With the lightning speed of online delivery, there is still masses of time to select the best and most enjoyable presents for Christmas, thanks to the taste and wisdom of theartsdesk's pack of writers.

In England you may joke about having Siberian weather with minus 7 degrees. This is really what Siberian winter looks like - at minus 26 degrees. The river is gushing steam, a hellishly peculiar sight. After travelling for 16 hours and through seven time zones to get to Krasnoyarsk at six in the morning, I am not sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing.

The designer of a fairytale ballet is far, far more important than the choreographer. It's those visions that lodge themselves in children's heads, in adults' memories, embedded with the music. And at no time more potently than Christmas when it's time for The Nutcracker and Cinderella.

Those teenage lovers Romeo and Juliet will be dying nightly on a stage near you in various guises for much of the autumn - not as Shakespeare’s play, but as ballets and operas based on it. Next week both Birmingham Royal Ballet and English National Ballet field two of the more famous versions on their autumn tours, while at the end of the month the Royal Opera stages a rare revival of Gounod’s opera.

Sergei Diaghilev was not short of self-belief. He appointed himself the man to introduce European modern art to Russia and then Russian modern art to Europe as the 20th century began, and in doing so he defined himself as the ultimate artistic director, as the remarkable, tentacular exhibition at the V&A Museum that opened yesterday shows. Reviewed elsewhere on theartsdesk, the exhibition's mounting has thrown up extraordinary inside dramas - the telltale paper found in the boning of a 1916 tutu, the unlikely discovery of a stellar bust in a junk shop, and the legendary artists' sweat that no cleaning can obliterate.

Sergei Diaghilev was not short of self-belief. He appointed himself the man to introduce European modern art to Russia and then Russian modern art to Europe as the 20th century began, and in doing so he defined himself as the ultimate artistic director, as the remarkable, tentacular exhibition at the V&A Museum that opened yesterday shows. Reviewed elsewhere on theartsdesk, the exhibition's mounting has thrown up extraordinary inside dramas - the telltale paper found in the boning of a 1916 tutu, the unlikely discovery of a stellar bust in a junk shop, and the legendary artists' sweat that no cleaning can obliterate.

Shortly before he died Merce Cunningham came to see the Trocks’ new parody of his work - he loved the dancing but hated the music. Pace the great man, for most of us watching it Wednesday night the entire thing is a miracle of comedic perception, from the three lanky fellows in strange unitards and weird hair, po-facedly hopping about the stage, to the two mad musicians in black at the side, bursting paper bags, gargling, shaving the microphone, and mooing gently.

This week Scottish Ballet opens its new season with a ballet of genius that began life in the bath. The bath is a great place for inspiration. The Greek mathematician Archimedes discovered the law of hydrostatics in it. The choreographer Frederick Ashton also had one of his major lightbulb moments while having a soak, idly listening to the radio in 1947 when a new piece of music came on.

How often has one sat at a first night at the opera or ballet, groaning at missed cues, horrors with costumes, disasters with lighting:  one thinks they should surely have got it right by this time? And the rest of the evening is somehow diminished by this upset. But then, how much do we in the audience understand about what it takes to put on a performance, where there are so many elements to co-ordinate and where, therefore, so much conspires to go wrong? And what if indeed it is human ineptitude that conspires? And pure, incomprehensible perverseness?

When Russia was plunged into Revolution in 1917, a chief balletmaster inside the Imperial Ballet in St Petersburg feared the worst. It was not simply the death of Tsars he feared, but the death of all culture associated with them, including the classical ballet that had grown to become an opulent wonder of the world. For 25 years all the ballets in the repertoire had been notated, their choreography, how the steps fitted the music, what costumes and sets should be. The notes were filed in several large volumes.

You need very little for a Swan Lake. Tchaikovsky’s music, white swan-girls, a mooning boy, and 32 fouettés for the ballerina in black. That's about it, isn't it? Every traditional Swan Lake we see now is a sort of balletic pizza - a musical base scattered with ingredients collected from a familiar buffet, piled up by its stager or so-called choreographer according to taste (and often a large measure of vanity for sauce).