Throughout my life, I’ve been fortunate enough to read several memoirs. Many of the characters and their thoughts have stayed with me forever. Others, however, faded like a book once read. I don’t remember exactly when, but for some reason, I decided I would begin writing down my own memories when I turned 40.

While waiting for that moment, many pages were “written” in my head, but when I woke up on the morning of my 40th birthday and received congratulations, I wasn’t given a pen. I can’t recall how much time passed from that day, but about a year later, while on the train to work, I suddenly started writing. And so, with breaks and bursts of inspiration, I began transferring the adventures of my life onto paper…

Last season marked a milestone for me—40 years of creative work. By coincidence, during that time, our theater was staging the performance Piaf. I Regret Nothing. I love this production, not only because it has a special character, but also because I participate in it not only as the director but also as an actor, standing on stage with my beloved company. Thus, I quietly celebrated my anniversary on stage.

Last season marked a milestone for me—40 years of creative work. By coincidence, during that time, we performed my ballet Piaf. Je ne regret rien. This ballet is very special to me, not just because of its unique character, but also because I am not only the choreographer, but I also participate as an actor alongside my beloved company. In this quiet way, I celebrated my anniversary on stage.

Each period of my life is reflected in my ballets, and each of my ballets has its own beginning. In my search for the beginning of beginnings—trying to uncover who I am and where my ancestors came from—I got lost long before reaching Adam and Eve. I would love to know my genealogy, but unfortunately, that has proven almost impossible. All I can say is that I am thankful to everyone who played a part in my being here!

If science could make changes in genetic structures today, I probably wouldn’t want to change anything about myself.

I have very fond memories of my childhood. My parents, my grandmother on my mother’s side, and I lived in a shared communal apartment in a large building on Berezhkovskaya Embankment in Moscow. The apartment housed two other families. It was in this apartment that I learned to ride a tricycle, maneuvering through the corridor and hallway.

Next door was a nursery that I attended for a very short time. Despite this brief period, I still have a vivid image in my memory of small children sitting in a row on potties—a sort of corps de ballet of Soviet humanity, stepping into life. I always had difficulty fitting into group activities, and perhaps for that reason, or maybe for a number of others, my upbringing was first handled by a nanny whom I don’t remember, and soon afterward by my grandmother, Sofia, who raised the person now called Konstantin Uralsky. I won’t dwell on my grandmother here, as I must write many more chapters about her.

My parents were fully immersed in the great magic of theater arts. By the time I was born, my father, a talented actor, was finishing the directing program at the Vakhtangov School—better known in the theatrical world as the Boris Shchukin Theatre Institute, or simply “Shchuka.” My mother, having completed her dancing career, was studying dance pedagogy at GITIS. The country was riding high on the wave of building a bright new future.

In our room, divided by a wardrobe into halves where my parents, my grandmother, and I slept, young actors, directors, dancers, musicians, and others… would gather late into the night. I would fall asleep to the sound of new plays being read, discussions about the proper approach to teaching various dance pas, breakdowns of a mise-en-scène, and debates about productions.

Perhaps this was the true beginning of my theater career. Maybe that’s why I start every new production with discussions with my friends—musicians, artists, and choreographers. Perhaps I’m returning to that creativity-filled room in the communal apartment where I began my theater education.

Grandmother—she is the beginning of all my beginnings. She left her job soon after I was born and dedicated herself to raising me, thereby giving my parents the opportunity to pursue their careers.

My grandmother’s husband and my mother’s father tragically killed  in 1944. To me, he was a legendary figure. Grandmother was left alone with little Lera and devoted herself to raising my mother. When my mother graduated from the Moscow Choreographic School, Grandmother followed her to the theater cities where my mother’s dance career unfolded.

I spent my entire childhood with my grandmother. My first letters, words, phrases. My first songs and poems. My first theatrical and dance experiments, my first performances…

Grandmother passed away when she was almost 94. She lived a long life as a member of the Soviet intelligentsia, raising two generations of our family and even getting the chance to cradle her great-granddaughter, my daughter. In her final years, I saw her rarely. She sent me detailed letters with important philosophical life advice. Despite the neglect and lack of attention we often show our parents, Grandmother was content with what her diligent upbringing had produced.

Not long before her death, I dedicated my ballet Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs to her. The program read: “To my Grandmother, who was the first to read me this story.” Sadly, Grandmother never saw the production on stage, but she kept the program carefully.

To be continued.

© Konstantin Uralsky