The late, great British dancer Stanley Holden was a dance teacher of mine. One doesn’t ordinarily think of comedy in connection with ballet dancers, but Holden was a master of it, best known for originating the en travesti character Widow Simone, choreographed on him by Frederic Ashton in 1960 as part of the ballet “La Fille Mal Gardee” with the Royal Ballet.

Holden is said to have performed the role—and its most famous number, the clog dance—with far more humor than anyone has ever managed to bring to it since. But alas, there is no video of him that I can find online, and so the following pallid substitute will have to do, featuring a different (and highly inferior) dancer:

Holden was a latecomer to ballet and much shorter (and more short-legged) than the usual danseur. Perfect technique was never really the main point for him. But fortunately, he had other attributes. Here is a bit of the early history that molded him, and gave him the unique qualities he brought to his roles:

Born to a poor family in London’s East End, Holden yearned to be a tap dancer in the mode of Fred Astaire. At nine he began lessons that cost a shilling a week, and several years later, to advance his skills as a tapper even further, ballet study was recommended. He put on the despised tights, took the dreaded classes, and lo and behold, a new direction beckoned. At sixteen he passed his advanced R.A.D. (Royal Academy of Dancing) examination and within weeks became a member of the Sadler’s Wells (later the Royal) Ballet. Some have felt that, in an earlier time, none of this would have transpired, that he would have headed for the music halls. As it turned out, there was a niche made to order for this outsized personality: character dance. At his peak, Holden stood out as ballet’s only true comic in the Chaplin tradition.

I lived in Los Angeles for a year back in the 70s (that’s when I did my “silent bit” in the movie “The Turning Point”). While there, I usually took a daily morning class from Holden at his large—and, mercifully, air-conditioned—studio.

Holden didn’t look like a ballet dancer at all; more like a jockey. He exuded a tremendous amount of energy and an unforced cheeriness that was both unusual and infectious. He never yelled or was even cross, unlike so many temperamental dance teachers.

Ballet classes follow a certain pre-determined pattern (which I’ve described in some detail here). Holden excelled at giving the class what are called “combinations,” those little pieces of choreography that make a dance class interesting rather than a mere repetition of the same steps every day. A good teacher puts movements together in a way that flows musically, and yet challenges the dancers—strengthening a particular part of the body one day and another the next, or focusing on a certain type of coordination or timing.

Holden was especially good at offering combinations that were varied and fun. He kept them coming at us rapid-fire. Whether he planned these combinations ahead of time or made them up on the spot, or whether he had a secret book with lists of them that he’d memorized, I have no idea. But I do know that—especially towards the end of class, when the combinations featured large jumps and other big movements across the diagonal of his huge studio (a space that, unlike most dance classrooms, was constructed without any obstructive pillars or columns)—the feeling most of us had, along with exhaustion, was sheer joy.

“I want to die teaching” Holden said in an interview in 1997. “That’s my life. I love it.” He managed to convey that love not in any conventionally schmaltzy (or balletic) way, but through his own exuberance. And the article goes on to say that, although ill at the end, he managed to teach class until a few weeks before he died. I’m glad of that.

Of all the many online tributes to Mr. Holden that I’ve read, this one, written in 1995, best captures Holden’s rare quality of buoyant but at the same time understated good humor. The following is precisely as I remember him when I was in attendance in the 70s:

It’s near the end of his class and Stanley Holden calls out, “Bye, sweetheart,” to the girl retrieving her bag from the corner and now heading for the door. The same little scene repeats itself several more times as the ballet master, an imp of a ruddy-cheeked man, dispenses cheery and nonchalant farewells to others making their exits. Without ever dropping a beat and while demonstrating the combination at hand, he offers an explanation: “You see, I’ve just given them the bag step. It’s my name for the hard one that makes everyone run for their bag.”

He didn’t usually dance combinations full out, but his demonstrations still had more joie di vivre than all of us youngsters in the class put together could muster. Here’s more on that:

Taking just a moment to formulate the next combination, he launches into the phrase—his arms held endearingly aloft in Fifth Position, his upper back leaning into the arc, his head cradled within it. The class follows. No one, however, quite gets the feeling. No one defines it as an act of love except Holden. If the thrust of dancing lies in its communicative or emotive value, only one person here seems acquainted with the idea.

Next comes an infectious comic galop from the pianist, and the ballet master quickly sets it in steps that suggest saucy fun. Again the class follows. But no one wears a smile. “They won’t listen to what the music tells them,” he says. “Whenever I encourage them to imagine they’re dancing for an audience, they say, “We’re concentrating on our technique.'”

Alas, that’s the way ballet has been going in recent years.

Why are there no videos of Holden on the internet? Movies certainly exist, so it wouldn’t be impossible to post a segment from one on You Tube. Anyone out there who could oblige?

Here’s a photo of Holden at his 75th birthday party in 2003. Greatly enjoying himself, as usual, and looking scarcely a day older and just a mite grayer than when I’d known him some thirty years earlier: