion for the art are so intense that you overcome yourself.

Yet I would separate these two concepts: listening to the body is non-negotiable. It is not a contradiction. If you fail to listen to your body, if you ignore its signals, it breaks. But if your body does not obey you, it will accomplish nothing at all.

Since I stopped performing, I have no desire to stand at a barre, execute a battement tendu, or do anything of the sort. My sole purpose was to step out onto the stage. For that privilege, I was willing to do whatever was required. Practicing ballet and executing exercises at the barre brought me joy back then, but only as a means to an end. Some people find pure joy in the exercise itself; I am not one of them.

Yet I always understood that the body must be nourished. The body must be cared for. You must lay the body down to let it rest. And then you must pick that body up and carry it further. It is grueling work—an endless pursuit of perfection. Infinite refinement. It never truly ends.

(Continue reading here)