1111 2 Judson Dance Theater 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 Judson Dance Theater takes a fresh look at the radical, experimental dance 4 presented during the early 1960s at Judson Memorial Church in down- 5 town Manhattan. 6 Ramsay Burt explores the new artistic agenda set by Trisha Brown, 7 Steve Paxton, Yvonne Rainer, and their fellow dancers, putting it in the 8 context of developments in the visual arts. As well as following their 9 subsequent careers, he traces how the ideas they proposed about the 20111 body and performative presence contributed to the development of 1 experimental dance in Europe, for example in the work of Pina Bausch, 2 Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker, and Jérôme Bel. 3 Informed by recent work in dance studies and art history, this book 4 is, without doubt, the finest assessment of the period so far and will 5 appeal to students of dance history, theory, and practice, as well as 6 anyone interested in the avant-garde arts. 7 8 Ramsay Burt is Professor of Dance History at De Montfort University. 9 His publications include The Male Dancer (1995), Alien Bodies (1997), and, 30111 with Professor Susan Foster, he is founder editor of Discourses in Dance. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 21111 1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 21111 1111 2 Judson Dance Theater 3 4 Performative traces 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 Ramsay Burt 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 21111 1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 First published 2006 4 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN 5 Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada 6 by Routledge 7 270 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016 8 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business 9 © 2006 Ramsay Burt 20111 1 This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2006. 2 “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s 3 collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” 4 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or 5 reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including 6 photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or 7 retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. 8 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data 9 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library 30111 Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data 1 Burt, Ramsay, 1953– Judson Dance Theater: performative traces/Ramsay Burt 2 p. cm. 3 Includes bibliographical references. 4 1. Judson Dance Theater – History. 2. Modern dance. I. Title. GV1786.J82 B87 5 792.809747′1–dc22 2006003845 6 7 ISBN10: 0–415–97573–5 (hbk) ISBN10: 0–415–97574–3 (pbk) 8 ISBN10: 0–203–96966–9 (ebk) 9 40111 ISBN13: 978–0–415–97573–5 (hbk) ISBN13: 978–0–415–97574–3 (pbk) 1 ISBN13: 978–0–203–96966–3 (ebk) 21111 1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 For Nicholas Zurbrugg 4 1947–2001 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 21111 1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 21111 1111 2 Contents 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 List of illustrations viii 4 Acknowledgements ix 5 6 7 1 Introduction: transatlantic crossings 1 8 9 2 Cunningham, Judson, and the historical 20111 avant-garde 26 1 2 3 Minimalism, theory, and the dancing body 52 3 4 4 Allegories of the ordinary and particular 88 5 6 5 Before and after 1968: dance, politics, and 7 the avant-garde 116 8 9 6 Repetition: Brown, Bausch, and De Keersmaeker 138 30111 1 7 Traces of intimacy and relationless relations 162 2 3 8 The Judson tradition at the start of a new century 4 186 5 6 7 Notes 202 8 Bibliography 213 9 Index 225 40111 1 21111 1111 2 Illustrations 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 2.1 Merce Cunningham. Nocturnes 43 4 2.2 Deborah Hay. Would They or Wouldn’t They 46 5 3.1 Robert Morris. Site 64 6 3.2 Trisha Brown. Trillium 68 7 3.3 Yvonne Rainer. The Mind is a Muscle Part One, Trio A 78 8 3.4 Anthony Caro. Early One Morning 81 9 4.1 Fred Herko performing George Brecht’s Comb Music 99 20111 5.1 Trio A at Judson Flag Show 135 1 7.1 Lea Anderson’s The Lost Dances of Egon Schiele 177 2 8.1 Facing from Trio A Pressured 199 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 21111 1111 2 Acknowledgements 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 Institutions have played an important part in