Ballet in Mongolia: The Paradoxical Legacy of the Soviet Regime

Essay written in 2018 for a college history course on Mongolia. I welcome all feedback.

In the center of Ulaanbaatar, the capital city of Mongolia, a pink, neoclassical building stands in stark contrast to the adjacent blue- and yellow- lit Government Palace. At first glance, the building, which appears to imitate western classical architecture, might strike a tourist as odd or out-of-place. What kind of building could occupy such a prominent location in Mongolia, yet show no sign of Asian or Central Asian influence? The answer: the Mongolian State Academic Theater of Opera and Ballet. This is not a very satisfying answer, however. How did a nation of pastoral-nomads get involved with ballet, after all? A closer look at the theater’s façade reveals its history. Between the ornate Corinthian columns, four unmistakable Soviet stars decorate the wall. In short, ballet entered Mongolia with Soviet communism. Again, this seems to raise more questions than it answers. First of all, why would the Soviet Union, a so-called proletarian state, still be entangled with a distinctly bourgeois art, such as ballet? Secondly, why, or for what purpose, would the Soviet Union want to spread ballet throughout Mongolia?

In fact, the early Bolshevik leaders debated these very questions while the Soviet Union was still in its infancy. As they contemplated the future of proletarian culture, it was evident that the subject of ballet, which was considered one of Russia’s greatest achievements, was particularly controversial given the high-art’s inextricable ties to the aristocracy of the previous generation. Thus, the future of ballet was uncertain; at this point, no one knew if it would survive the revolution. In any case, soon after the Bolsheviks came to power, all Russian theaters were placed under state supervision (Kotkina 506). Suddenly, the ballet, which had long been confined to the circles of the elite, was open to people of various social classes. For some time, ballet tickets were released free-of-charge, and the “audience [became] less homogeneous” (Midtgaard 9). Right away, it was evident that this new crowd of theater-goers treasured ballet, too — regardless of its origins. The most compelling evidence of this phenomenon is the remark by Anatoly Lunacharsky, a Russian Marxist revolutionary, acknowledging how ballet “[set] the masses on fire to an exceptional degree” (Ezrahi 40). Meanwhile, another contemporary observer mocked their excitement: “the non-subscription public, which packed the theater to over flowing, applauded and howled with such violence that all the old theater rats scurried off in horror to the snuggest little holes” (Ezrahi). Evidently, the enthusiasm of these new fans was hard to overlook. Given the hype, it is not surprising that many revolutionaries wanted to leverage the high-art in favor of the collective.

On the other hand, Vladimir Lenin, one of the most prominent Bolshevik leaders, was extremely critical of ballet. He considered ballet “inaccessible to the broad masses,” which rendered it fundamentally at odds with the Soviet dogma (Midtgaard 23). Besides, he found it contradictory to maintain an “alien” art so emblematic of the aristocracy. Ultimately, despite his comrades’ insistence, Lenin could not justify funding the elite theaters, while the majority of Soviet citizens remained illiterate. Instead, he set out on a mission to achieve mass literacy, and condemned “all the theaters [to] the grave” (Ezrahi 35).

Meanwhile, Agrippina Yaklovena Vaganova, the artistic director of the State Academic Theater and a former ballerina of the Imperial Ballet of St. Petersburg, was working tirelessly to safeguard the future of Russian ballet. Already distinguished for her immaculate ballet technique, probably owing to a keen sense of observation, she set out to “systematize ballet education in a way that made it palatable to the new regime” (Midtgaard 6). To this end, Vaganova was particularly interested in conveying ballet pragmatically — as if to unveil the science behind this ostensibly ethereal art form. In 1934, Vaganova published The Basic Principles of Classical Ballet: a comprehensive and “systematic study of all ballet movements,” which she accompanied with pictures (Midtgaard 18). In effect, the text was “down to earth, practical,” and, most importantly, “understandable even to someone not familiar with ballet” (Midtgaard 16). In 150 short pages, she had proved that ballet was, in fact, “accessible.” Thus, ballet no longer posed an ideological threat to the regime, and could continue to exist.

