The Winter Solstice, and more …

Today is the winter solstice, the shortest day and the longest night of the year, a time of mystery and legend. In much of the Northern hemisphere, this is the feast of Yule; in Celtic mythology it celebrates the victory of the Oak King, representing light, who defeats the Holly King, lord of darkness. It is a time of feasting; traditionally people gathered with families and friends around a vast log, which was dragged into the house through the front door and fed into the fireplace. For several days it would burn slowly along its length, providing warmth and light for the festivities, and accompanied by many traditional customs subsequently incorporated into Christmas.

The 13th of December, generally a week earlier, was the feast of the 4th century martyr, St. Lucy, patron saint of blind people, and bringer of light into the darkness. On that day, 50 years ago, a Thursday at 10 in the morning, I was getting ready for Company class in the big, raked ballet studio of Stockholm’s lovely Opera House. I had joined the Royal Swedish Ballet a few months earlier, completely in awe of the amazing dancers both in the Company itself, and the young talent coming up out of the school. Stockholm lies on the same latitude as St. Petersburg, Helsinki and Oslo, close to 60° North. Daylight at that season lasts a maximum of six hours – less in bad weather. I would come to work in semi-darkness in the bitter cold of -10°; at that hour the sun had only recently got up. The city looked magical and mysterious as I approached the beautiful Renaissance-style 19th-century Opera House, built on the site of the original 1773 theatre commissioned by Gustav III.

(In this theatre, during a masquerade ball in 1792, Gustav was mortally wounded in an assassination organised by his political enemies, dying a fortnight later of sepsis in the Royal Palace just across the bridge. The event was immortalised in Verdi’s opera “Un Ballo in Maschera”. I have actually danced in this opera on that stage, in front of an auditorium built on the very space in which he was attacked. It’s a strange feeling.)

On this particular Thursday morning, everyone had arrived for class as usual, when we were summoned from the studio and led down to the stage, out through the pass door into the front of house, then up the stairs into the glorious Gold Foyer, sparkling with its many mirrors, gleaming parquet floor, candelabra and gilt, the walls decked with astonishing paintings and frescoes. Long tables had been laid, with chairs and benches, so we all, the entire, large Company, sat down and waited expectantly for what was to come.

Without warning, the lights went out. We sat for a moment, in the mysterious half-light, and nobody spoke. Then, far away and faint, we heard the sound of children’s voices singing in the lovely harmonies of the traditional hymn. By degrees the sound drew closer. Presently we could see the flicker of candlelight in the great stairwell, and up the stairs in stately procession came the children of the ballet school, led by a girl in a long, simple white gown, belted with a red sash signifying martyrdom. A circlet of evergreen crowned her head, in which flamed tall, live candles, and she bore another candle before her. She was flanked by other girls, clad in the same white gown, also carrying candles — behind them came the boys of the school in red overall costume. Warm light gleamed and flickered in the mirrors and the gilding on the walls — the effect was breathtaking. They halted in front of us and sang (beautifully, as Swedish children are taught to do) the Santa Lucia hymn with its Swedish lyrics, and a number of other traditional songs associated with the occasion, and the boys sang the Song of St. Stephen, the Staffansvisan, to a robust and rustic rhythm. For about twenty minutes, everyone listened, spellbound, then the children, still in procession, regrouped and left the room, still singing the Santa Lucia hymn. We listened as the song and the candlelight faded gradually away, leaving us in semi-darkness.

The lights came on then, amid a burst of delighted chatter, and we celebrated the day in the traditional manner, with saffron buns curled at the ends to look like cats’ tails. In Sweden the affectionate, familiar nickname for Lucy is “Lusse” and these buns are called “Lussekatter”. In the centre of the spiral curl at each end, they are decorated with a shining sultana or raisin, representing the “eyes” of the martyred Lucy. People eat them throughout the day, with coffee or, later in the day, mugs of steaming “Glögg”, the Swedish equivalent of mulled wine.

A couple of decades later, when I was directing the ballet company of the Arena di Verona, I was delighted to realise that Santa Lucia is also the patron saint of Venice, and therefore also of Verona, which formed part of the Republic of the Veneto for 1100 years, from the dying days of the 7th century until the Napoleonic invasion at the end of the 1700s. To this day a monumental sculpture of a shooting star soars out every winter from over the vast outer wall of the Roman Arena to land in the surrounding Piazza Brá, honouring Santa Lucia, bringer of light. By its landing place is a vibrant and bustling fair dedicated to the Feast of Santa Lucia, with open-air stalls selling traditional local produce and wares – the winter can be surprisingly and intensely cold in Verona, but there are plenty of delicious things to eat and drink, and people warm up fairly quickly.

At moments like these, I realise how very lucky I am to have spent my life in professional ballet companies – this career has taken me all over the world, performing in or staging ballets in so many amazing settings, and being privileged to take part in remarkable experiences like these. As I look back, I really cannot imagine any other kind of life I could have enjoyed as much. On which note, I’ll finish this by wishing everyone who reads this a glorious, happy and festive time, with my warmest good wishes for the season and the New Year, and my earnest hopes for a peaceful, safe and kind 2024.

Many blessings,
Jeremy