WHEN ART DANCES: The intersection of Illustration and Ballet
When thinking of connections between ballet and visual art, one might immediately think of Edgar Degas, whose paintings and pastels immortalised dancers in motion, capturing their ephemeral grace both in rehearsal and on stage. However, what if we reverse this dynamic? Degas saw ballet and wanted to create, but rather than visual artists taking inspiration from ballet, what occurs when choreographers derive movement from a painting, sculpture, or abstract artwork? Could a ballet emerge not from a predetermined story, myth, or legend, but instead from the formal and aesthetic qualities of a visual piece—its composition, colour palette, texture, and emotive resonance?
This inquiry formed the foundation of my research: have there been ballets that originated purely from an artwork, independent of a pre-existing narrative? Could a choreographer witness the swirling intensity of Edvard Munch's The Scream, the celestial turbulence of Vincent van Gogh's The Starry Night, or the enigmatic expression of Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa and translate these elements into movement? If such ballets exist, why have they not attained mainstream recognition? If they do not, does this suggest that choreography—especially within ballet—demands a multiplicity of influences to achieve artistic viability?
The relationship between ballet and visual art has long been intertwined, with many productions drawing from artistic aesthetics. However, choreography rarely emerges purely from the visual elements of art without an accompanying narrative. Christopher Wheeldon's Strapless (2016) delves into the scandal surrounding John Singer Sargent's Portrait of Madame X, yet its movement remains anchored in the biographical context rather than a direct translation of the painting’s formal qualities. Similarly, Michel Fokine's The Firebird (1910) incorporates Russian artistic traditions, particularly Ivan Bilibin's illustrations, but its choreographic structure remains tied to folkloric storytelling. Frederick Ashton's Tales of Beatrix Potter (1971) transforms the charm of Potter's illustrations into kinetic movement, yet the ballet relies heavily on narrative rather than pure visual inspiration. Annabelle Lopez Ochoa's Frida or Broken Wings (2016) reflects the surrealism and vibrancy of Frida Kahlo's artwork, incorporating Mexican folk dance and neoclassical abstraction, but its structure follows the trajectory of Kahlo's life rather than existing solely as an artistic interpretation. Other productions, such as Le Train Bleu (1924), featuring designs by Pablo Picasso, and Jeux (1913), which incorporates modernist influences, use visual art to shape their aesthetics, yet their choreography remains largely independent of specific artistic works. Even Wheeldon's Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (2011) embraces John Tenniel's iconic illustrations but remains rooted in Lewis Carroll's literary vision.
These examples suggest that ballet, despite its deep ties to visual art, often prioritises narrative or historical context over purely aesthetic inspiration. This raises a fundamental question: is ballet inherently a storytelling art form, or can movement alone be as expressive as a structured narrative? Does an absence of explicit storytelling enhance artistic imagination, or does it risk alienating audiences who seek familiarity? Friedrich Nietzsche once observed, "We have art so that we shall not die of reality," implying that art serves as a medium for processing human experience and emotion. This notion is particularly relevant to ballet, where both structured narratives and abstract works strive to evoke meaning. Neoclassical and contemporary ballets, such as pieces by Wayne McGregor or David Dawson, challenge the necessity of narrative by relying on movement, form, and emotion. Without programme notes or prior knowledge, audiences instinctively impose their own interpretations onto these performances, demonstrating that dance—like all art—is an inherently communicative medium; art is always emotional, and whether structured or abstract, ballet ultimately exists to evoke and communicate feelings—perhaps, in that sense, every ballet is a story, even if the audience is left to decide what that story might be.
Yet a question arises: should all art convey a clear story, or does its power lie in its ability to evoke personal interpretations? A story naturally creates a visual image in all of us, but its impact varies depending on personal experience. Perhaps this is why choreographers of non-narrative works allow audiences to engage on a deeper, more instinctive level, making room for emotion to emerge organically rather than being dictated. Abstract ballets, unlike traditional story-driven works, require the audience to piece together their own emotional responses, mirroring the experience of viewing visual art. As choreographer George Balanchine once said, "See the music, hear the dance,"reinforcing the idea that ballet, like all artistic disciplines, exists to communicate something intangible yet profoundly resonant. Whether rooted in a defined story or left open to interpretation, all forms of artistic expression share a common goal: to elicit an emotional and intellectual response. In this way, ballet, painting, and all artistic mediums transcend mere storytelling to become deeply personal and universal modes of communication.
Ultimately, the question returns: What happens if choreographers derive movement from a painting, sculpture, or abstract artwork? In such a scenario, the narrative may not be explicitly defined, yet we, as humans, would inevitably form our own stories. It’s the nature of art—it invites us to engage emotionally, to fill in the gaps, and to weave our own meanings into the experience. The absence of a predetermined narrative could open new possibilities for creative expression, where the movement itself becomes a reflection of the emotional and formal qualities of the visual piece.
Despite this potential, I’ve yet to find a ballet that purely emerges from an artwork without relying on an existing story. Perhaps such a ballet should exist—or perhaps it already does, but the challenge lies in how we, as an audience, approach it. In traditional ballet, we expect a story to accompany the movement, often shaped by historical or literary contexts. But what if, in watching a ballet inspired solely by a visual piece, we weren’t meant to know its exact source? What if the story we anticipated was instead left for us to create, organically, through our own responses to the movement, the textures, the colours, and the forms?
In the space between the choreography and the audience, there is room for interpretation, for emotional resonance, for a dialogue that transcends the specifics of narrative or form. In this sense, ballet, like all art, becomes a shared yet profoundly individual experience, one that allows each of us to construct a personal story, not dictated by the movement itself, but drawn from the emotions it stirs within us.