By this time, Lenin had (suddenly) passed away, and his mass literacy campaigns had evolved into a full-fledged “Proletkult” movement intended to “[raise the] cultural level of the masses” and “[bring] world cultural achievements within easy reach of the common man and woman” (Kotkina 509). In contrast to their earlier narratives, the communist authorities now argued that a baseline knowledge of Russia’s pre-revolutionary accomplishments — which included ballet — was essential, as it would, ultimately, serve as a springboard for the development of a new Soviet culture. Thanks to Ms. Vaganova, the Soviet leaders now had the blueprints that would allow for a wide-scale dissemination of their most cherished art form. As a matter of fact, “the same year her book was published… a national department was formed to instruct teachers for the ballet theaters from the Soviet Union republics” (Midtgaard 19).

Accordingly, ballet would soon reach The Mongolian People’s Republic, which had been under the official “shield of Soviet protection,” since 1924 (Lattimore 136). Soviet authorities believed that the Central Asian republics, in particular, would benefit from the dissemination of art, since it “could ideologically serve as supplementary binds that tied and equalized [the] culturally diverse population of the Eurasian Empire [more strongly] than direct political commands and [more] reliably than constitutional laws” (Kotkina 505–506). However, the idea to simply equip the masses with a baseline common culture was perverted somewhere along the way. Rather than providing the Eurasian Soviet citizens with the tools they needed to construct a collective, proletarian culture themselves, the communist authorities decided to exploit the arts “as propaganda tools for shaping their audiences’ consciousness” (Ezrahi 40).

As communist authorities opened new opera houses throughout the Asian and Caucasian republics, they, first and foremost, sought to inspire a spiritual devotion to the Soviet Union through art — with high hopes for the success of ballet — given they had zealously dismantled the religious order. Mongolia had not been spared in this respect, either. In the 1930s, communist authorities had ordered the destruction of monasteries, and the assassination of “tens of thousands of monks,” (Bruun and Odgaard) supposedly for the sake of atheism — not to mention that, “in Mongolia, the wealth of the church was used to finance the beginnings of socialism, without an intermediate period of capitalism” (Lattimore 138). That being said, following the purges, “faith still had a hold on many soviet citizens,” and “communist authorities recognized the need to replace religion in the young minds” (Geldern). Because dance and religion had, in Mongolia, been historically entwined, Soviet ballet seemed like an ideal candidate for inspiring Soviet loyalty. As a result, the People’s Commissar of Enlightenment was granted oversight for all theaters in the Soviet Union (Kotkina 511). Ballet, as well as virtually every other Soviet art form, was soon thereafter placed under tight regulation, though it, fortunately, was able to benefit from state funding (Kotkina 513). Acutely dependent on government patronage, however, ballet was destined to become a “conduit for Soviet propaganda” (Ezrahi 151).

In practice, Mongolians, who had little choice but to “conform to [their] ally’s policy,” actually found it quite easy to adapt to the ballet style (Lattimore 153). According to Catherine Kmita, an anthropology professor, like ballet, traditional Mongolian dance also, “tends to have the foot pointed at times, and includes jumping steps” and turns (Kmita 84–5). Thus, the transition from Mongolian dance to classical ballet felt more natural than it did for other Soviet republics. Still, according to Tuya Tumennassan, a ballet dancer from Mongolia, at the time, the Mongolian people felt a daunting pressure to “catch up” with the Soviet arts “as quickly as possible.”

While some Mongolian dancers, such as the world-famous, Khovd-native, Altankhuyag Dugaraa, had the opportunity to train at the Music and Dance College of Mongolia, most students elected to study in more renowned ballet schools outside of Mongolia (Cirio Collective). Over the years, hundreds of Mongolian children were hand-picked by Russian “pedagogues,” who toured Mongolia in search for the perfect Soviet ballet pupil. The teachers selected the students based on very specific criteria regarding their physical attributes, such as hyperextension, the shape of their feet, and their general proportions (i.e. small head and long legs) — a practice that is still prevalent today. The current Ballet Mistress of the Mongolian ballet company, Ms. Tuyatsetseg, had a funny way of phrasing it; “in other words,” the ideal ballet body is “just like a Barbie body,” (Undraa). At the same time, the Russian teachers also assessed the children’s intellectual capabilities — notably their capacity to memorize sequences. The extensive criteria underline the highly competitive nature of the selection process. E. Oyunbat, a Mongolian ballet dancer who studied at the Vaganova Academy in St. Petersburg, Russia during the 1960’s explains that, “at that time, studying in [the] USSR…happened to be everybody’s dream” (UB Post).

