Foreword

Shoko Nakamura and Wieslaw Dudek are an extraordinary pair of dancers whose paths crossed multiple times before they ultimately became a couple while working as principal dancers at Staatsballett Berlin, the State Ballet of Berlin. I have known Shoko Nakamura since she was a young apprentice at the Stuttgart Ballet. It was there in the rehearsal room that she danced my first ideas on the role of Hamsatti and thus helped me develop the choreography to “La Bayadère”. Later, our paths crossed again in Vienna, where I offered her the opportunity to dance a solo in that work of choreography. But we had our most intense collaborations at Staatsballett Berlin, where she reached her career peak working first as a soloist and later as a principal. Shoko Nakamura always gives one hundred percent, even when she is tired or exhausted. You can always depend on her. She is the last person to leave the rehearsal room and always remains concentrated and critical when working in pursuit of her passion – ballet. I can recall spending many intense hours in the studio and onstage with her. She has shined in many roles, such as Patrice Bart’s “Swan Lake”, Mauro Bigonzetti’s “Caravaggio”, “Snow White” by Angelin Preljocaj and William Forsythe’s “The Vertiginous Thrill of Exactitude” to name but a few. In my production of “Cinderella” she worked together with Wieslaw Dudek for the first time, and since then they have continued dancing together – onstage and off.

I met Wieslaw Dudek in Stuttgart as well – at that time, Shoko Nakamura was already in Vienna. Once Staatsballett Berlin was founded, I brought him to Berlin. He is a wonderful partner for any ballerina both onstage and in the rehearsal room. Over time, he has become a dear friend of mine. With his interpretation of the title character in John Cranko’s “Onegin” he put his incredible skills as a dancer on display. He was also highly expressive as Hagen in “Ring um den Ring” by Maurice Béjart and as my alter ego in “Tchaikovsky” by Boris Eifman.

Author Jan Stanisław Witkiewicz is a long-time companion of and expert in the international ballet scene. With his books, he continually succeeds in casting a glance behind the scenes and taking you, dear readers, with him into the dancers’ world. This lovely book provides conversations with Shoko Nakamura and Wieslaw Dudek that allow you to gain intimate insight into the lives of two internationally renowned star dancers who have dedicated their lives to ballet and yet have still made room for personal lives and a family.

Vladimir Malakhov

Ms Nakamura, why are the Japanese so interested in ballet?

Many Japanese children do ballet and aspire to go to ballet school in Europe because they believe ballet is much better there. There are no professional ballet schools in Japan. That is why everyone thinks: If I want to do this professionally, I have to go to Europe.

When European troupes tour in Japan, they easily fill large halls, and many Japanese people have been known to fly to Europe for a ballet performance, watch it and fly right back. Why do the Japanese love ballet so much?

Perhaps it is because of Tetsuya Kumakawa and Miyako Yoshida, who both danced at the Royal Ballet in London. When they returned to Japan, their ballets were shown everywhere and people were enthralled. Tetsuya Kumakawa was a principal dancer who came back to Japan at age 27. I think that has inspired more and more children to do ballet.

How many ballet studios are there in Fukuoka where you grew up?

Probably about fifty.

That many?! Where can you find that kind of enthusiasm in Europe?

Nowhere. Tons of children do ballet. And many Japanese women do ballet as a hobby.

Why did you start dancing?

It was actually my parents who urged me to because they thought it would be good for me. Many Japanese people believe that ballet is good for girls because it gives them nice bodies.

But at six years old – wasn’t that too early?

Yes, but in the beginning it was more like playtime. Back then, ballet just meant putting on a leotard, dancing in front of the mirror and jumping around a bit. It was fun.

Were your ballet lessons separate from your normal school schedule?

Yes, first you go to school like normal, and then people take ballet lessons in their free time. When I first started, I went to ballet three times a week. With my sister. She had started doing ballet first. Then I wanted to go too, and so we started dancing together. I spent that first year at a school in Saga, and then we moved to Fukuoka. There I attended Chikako Tanaka Ballet School, which was more demanding and had better dancers. That is where I realised that I wanted to go further with ballet. Instead of just having fun, I wanted to show what I could do and take part in competitions. Things started getting more professional from then on.

When I look at pictures from that time, I’m amazed at what I see – a very young little girl doing pointe work. Wasn’t it a bit early for that?