enabling me to write this 4 book. It is the second book I have written while I have been Senior 5 Research Fellow at De Montfort University. As a result of this fellowship 6 I have been able to write without the distractions of a normal university 7 lecturer’s teaching load. At a crucial stage, I was Visiting Professor and 8 Visiting Scholar at the Department of Performance Studies at New 9 York University, enabling me to spend over half a year in downtown 20111 Manhattan meeting many people about whom I was writing, going to 1 libraries, and experiencing for a while living in New York. The end of this 2 stay was made possible with funds from the British Arts and Humanities 3 Research Council. I have relied heavily on the library at De Montfort and 4 on the Dance Collection of the New York Public Library which I have 5 haunted every time I could find an excuse (and the money) for a trip to New 6 York. I have been very grateful for opportunities to speak about Judson 7 Dance Theater, where I have been able to try out material for this book. 8 These include invitations from: University of Copenhagen; University of 9 Stockholm; Collège Internationale de Philosophie; Paris; University of 30111 Ljubljana; University of Antwerp; and the University of Rio de Janeiro. 1 I would particularly like to thank Richard Carlin for his support of this 2 project, and many friends who have helped me in a number of ways with 3 this book over the five years it has taken to write. Valerie Briginshaw 4 deserves special mention for reading every chapter, sometimes in more 5 than one draft and giving me invaluable feedback and encouragement. I 6 would also like to thank friends and colleagues including Michael Huxley, 7 Jayne Stevens, Jo Breslin, Martin Hargreaves, Sally Doughty, Kerry 8 Francksen-Kelly, Theresa Buckland, Sally Luxton, Christy Adair, Dee 9 Reynolds, Bojana Kunst, Karen Vedel, Inge Damsholt, Maaike Bleeker, 40111 Luk Van den Dries, Claire Rousier, and Christophe Wavelet, and on the 1 other side of the Atlantic to Susan Foster, Barbara Browning, Richard 21111 Schechner, Carol Martin, Peggy Phelan, Diana Taylor, Allen Weiss, x Acknowledgements 1111 André Lepecki, Douglas Dunn, Deborah Jowitt, Marcia Siegel, Nancy 2 Duncan, Diane Torr, David Vaughan, George Dorris, Don McDonagh, 3 and Vincent Warren. I am also grateful to members of the Corporeality 4 and Choreography working group of the International Federation for 5 Theatre Research (IFTR/FIRT) who have read or heard and discussed 6 various bits of the book at various stages: Ann Cooper Albright, Emilyn 7 Claid, Sarah Cordova, Heili Einasto, Rachel Fensham, Tommy 8 DeFrantz, Isabel Ginot, Lena Hammergren, Jacqueline Shea Murphy, 9 Janet O’Shay, Phillipa Rothfield, Christel Stalpaert, and Myriam Van 1011 Imschoot. I should also like to thank artists and writers whose work I have 1 analysed, and who have allowed me to interview them: Trisha Brown, 2 Yvonne Rainer, Steve Paxton, Carolee Schneemann, Jill Johnston, David 3111 Behrman, Lea Anderson, Felix Ruckert, and Boris Charmatz. 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 21111 1111 2 1 Introduction 3 4 Transatlantic crossings 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 In September 1985 a small incident occurred in Montréal during the first 4 Festival International de Nouvelle Danse which participants have proba- 5 bly long since forgotten. During the same week, Merce Cunningham, 6 Pina Bausch, Trisha Brown, and Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker were all 7 presenting work in the festival and they, together with members of their 8 dance companies, were all staying in the same hotel at the same time. 9 One evening, the dancer Dena Davida, who runs Montréal’s experi- 20111 mental dance centre Tangente and was one of the organizers of the fes- 1 tival, was sitting in the hotel coffee shop talking to Trisha Brown and 2 Stephen Petronio (who was still at that time dancing with Brown). Davida 3 commented that Pina Bausch and a few of her dancers were sitting at the 4 next table. When Brown said she knew of Bausch’s work but had not met 5 her, Davida introduced them to one another and gradually members of 6 different dance companies started to talk together.1 7 This chance meeting is the starting point for a book about Judson 8 Dance Theater and its legacy because it represents a meeting of inno- 9 vative dance artists from Europe and the US and raises questions about 30111 what they had in common. To anyone outside dance circles, such a 1 meeting of leading international dance company directors might not 2 seem remarkable, but within the English-speaking dance world, Brown 3 and Bausch are almost set up as paradigmatic opposites where innova- 4 tive dance practice is concerned. Brown, for many scholars and critics 5 in the US, is seen as someone who is constantly refining her search for 6 new, abstract ways of structuring pure, abstract dance. She is, perhaps, 7 the founder member of Judson Dance Theater who appears to have 8 made the most consistent and continuous choreographic development. 