In truth, the opportunity to study at a state-funded ballet academy had much more to offer besides ballet training. Apart from the housing, the meals, and, not to mention, the prestige that a ballet academy guaranteed its students, the education it offered was remarkably comprehensive. The curriculum was by no means “restricted to dance and music; the students also had lessons in French, literature, deportment, history, and arithmetic” (Midtgaard 28). Consequently, Mongolian families sent children as young as 9 years-old to the leading ballet schools in Moscow, St. Petersburg, Perm, Tashkent, and Kiev, where they endured rigorous ballet training for up to 8 years. Still, despite the advantages of studying abroad, it was not always easy for Mongolian parents to separate from their children. In the interview, Oyunbat notes how his mother reacted when she discovered he had been admitted to the prestigious ballet academy; “my mother cried and didn’t want me to go to Russia because I was just a kid” (UB Post).

Following graduation, however, the dancers who studied outside of Mongolia were supposed to return home, where they were expected to dance at their national theater, and help spread ballet to their native countries. Tuya Tumennasan, for example, joined the “Classical Opera and Ballet Theater in her native Mongolia” following the completion of her studies at the Vaganova Academy in St. Petersburg (Sterling Ballet). Similarly, her husband, Ulzii Davaadorj also returned to Mongolia after graduating from the St. Petersburg State Conservatory. Eventually, Mr. Davaadori even became the Ballet Master at The Mongolian Opera and Ballet Theatre (Sterling Ballet). These stories are not unique to Tuya and Ulzii, however. Almost all Mongolian dancers returned home after studying at the revered ballet schools — bringing with them a high-quality training in the rich tradition of Russian ballet.

Within a couple of decades, the Mongolian ballet had made remarkable headway. By the 1950’s, Mongolia had staged the first Mongolian ballet at the State Central Theatre and opened the Secondary School of Dance and Music, which “further extended the [pre-professional] training of young dancers” (Rubin). Soon enough, the national company was invited to showcase its dancers’ talents at the Bolshoi Theater in Moscow (Kotkina 516). Notably, Mongolian ballet experienced so much success that, in 1963, the country opened the National Academic Theatre of Opera and Ballet. After 10 short years, the performances at the pink, neoclassical theater “with a seating capacity of six hundred people…[were] nearly always sold out” (Wolff 92). Meanwhile, ballet was spreading throughout the other republics, too. In fact, at this point in time, “the Soviet Union had more ballet companies and schools than any other country — ” despite having only two state-funded theaters prior to the revolution (Midtgaard 10). With this in mind, the Soviet Union certainly appeared to be making progress with respect to “Proletkult.”

The mere proliferation of ballet was not enough for Soviet authorities, however. Time and time again, officials reproached Soviet ballet companies for their “failure” to comply with the new Soviet standards for art. The Soviet leaders required ballet directors to modify existing ballets, whose storylines conflicted with contemporary Soviet dogma. Swan lake, for example, had traditionally concluded with a “tragic-romantic ending, which united Odette and the prince in a victory of love over evil in the afterlife” (Midtgaard 14). This ending did not conform to Soviet atheist ideals. In order for the ballet to be allowed to show at the theater, Ms. Vaganova had to change the ending, so that it was in line with the prevailing ideology. Instead, the approved version of Swan Lake finished “with a life-affirming victory over evil in this life” (Midtgaard 14). Regrettably, this version received “mixed-reviews” (Midtgaard 14).