Yes, I think I started dancing en pointe somewhat early, but that’s how things were in Japan. The teachers believed that girls could start dancing in pointe shoes as soon as they reached a certain age. Here in Europe people know that you have to assess each student individually to see when they have acquired enough technique and muscle strength for pointe shoes. In Japan we weren’t assessed individually. No one checked to make sure we had the right technique or enough strength for pointe.

The teachers were not professional enough for that. I think I started dancing en pointe too early, because I didn’t have the right technique and my legs weren’t strong enough yet. When I was sixteen I went to Europe, to the John Cranko School in Stuttgart, because I had won the Prix de Lausanne and received a scholarship. When I got there, the teachers asked me if I had ever studied ballet. I was shocked and sad because I didn’t understand what they meant. After all, I had just won an award and a scholarship grant. But they were right to ask! I didn’t even know things such as how to stand in first position. I would stand there bowlegged with my bottom sticking out and so on. I actually didn’t have the right kind of body for ballet. I had bow legs, my knees were too big and my hips rotated inward. Ms Ute Mitreuter at John Cranko School changed my body. Fortunately, I have to say. She made my career possible. If I hadn’t met her, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

Your teachers in Japan told you that you were not a real dancer?

Yes, they always said that it would probably be difficult for me to become a ballerina. My body just wasn’t right for it. There were many dancers with great bodies at our studio, so my instructors believed that I simply lacked the necessary physical requirements. It really hurt me because I could see that the other kids had better bodies and nicer figures than I did. But I just loved ballet so much. I’m not a very outgoing person and was thus always in the background at my regular school. Ballet school was where I opened up. I felt like a completely different person in the studio. The beautiful costumes ... I felt like someone special, not a Plain Jane anymore, but a princess. That’s why I liked it so much. It allowed me to live out my fantasies. ... When I was eleven years old, I took part in my first competition. I performed a variation from Léon Minkus’ “Paquita”. I wore a gorgeous red costume and a lot of makeup. When I looked into the mirror, I saw how pretty I was – I thought I was pretty for the first time. I felt like a princess – not just Shoko. As my “normal” self I was quiet and nothing special, but wearing a costume onstage allowed me to discover a whole new world, a very special way of expressing myself. It introduced me to another Shoko.

Did your teachers realise that you were special too?

No, no. But when I looked into that mirror before my performance and discovered how pretty I was, I took on a whole new demeanour. I had found my world. A world of my own.

Did you start to feel better after that?

Sometimes yes, sometimes no.

Such is life.

Yes, such is life. Until I turned fifteen or sixteen, I had a complex about my body.

But your success at competitions must have shown you that you were something special. That you had something that others were drawn to.

Yes, but that didn’t do anything to change my body. I wanted what the other girls had: a good body, nice feet, a pretty face, a lovely figure. Ballet has to be pretty. I saw myself and the others in the mirror every day.

Do you still compare yourself to others today?

Not that way… I’ve made peace with myself. I’ve found my own world.

Have you had to work very hard?

Of course! Always! I believed this was my only chance. That if I only worked hard enough, I’d be able to achieve something. Before the Prix de Lausanne, one of my teachers came to talk to me about the modern choreography and said: Shoko, you may not have a perfect body or long legs, but for a ballerina long arms and a long neck are more important. And I thought: This is my chance! I’ve always made sure to accentuate my long neck and arms. Ballerinas do not necessarily need to have long legs, but they need long arms and nice shoulders – in “Swan Lake”, for example. That’s why I have always focused on extending. I’ve given everything I can to be successful at ballet.

It’s hard to believe that you were so dissatisfied with yourself for so long.

Because my mind kept telling me that ballerinas have to have long legs and …

… and because your teachers kept telling you that you didn’t have the right body?

Yes. But, of course, they didn’t say it every day. They simply believed it would be difficult for me. In Japan, everyone thinks that only beautiful people do ballet. And there were a great deal of beautiful dancers in my studio.

Did many instructors teach there?

No, just one. It was a private studio.

So you were always with the same teacher?

Yes. Though sometimes there were assistants or old instructors.

Was it expensive?

Yes, ballet school is very expensive in Japan. We had to pay by the month. And there were extra fees for performances, costumes and guest instructors. It was quite a lot. My parents never said anything while I was in school, but when I began dancing professionally they admitted that it had been a very difficult time for them. It was a big financial burden. And there were two of us, me and my sister.

But your sister gave up dancing quite early.

Yes, but she was with me in Vienna. We danced together there. Of course, it was very tough for her. People only viewed her as my sister. She just wasn’t able to achieve what I had, no matter how hard she tried. And she really missed Japan. But she was a huge help and always supported me. There were so many people who supported me.

