"It's All Downhill From Here"
Reflections on dancer and master teacher Aaron Osborne at the height of his powers
Long ago photos from my dance archives appear randomly on my computer desktop some days; slideshows from the past that send me down powerful memory lanes. Memories arise of the most influential and masterful teachers on my long journey with human movement. Bella Lewitzky, the iconic teacher from my teens into my early 20s, lives vividly in those memories. I wrote about her here.
News: The documentary BELLA just won “Exceptional Showcase of the Arts” and “Best Cinematography for a Documentary” prizes at the last month’s Madrid International Film Festival. Bravo, and congratulations to all!
The memories include other exceptional teachers in my life: my CalArts classmate and ballet master Alonzo King, Spacial Dynamics® founder Jaimen McMillan, and modern dance pioneer and dance critic Sybil Shearer. You may have heard of one or all of them, but chances are you haven’t heard of the magnificent Aaron Osborne.
In 1979 I came back to dancing after the birth of my son. I was in San Francisco, and started ballet classes again with my friends at Pacific Ballet. I also dropped in to various modern classes around town, looking for something that suited me. In those days, the branches of modern dance technique were well defined: (Merce) Cunningham, (Erick) Hawkins, and (Martha) Graham practitioners abounded but weren’t what I was looking for. No one was teaching (Lester) Horton technique, which was familiar to me from Bella’s work as well as Alvin Ailey’s, but there was some buzz around a new fellow in town, Aaron Osborne. He’d begun teaching (Jose) Limon technique at Dance Spectrum ballet studios in the Mission District. One class with Aaron, and I knew I’d found my new happy place, and those studios became my daily home away from home for the next five years.
What was special about Aaron and his teaching? Not only did he have a first class dance pedigree, coming through Juilliard, then the Limon and Lar Lubovitch dance companies, but he was an exceptional teacher in his own right. He was absolutely gorgeous, about six feet of beautifully articulated muscle, shown off in his daily dance uniform of sheer black tights and a t-shirt, an anatomy lesson in every movement. He was also a brilliant technician, from his articulated feet through to his elegant fingertips, and his demonstrations of exercises and repertory were always exquisite and inspiring. We all were a bit in love with him. I was, anyway.
He was also humble and self-aware. I remember one morning, a few of us stretching in the waiting area while the early morning beginners class was finishing. He was folded over in a deep stretch, moaning a bit, when he came up for air and exclaimed, “It’s all downhill from here folks! I’m 35, and I can tell you it’s downhill now.” We looked at him, incredulously. He seemed perfect to us, but he was starting to feel his own aches and pains and some limits to his own movement unseen to our eyes.
He led the nearly 3 hours of his daily teaching with a long Floor Barre class, based on Zena Rommett’s work with whom he’d studied in NYC. After nearly an hour on the floor, we stood up, brought out the ballet barres to the center of the studio, and welcomed a wonderful musician who’d accompany us, usually on the piano but sometimes on drums or flute. The next 45 minutes unfolded in a unique Limon series of barre exercises with what I’d call precision ballet legs and modern dance upper body arcs and flows, bitterly difficult, leaving me with a puddle of sweat at my bare feet on the Marley floor and a soaked hand towel draped over the metal barre.
Maybe it was all downhill from there.
Finally, relieved of the technical grind, we moved the barres to the walls for the fun of dancing in the center. A lush adagio variation was followed by some repertory full of the lilting dynamics of “fall and recovery” phrases from Limon’s choreography and then long diagonals of jumps and turns before the traditional closing “reverence" adagio. Those movements were a bit of bliss.
Limon’s classic piece, A Choreographic Offering, was a favorite repertory work we practiced again and again. Here is a short video excerpt from the full piece, performed by the Limon Dance Company, with some of the wonderfully lyrical movement phrases we worked on and even performed a time or two. Music by J. S. Bach, A Musical Offering.
Over the years Aaron took on more responsibility in his role as master teacher. He began to experiment with his own choreography in small ensembles. I remember a quintet he made for five women: Cheryl Chaddick (now in Austin), Lisa Burnett (now carrying on the Limon legacy with her classes in Palo Alto), Cookie Klismith, Jennifer B (I forgot her last name, sorry), and myself in skin tight unitards, mine light blue. With his partner Vernon Fuquay, dancer Wayne Hazzard, choreographer Emily Keeler, and myself (and maybe others too, I don’t remember) we formed the first board of trustees of Dancers’ Group and Footwork Studio, and began to deepen local dance advocacy. Today, so many years later, the intrepid Wayne Hazzard carries on that work and Dancers’ Group, writing about those early days here.
In time we moved on. Aaron began teaching at a different studio in SF, and in Paris. I had another baby, a girl this time, and got involved with Waldorf education. Most in our quintet moved away. Vernon died, like so many, too soon, of AIDS.
I remember one morning, a few of us stretching in the waiting area while the early morning beginners class was finishing. He was folded over in a deep stretch, moaning a bit, when he came up for air and exclaimed, “It’s all downhill from here folks! I’m 35, and I can tell you it’s downhill now.” We looked at him, incredulously. He seemed perfect to us.
Aaron Osborne died of AIDS as well, in 1995. The last time I saw him, Lisa Burnett and I visited the lovely home he shared with his beloved partner, Lawrence, on a sunny day in the fall. Aaron was very ill, asleep in an all-white bedroom with soaring ceilings and wide open windows inviting in the sweet honey scent of garden sage. Music was quietly playing from hidden speakers, a soprano’s voice singing an aria. Lisa and I sat until Aaron stirred, barely awake, to raise his head and ask, “Are those angels singing?” We assured him that maybe they were, but we were there now too to say hello. We chatted a bit, remembering friends and funny moments from our days dancing together before we kissed him and said goodbye. A few weeks later, right after a dramatic wind and rain storm howled through San Francisco, he died, to continue dancing among the stars.
I cannot find any video of Aaron dancing. Probably the archives at the Limon or Lubavitch companies have some footage. The Living Legacy Oral History Project has a recording of an interview with Aaron, talking about movement dynamics and dance. I have no photos of Aaron from the years at Footwork, but recently Lawrence shared some personal photos with me, giving his permission to share with you.
Who wouldn’t want to spend half of each day dancing with him?
Thank you, Aaron and Lawrence, for the memories.