9 For many of the same critics and commentators, however, Bausch is a 40111 bogey figure who seems to attack the very idea of dance which, in their 1 view, Brown exemplifies. This book argues that innovative dance artists 21111 on each side of the Atlantic over the last forty years have had more in 2 Introduction 1111 common with one another than most existing dance literature about 2 them to date has suggested. 3 Antipathy towards Bausch’s work was evident in press reactions when 4 a few weeks later Bausch’s company, Tanztheater Wuppertal, performed 5 at the Brooklyn Academy of Music in New York as part of a festival of 6 new German work. There they performed Bausch’s 1984 piece Auf dem 7 Gebirge hat man ein Geschrei gehört (On the Mountain a Cry Was Heard ). One 8 moment in particular upset some audience members. In this, Josephine 9 Ann Endicott repeatedly went down on all fours, pulled up her dress to 1011 bare her back; a man then marked a line on her with lipstick so that her 1 back became inexorably crosshatched in red.2 The festival included a sym- 2 posium on German tanztheater that was held at the New York Goethe 3111 Institute in November 1985. During this some American critics expressed 4 incomprehension and condemnation of Bausch’s work. Moments such as 5 the one described above provoked criticism that Bausch didn’t appear to 6 be obviously critical of violence against women, and one participant com- 7 plained that Bausch’s unrelieved and undeveloping repetitiousness seemed 8 senseless (in Daly 1986).3 Anna Kisselgoff stated: ‘We rarely see pure dance 9 coming out of West Germany [as it was then]. There must be some 20111 reason why there are directions being taken in America and Germany 1 that are so opposite.’ Turning to Jochen Schmidt, she asked: ‘Do you feel 2 that formal concerns are of no interest to German choreographers?’ to 3 which Schmidt replied that he thought there was a lot of form in Bausch’s 4 work (ibid.: 47–8). As Johannes Birringer observed, when Kisselgoff ‘asked 5 6 Bausch whether she would be interested in working only with “pure form” 7 and without the need to express feelings, the choreographer probably 8 didn’t even understand the question’ (Birringer 1986: 85). How many of 9 those who criticized Bausch in 1985 for her reportedly un-American- 30111 looking work acknowledged that she had trained in New York at the start 1 of the 1960s, performing at the time not only in work by Antony Tudor 2 and Paul Taylor, but also in more experimental pieces by Paul Sanasardo 4 3 and Donya Feuer? Although Trisha Brown’s work was not mentioned in 4 these discussions, the implication of Kisselgoff’s position was that whereas 5 choreographers such as Brown, who deal with movement in an abstract 6 way, could fit into a formalist, modernist account of the progressive devel- 7 opment of an implicitly American tradition of pure dance, Bausch’s sup- 8 posed expressionism, in comparison, was anachronistic. To many in the 9 symposium her work seemed derivative of issues that had already been 40111 addressed by the now old-fashioned American modern dance.5 1 What I believe Bausch and Brown have in common is the way that 21111 they both, in effect, offer a similar challenge to the sorts of ideas about Introduction 3 1111 ‘pure dance’ that Kisselgoff articulated in 1985, by framing the materi- 2 ality of the dancing body in ways that force the spectator to acknowledge 3 the materiality of the bodies of their dancers. In doing so, they contra- 4 dict conventional aesthetic expectations. Such challenges are a major 5 theme in this book. While Brown can be seen to do this through her 6 deep research into the roots of motor functioning, Bausch uses a more 7 Laban-based approach to space and effort along with mimetic and 8 dramaturgical devices including repetitions of sometimes painful actions; 9 but both use improvisation as a key part of their choreographic process. 