Thank goodness for the people who help us. Did you often perform at school events while growing up?

No, not very often. I mostly worked towards the competitions. Nearly all children are solely focused on competitions. It’s a shame! Competitions are only about the show and the technique. They are not about what ballet is, but rather how many times you can spin around and how well you jump. It’s a pity that no one shows children other aspects from the very beginning.

Did you win many competitions in Japan?

Not at first, but later, yes. I earned many first and second places. After winning my first few awards I knew that I wanted to be a ballerina.

How did you end up participating in the Prix de Lausanne competition?

In Japan, everyone thinks that when you have won enough Japanese competitions, you simply go take part in the Prix de Lausanne. Nowadays, it’s not that easy, but it used to be that every dance school was allowed to send three participants to Lausanne. Of course, my teacher had spoken with my parents about it beforehand. She told them how much she hoped that at least one of the dancers from our studio would advance to the next round. And then we travelled to Lausanne. It was the first time I had ever been to Europe, and when I walked into the studio and saw the bodies of all those little Europeans, they looked like angels or princesses to me. That’s how ballerinas are supposed to look! What am I doing here? I made it to the second round. That was incredible! The next step was to perform my variations. I got into position. The music started ... But I slipped and fell at the beginning of the pirouette. It seemed like everything was happening in slow motion. I got up and continued dancing. There was nothing I could do but go on. And I managed to finish the routine. I had never fallen before that and it had to happen at the Prix de Lausanne, of all places! I started crying. Everyone tried to console me and told me to keep going. So I went back onstage. Maybe the fall actually made me more concentrated. Of course, Japanese dancers don’t learn contemporary routines. This was the first time I had ever done anything like that. In Japan, they only teach classical ballet. So I went out there and danced the first modern routine of my life. Afterwards, everyone said that it had been like I was a completely different Shoko. Apparently I had done really well. The fall had increased my concentration. I watched the others, the European dancers, and copied everything they did. I didn’t care. I was just so interested in how they executed their movements, how they held their heads, how they positioned their arms and hands – and I just copied all of it. I’m not usually the kind of person who is able to absorb a lot of information at once, but at that moment I was able to. At that moment, my body was somehow able to reproduce any movement. And people kept asking me: Where did you learn that? And so I made it to the finals. Everyone was surprised. All of a sudden, I started to panic. I called my mother and said: I’ve made it to the finals, but I don’t want to do it. Mama, I can’t dance! To this day, my mother likes to tell the story of how I called her and said I didn’t want to compete in the finals. But then I did and everything worked out. I was granted a scholarship and the audience award. Incredible! I could hardly believe it. My teacher couldn’t believe it either, especially because she had a daughter who also did ballet and had competed in Lausanne the year before – but she hadn’t made it to the final round. Maybe that is why that teacher constantly told me I wouldn’t make it as a ballerina: to make her daughter feel better. Maybe that teacher had known all along that I had talent even though my body was not perfect.

What did you perform in Lausanne?

Variations from “Le Corsaire” by Marius Petipa and “Kokuhaku” by Nobuyuki Nakajima.

After the Prix de Lausanne you had the opportunity to go to the John Cranko School.

Exactly. Before the Prix de Lausanne the participants are asked which school they would like to attend if they win. I had to ask my teacher because I didn’t know any schools and didn’t know what I should write. I only knew of the Paris Opéra and the Royal Ballet, that was it. At John Cranko School there was another Japanese dancer whom I recognised. She had a very special aura. I had seen her compete before and wanted to be just like her. I had heard that she had gone to John Cranko School, so I listed it as the place I wanted to go. And lo and behold, I got a scholarship for John Cranko School. Perhaps my career would have gone in a different direction if I had chosen a different school.

Did you imagine yourself dancing in the corps de ballet or did you strive to become a ballerina from the very beginning?

I just wanted to work with a ballet company. At first I didn’t think about becoming a soloist. After graduating from John Cranko School, I was hired as an apprentice in Stuttgart. There I was able to see the principals from up close and I started to feel a growing desire to become like them.

Was it easy for you to go to Stuttgart – at sixteen years old?

It was my dream: going to Europe and being able to dance all day, every day. When I left, my entire family flew to Stuttgart with me. I lived at the school’s boarding house. After a while, my family flew back and left me there alone. The distance was hard to bear at first. I called my mother every day: Mama, I want to go home, I don’t want to do ballet anymore. I didn’t have anything. No friends. No TV. I couldn’t eat. It was excruciating. I was all alone in the boarding house – the school year hadn’t started yet. Then once things got going and I was dancing every day, I had more to keep me occupied. But I cried every day. It stayed hard for two whole years.

