For its Diamond Project series in 2002, the New York City Ballet commissioned works from contemporary choreographers, with the idea of setting each new creation on the company’s finest dancers, like a diamond on an expensive engagement ring. For the most part, the series brought in artists from the outside; the styles ranged from Ulysses Dove’s “Red Angels” to Susan Stroman’s “Blossom Got Kissed,” and the series sought to expand the repertory and perhaps even uncover a post-Balanchine jewel.

Now it seems to have shifted its approach, turning to the choreographic talent within its own ranks. The program for their Spring Gala on Wednesday introduced a whopping five premieres from principals Albert Evans (“Broken Promise”) and Benjamin Millepied (“Double Aria”), soloist Edwaard Liang (“Distant Cries”), resident chore ographer Christopher Wheeldon (“An American in Paris”), and artistic director Peter Martins (“Tala Gaisma”).

Mr. Martins’s “Tala Gaisma” borrows its name from the title of the score, a concerto for violin and orchestra by Latvian-born composer Peteris Vasks, which translates as “Distant Light.” An abstract meditation on space and absence for four bodies, the work seeks to express visually the emotional estrangement conjured in Mr. Vasks’s high-pitched, homesick violin.

Mr. Martins introduces slowly revolving bodies that have an almost unearthly calm.

Inside a sphere of light, Sofiane Sylve, Miranda Weese, and Darci Kistler move cautiously in cylindrical patterns, isolated from one another. Jared Angle (who replaced Jock Soto due to an injury) enters and captures each one at punctuating moments in the music.

Ms. Sylve’s phrases were muscular and bold. She dropped slightly to describe a lozenge with her legs, while gripping Mr. Angle behind her. Ms. Weese, on the other hand, was sinuous and compelling in her duet. But Mr. Martins’s habit of placing the women in submissive positions, as bodies to be sculpted by men, did him a disservice here. Mr. Angle was merely proficient (most likely due to the short notice), demonstrating the steps but failed to embody the larger scope of the role. Much of the partnering looked like a bar exercise.

Too often the gestures felt remote, the ladies’ arabesques weathered by overuse. Thick shadows on every side erased the grandeur. The stridency of Mr. Vasks’s score overwhelmed the choreography, making it look stifled rather than slow and deliberative. The combinations failed to reproduce on stage the tensions building in the solo violin, played energetically by Kurt Nikkanen, as it climbed to a deafening shriek. The piece ends with an incessant, emphatic whine, but Mr. Angle simply let each girl down easy.

“Broken Promise” is only Mr. Evans’s second work. (“Haiku,” his first, premiered as a part of the Diamond Project.) Yet he channels an expressiveness and potent musicality that Mr. Martins’s piece lacks. A pas de deux for Ashley Bouder and Stephen Hanna, the work is set to an equally challenging score by the young composer Mathew Fuerst; his “Clarinet Quartet,” originally written for the NYCB’s Choreographic Institute.

To the mournful sigh of a clarinet, Ms. Bouder spins into Mr. Hanna, falling over his shoulders. Mr. Evans capitalizes on the flexibility and athleticism of Ms. Bouder; her legs dial like a clock’s hands in her partner’s grip. Likewise, in his solo Mr. Hanna accomplishes cabrioles and pistoning diagonals with Mr. Evans’s own brio. The effect of such displays can be forced, however. Ms. Bouder’s backward leap, repeated twice, appeared especially unwieldy.

But “Broken Promises” suggests Mr. Evans’s growing independence from mere physical feats, and introduces versatility and humor. Ms. Bouder shudders rhythmically while she is being pulled. The two seductively scoop their hips together, and she quickly darts a nervous glance at the crowd. One impressive combination in particular finds her bent over backward and crouching beneath Mr. Hanna. With only her feet in view, she patters back and forth to a roll on the piano. The work closes with a rocking gesture, as if they are slipping on their pajamas, ready for bed.

Both Mr. Evans and the French born Mr. Millepied attended the School of American Ballet as students. Mr. Millepied’s charisma and versatility on stage eventually caught the attention of Jerome Robbins. Shortly after becoming principal in 2002, Mr. Millepied embarked on his own as a choreographer, very much in the Robbins style.

He put together the pick-up troupe Danses Concertantes, made up largely of company members, who originally premiered “Double Aria” in 2003. The title is short for “Double Aria for Violin Alone” – another screeching atonal score, this time by Daniel Ott. The work introduces a couple who appears to have sprung from the same source. Their movements are deeply in tune with one another as they react candidly to turns of phrase that are repeated with minute variations.

