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Here, though, all the dancers are the faun and their attention locks not on a nymph but on us.

“The certificate is a fake, ditto the signature, ditto the spelling, ditto the drawing,” she told The New York Times in reference to one of the works, a drawing of a faun.

But little actually felt contemporary in this lollipops program of swans and fauns that, musically at least, might have been one of those old-timey Hollywood Bowl “Rhapsody Under the Stars.”

I would see the fauns arriving soundlessly, settling themselves in a graceful ring around the sycamore’s trunk.

One was a faun—no, Jason thought—a satyr.