But how come? That was your world!

Sure, but the teachers disparaged me every day. I thought they hated me, and it made me cry. But after the first two years I began to understand that they were trying to turn me into a professional. They were pushing me to work harder.

Were you able to speak English when you went to Europe?

No, only Japanese. The teachers had to show me what to do with gestures and body language.

Back to your time in Japan. Teachers make mistakes, and being subjected to them for ten years can leave its mark.

Yes, but back then I wasn’t able to tell right from wrong. I simply did what my teachers wanted me to.

I suppose that has to do with the Japanese mentality of not questioning your teachers.

Yes.

Why didn’t you change studios?

In any given city there are so many different rival studios, each with its own particular style. It wasn’t possible to switch. I only would have switched if my parents had come to the decision that it would be best. In Japan, parents make the decisions, you see.

So you started working with the teachers in Stuttgart.

I had done a lot of technique work in Japan; I was able to do things like pirouettes. But in Stuttgart I wasn’t able to show what I could do because my teacher Ute Mitreuter said that I didn’t know the basics. She didn’t care about my technique. She had me start over from the very beginning. We reviewed how to stand – all the basic positions. She wanted me to forget everything I had learned in Japan and make a fresh start.

How was it for you to hear that the past ten years had all been for nothing?

I was shocked. Perhaps she said it a bit too harshly, but I guess she was just trying to convey the importance of the basics. Not technique, pirouettes or balance – first you have to get the basics down. Without that foundation, you cannot perform ballet properly. My teacher said that I would never be a ballerina without mastering the basics.

Was that hard for you?

Extremely hard. I understood what she meant, but my body just didn’t want to do as it was told. It had trained so differently for far too long. At first I just couldn’t do it. And so I cried every day. Yet through it all, I always retained my hopes of one day becoming a ballerina in a dance company. That is the reason I had gone to Europe and given everything I had. And eventually I was able to learn everything, thank God. If you twist und train your muscles enough, you can achieve the right line. You may not be able to change your physique, but you can shape your body by sculpting the muscles and finding your artistic line – I worked hard to do that. After a while, I began to realise what my teacher expected of me and how I could achieve that.

Did you work solely with Ute Mitreuter or with other teachers as well?

Just with her.

Every day?

Every day, about two hours a day. And after that we had classes on pas de deux or various modern ballet methods with other instructors, but my basic work in classical ballet was only with her.

Did your family come to visit?

Not during my school days. After a year, I flew to Japan during summer break and had gained a little weight due to the different kind of food I’d been eating. My mother, who doesn’t have a clue about ballet, said: Shoko, you look so different. Your figure has changed. I guess going to that school has been good for you. When my mother said that, I was amazed that she could see a difference. It made me very happy.

What did you intend to do after finishing school in Stuttgart?

We, my friends from school and I, wanted to go to some tryouts, so we went to an audition in Hanover. I just wanted to see how auditions worked. There were so many people there, and it was our first audition. And it was funny because the director happened to like me and offered me a job. I never would have thought it possible. But I didn’t want to dance in Hanover; I wanted to stay in Stuttgart. He told me he could wait, and so I returned to Stuttgart. Ute Mitreuter tried to get the Stuttgart director interested in me, but he didn’t offer me a position. My teacher recommended trying out as much as possible, so I went to multiple auditions, but nothing worked out. Then I performed in a student production in Stuttgart, and Ute Mitreuter told the director: Take a look at Shoko, she’s really good. And after that performance I was offered an apprenticeship.

What did you perform?

John Cranko’s “Pineapple Poll”. I danced the leading role. After that, they offered me the job – as an apprentice, not in the corps de ballet. But, thank God. That’s how I got my start with the Stuttgart Ballet, and so much happened from there.

In Stuttgart, you worked with an ensemble for the first time. Rehearsals, training and all the rest. Was it how you imagined it would be?