Initially the couple, performed by Maria Kowroski and Ask la Cour, stands in silhouette, rolling off one another in the pattern of a wave. They surface into the light, wearing black workout leotards. Much of their partnering betrays a consciousness that they are both dancers, in the manner of Robbins’s own narcissistic pair in “Afternoon of the Faun.” Mr. la Cour touches Ms. Kowroski’s arms, and she curls them. They experiment in unison. They rehearse long, pensive lifts, even cradling and embracing one another for stretches at a time.

But their relationship is an exceedingly formal one. They retreat into the shadows at regular intervals that correspond with breaks in the music. With their arms in rounded first position, they freeze briefly, then continue with another variation. This blocking device not only lacks subtlety but excludes the possibility of real intimacy.

Ms. Kowroski maintained a cool exactness throughout, even when she tossed herself upside down, gripping Mr. la Cour’s ankles. The role danced by Mr. la Cour, who joined the company in 2002, marked his first performance after being promoted to soloist. He interpreted the choreography with resilience and elan. The violinist Timothy Pain, who stood on the stage, performed the music. During passages that were especially heated, he writhed visibly more than the dancers. Perhaps fittingly, the duo disappeared altogether in the darkness for several measures at the end.

The most mature work by one of the dancers was Mr. Liang’s “Distant Cries.” Choreographed on Wendy Whelan and Peter Boal to music by Tomaso Albinoni, the work first premiered with Peter Boal & Company in March of this year. Mr. Liang has been quietly erecting a formidable collection of works for Configuration Dance in Cape Cod (“Flight of Angels,” “Mixed Nuts”). “Distant Cries” displays wit, supple partnering, and thematic unity.

In silence, Ms. Whelan stands alone in a wispy nightgown. Uncontrollably, her hand pushes away her chin. An elongated arm experiments on its own, leading her in an agitated circle. At the start of Mr. Albinoni’s uplifting and sonorous composition, Mr. Boal steps into view. To the melody of an oboe, played by Randall Wolfgang, the two dance in a fantastical duet. They float across the stage with dreamy lyricism.

Both principals have internalized the work. Flexing her feet like a doll, Ms. Whelan is lifted up and carried across the stage. Rising up behind Mr. Boal, she covers his eyes. They are deeply familiar with one another, and for perhaps the first time in the evening, we were not just watching choreography but entering into a conversation. In their solos, the two are playful, confessing small sins and expressing wonder at each other’s presence. Mr. Boal’s own arm takes possession of him, spiraling downward as he leans into an arabesque. The work closes as it began: Left alone in silence, Ms, Whelan hides her face in her palms.

“An American in Paris,” as one can imagine, departs from the somber nocturnes of the rest of the program. Mr. Wheeldon, adopting Gene Kelly’s choreography for the stage, sought to recreate the MGM musical. As the American artist Jerry Mulligan, Damien Woetzel is putting the finishing touches on one of the windows of his giant streetscape. Adrianne Lobel’s scenery sidesteps nicely the absence of cinematography: The large, cubist painting becomes a transparent scrim as Mr. Woetzel loses himself in a daydream about his love, Lise Bouvier, performed by Jenifer Ringer.

Devastated at his luck, Mr. Woetzel kneels down, nursing his fantasy, while the population of Paris comes alive behind the scrim. They step out in small groups taken directly from the film’s closing ballet. Schoolchildren, bereted mimes, lost tourists, a constable, even a cyclist from the Tour de France step out from the painting and onto the stage. The orchestral version of the score, complete with simulated car horns, adds to the work’s romping energy.

When Mr. Woetzel finally catches up with Ms. Ringer, they fall into a modest duet. She melts on his shoulder, pouring herself upside down. Although the majority of their dance together is one embrace after another, she wriggles free, remaining a figment of his imagination. Even after they kiss, a circling corps quickly encloses them. Borne upon the shoulders of the crowd, she is carried off stage.

Kelly’s choreography echoes throughout the work. In the section of shivering trombones, Mr. Wheeldon subdues Kelly’s elevated hands at waist-level. Much of the choreography seems similarly subdued. Mr. Wheeldon depicts the images from the original with such faithfulness that his own flourishes appear merely arbitrary.

I always wished the movie version would end at the fade-out of the rose: Kelly and Leslie Caron, dancing inside a picture within a picture, their make-believe duet a resolution of the story in its own way. Closing the spring gala with “An American in Paris” had a similar suspension, offering a colorful alternative to what obviously is the trend now within the company: to moon over modernist abstractions.