In addition to requiring that theaters modify old ballets, officials also required that theaters “create soviet material” (Ezrahi 97). In fact, officials believed that this should be the theaters’ primary responsibility and envisioned a new-and-improved, Soviet ballet genre that promoted the “the spirit of the people (narodnost’) and the spirit of the party (dostupnost’)” (Ezrahi 103). Thus, ballet companies were expected to choreograph and stage new ballets that adhered to the strict principles of “Soviet Realism — ” which typically depicted the quotidian life of the working class (Ezrahi 103). For centuries, ballets had featured nymph-like dancers in otherworldly, romanticized plots. Now, they were expected to portray the every-day life of factory workers. Naturally, ballet choreographers found it quite difficult to inspire a strong emotional reaction under these new constraints. Further, they worried that changing the subject matter of ballets would cause it to lose its appeal. Nevertheless, officials ordered that theaters create at least one ballet on “contemporary Soviet topics” every year (Ezrahi 82).

This applied to Mongolian ballet, too. The Ministries of Culture and Autonomous republics were instructed to dedicate a portion of their theaters’ funds, “for concluding agreements with authors of new ballets” (Ezrahi 82). In fact, while Ulzii Davaadorj was the Ballet Master at The Mongolian Opera and Ballet Theatre, he had the opportunity to stage new ballets, himself. Although this effectively put constraints on ballet dancers’ and choreographers’ artistic freedom, some ballet dancers considered this call-to-action an upgrade for the status of artists. Victorina Kriger, a ballerina at the Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow, believed that the new responsibilities transformed the ballerina, who the public often perceived as a “mindless doll, into a socially conscious citizen” (Ezrahi 247).

For the most part, however, the rigid guidelines and the subsequent modifications to ballets were not well received in Mongolia — or anywhere else for that matter. When Mr. Jamiyandagva, the “father of the national ballet,” first staged “Three Hills of Misfortune,” he was forced to comply with the Soviet censors’ orders (Aminaa). While the original story, which is often described as the Mongolian Romeo and Juliet, ended with the tragic death of the two enamored protagonists, on stage, the ballet ended with their joyful wedding (Aminaa). The Mongolian spectators were shocked by the altered ending, which “received backlash from both audiences and critics of that time” (Aminaa). Fortunately, Mr. Jamiyandagva was later able to stage the original version of the Mongolian work, and the “audience reaction was very positive with a number of people congratulating” him (Aminaa).

Over time, several other Soviet-style ballets, which failed to appeal to the public’s taste, would materialize. Contemporary critics blamed the “impoverished choreographic language” for the public disinterest, while Soviet officials claimed that choreographers and directors were not working hard enough to capture the audience’s attention (Ezrahi 78). In reality, Soviet audiences generally “[avoided] productions on Soviet themes that it found boring” (Ezrahi 99). Popular ballets, like Swan Lake or Giselle, provided a temporary reprieve from the realities of everyday life. Soviet Realist ballets, on the other hand, did the opposite. In effect, all over the Soviet Union, audiences “proved stubbornly unwilling to accept the propaganda fare presented to it in the shape of Soviet…ballets” (Ezrahi 110).

Whether or not they realized that their “attempts to create propaganda ballets on Soviet contemporary life” were failing within the Soviet Union, the communist officials began to shift their attention outwards. In the later period of the Soviet Union, Communist authorities made the effort to “dazzle foreign audiences” with over-the-top spectacles of Soviet ballet (Midtgaard 29). All throughout the Cold War, the Soviet Union boasted about their rich cultural heritage and leveraged ballet, in particular, to “demonstrate the splendor and magnificence of the regime” (Ezrahi 19).

While the arts were certainly flourishing throughout the Soviet Union, the self-aggrandizing rhetoric, which, for the most part, highlighted only Russian achievements, seemed to exacerbate an underlying tension at home. While flexing their cultural muscles, Soviet officials ignored “indications of national assertiveness and friction” among its satellite countries and, somewhat naively, continued to envision “the eventual fusion or merging (sliianie) of nations” (Siegelbaum). What they failed to realize was that “Soviet nationality policy, particularly with respect to non-Russians, was deeply contradictory” (Siegelbaum). Although the Russian revolutionaries had set out to create a common Soviet identity that fused elements of both European and Asian culture, the disproportional emphasis on the “great Russian” traditions was leading them astray: towards a “Russified soviet culture” that eroded national traditions (Siegelbaum). By and large, the intrusive imposition of Russia’s traditions resulted in a devaluation of native cultural forms throughout the Soviet Union — including Mongolia.

