Behind the Walls of the Bolshoi
On Persistence, Chance, and the Importance of the Right Moment. Text Pit Buehler, 2025, Images Pit Buehler, 2015
The Bolshoi Theatre in the heart of Moscow is one of the most prestigious ballet stages in the world. Behind the imposing walls of the theatre lies a world steeped in tradition, shaped by discipline, ambition, and decades of history.
The ballet performances, which in our Western world are often reduced to aesthetic entertainment, possess an existential dimension here. The stage is not just a place of representation, but also of proving oneself. For countless young dancers in Russia, it is the greatest dream to stand on this legendary stage one day. They pursue this goal with uncompromising consistency for years on end. Most fail. Only a few succeed, driven by talent, ambition, and an iron will that permits neither hesitation nor doubt.
My approach to the Bolshoi didn't begin with a specific photography project, but with my curiosity about Russian society and its cultural institutions. I was fascinated by the uncompromising attitude with which centuries-old traditions are not only preserved but are also naturally lived today.
What began as a portrait series of the world's best circus performers evolved into an exploration of other forms of performing arts, including dancers who stand at the pinnacle of the ballet world. Not as distant icons, but as individuals whose bodies and faces bear the marks of a life unreservedly devoted to a single pursuit: the quest for perfection and the hope of one day being honored as a „People's Artist of Russia“ – the country's highest state award for artists, bestowed personally by the president.
A decisive impulse for my project idea came from the works of the German photographer Peter Lindbergh, particularly his portraits of the dancer Natalia Osipova. His visual language rejects the spectacular, opting instead for formal reduction, where intimacy, presence, and vulnerability dominate. From this focus on the essential, the idea emerged to portray the Bolshoi not as a stage of myth, but as a place of existential devotion. The focus should be on the dancers themselves: individuals whose lives are shaped by discipline, sacrifice, and the unconditional pursuit of perfection.
I imagined half-portraits, reduced and yet precisely staged, carried by a dramatic light that, in its severity, is reminiscent of Caravaggio's painting.
I began to flesh out my project idea, giving intensive thought to the lighting concept, the staging of the dancers, and the connection between movement and portraiture. The project was increasingly taking shape. However, what was missing was access to the Bolshoi Theatre. I had neither a portfolio in classical ballet photography nor a network that could have opened the necessary doors for me in Russia.
An obvious option was to get the Zurich Opera House on board for a collaboration, to jointly create a high-quality portrait series with its dancers and gather the necessary references for my project. However, my request ended in disappointment. I was politely but firmly informed that only photographers with an appropriate reputation and relevant references would be considered for a collaboration. Therein lay a peculiar logic: one had to already belong before even getting the chance to enter. A sealed lock, the key to which was only given to those already on the other side. I had to accept that my path to Moscow would not go through the exclusive world of classical ballet. If I wanted to convince the Bolshoi to collaborate, I had to find another way.
For many years, I had worked in the financial industry and knew that money not only moves markets but can sometimes open doors that remain closed to others. So, I began to take a closer look at the sponsors of the Bolshoi Theatre. In doing so, I came across Credit Suisse, which was then the main sponsor of the Bolshoi Ballet. The then head of the cultural department at Credit Suisse in Zurich was surprisingly open to my request. Although there was no interest in financial or organizational involvement, they were willing to support my project with a letter of recommendation and to make the initial contact in Moscow.
It was not an invitation, and certainly not a confirmation. Nevertheless, this letter was an important piece of the puzzle. With the support of Credit Suisse, I now had direct contact with the Bolshoi Theatre and a recommendation from an institution that carried considerable weight there. I didn't need anything more to take the next step. In my inquiry to the Bolshoi Theatre, I referenced Peter Lindbergh's work and outlined my vision of a reduced, yet staged visual language that should combine classical portraits with movement studies. The concept was supplemented by references from my work with circus performers and actors, who operate in a similar field of tension between staging and authenticity.
The response from Moscow arrived surprisingly quickly at the beginning of 2015. It was polite, reserved, and lacked any clear position. I received neither an acceptance nor a rejection. Instead, I was asked to contact them as soon as I was in Moscow. It was an open offer, non-committal enough to disappear into nothingness at any time. Yet, it was more than I had achieved until then. After the locked doors in Zurich, this response appeared like a narrow crack in the masonry. Not a breakthrough, but a possibility. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. So I decided to seize the opportunity and began to plan the project down to the smallest detail.
The uncertainty of this project led me to cautiously develop a second one. The political situation in Russia had changed significantly in the preceding months. The annexation of Crimea, the increasing staging of historical narratives, and Putin's announcement of a major military parade indicated a societal movement that could also be captured visually. This led to the idea of a standalone Portrait series on Russian war veterans – not as a supplement to the Bolshoi, but as an independent, equal project: as a contemporary document of a society trying to redefine its history, while the witnesses of past conflicts are increasingly forgotten.