1011 Each, in different ways, has presented challenges to their audiences to 1 abandon naturalized and automated ways of viewing dance perform- 2 ances. Brown’s description of her 1970 piece Man Walking Down the Side 3111 of a Building exemplifies the way her work has critiqued conventional 4 ideas about what dance is: 5 6 Man Walking Down the Side of a Building was exactly like the title – 7 seven stories. A natural activity under the stress of an unnatural 8 setting. Gravity reneged. Vast scale. Clear order. You start at the 9 top, walk straight down, stop at the bottom. All those soupy ques- 20111 tions that arise in the process of selecting abstract movement 1 according to the modern dance tradition – what, when, where and 2 how – are solved in collaboration between choreographer and place. 3 If you eliminate all those eccentric possibilities that the choreo- 4 graphic imagination can conjure up and just have a person walk 5 down an aisle, then you see movement as activity. 6 (in Livet 1978: 51) 7 8 An avoidance of the eccentric possibilities and soupy questions inherent 9 in the modern dance aesthetic permits the performer to realize, and the 30111 spectator to perceive, the clarity and directness of movement as unem- 1 bellished activity, and the dancer’s actual weight and physicality. Around 2 the time Brown said this in 1978, Pina Bausch expressed a similar distaste 3 for existing dance, and with it a need for new ways of moving, in an 4 interview with Jochen Schmidt: ‘I’m always trying. I keep desperately 5 trying to dance. I’m always hoping I’m going to find new ways of relating 6 to movement. I can’t go on working in the previous way. It would be 7 like repeating something, something strange’ (in Servos 1984: 230). When 8 Schmidt asked her whether she therefore needed to use words in her 9 pieces, Bausch replied: 40111 1 It is simply a question of when is it dance, when is it not. Where does 21111 it start? When do we call it dance? It does in fact have something to 4 Introduction 1111 do with consciousness, with bodily consciousness, and the way we 2 form things. But then it needn’t have this kind of aesthetic form. It 3 can have quite a different form and still be dance. 4 (ibid.) 5 6 Bausch’s need to find new ways of relating to dance parallels Brown’s 7 need to move away from the soupy problems of the modern dance tradi- 8 tion. Both dance artists were articulating the difficulties that came 9 between them and how they wanted to dance, and both, in an avant- 1011 garde way, were exercising the right to refuse to comply with existing 1 ways of doing this. Here, then, in their different searches for new move- 2 ment possibilities, is a point of comparison between Bausch and Brown, 3111 whose chance meeting in Montréal is the starting point for this book. 4 It is not my intention here to minimize the evident differences between 5 works by Bausch and Brown, merely to point out that on a conceptual 6 level both were creating work that set comparable challenges to audi- 7 ences to abandon conventional expectations and develop new structures 8 of perception. Both dance artists identified the body and bodily con- 9 sciousness as the site at which to try to find something that offers 20111 liberation from good old or bad old ways. For Brown they were unequiv- 1 ocally bad old ways and she wanted to move on. Bausch, too, was 2 motivated by a need to move on but the fact that she called her attempt 3 desperate indicates her concern about the loss of what had previously 4 appeared to be certainties. 5 To create and present work that does not conform to the known and 6 familiar but challenges audiences can have negative consequences. 7 Not only did some audience members walk out of performances by 8 9 Tanztheater Wuppertal at Brooklyn Academy of Music in 1985, but, as 30111 Josephine Ann Endicott (1999) has recalled, some members of the 1 German audience during the first few years at Wuppertal reacted just 2 as negatively. Brown has written about the need to be prepared to make 3 work that challenges audiences: 4 5 The result of choreography that goes beyond what the audience is 6 familiar with is that you find out what you can do, and what your 7 own personal limitation edges are. In that arises the possibility of 8 doing that which is not interesting to your audience, not up until 9 now thought of as acceptable to an audience. There is also a ques- 40111 tion of the tension in the relationship between an audience and a 1 performer. 