Prior to its affiliation with the Soviet Union, Mongolia already had a rich and diverse dance culture. In fact, the earliest record of Mongolian dance can be found in The Secret History of the Mongols, the oldest surviving Mongolian text, which dates back to the 13th century. Over time, Mongolian dance underwent changes that reflected the country’s religious and political fluctuations, even prior to the introduction of ballet while it was a member of the Soviet Union. At the time that The Secret History of the Mongols was written, andai was an established dance form. Andai was originally a shamanic ritual and “healing dance for women,” (Kmita 1) but it eventually evolved to be “professionalized and performed on stage” (Kmita iv). Later, during the Yuan Dynasty, “dance came to the court and became a cultural symbol” (Kmita 82). During this period, dance was still spiritual in nature, though it took on a more secular significance (Kmita 83). The dance’s central focus on “ancestor worship” mirrored the growing Confucian influence at the time (Kmita 83). Finally, a masked Tibetan-Buddhist dance called Tsam was popularized during the 18th century — again reflecting changes in the larger Mongolian culture, albeit a few centuries late. Thus, by the time Mongolia joined the Soviet Union, “dance was mainly “ceremonial and its purpose was to reinforce the peaceful ideas of Buddhism” (Kmita 84).

Unfortunately, the overwhelming prominence of the Soviet-style art, so brusquely “implanted in Mongolia, partly [replaced] or [overshadowed] traditional forms of culture and entertainment” (Szolontai). With the introduction of ballet, other forms of Mongolian dance were, for the most part, put on hold. Ironically, while attempting to elevate the “cultural level” of Mongolia citizens through “proletkult,” it instead suppressed their rich, distinct culture.

Mongolian dance was stifled by other, more direct forces as well. When Stalin set out to eradicate religion in Mongolia, for example, he is considered to have destroyed the “priceless cultural heritage of the Mongolian people” (Bruun and Odgaard 33). With the elimination of Buddhist monks came the elimination of some of Mongolia’s most prominent cultural bearers. According to Balt, a former Tibetan Buddhist monk, “only one of the five Tsam dance masters at Gandan Monastery in Ulaanbaatar survived [Stalin’s] purges” (Kmita 102).

Thus, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, Mongolians were determined to revive their previous traditions. This was especially true for the Mongolian dance world. Beginning in 1989, there was “a resurgence in shamanism,” which allowed andai to again spread from more isolated regions of Mongolia to the rest of the nation (Kmita 74). At the same time, other traditional Mongolian dances once again took the stage, though some now bore hints of ballet influence. At the Central University for Nationalities in China, for example, one Mongolian dance teacher performed a lyrical dance “on tip-toe” (Kmita 91). In addition, Mongolian dance instruction also showed clear ballet influence following the breakup of the Soviet Union. Throughout Mongolia’s dance schools and universities, dance was now “standardized by combining ballet moves with movements from different ethnic groups as well” (Kmita 90). Evidently, the legacy of Ms. Agrippina Vaganova continued to permeate the Mongolian dance world over time.

Still, the collapse of the Soviet Union did have a “devastating impact on Mongolian ballet,” at first (Rossabi 42). This was primarily due to the fact that, “government funding” for ballet “dried up at the end of the communist period” (Jacob). Further, attempts to raise private funding for Mongolia’s theaters were simply not sufficient (Rossabi 43). Unfortunately, during the early 1990s, the national theater was often empty (Jacob). Additionally, in 1996, top dancers, who had once earned salaries equivalent to the salary of the deputy minister of Mongolia (UB Post), now earned “less than $50 a month” (Murphy). As a result, “many artists left the theater to become small-time traders,” while others pursued opportunities abroad (Jacob).