The trip to Moscow in May 2015 was marked by a dual expectation: the hope for a collaboration with the venerable Bolshoi Theatre, which seemed hardly achievable, and the willingness to engage with the story of Russian war veterans. On site, the more skeptical scenario initially seemed to be confirmed. My contact person informed me that the timing was unfavorable. The day before, Maya Plisetskaya, one of the most significant figures in Russian ballet, had died. The company was in a state of emergency and mourning. It would have been easy to accept this as a final cancellation. But the effort was already considerable at that point. The material was organized, an assistant had traveled especially from England, and in addition, a Russian translator and a lighting assistant were on standby. Therefore, I decided to insist on the possibility of at least minimal access.
This persistence, less strategic than intuitive, eventually led to an invitation: I was to come to the Bolshoi and present myself and my project in person.
My first visit to the theater was unremarkable, entering through the staff entrance. It was precisely this sobriety that made it palpable that one was moving in a space not intended for outsiders. Katerina Nowikowa, the press spokesperson for the Bolshoi Ballet, received me personally. She was a remarkable personality: clear, present, and at the same time surprisingly open, with a dry sense of humor and a natural warmth. You could tell that she knew the workings of this institution precisely, yet wasn't completely consumed by them.
It quickly became clear in our conversation that she did not make her decisions exclusively based on institutional guidelines. The sponsor's letter of reference provided the formal basis for lending the project a certain legitimacy. However, it was likely more than that that was decisive. Perhaps my persistence in pursuing the project played a role. Perhaps also the reference to Peter Lindbergh, a personal friend, whose ballet portrait hung prominently in her office. But above all, she seemed to sense that my interest in the Bolshoi was not driven by external expectations, but by a genuine inner motivation. What followed was less an explicit promise and more a tacit understanding: the willingness to make space for a project that operated outside of usual structures.
After a shared coffee, we made our way through the corridors of the house. Its atmosphere was marked by history, physical labor, and a barely discernible echo of past performances. During this, we had an encounter that, in retrospect, played a key role. In the elevator, we happened to meet Maria Alexandrova, one of the most famous and celebrated dancers of the Bolshoi ensemble, who was considered the superstar of Russian ballet at the time. Katerina took the opportunity to introduce us and spontaneously asked if she would let me photograph her. Alexandrova scrutinized me intently, smiled, nodded, and said she would be happy to be photographed by a «savage.». I had to smile. Not just because of the word itself. My long hair and my three-day stubble certainly bore out her statement. I smiled because I knew that with that remark, I had just received something that wasn't an official commitment, but yet carried more weight: an implicit permission for my project.
The next day, Katerina granted me access to the Bolshoi Ballet's rehearsals – a privilege that alone would have justified the trip to Moscow. The halls where the elite of Russian ballet have worked on perfection daily for decades felt like relics from another era: imbued with history, every movement carried by the legacy of countless generations. From the corners, piano music sounded, played live – never just accompaniment, but a pulsating metronome. Next to them stood the ballet masters, former icons whose bodies were still vessels of memory of a deeply ingrained discipline. They corrected not only technique but also posture, facial expressions, and gestures – down to the last precision of body, expression, and spirit. Watching the rehearsals of the best dancers was surreal. Big names like Svetlana Zakharova, Anna Nikulina, Denis Rodkin, Anna Tikhomirova, Vladimir Nikonov – names that represent not only excellence but an almost ascetic devotion to detail.
And then I met Maria Alexandrova and Vladislav Lantratov again: a couple, on stage and in life. Witnessing their rehearsals felt like quietly experiencing a love story. As if Romeo and Juliet listed only for me – without tragedy, but with a lot of affection and harmony. In the way they worked with each other, reacted, sought each other out, and found each other, there was an intensity that went far beyond choreography. Their movements appeared effortless, yet this effortlessness was nothing more than the invisible surface of countless repetitions – a precision that doesn't show itself, but happens. In between, moments that defied choreography: fleeting glances, casual touches, an intimacy not meant for the audience. It was a form of truthfulness that evades any staging – and that cannot be fully captured even with a camera.
On the day of the performance, a tangible tension hung in the air. I wanted to leave nothing to chance and create images that would be compelling and unique, not only through their subjects but through precise, dramatic lighting and uncompromising quality. However, the concrete implementation of the project presented us with significant practical problems. The space behind the stage was too limited to set up a mobile studio without disrupting the performance. At the same time, it had to be ensured that neither light nor movement affected stage operations. The solution Katerina eventually proposed was as pragmatic as it was unusual and surprising: the use of the presidential lounge.