21111 (Brown 1978: 45–6) Introduction 5 1111 Referring to this tension, Brown has spoken of her feelings of vulnera- 2 bility and exposure when performing the spare, minimal movements 3 of her choreography during the early 1970s. She has told Marianne 4 Goldberg that, although at that time she was working towards ‘objec- 5 tivity in movement . . . I remember feeling emotion and internal 6 commotion while performing those early deductive, systematized, with- 7 held pieces’ (Goldberg 1991: 6). Susan Sontag has observed: 8 9 The view that dance should not express emotion does not, of course, 1011 mean to be against emotion. Valéry defined the poem as a machine 1 whose function is to create a distinctively poetic feeling: it does not 2 ‘express’ emotion, it is a method for creating it. 3111 (Sontag 1983: 103) 4 5 So, to expand on Birringer’s point mentioned earlier, the idea that either 6 Bausch or Brown could separate feeling from form is surely mistaken. 7 8 Modernist dance theory and postmodern dance 9 20111 To find such common ground between European and American dance 1 is to depart radically from the view of postmodern dance developed by 2 Sally Banes. In her view postmodern dance was a ‘largely United States 3 phenomenon’ (Banes 1987: xxxvi), American choreographers having 4 made their breakthrough by ‘reacting against the expressionism of 5 modern dance which anchored movement to a literary idea or a musical 6 form’ (Banes 1980: 15). This was something that, in Banes’s view, Pina 7 Bausch failed to do. For Banes, Bausch’s work was ‘expressionist rather 8 than analytical’ and seemed ‘more influenced by imagistic avant-garde 9 theatre than by either German or American dance traditions’ (1987: 30111 xxxvi). Either Banes was unaware of the influence of Jooss and Tudor 1 on Bausch’s work, and of her time with Taylor, Sanasardo, and Feuer, 2 or she couldn’t understand its relevance to Bausch’s choreography. In 3 order to trace the development of radical, experimental dance on both 4 sides of the Atlantic, I have to disagree with Banes’s assessment of 5 Bausch’s work, and challenge beliefs about the separateness and exclu- 6 sivity of postmodern dance in the United States. 7 Sally Banes’s work on American dance since 1960 is enormously 8 important and has been highly influential. My work in this book would 9 not have been possible without it. Her 1980 book Terpsichore in Sneakers: 40111 Post-Modern Dance, about Yvonne Rainer, Trisha Brown, Steve Paxton and 1 others associated with Judson Dance Theater, was a key work in the devel- 21111 opment of dance studies as an academic discipline. Although Banes may 6 Introduction 1111 not be the only scholar to have written about postmodern dance,6 she has 2 written at greater length and in more detail than anyone else. Her first 3 book, which defined the terms in which American postmodern dance is 4 still discussed, has been followed by five others. Banes has not only pro- 5 vided invaluable, detailed information about key choreographers of the 6 1960s and 1970s but shifted discussions of dance history from artist- or 7 company-centred critical studies to discussions of theoretical aspects of 8 contemporary dance practice. Banes developed a framework for dis- 9 cussing theatre dance by drawing on art theory. There were particularly 1011 close connections in the 1960s between experimental dance and radical 1 developments in the other arts, particularly the visual arts, and between 2 dancers and visual artists within Judson Dance Theater. In developing 3111 her theoretical framework for discussing postmodern dance, Banes drew 4 on the view of modernist painting and sculpture proposed by the 5 extremely influential art critic Clement Greenberg (1909–94) and subse- 6 quently developed by the art historian Michael Fried. She was neither the 7 first, nor the only, dance scholar to do this. David Michael Levin (1973), 8 Noël Carroll (1981, 2003), Marshall Cohen (1981), and Roger Copeland 9 (e.g. 1983, 1985) have developed modernist accounts of contemporary 20111 dance along similar lines; however, Banes has provided the most thor- 1 ough and comprehensive account. In doing so, she has introduced many 2 of the issues and themes that inform my discussion in the present book. 3 Because of this, it is necessary to consider her ideas about modernism and 4 postmodernism here in some detail. 