A fitting – and lovable – tribute to Frederick Ashton

I encountered Frederick Ashton at a dinner party shortly before he died in 1988. Frail and anxious, he clutched my arm and demanded to know which of his creations I thought would survive him. I duly reeled off some titles, but felt that any opinion I expressed would have disappointed him. In public, he professed to care not a fig for posterity, but he evidently did, and his will set out thoughtful arrangements parcelling ownership of his works out to various trusted colleagues, with the bulk passing to his nephew, the Royal Ballet’s administrative director Anthony Russell-Roberts.

This may have seemed like a sound investment, but it turned out badly. Ballet is the art form that depends most crucially on transmission from the muscle memory of one dancer to another. Notation and film can’t convey nuance or detail, and personal experience of the choreography is vital.