I’ve had many significant encounters in my life with remarkable, inspiring people who influenced my life and creative journey. 

Among them were many teachers, whose acquaintance and communication became important episodes in my life.

Anatoly Romanovich Simachyov was a remarkable character dancer at the Bolshoi Ballet.

A new teacher of folk-character dance entered the class hall, lighting us up with his unforgettable smile, and then abruptly yelled... That’s how he appeared in the lives of our class at the Moscow Academic Choreography School (now the Moscow State Academy of Choreography). That’s how I remember him.

An outstandingly emotional dancer who created a series of vivid roles on the Bolshoi stage. Gans in “Giselle”, Tybalt in *Romeo*, Severian in *The Stone Flower*, Drosselmeyer in *The Nutcracker*, Carabosse in *The Sleeping Beauty*, and many others. I loved watching his performance as the Stranger in *The Legend of Love*. And how he executed the “obertas step” in the mazurka of the Polish ball in the opera *Ivan Susanin*! Such an execution od a dance step is a methodical guide. How unfortunate it is that back then, there was no video recording, and much of it remains only in memories, making it impossible to show to young  dancers today.

He was an extraordinary person, who could infect anyone with his energy and love for art. When I joined the theater, I no longer saw in him just my teacher, but met a senior colleague, always ready to answer a question, to point out what was important in this not-so-kind world of adults. 

I enjoyed a friendship with Anatoly Romanovich and his wife, Alla Georgievna Boguslavskaya, also a dancer at the Bolshoi and an excellent teacher. Later, when I was already a student at GITIS, Alla Georgievna became my teacher in Character dance composition. An amazing woman who completely dedicated herself to the art of dance. At that time, for the first time in the USSR, modern dance teachers were invited. Alla Georgievna changed into dance attire and came to train with us. Having studied this discipline as much as was possible at the time, Alla Georgievna became the first modern dance teacher at the Bolshoi ballet academy.

Often visiting their apartment, I would listen to stories about the Bolshoi Ballet, various productions, performers, and, of course, about tours.                                    Being a very sociable person, Anatoly Romanovich never forgot about me, even on tours. He loved to have fun and enjoyed nighttime walks in foreign cities. In those years, a soviet artist could easily end up on a blacklist for such walks and cut from be in a cast of tours. Anatoly Romanovich would lead us outside through the service stairway. The door on the first floor had a fire  escape lock and could only be opened from the inside, so our leader would wedge a matchbox into the door. And we would set off into the streets—listening to tales of past trips and the adventures of Bolshoi artists in that city. “And what if someone removes the matchbox?” I once asked. “Then we’re stuck,” came the simple reply.

Anatoly Romanovich also loved second-hand bookstores. He could often be found in a store, standing by the counter, reading some book. He had a unique way of explaining why a particular book had caught his interest. His descriptions of the book would immerse you in some mysterious world, but I was too young and—alas!—listened very inattentively.

Once, while traveling during my vacation in the Caucasus, I ended up in Sochi. My train was leaving at night. Knowing that Simachyov was on vacation at the Sochi “Actor” resort, I went to visit him. I found him on the beach, along with a group of my senior colleagues from the Bolshoi. After a brief moment of surprise and the joy of welcoming a young man into their company, they immersed me in discussions about art. This generation not only knew a lot but also had the ability to share and discuss with inspiration.

We chatted for a long time that evening. I don’t remember the context, but he said something to me that became very important in my life, though I only understood its significance many years later: “Students often betray their teachers, but a teacher must never forget their student.”

© Konstantin Uralsky