This room, originally intended for official receptions and discussions, was located in close proximity to the stage and offered the possibility of setting up an improvised studio. Access to it was initially surprisingly complicated. An elderly employee guarded the door with an impressive set of keys but did not have the correct one. Only a security guard who was called in could solve the problem. The presidential lounge itself proved to be a space that only partially met the requirements of a photo studio. It was small and furnished with heavy furniture that allowed for little flexibility. However, it was precisely these limitations that made it interesting. The confined space forced precise decisions, the existing light demanded clear staging, and the atmosphere of the room lent an additional depth to the shots that could hardly have been created in a neutral studio.
On the evening of the performance, I gained access to the dressing rooms and was able to move freely backstage. Conversations arose, unexpectedly direct, characterized by humor and an openness I hadn't anticipated. No diva behavior, no fear of contact, but rather curiosity, interest, and mutual appreciation. What was striking was not only the discipline, but also the education and presence of these dancers. They moved naturally between languages and contexts, far removed from the reduced image of the pure body.
On the evening of the performance, a sequence of events unfolded, characterized by constant movement between the stage and an adjacent room. Between their performances, the dancers would come directly from the stage into the lounge, often still marked by exertion, with fine beads of sweat on their foreheads and a breath that only slowly calmed. The costumes bore traces of the movement, and the bodies held a tension that couldn't immediately dissipate. In these brief moments, a form of presence emerged that could neither be staged nor repeated.
I spoke little, observed a lot, and tried to set the light in such a way that it made these states visible. The point wasn't to capture movement, but what arises between two movements. Throughout the evening, I portrayed over twenty dancers, from the corps de ballet to soloists and prima ballerinas. The craft of photography increasingly took a backseat. The crucial element was to create a situation in a few seconds where the subjects felt comfortable – ready to relinquish control and reveal something of themselves. This required precision and composure from me at the same time: clear, concise instructions, a calm tone, the right feel for the moment, and a touch of humor that kept the situation relaxed and approachable. Despite the confined space, this developed into a series of remarkable intensity – images characterized by strong contrasts and lighting reminiscent of the Old Masters, without tipping into mere staging.
Shortly before the end of the performance, after the last protagonist had rushed back onto the stage, I was shown into the auditorium. I experienced the last few minutes of Don Quixote from the audience, saw the standing ovation, the moment the tension eased. I applauded the dancers who had just been in front of my camera and accompanied them backstage after the performance, when the hall was long empty, to take more shots and say goodbye.
By the end of these days, I had a series of portraits that I could hardly have dreamed of. The result surpassed everything I had expected. The pictures looked like carefully composed works by old masters: characterized by strong contrasts, precisely placed light, and a visual language that is reminiscent of Caravaggio in its drama.
Through the diversity of the dancers portrayed—ranging up to the soloists and principal dancers of Don Quixote—an exceptional series was created about some of the best ballet dancers in the world.
It was already early morning when my team and I returned to the hotel completely exhausted. The adrenaline was still buzzing. To cap off the day, our path led us to a nightcap at a place that could hardly have been further from the Bolshoi: a hidden drag queen club in a dingy backyard. What awaited us there corresponded in an unexpected way with what we had just experienced. On the small stage stood a drag queen interpreting ABBA - with a precision and matter-of-factness that demanded almost as much discipline and staging as what I had seen hours earlier at the Bolshoi. A different context, a different language - yet the same dedication to form, expression, and presence. At that moment, I realized that even the world of Drag Queens Part of my series of archetypes will have to be.
Today, years later, many of the encounters have faded. What remains are the images and the memory of a world that can rarely be viewed from the outside. What began as a single project evolved over the following years. Portraits of dancers from some of the world's most renowned ballet companies emerged. In these works, the exploration that originated behind the walls of the Bolshoi continued: a portrait series balancing the dramatic light of Caravaggio with contemporary visual language.
Perhaps therein lies the true meaning of this project. Not in the published images, the exhibitions, or the awards, but in the fact that this story became a part of my own story. It taught me to trust an idea and to follow it even when the path seems uncertain. Sometimes perseverance and the courage not to give up are rewarded. The doors of the Bolshoi have long since closed again.
The doors of the Bolshoi have long since closed again. But the journey that began there continues to this day.
A final thought: „Tough guys don't dance“ (Norman Mailer). For a long time, that was my creed – less out of conviction than out of fear of making a fool of myself with my own movements. First, the encounters with the dancers and the awe of their skill, agility, strength, speed, and precision made me realize that tough men can indeed dance—more than that: that it takes toughness to achieve such feats. In retrospect, I regret not immersing myself in this world of rhythm, body, and expression at a young age. Today, I would rather follow Confucius: "Do not give a sword to a man who cannot dance.".