FOR SEVERAL YEARS, the dance has had such success in the realms of literature, painting, and music, that it has ended up drunk with triumph. At the present time, it is passing through a crisis of megalomania. It no longer has the divine nonchalance, the innocent and lively joy that formerly and traditionally, thanks to painters and sculptors, glittered on the brow of its appointed Muse. And Carpeaux's Dionysiac group that decorates the façade of our National Academy of Dance and gives only a rather remote idea of the choreographic work going on inside the building, has, in any case, no connection at all with most of the accomplishments of our present-day Terpsichores.
But let us not be too quick to regret. True, we have the right to smile at certain priestesses of an ideological and metaphysical saltation, who seem to have ambitions that are "beyond measure", in every sense of the word. But in spite of everything, their fervour and agitation are productive. There is no longer one technique of the dance; there are a hundred, which is enough to make purists of the jetté-battu despair and at the same time comforts willing audiences. For there can never be too many plastic forms for expressing the infinite complexity of a musical text, and every dancer