Category: Rememberances

As a toddler, I bounced off walls. My mom searched for a constructive outlet for my enormous energy. She enrolled me in Anne Rudolph’s creative dance class for three-year-olds at her studio on Michigan Avenue. My mom had studied with Miss Rudolph after seeing her perform with her Isadora Duncan inspired Motion Choir at the Chicago World’s Fair, A Century of Progress, in 1934. Later, she danced in Miss Rudolph’s troupe at the Goodman Theatre and designed costumes for her productions.

A formidable presence with stark white hair, piercing blue eyes and zaftig proportions, Anne Rudolph intimidated her young students. They toed the line, except for me. Restless in the class, I rebelled against all structure. I enjoyed improvising. Unleashed, unpredictable and fearless, I came alive. During one improvisation, I entered the janitor’s closet and emerged with a bucket, mop and box of Soilax. I cavorted about with the bucket and mop. For the grand finale of my solo, I opened the box of Soilax and scattered its powdery contents all over the floor in big lyrical swoops while pirouetting. Miss Rudolph scowled. My mom explained, “Margot is being creative.”

Another time, while waiting for my mom to pick me up, I overheard Miss Rudolph lecture a class of adults. “Wearing shoes is harmful to the feet,” she warned. A barefoot modern dancer, she targeted pointe shoes, worn by ballet dancers, and high heels. Motivated by her words, I marched into the dressing room and threw every shoe out the window onto Michigan Avenue. I throughly enjoyed watching them plummet ten stories and hit the pavement. After the class, the barefooted students rode the elevator to the ground floor to retrieve their shoes from the sidewalk. Miss Rudolph told my mom not to bring me back. As my mom and I walked toward the door, Miss Rudolph called out to my mom. “Margot’s future is in ballet. She’s perfect for it. Take her to Gladys Hight when she’s seven.”

My mom followed her spot-on advice. At seven, I began my serious dance training with Gladys Hight at her Loop studio. I became a professional dancer at the Kansas City Starlight Theatre at fourteen, appearing in ten Broadway musicals. I went onto dance with the St. Louis Muny Theatre, Chicago Music Theatre, Lyric Opera Ballet, Ruth Page’s Chicago Opera Ballet and International Ballet and Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo in New York City.

Anne Rudolph made her mark with the physically challenged. She fixed countless broken bodies, helping people to regain and improve their range of movement with her body education techniques. Over many years, she invited my parents and me to her parties. At these events, Miss Rudolph, her protege Teena and I improvised to an eclectic selection of music. We had different personalities and styles. I was the classically-trained virtuoso. Anne excelled in comical and dramatic character studies. Teena was spontaneous, raw, poignant and compelling. We soloed and danced together, telling stories and evoking emotions that ruptured from our souls. Sometimes other guests joined us. I loved those impromptu performances. As a teacher, I always ended my classes by dimming the lights to provide cover for the dancers to express themselves in motion. As a choreographer, my ballets evolved from improvisation. I thank Anne Rudolph for the many opportunities to nurture my creativity.

In 1970, I became director of the Eric Braun School of Dance after the American Ballet Theatre star’s untimely death. On June 3, 1972, I staged a dance concert in Eric’s memory, at Highland Park High School Auditorium. The evening got off to a precarious start. I had set the admission at $2.50. Never again would I have coinage anywhere in the ticket price. A line of people stretched around the block waiting for their 50-cent change. By 7:30 pm over a thousand folks impatiently milled around outside the theatre in 90-degree heat and oppressive humidity. When we opened the doors to the public, a stampede ensued. An elderly man brandished his cane like a sword, swinging it from side-to-side as he walked down the aisle to prevent anyone from getting in front of him. The man was Anne Rudolph’s husband, Dr. Howard Bartfield. He barricaded row 8-center section, while Anne found a pair of suitable seats and threw her shawl over them. As he lumbered down the row to his seat, he knocked over dance critic Ann Barzel’s movie projector, perched on a table.

During the standing ovation at the end of the performance, Eric’s brother Helmut staggered onto the stage in his army uniform, his chest filled with medals and ribbons. When the cheering ebbed, he launched into a sentimental speech, expressing his thanks. Being soused, he had difficulty organizing his thoughts. While slurring his words and swaying from side-to-side, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. Two dancers mercifully escorted him off the stage. A stagehand trotted out with a box of flowers. While he presented them to me, the bottom of the box fell out. Anne Rudolph unexpectedly mounted the stage from the audience, gave me a big hug and curtsied with the cast at the final curtain.