5 In retrospect it is now possible to see that although Greenberg’s ideas 6 were dominant during the 1960s, there were a number of other ideas 7 about the nature of modernist art circulating among the visual artists 8 whose work was closest to that of the dancers in Judson Dance Theater. 9 There were, indeed, substantial disagreements with Greenberg’s views. 30111 Art Historian Jack Flam, writing in the mid-1990s, proposed: 1 2 It now seems clear that Greenberg’s definition of modernism was 3 not in fact synonymous with the practices of the artists whom we 4 associate with the greater part of the history of modernist art, but 5 is rather a historically determined response to them – and one that 6 is no longer especially useful. 7 (Flam 1996: xxv) 8 9 This was not, however, as evident when Banes and her peers were 40111 writing twenty years earlier. It is from Greenberg’s view of the formal 1 purity of the abstract painting produced by members of the New York 21111 School that these scholars developed a notion of pure dance. This, I Introduction 7 1111 propose, has created an unhelpful barrier to appreciating commonali- 2 ties and correlations between innovative dance in Europe and the United 3 States during the last forty years. 4 Clement Greenberg wrote in the 1960s that the task of modernism 5 was to: 6 7 eliminate from the effects of each art any and every effect that 8 might conceivably be borrowed from or by the medium of any 9 other art. Thereby each art would be rendered ‘pure’, and in its 1011 ‘purity’ find the guarantee of its standards of quality as well as of 1 its independence. 2 (Greenberg 1982: 5–6) 3111 4 Banes believed that it was only during the 1960s that innovative Amer- 5 ican dance artists began to explore these modernist aesthetic concerns 6 but, perhaps confusingly, she called the work they produced postmodern 7 dance. By emphasizing only one aspect, formal radicalism, as though 8 it were driving artistic development, Banes developed a critical model 9 that not only allowed her to analyse modern choreography in detail but 20111 also to propose a systematic history of postmodern dance in which devel- 1 opments were internally motivated and entirely independent of any 2 social and historical context. Hence, the initial ‘breakthrough’ of Judson 3 Dance Theater in the 1960s was followed in the 1970s by ‘analytical 4 postmodernism’ and ‘metaphorical and metaphysical postmodernism’, 5 and then in the 1980s by a ‘rebirth of content’ (Banes 1987: xv–xxiv). 6 In her new introduction to the 1987 edition of Terpsichore in Sneakers, 7 Banes wrote that: 8 9 In the visual-art world and in theatre, a number of critics have used 30111 the term [postmodern] to refer to artworks that are copies of or 1 comments on other artworks, challenging values of originality, 2 authenticity, and the masterpiece and provoking Derridean theories 3 of simulacra. This notion fits some post-modern dances but not all. 4 (Banes 1987: xiv) 5 6 To unpack this a little, it was Barthes and Foucault who questioned the 7 role and function of the author. Baudrillard proposed that simulacra – 8 copies without originals – were characteristic of postmodern, media- 9 saturated culture, while Derrida problematized the idea that the author’s 40111 presence is there in the writing, suggesting that it is undecidably both 1 present and absent or, in his term, ‘spectral’.7 Following Peggy Phelan’s 21111 essay ‘The ontology of performance’ (1993), some dance scholars have 8 Introduction 1111 discussed the performative presence and absence of dancers within inno- 2 vative American works from the 1960s as well as dances made by both 3 American and European choreographers in the 1990s and 2000s.8 Far 4 from accepting a poststructuralist theorization of postmodern dance, 5 Banes backed away from discussions of dance and postmodernism as 6 such and turned instead to the nature of modernist dance: 7 8 In dance, [she wrote,] the confusion the term ‘post-modern’ creates 9 is further complicated by the fact that historical modern dance was 1011 never really modernist. Often it has been precisely in the arena of 1 post-modern dance that issues of modernism in the other arts 2 have arisen: the acknowledgement of the medium’s materials, the 3111 revealing of dance’s essential qualities as an art form, the separa- 4 tion of external references as subjects. Thus in many respects it is 5 post-modern dance that functions as modernist art. 6 (1987: xiv–xv) 7 8 For Banes, dance was progressing through similar aesthetic paradigms 9 as the other arts but not at the same time. This is to see its develop- 20111 ment as internally motivated and independent of any social or historical 1 context. 