The fact that Mongolian dancers had received world-class ballet training in the Soviet Union had always made them very attractive to international dance companies. While Mongolia was a part of the Soviet Union, however, the country was subject to rigid travel restrictions. When these policies were relaxed after the collapse of the Soviet Union, and Mongolia’s national ballet began to deteriorate, dancers typically moved abroad in pursuit of better incomes and the international spotlight (Jacob). In fact, almost all of the dancers mentioned above moved to the United States following the collapse of the Soviet Union. For instance, the Mongolian-trained ballet dancer, Altankhuyag Dugaraa, is now a dancer at the renowned Boston Ballet. Further, Tuya and her husband, Ulzii, danced in various US ballet companies before settling in Washington DC, where they now run the Sterling Ballet School. In addition, they have one other Mongolian dancer on staff.

On the other hand, Bat Erdene Udval, another Mongolian expat, who now teaches at the Kirov Ballet Academy in Washington DC, claims that he moved to the US in 1992 for reasons other than money. According to Bat, he left Mongolia because he felt that the level of the Mongolian Ballet was “average” compared to what he was accustomed to during his training at the Perm Ballet School growing up. He attributed this to poor management, which he considered had failed to encourage teachers to further “develop their knowledge” about ballet — perhaps a byproduct of the lost government support.

Fortunately, the situation in Mongolia seems to have changed in recent years. According to Pearly Jacob, a journalist in Ulaanbaatar, “after years of lobbying, the State Academic Theater… regained government” backing. Today, there is a state-sponsored ballet school in Ulaanbaatar — a promising sign for the future of Mongolian Ballet (Tuya).

G. Khosbayar, a Mongolian dancer who teaches in Japan, asserts that, now, “probably all Mongolians living on foreign land wish to return home to work and share what they’ve learned” (Bayarsaikhan). He returns to Mongolia several times a year to this end. Similarly, Tuya and her husband, Ulzii, also return to Mongolia every summer in order to teach ballet. Furthermore, Mr. Altankhuyag of the Boston Ballet recently established the Mongolian Ballet Development Foundation in partnership with the Mongolian government in order to inspire the younger generation of Mongolian ballet dancers (Altankhuyag). The foundation also hosts an annual “Night of Ballet” performance, to promote the development of classical ballet throughout Mongolia.

Under these circumstances, ballet has once again become one of the city’s most beloved entertainment forms (Mongolian Opera Ballet). According to an ad for the Mongolian State Academic Theatre of Opera and Ballet, ballet “draws the biggest crowds” to the theater. In fact, ballets seems to attract tourists, in addition to Mongolian citizens. The Trip Advisor comment section is filled with praise from visitors, who are blown away by the high-quality, yet affordable performances — a testament to the Mongolian government’s renewed effort to make “classical art a mass art” (Undraa).

In recent years, Mongolian choreographers and directors have also tried to incorporate more distinctly Mongolian elements into their ballets. Today, national themes constitute a significant portion of the ballet repertoire, which has given Mongolian citizens a platform to portray Central Asian culture in a new light (Melvin). The staging of a ballet about Attila the Hun, is one example of this. Although Attila was a Hun, and not a Mongol, his reputation around the world parallels that of Chinggis Khan: the reputation of a barbaric, “bloodthirsty and aggressive conqueror” (Hays). However, “according to Mr. Batdelger, who wrote the ballet, “Attila was not just a violent person who liked blood. According to historic fact, he was very smart, very intellectual, very polite, [and Mr.Batdelgar wants] to show this side” (Melvin). This endeavor to stage a ballet portraying a prominent Central Asian figure, such as Attila, in a more positive light gives it a “distinctly Mongolian spin” (Melvin). In fact, this seems to be part of Mongolia’s determination to “overcome indifference to the national cultural heritage” and “change the negative evaluation of” Mongolian and Central Asian culture (Hays).