It was completely different than school. The instructors didn’t say anything. At first, I didn’t get any roles. I always had to stand in the back and wasn’t involved in any performances, only rehearsals. But Vladimir Malakhov changed that. One day out of nowhere he came up to me and asked if I could spare him some time because he needed my help. We went into a studio and he showed me a routine he wanted me to dance. He wanted to try it out to see if it worked. It was from “La Bayadère”: Hamsatti’s variations from the fourth act. He had developed his own choreography, which I ended up performing onstage much later. But apart from that, it was quite a boring time; I didn’t have anything to perform. And then I ended up injuring myself during a little jump, for no reason at all. I knew right away that something bad had happened. I went to physiotherapy, but they sent me right to the doctor. My leg was X-rayed: I had torn a major ligament. They told me I needed surgery. I was scared. I called my mother and she suggested I go home to Japan. She figured it would be easier for me there in terms of language comprehension. So I flew to Japan and went to see a doctor who treats many dancers. He confirmed I had torn some ligaments and said that in a normal person they would just grow back together, but as I was a dancer I had to have an operation. He gave me three hours to make my decision. The surgery took place the following day. I had to stay in Tokyo for a few days, but then I was allowed to go back to Fukuoka. I returned to Stuttgart once I was able to walk again. But unfortunately, the director did not offer me a new contract.

How long did it take?

Six months.

What do your parents do?

My mother doesn’t work and my father is a business man. I have two younger sisters. One of them, Yoko, is a dancer too – she runs her own studio – and the other one, Shuri, who is seven years younger than me, is a cook in a kindergarten.

Did you think your career was over when you went back to Stuttgart after your operation?

Yes! It was horrible. I went to the director’s office all alone to talk to him about it. I knew that I hadn’t been able to work for six months because of my injury. And I knew there was a chance I wouldn’t get a contract for the following year. I was nervous. And the director was quite harsh. He said: Naturally, I can’t offer you a contract for the coming season. And as my first season had come to an end, I went back to Japan and stayed there all summer. At that time, my sister was studying at John Neumeier’s school in Hamburg. So once summer was over, I went to Hamburg to live with her. I took part in several auditions, and in the end, I got lucky. My sister had heard that auditions were being held in Vienna and told me about them. I caught an overnight train to Vienna that very night and, after a 14-hour journey, arrived at 4:30 in the morning. Nothing was open at that time of day. I went to McDonald’s and waited. At some point, I went to the opera house and waited there. Looking around, I remember thinking how lovely the opera house was and that I wouldn’t mind working there. When it opened, I went in to audition. There were so many people there, so many girls, that there was hardly any room to stand – we all had to crowd in at the barre. I took a spot up front and made it until the very end.

What actually goes on at an audition?

It differs slightly from place to place. But in general it’s like this: Each dancer is given a number and the ballet masters lead everyone through a routine. Soon afterwards, they start dismissing the first few numbers. The ballet masters say: We would like to thank the following numbers for coming. Thank you, thank you, thank you. And then they continue with the session until the next announcement: We would like to thank the following numbers for coming. After a while, fewer and fewer people are left. Only a minimal number of dancers make it all the way to the end of the session. Then the ballet masters confer with each other. In the end, they say: The following numbers may go to the office to introduce themselves. They sent me to the office in Vienna, and I was offered a contract.

Your first real job?

Yes!

We haven’t talked about the competition in Luxembourg where you won first prize yet.

That was while I was in the corps de ballet and had a lot of time. I was supposed to perform “Esmeralda” in the first stage. But before I could even begin, I was told that that wasn’t allowed, as “Esmeralda” was not on the list of permissible works. Renato Zanella asked me if I could dance something else instead. So I ended up performing the same thing I had at the Prix de Lausanne – and, thankfully, it went well. I hadn’t known that we would be limited to a pre-approved selection of works.

What did first prize mean in this case? Did you win prize money or receive an invitation to be a guest performer?

I received a cash prize, but no job offers.

The only two European competitions you participated in were in Lausanne and Luxembourg. Why is that?

I didn’t have much time and just wasn’t as interested in competitions as before. That was something I had liked to do when I was younger, but later I lost interest.

Did you attend many ballet performances?

A great deal of them. Students receive discounted tickets, so I went to numerous ballets during that time. Seeing so many different productions was important for me and fun as well.

Had you already begun to be interested in dance techniques other than classical ballet back then?

I was particularly fascinated by the various modes of expression I saw. Productions such as “Romeo and Juliet”, “The Lady of the Camellias” or “Onegin” are full of drama. But every prima ballerina has her own special expressive style. In Japan, dancers are not very expressive. They are so introversive and withdrawn that they hardly show any expression at all, as Japanese people typically do not show their feelings in everyday life. That is something I learned from Wieslaw, my husband. He said: When you are sad, I’ll help you, when you are happy, I’ll be happy with you. That was a totally new concept for me. But then, ever so slowly, I started to try it out because he kept asking about my emotions: Shoko, why are you feeling this way or that? That was when I started to open up. And it has had a positive influence on my ballet as well.

