White Swan, Black Swan : ...

Ballerinas Suzanne Farrell and Gelsey Kirkland have more in common than they might suppose.

Yes, yes, in the American ballet firmament right now they represent almost mythic opposites, with Farrell always seen as a kind of contemporary White Swan: the chaste, soulful Muse of the great George Balanchine. In contrast, Kirkland invariably is cast as the treacherous, unpredictable Black Swan, deeply dangerous to the status quo.

Nevertheless, their new autobiographies bring them uncomfortably close to telling the same story, one that increasingly focuses on the conflict between body and spirit--the hard physical realities of dancing versus the engulfing artistic vision.

Farrell and Kirkland both were born in the Northeast, had problematic relationships with their fathers and attracted the interest of Balanchine early in their careers at New York City Ballet. Each eventually found Balanchine’s demands stifling (although for very different reasons) and ended up asserting her independence in Europe.

Farrell, of course, returned and somehow managed to separate her professional and private lives in order to rejoin Balanchine in a working relationship that expanded the horizons of classical dance.

Kirkland, of course, wrote “Dancing on My Grave,” a controversial look at the drug abuse, sexism and artistic suffocation that she experienced in America. However, she must also be remembered as the only dancer (male or female) to have inspired choreography from all four titans of late-20th-Century ballet: Balanchine, Tudor, Ashton and Robbins.

Both women no longer dance, Farrell, 45, as the consequence of a hip replacement, and Kirkland, 37, by choice and the lack of suitable shoes for those long, long feet.

Written with former New York City Ballet dancer Toni Bentley, “Holding on to the Air” follows Farrell from childhood garage performances in Cincinnati to her retirement gala at Lincoln Center in 1989. Though her descriptions prove more anecdotal than analytical, they provide valuable data about the Balanchine-Farrell repertory--including works created for other dancers that he later revised for her.

Consider, for example, the creation of what Farrell calls “perhaps the most famous single moment” in “Symphony in C,” originally choreographed in 1947:

“I was in profile in a deep penche split on pointe (rehearsing) in the center of the stage, holding both of Conrad’s (Conrad Ludlow’s) hands for support. It had always seemed that there was just a little too much music for the movement down and up, however slowly it was done. ‘Can you touch your head to your knee?’ Mr. B. asked, and everyone on stage looked astonished; it was a weird, unorthodox, acrobatic thing to ask for in the middle of a very classical adagio. I bent down, put my forehead on my knee and mumbled--I was completely upside down--’Like this?’ ‘Yes, like that.’ He gazed at the effect for a moment--it looked wickedly impressive and very beautiful. Ever since, ballerinas all over the world have been splitting their bodies in two directions.”

In describing Balanchine’s attempts to manipulate and even pressure her into a personal relationship (often with the connivance of her mother), Farrell reveals abuses of authority that could have provided supporting evidence for Kirkland’s first book. Nevertheless, she remains staunchly pro-Balanchine, excusing his treatment of her, defending his system of training and directly dismissing Kirkland, too:

“Balanchine had recognized her talent. He promoted her, choreographed for her and encouraged her in every way, as he had many dancers over the years. But for her own reasons she obviously didn’t want to accept the opportunities he offered her, and she seemed to resent him for it. Balanchine functioned on a plateau that, clearly, wasn’t for everybody, but to abandon the challenge of Balanchine for an approach to dancing that seemed more like an act of defiance than an act of love and respect for one’s craft was something I could not comprehend.”

The first half of this statement could be Farrell talking about Farrell, a dancer who, after all, did reject the opportunities Balanchine offered her “for reasons of her own” (namely, falling in love with another man). Her last remark might be considered a low blow, since Kirkland scarcely has been hesitant to blame herself, and Farrell surely must “comprehend” by now that the young, obsessive Kirkland tried to remake herself in Farrell’s image--to the point of having silicone injections in her lips and asking her dentist to give her slightly buck teeth.

Perhaps fortunately, it is Margot Fonteyn who becomes Kirkland’s role model in “The Shape of Love,” though there’s no attempt to copy her looks or dancing style. Written with Greg Lawrence, this sequel to “Dancing on My Grave” follows Kirkland to London in 1986 for triumphs in “Romeo and Juliet” and, later, “The Sleeping Beauty”--triumphs that vindicate her attacks on American systems of dancer training and coaching in the earlier book.

In a brilliant, extended chronicle of her preparations to dance Juliet, Kirkland details her system of achieving artistry as a dramatic ballerina, with each interpretive option carefully examined and the choreographer himself (Kenneth MacMillan) sometimes directly challenged.

Even better are the stream-of-consciousness descriptions that take you inside the technique and emotion of dancing, as in this description of an early rehearsal with Anthony Dowell:

“I measured the breath I would need to carry me as far as Anthony’s arms, seeing only the fuzzy silhouette of a dark sweat suit. I raced towards him . . . feet moving quicker than thoughts, a sound like wind in my ears.

“There was a split second of free fall, and then the sensation of his hands as he took me from behind, just above the waist, his fingers closing as if I had ten new ribs. I felt him sway under me as he shifted his footing and swung me around, while I kept my ribs down and turned out from the heart for all I was worth, the mirrored room revolving around me in a full circle--my back, neck and head taut, curved like a bow.”

Unfortunately, the chapters on “Sleeping Beauty” and “Giselle” (a coaching assignment at English National Ballet) prove nowhere near this exhaustive or involving. Nor can the minutiae of Kirkland’s marriage compete in reader interest with the consumer reports on sex with Mikhail Baryshnikov, Peter Martins and Patrick Bissell in “Dancing on My Grave.”

Part of the problem: her curiously vague, self-absorbed depiction of the love relationship that changed her life. And, once again, Farrell matches her exactly.

Marriage proved a momentous event for both these women, precipitating Farrell’s dismissal from New York City Ballet and providing Kirkland with the support she needed to conquer drug addiction. Yet both “Mr. Farrell” (dancer/choreographer Paul Mejia) and “Mr. Kirkland” (collaborator Lawrence) remain shadowy cavaliers in these pages. We’re never shown who they are or what drives them, much less why they inspired (and shared) the risks that Farrell and Kirkland took.

The loss diminishes these women and their books. After all, Mejia paid more dearly than Farrell for marrying her against Balanchine’s wishes--yet his smile in three of the book’s illustrations suggests that self-sacrifice leads straight to a permanent state of bliss. (Rapturous smiles at one’s wedding? Sure. Over a hot stove? Maybe. But going through customs ?)

Similarly, when Kirkland and Lawrence are out walking together and “a monstrous piece of metal” falls near them from a building under construction, Lawrence imagines the worst: “You would have been killed,” he exclaims in disbelief. Not We and certainly not I . You .

At the end of these two flawed, fascinating books, Farrell and Kirkland have much to tell us about their recent coaching and teaching activities. But maybe their extraordinary husbands ought to be giving lessons of their own.