Despite its paradoxically imperialist origins, ballet is now a testament to the Mongolian people’s great artistic prowess and creativity, as well as its resilient cultural heritage. Although ballet was introduced as a tool for Soviet propaganda, the Mongolian people mastered the high-art and subsequently shaped it to fit Mongolian society. However, as the ballet world begins to succumb to the strong culture-homogenizing influences of globalization, I hope the Mongolian people will continue to assert their rich culture and continue integrating Mongolian elements into ballet. As of today, the future of Mongolian ballet looks bright.

Works Cited

Articles

Undraa, P. “Р.Туяацэцэг: Ямар ч Өөгүй, Цэвэрхэн ХӨЛИЙН ХУРУУГ Хараад Уур Хүрдэг Байлаа.” Ekhsurvalj.mn, 20 Feb. 2018, ekhsurvalj.mn/news/view/4382.

“Mr. Ulzii Davaadorj.” Sterling Ballet, 2018, sterlingballet.com/our-team/ulzii-davaadorj/#more-2529.

“Ms.Tuya Tumennasan.” Sterling Ballet, 2018, sterlingballet.com/our-team/tuya-tumennasan/#more-2530.s

“Altan Dugaraa.” Cirio Collective, www.ciriocollective.com/altan-dugaraa/.

“Mongolia’s First Siegfried.” Mongolia’s Leading English Language News, 25 July 2013, ubpost.mongolnews.mn/?p=5130.

Aminaa , Kh. “‘‘Three Hills of Misfortune:’ From Happiness to a Tragic Ending. Mongolian Ballet Celebrates 30th Anniversary.” Consulate General of Mongolia in San Francisco, Montsame, 31 Mar. 2017, www.sanfrancisco.consul.mn/eng/index.php?moduls=101&id=591.

Von Geldern, James, and Lewis Siegelbaum. Seventeen Moments in Soviet History, Michigan State University, soviethistory.msu.edu/.

Melvin, Sheila. “A Bastion of Classical Repertory on the Asian Steppe.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 7 June 2011, www.nytimes.com/2011/06/08/arts/08iht-mongoliaballet08.html.

Hays, Jeffrey. “MONGOLIA CULTURE, ARTS AND LITERATURE.” Facts and Details, 2008, factsanddetails.com/central-asia/Mongolia/sub8_2d/entry-4591.html.

Jacob, Pearly. “Mongolia: Ballet, a Soviet Legacy Continues To Thrive in Ulaanbaatar.” Eurasianet, 3 Feb. 2012, eurasianet.org/s/mongolia-ballet-a-soviet-legacy-continues-to-thrive-in-ulaanbaatar.

Bayarsaikhan, Dulguun. “A Peek into G.Khosbayar’s Life as a Ballet Dancer.” The UB Post, 15 June 2016, theubpost.mn/2016/06/15/a-peek-into-g-khosbayars-life-as-a-ballet-dancer/.

Rossabi, Morris. “Ulaanbaatar Ballet.” Ballet Review, vol. 38, no. 1, 1 Mar. 2010, pp. 41–43.

Books

Ezrahi, Christina. Swans of the Kremlin: Ballet and Power in Soviet Russia. University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012.

Rubin, Don, et al. “The Nations and Their Theaters.” The World Encyclopedia of Contemporary Theatre, Edited by Katherine Brisbane et al., Asia/Pacific ed., vol. 5, Routledge, 2005, p. 389.

Wongsurawat, Wasana, editor. “From the Demolition of Monasteries to the Installation of Neon Lights: The Politics of Urban Construction in the Mongolian People’s Republic.” Sites of Modernity: Asian Cities in the Transitory Moments of Trade, Colonialism, and Nationalism, Springer, 2016, p. 171.

“A Society and Economy in Transition.” Mongolia in Transition: Old Patterns, New Challenges, by Ole Bruun and Ole Odgaard, Curzon Press, 1997, p. 33.

Videos

“Mongolia: Ballet, a Soviet Legacy Continues To Thrive in Ulaanbaatar.” Youtube, Mongolian Opera Ballet, 6 Feb. 2012, www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZsL0AEJC-58.

Interviews

Taillet, Heloise, and Tuya Tumennasan. 30 Mar. 2018.

Taillet, Heloise, and Bat Erdene Udval. 31 Mar. 2018.