By Ciara LaVelle
By Jose D. Duran
By Kat Bein
By Juan Barquin
By Ciara LaVelle
By George Martinez
By Kat Bein
By Ciara LaVelle
Whoever had the job of composing headlines for the New Yorker during Christmas Week 1994 had a well-developed sense of irony, whether intentional or not. The title of Croce's attack, "Discussing the Undiscussable," actually describes why Bill T. Jones's work continues to challenge and invigorate audiences. In the twenty-plus years since he began choreographing and dancing, Jones's willingness to discuss the undiscussable has driven his creation of consistently fresh dance and performance art.
Jones's work, which began in the Seventies with structuralist duets composed with his partner Arnie Zane (who died from AIDS-related complications in 1988), has evolved into increasingly more complex and more conceptual pieces requiring a corps of dancers. Subverting audience expectations about narrative time, about history, and about art, his dances have also tackled the charged issues of sexuality, race, power, and religion. In Still/Here, on-stage at the Jackie Gleason Center for the Performing Arts this Saturday only, Jones turns his discerning sensibilities to the subject of death, or, more accurately, life in the face of death.
"First and foremost, I'm not a doctor or a therapist," notes Jones, speaking over the phone from Toronto. "I'm an artist who is trying to talk about things that are big and important to us all."
Things such as death. Plainly put, we are all going to die. Yet few of us live with the specter of our mortality confronting us like a death sentence the way people diagnosed with a terminal illness do. As a man who has known he is HIV-positive for ten years, Jones exists with both the fear and the keen sense of life's fragility and urgency that such a diagnosis engenders. Though very much alive, Jones, who turns 44 years old next week, found himself enraged by people already taking him for dead. "Most of us, with or without HIV, are burdened with the perception, justified or not, that being HIV-positive equals death," Jones writes in his 1995 memoir Last Night on Earth, published by Pantheon. "This I refuse to accept. . . . [Yet] how do I deal with fear, anger, and pain? How can I find the strength to love, plan, create? How can I defeat the perception that I am an abnormality, cut off and doomed? To find the answers, I would go to the widest, most varied groups of travelers along the same road."
In 1992 Jones and media artist Gretchen Bender embarked on a series of fourteen Survival Workshops that took them to eleven cities in eighteen months. They met with people who had faced or were facing life-threatening illnesses. Jones asked workshop members to introduce themselves and to answer questions about their experiences. Then he encouraged each person to create a self-portrait through movement. Bender videotaped the participants.
With this foundation of testimony, gesture, and image, Jones set out to shape what would become a multilayered theatrical construct blending his choreography, large-screen projections of Bender's videotapes, commissioned music by classical composer Kenneth Frazelle and rock guitarist Vernon Reid, taped singing by Odetta, costumes by Liz Prince, and lighting by Robert Wierzel. The multiracial members of the Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Dance Company -- known for their varied body types (short, very tall, athletic, portly) that defy the classical image of a dancer -- interpret the work (Jones does not appear in the piece).
As its title implies, the production is presented in two distinct parts. Where Still abstracts the language, movement, and images of survivors in order to express a universal inner struggle, Here shows how people make sense of that struggle in the everyday world. True to Jones's nonnarrative, relentlessly metaphoric methods, neither of the two parts conveys the testimony from the workshops in a traditional manner.
"I don't try to tell you what you should be understanding or getting from the work, but I lay it out for you like a painter or any abstract artist would," notes the choreographer. "[Since] I wanted to do [the piece] in the most intimate and personal means possible, I talked to real people, asking them to tell their stories. Now their stories are interesting only as much as they have resonance in relation to any story. The form of the piece fractures those narratives purposely so [the dance] doesn't get pinned down, doesn't get too small.
"The second section is much freer," Jones continues. "Maybe because you've seen the first section, you understand the language of groups, of people walking in close harmony. You understand the context but now you're in the realm of complete fiction, of another world."