Indeed, art is not merely technique, but expression – showing emotion.

Yes, and that is a very important part of ballet. When I watch Japanese productions I often feel like something is missing, the emotion is missing. Their technique may be excellent, but they lack expression.

Have you had difficulty showing your feelings in your personal life as well?

Yes. Wieslaw was my first boyfriend. Before that, ballet was my partner. Ballet was all I had. I didn’t have time for any other kind of relationship, and frankly I wasn’t interested in having one. Ballet was what mattered!

But when boys and girls grow up, they need a bit more to their lives than just dancing and sleeping...

Ballet was my life. There was so much for me to do, so much new information for me to process. That is what interested me. That is why I always stayed in the ballet studio until late at night. At some point someone said: Ballet is Shoko’s boyfriend.

But onstage you must have realised that when you opened yourself up in certain roles …

Yes, but it was a slow process. A lot happened in Vienna, and among other things I learned how to be expressive.

How was it to perform onstage as a professional dancer for the first time?

It was as a snowflake in “The Nutcracker”. That was the first time I was allowed to perform with the ensemble instead of sitting on the sidelines. But before I auditioned in Vienna, I tried out for a very modern company in Nuremberg. They gave us a piece of music and asked us to improvise. I had never done anything like that before; I had no clue what to do. I just copied what this other girl in pink was doing and added some things here and there. The director liked my dance and hired me for a modern work of choreography for three months. I was able to try a lot of modern things during that stint, but I never danced in the performances. Nevertheless, it was an interesting time.

Let’s get back to your time in Vienna.

They gave tons of performances there, and I was fortunate to be able to dance in so many different ballets onstage, albeit as part of the ensemble. Then Vladimir Malakhov came to Vienna to rehearse “Un ballo in maschera” with us and he gave me a solo, the “Winter Solo”. But I slipped and fell during rehearsals and ended up breaking my elbow. So when the premiere rolled around, I was neither able to perform the solo nor dance with the ensemble. Of course, I was extremely sad, but I watched every performance. Because I had desperately wanted to dance that solo – before I had ever even danced in the ensemble I had already wanted to dance that solo. I had always imagined myself dancing it. Then my arm healed, but Renato Zanella got angry and said: First you have to dance in the corps de ballet; you’ll get a solo eventually. You’ve got great technique and I’m sure you would do well with this solo, but you have to understand that this is a company and you have to do ensemble work – because the ensemble is important too. I felt horrible for only thinking of myself and my solo. But the next day he called me up to tell me that I was being promoted to demi-soloist the following year. What? Yes, but this year you have to dance with the group and prepare for what’s ahead.

And how was your time in Vienna? You had an income of your own and were no longer dependent on your parents – you were finally able to live the life of an artist.

Of course, I was happy and thankful, and I bought a lot of gifts for my mother and sister. And then Vladimir came back to Vienna for his production of “La Bayadère” and offered me the role of Hamsatti. I remembered that choreography from Stuttgart. It was my first big solo, and I worked very hard for it. The finale had fouettés – thirty-two pirouettes – and I wanted to give the audience something special. I always did doubles in the rehearsal room, but onstage I felt really good and wanted to go for a triple. I attempted it and fell, though I got right back up. Renato Zanella was furious and said in front of everyone: Shoko, this is not just your show, it’s the whole company’s. And you’ve embarrassed the whole company.

Did your parents come to see you in Vienna?

They came quite a few times, and they were also at that particular “Bayadère” performance. They didn’t know what my fall meant for the company. They actually liked my performance in that production.

What else did you perform?

Many of Renato Zanella’s works, and at 23 I danced in “Swan Lake” for the first time. That had always been my dream. However, when rehearsals started, my body image complex returned because the dancers in “Swan Lake” have to depict swans. But I couldn’t channel my inner swan. I knew the choreography, I was able to dance it, but I just wasn’t a swan. It was particularly difficult when all of the corps de ballet dancers were Europeans – my head just seemed too big in the swan pose... I’ve always been my own biggest critic. I didn’t see myself as a swan when I looked into the mirror and I didn’t feel like one either. I felt like everyone else was a better swan than I was.

No one is very objective when looking into the mirror.

I only ever see my complex.

Even today?

I don’t know at what point things changed, but it’s different today. I just have to concentrate on positioning myself correctly from bottom to top. Then I can dance.

Did you find your inner swan before the first performance?