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Published in U.S. 1 Newspaper on February 23, 2000. All rights

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Nicole Plett on Bill T. Jones

Before there was the lush and luxuriant landscape of

the Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Dance Company, there was Bill and Arnie

— two budding young experimentalists dancing in lofts and school

halls. And before there was Bill and Arnie, there was just Bill.

For those who missed out on the early years of this astounding dance

artist’s creative journey, Bill T. Jones brings his latest project

— a solo evening — to Princeton. "The Breathing Show,"

performed with violinist Daniel Roumain, on a set by Bjorn Amelan,

takes the stage at McCarter Theater, Tuesday, February 29, at 8 p.m.

"The Breathing Show" is a blend of dance, film, conversation,

and music in which Jones explores his own matchless dance style in

an intensely personal way. He says working solo is giving him his

first chance in a long while to literally "take a breather"

from the multi-pronged responsibilities of choreographing for his

multi-talented, multi-racial company of 10. He’s using the opportunity

to "take a big step back to the time when I was 19 and a young

dancer who wanted to fly."

A career-long communicator, Jones’s own expansive thoughts on this

brand-new venture were prominently featured in the New York Times

just two weekends back. His article on "Hopes and Doubts in the

Gestation of a Dance" (Sunday, February 13) provided a series

of personal journal entries chronicling "The Breathing Show’s"

bumpy evolution, from its 1999 premiere in Iowa City, to its

successful,

recently completed European tour.

Catching up with Jones by telephone at his home in the Hudson River

Valley last week, the idea of asking for further comment on a subject

already so expansively treated seemed questionable at best. Yet as

those who were present when the choreographer and his dancers took

questions after their McCarter Theater concert last spring know —

"I’m a famous bull shitter," was Jones’s first pronouncement

of that after-curtain talk — Jones is ever eager to help audiences

understand who modern dancers really are and what they do.

Today Jones shares his home with his companion, Bjorn

Amelan, who he describes as his "helpmate," who is also the

company’s associate artistic director.

Jones’s sensuous performance style has been mesmerizing audiences

for more than 20 years. Yet as his company grew and prospered, his

dual responsibilities as director and choreographer kept him behind

the scenes. While such major works as "Last Supper at Uncle Tom’s

Cabin" and "Still/Here," and last year’s "We Set Out

Early… Visibility Was Poor," all bear the stamp of his personal

esthetic, his own dance roles were minimal or non-existent.

At 47, Jones says he is now at the height of his creative ability

and ready to return to the truth of his own physical expression,

independent

of his customary responsibilities. Yet even as he embarks on a

national

tour of "The Breathing Show," he is also completing work on

"You Walk," an evening-length work for the company that will

have its premiere at this year’s Lincoln Center Festival.

Right off we asked how a dancer could make a show out of breathing.

"One reason I chose the word `show’ is because you can imply it’s

like a traveling medicine show, light entertainment — or maybe

a snake oil salesman," he says. "I knew the piece was going

to travel around. I knew that although most of it would be

choreographed,

there was going to be a component that was made for each evening.

So it was really going to be an indulgence in my showmanship. You’ll

see that it is quite a difficult evening. Breath is very, very

important

in it. So on all levels, `The Breathing Show’ is an appropriate

title."

"The solo show is an opportunity for me to really indulge in my

own performing, if you will. Now it’s not so easy as just an

indulgence,

because I have to act not only as a performer but also a choreographer

there too; but it’s a different process."

"Tomorrow, when I open at New Jersey PAC, the whole day will be

spent in getting myself ready psychologically and physically for that

engagement. It’s much different from being director of the company

who has 10 other dancer personalities to inspire, direct, and make

material for."

"The piece, as difficult as it is now — there are 22

performances

that I’m in the middle of dancing — this is time out for me,"

Jones insists. "This is `Bill time,’ time to go into an envelope

that I have for the most part put aside for the last 11 or 12 years

while I’ve been directing the company."

The evening-long show was a year in the making. But following its

debut, Jones says the work seemed to be "plagued by

incompleteness."

A respected producer, Nigel Redden, expressed the sense that "the

evening was pointless and tepid." At that late date, just weeks

away from taking the show to Europe, Jones felt that reworking the

material was his only option. "It’s curious and unsettling, but

I feel `The Breathing Show’ only began to come alive when I decided

to speak and to allow myself to improvise transitions with anecdotes,

jokes, random observations, the stuff of my personality," writes

Jones in his journal.

Asked about the circumstances of his New York Times article, Jones

explains, "I’ve been keeping a journal since I was 17 years old

— not consistently, but on and off. There have never been too

many years in which I haven’t kept one."

Now, as if he were still musing on the show’s construction, he expands

on "The Breathing Show’s" evolutionary process. "When

I’m working alone as a soloist, I ask myself what are the things you

like to do onstage? I like to sing — I sing in a vernacular style,

but I do like to sing. I like to dance. I like to be able to do that

thing that I do at home, usually for my friends, when I’m feeling

good — I express myself by dancing in the moment," Jones says

today.

"Then there’s speaking. Speaking serves the function of breaking

down a self-imposed barrier between me and the audience, in which

I have to find some way to freshly enter into the discourse for each

performance, and yet the speaking has to be directed toward some

end."

Born in 1952, the tenth of twelve children in a migrant worker’s

family,

Jones spent his early years traveling the East Coast as his parents

followed the crop seasons. When he was seven, the family settled in

upstate New York. Jones attended high school there and was the second

child in the family to go on to university. He began his dance studies

in ballet and modern dance at SUNY, Binghamton.