The memorial concert, coupled with the critically-acclaimed premiere a month earlier of my multimedia, rock ballet, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, at the Chicago Ballet Guild Showcase, led to the formation of the American Dance Company. Anne Rudolph and Dr. Bartfield became fans. They attended my company’s concerts at the Weinstein Center for Performing Arts in Evanston and at Ravinia in 1973. After a standing-room-only performance of my ballet, Disco Fever, Anne Rudolph told me backstage that she liked the way I blended the precision and airiness of ballet with the earthiness of modern and the theatrical flash of jazz, and enhanced it all witha stage technology. “Your work is original, timely, cool,” she said.

The last time I saw Anne must have been in 1980-81. My parents and I attended a concert of hers at a hall somewhere in Lakeview. She shared the bill with a twenty-something dancer who performed her solo while reclining nude on a revolving circular table. Not to be outdone, Anne ripped off her blouse and danced her piece bare-breasted. She played a Fallen Angel, a Bum Lady, drunk, disheveled and disgusting. She was in her seventies at the time. Her vivid and visceral portrayal is forever seared in my memory. It’s a most fitting parting shot of the incomparable Anne Rudolph.

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As a childhood polio survivor, I was experiencing the beginnings of post-polio syndrome in the mid 1970s in my mid- 30’s. I was told by a physician that I should as a childhood polio survivor, I began to experience the weakness of post-polio as a syndrome in the mid 1970s in my mid-30s. I was told by a physician to resign myself to resuming wearing a brace and using crutches. Then I met Anne. As anyone who knew her would attest, she’d have none of that. She put me to work with her “body education” exercises in her apartment and had me walking briskly, sometimes goosing me along when I fell out of line. My wife, Joyce, and I spent many hours with Anne as she changed my life and my confidence in my own body’s capabilities.

I met Anne in 1972 in Chicago. I performed at Otto’s Beer House and Garden Club on North Halstead St. in their outdoor venue. The name of our theatre company was “Geoffrey Buckley’s Commedia dell’ Arte Gelosi Company.” We performed commedia dell’ Arte scenarios. We were Ken Raabe, Jack Phend, Julie Phend, Jane Raabe, Gail Wahlenfeld, myself, and Geoffrey Buckley, England’s foremost mime and Pierrot. That night we performed, “The Household of Pantalone,” and “Pierrot and Mr. Fox.” In the audience one evening was Anne Rudolph and her husband, Howard Bartfield. After the show, Anne approached me and said she enjoyed my acting performance as Pantalone, but as a mover, I was a fraud. She said I needed foundation work. She invited me to come to take classes with her and that classes would always be free. She also said I should come to see her at her home, that she had something for me. 

Intrigued by the fraud statement, I went to her class. She had a studio in the Uptown Hull House Theatre on Beacon St. It was built especially for her. Her classes were mostly floor work and her students a mix of older non-performers and a few professional movers. The work was simple, slow and conscious, and challenging. Her work was very different from any movement class I had every taken. I could feel the deep imbalances in my body resolving themselves. Slowly, over time, I felt more integrated, whole, and free.

I took her up on her offer to visit her at home. We talked about her work and her regrets that she did not have time to write a book about her method. She then gave me a box. Inside were a black velour theatre curtain and an old Fresnel theatre light. She said, “Start a theatre.” Years later I did start a theatre, Piccolo Theatre, in Evanston, IL. The lighting instrument and curtain I donated to Lifeline Theatre. Piccolo Theatre had all new equipment.

Shortly after, I got a teaching position at Governor’s State U. and moved to Homewood, IL. Two years later, I moved to New York City to pursue theatre and Tai Chi studies. Anne’s work served me well, but due to tragic circumstances, I moved back to Chicago. During a street performance at the Custer Fair in Evanston, IL, I fell from a 10′ ladder and injured my back and neck. After a while of suffering through various therapies with little result, I remembered Anne’s work and how, she said, that she embarked on her corrective work by fixing broken dancers. I went back to class with Anne. She offered me private sessions, and I took her up on it. She told me that I would never be able to do the kinds of big, energetic, expressive movements I liked to do but that I should focus on small delicate movements. It was a hard reality to accept. In time I was able to recover a good portion of my lost capacity thanks to Anne’s work and Tai Chi. Thanks to Anne I was able to have a second career in theatre.

One day after class, she asked if I would give her a ride home. In the car she told me her husband, Howard, had died. She seemed dispirited, sad, and a bit lost, something I had never seen in her. I told her that I moved back to Chicago because I had been in a couple relationship with Arlene Rothlein in New York City and that she was a dancer and actress and that we performed together. I told Anne we were together for nine months when Arlene died suddenly at age thirty-six. Anne’s sadness seemed to melt away. She said nine months was so short a time, and she was grateful for having so many years with Howard. Her energy changed, a kind of resolve to live life fully. She was Anne again.

She gave me permission to teach her work. For that I am grateful. To pass on Anne’s work is so satisfying for teacher and student. This website is part of my commitment to preserving her significant body of work.