I was surprised by my own reaction when I heard the news. I was riding in the passenger seat of my best friend’s car as she drove us home from a weekend away. The news came to me by email:
“I am writing today with sad news,” the email opened. “Ben Stevenson passed away early this morning.”
If you’re unfamiliar, Stevenson is an icon in the ballet world, having trained at London’s Arts Educational School, performed with what is now the Royal Ballet and choreographed for The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts’ inaugural season. He was also named an Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) by Queen Elizabeth II.
He was artistic director of Houston Ballet for more than 27 years and the artistic director of Texas Ballet Th
eater for nearly 20 years before being named artistic director laureate when he passed.
But here’s the thing: I met him years ago. I haven’t seen him in person in forever. I see and write about his ballets, although not particularly often like I did years ago. He was about to turn 90 on Saturday, so I was working on a tribute story about him for Pointe Magazine. I spoke to him just shy of two weeks ago.
And now he’s gone.
Gone.
The people who knew him adored him. He changed dancers’ lives. He made people’s careers. He created ballets that have been and will continue to be danced for generations.
He was working with dancers in the studio just last week.
And now — now, he’s gone.
I know people die. And I know living to be nearly 90, not to mention still traveling and working, is remarkable, maybe even lucky. And I know he wasn’t a close friend or a relative. I know. But I’m still crushed in a way I can’t even quite understand.
Is it because I’m more than halfway to 90? Is it because I have recently lost others? Is it because it’s always too soon no matter how long they have had? Is it that death is almost always an unwelcome surprise, even though it isn’t always unwelcome, and it is often not a surprise?
I think that maybe — just maybe — it’s because it’s inescapable, and it’s the same for everyone in the fact that it doesn’t matter who you were or what you did, when you’re dead, you’re dead. Sure, the good ones will be remembered longer. The great ones may be remembered by more. But in the end, we’re all just, well, gone.
I am inspired by Stevenson’s life, and I feel equally inspired by his death to, well, live — to enjoy the sun on my face, my puppy’s warm body curled into me as I write, the icy Coke Zero at hand, the sound of waves in my ear, someone who loves me just steps away inside our home.
That is, I’m trying to be inspired, to see and respect and enjoy and be grateful for all of that.
But right now, I’m just sad — really, really sad, because someone who brought so much joy and light and passion and talent and art into the world is gone. Whatever you believe in spiritually, when it comes to this world, our shared reality, he’s gone.
I’m sad that his dancers won’t get to be in the studio with him. I’m sad the kids who called him Grandpa Ben won’t get to hug him. I’m sad that people who love his choreography will never get the thrill of seeing a brand-new work.
And I’m sad for him. I’m sad he’ll miss the 90th birthday party he was so excited for. I’m sad he won’t get to see another ballet. I’m sad he won’t get to travel. I’m sad he didn’t get to do any of things he still had in store for himself or for those who loved him and his work.
So, I’m going to let myself be sad. I think that’s important. If you don’t let the sad work its way through you, its only option is to never leave you.
I’m going to watch videos of his ballets. I’m going to spend time outside. And when I’m ready,
I’m going rework the story I was working on about him.
And I’m going to remember him and keep remembering him, and I’m going to be grateful for getting to speak to him one last time and to have been alive at the same time as one of the greats.
I’m going to remember seeing my first Stevenson Nutcracker. I’m going to remember having dinner with him on stage at Texas Ballet Theater. I’m going to remember being mesmerized by his Dracula and Swan Lake. And I’m going to remember shadowing him and dancer Carlos Acosta for a story.
Like so many others, I’m going to remember him.
You’ll be missed, Ben Stevenson. And we will remember you.
May his memory be a blessing.