During his freshman year he met Arnie Zane; together they embarked

on a personal and artistic partnership that lasted 17 years. Their

first collaborative duet, "Pas de Deux for Two," was

choreographed

and performed in 1973. They went on to found the Bill T. Jones/Arnie

Zane Dance Company in 1982. But in 1985, both men were diagnosed as

HIV-positive; Zane died in 1988. Jones, who keeps Zane’s name as an

integral part of the identity of his thriving modern dance company,

continues to live with HIV.

Today the middle-aged Jones, who never counted on reaching middle

age, reaches back to talk about himself at age 19. "I came to

dancing at a time when I had been an athlete and an actor — not

a professional actor, but everyone was sure I was going to Broadway.

Athletics I had been doing since I was five years old," he says.

"I began to dance because I fell in love with the idea of sweat;

I was an athlete who was repulsed by the idea of competition, so I

wanted a poetic, competition-free sweat. (Little did I know then how

competitive the dance world is.)

"Now dance was, in a way, an act of rebellion. It said `No’ to

the world’s expectations of me as a young male, a young black male

who was supposed to be an athlete or a good family man. It said `No’

to the world of theater, which has a rich, rich heritage, but which

somehow separates the mind and the body.

"But this was how it started, it really was an unconscious act

of rebellion. And I developed a real taste for the abstract beauty

of it."

Coming to dance as a brash iconoclast, he met his artistic equal in

Zane. Early Jones dancewatchers remember a time when spoken and

projected

texts superimposed funny and intriguing layers of meaning onto

movement

duets grounded in ideas about real life. Words, Jones recalls,

represented

another kind of rebellion.

"With time I began to look at the academy of dance, at the

conventions,

and they were all about dance being this silent art, and about dancers

as being these moving bodies, and dancers being assumed to be these

stupid people. And I though to myself, `I don’t have to not

talk’,"

he recalls today. "And quite frankly, I believe that if I speak,

what I speak, plus what I’m doing with my body, will be greater than

the sum of their parts. And that’s where a lot of the speaking solos

came from initially.

"So I came back to speaking, not as an actor, but more like a

poet speaking. Or sometimes I just wanted to be performing this very

estheticized art form, modern dance, but then a little window opens

in my skull and inside you hear a human being at work. I was trying

to subvert the convention of the noble silence of the dancer.

"I subsequently pulled away from speaking because I became more

interested in the pure act of crafting movement in time and

space,"

he says. "Now I go back and forth. There’s a delicious tension

between the two. And I do it primarily in my solo work, not with my

company. Most of the work I’ve done for the company the past six years

has no language in it.

In addition to staking out special territory at the

intersection of words and movement, Jones is known for his powers

of improvisation. Early on, in his duo work with Arnie Zane, the pair

incorporated the special qualities of contact improvisation —

body moving against body to supply leverage for lifts and leaps —

as well as dance improvisation. As the work matured, improvisation

became a tool to generate new movement that eventually became codified

into fixed choreography.

"I use improvisation [to choreograph] because it catches me at

my most animal, most unselfconscious, and most bold," he writes

in his journal. He then adds the bold observation, "Here is my

truest contribution to contemporary dance."

Jones returns to his well of experience in "The Breathing

Show,"

drawing on improvisation both to build dances and in sections of the

show that are improvised on a nightly basis. It is set in a white

stage environment designed by Bjorn Amelan, with five square fabric

columns and two film screens.

"The Breathing Show" opens with "Ghostcatching," a

dance to Schubert lieder, with music performed onstage by violinist

Daniel Roumain. Although this lush opening section, and a closing

section to the music of Mozart, are fixed choreographically, the

work’s

middle section, quirkily titled "TBArranged (sic)," embraces

improvisation. "There’s a significant impromptu component that

can change from night to night," says Jones, "where there’s

room to respond to the moment."

"`Ghost in the Machine’ is probably the most full-blown

improvisation

of the evening," he continues. "I ask the audience for a

number

from one to ten; these numbers correspond to different music we have

selected — from Gertrude Stein reading `Picasso,’ to music of

Dinah Washington, Bob Dylan, and Blossom Dearie — and this music

can change. This is a very fun section and a very challenging section

because I never know what is coming next."

Such performance challenges are indeed striking. We ask Jones about

his life as a dancer today — How is his dance today distinct from

his dance as a young man?

"What is the difference? First of all I’m mid-process, so I will

probably answer that question better in about another 20 years,

because

I’m very much a transitional-aged person.

"When I was young, I think that the dancing was much more limited

— even though physically there was a great deal of energy —

it was more limited in understanding what the possibilities are of

that time on stage. I didn’t have the skills of knowing how to manage

time — not to mention space. I didn’t have the skills to access

intensely emotional impulses. I did have access to the emotions, but

I didn’t have the ability to shape them into form. So form has become

more important with time. That’s one of the benefits of age.

"At this point I know more about my limitations and I know my

strengths. My questions are more grounded in true experience as

opposed

to a kind of vague rebellion.

"When I was 19," says Jones, "it was about a certain kind

of rebellion and a desire to just be loved — to show off. Now

there’s still that desire to rebel and to be loved, but I think it’s

grounded more in actual experience. And it’s a bigger experience for

the audience."

Bill T. Jones, McCarter Theater, 91 University

Place,

609-258-2787. $27 & $30. "The Breathing Show." Tuesday,

February 29, 8 p.m.


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