2 Susan Manning, in what became known as the ‘Terpsichore in combat 3 boots’ debate in TDR, argued that in this passage Banes was ‘attributing 4 to only one generation of 20th-century choreographers a set of formal 5 concerns shared by other generations as well’ (Manning 1988: 34). 6 Manning pointed out that the claims that Banes made for postmodern 7 dance echoed those made in the 1930s by John Martin and Lincoln 8 Kirstein. She quoted a statement that Martin made in 1939 about the 9 modernism of Mary Wigman’s dances which closely corresponds to 30111 Banes’s definition of modernist dance: 1 2 With Wigman, [Martin wrote] the dance stands for the first time 3 fully revealed in its own sphere; it is not story telling or pantomime 4 or moving sculpture or design in space or acrobatic virtuosity or 5 musical illustration, but dance alone, an autonomous art exempli- 6 fying fully the ideals of modernism in its attainment of abstraction 7 and in its utilization of the resources of its materials efficiently and 8 with authority. 9 (Martin 1968: 235) 40111 1 Martin claimed that Wigman revealed these ideals for the first time so 21111 that her work represented a breakthrough and created a new paradigm. Introduction 9 1111 Banes made the same kind of claim for Yvonne Rainer’s Trio A: ‘The 2 history of dance theory,’ she wrote, ‘has been the repeated conflict 3 between those who value technique and those who value expression. 4 With Trio A this cycle is at last broken. It is not simply a new style of 5 dance, but a new meaning and function, a new definition’ (Banes 1980: 6 49). So, for Banes, Trio A exemplified the way in which postmodern 7 dance superseded previous ways of thinking about dance by shifting 8 from questions of style to an entirely new conceptual level. But isn’t this, 9 in effect, what Martin had suggested back in 1933 in his famous state- 1011 ment that ‘The Modern Dance is not a system but a point of view’ 1 (Martin 1965: 20)? Wasn’t Banes merely arguing that the new, mini- 2 malist point of view exemplified in works such as Trio A was just a newer 3111 point of view than that exemplified by the works Martin was writing 4 about in the 1930s? If we accept that there is a difference between the 5 expressionism of early modern dance and the anti-expressive dances of 6 Rainer, Brown, and their peers, a Greenbergian account of modernism 7 fails to account for it, just as it also fails to recognize any difference 8 between early modern dance and Bausch’s tanztheater. The root of the 9 problem is the modernist idea of ‘pure dance’. 20111 For Martin a breakthrough was achieved by abandoning the external 1 references that characterized the nineteenth-century ballet tradition. I 2 have already noted that, for Banes, postmodern dancers made their 3 breakthrough by reacting against the expressionism of modern dance. 4 Whether or not one accepts these statements, Banes and Martin both 5 believed that formally pure, abstract dance was more sophisticated than 6 the representational types of dance that each believed their chosen dancer 7 was reacting against. But, as the art historian Meyer Shapiro has pointed 8 out, this view of abstraction is based on a mistaken belief ‘that repre- 9 sentation is a passive mirroring of things and therefore essentially 30111 non-artistic; and that abstract art on the other hand is a purely aesthetic 1 activity, unconditioned by objects and based on its own internal laws’. 2 Shapiro, however, argued that ‘all art is representational. There is no 3 “pure art” unconditioned by experience’ (Shapiro 1978: 196). For the 4 same reasons there is surely no ‘pure dance’ uncontaminated by its social 5 and political context. Susan Manning observed in her response to the 6 1987 edition of Terpsichore in Sneakers that an exclusive emphasis on the 7 formal aspects of modernist dance has ‘deflected attention away from 8 the sociological and ideological dimensions of modernism’ (Manning 9 1988: 37). When she pointed out that issues of ‘nationalism, feminism, 40111 and male liberation . . . rarely appear in the literature on twentieth- 1 century dance’ (ibid.), Manning was indicating the principal concerns 21111 that would inform her own work on Wigman and more recently on gay 10 Introduction 1111 and African American dancers in the 1930s and 1940s.9 The implica- 2 tions of Manning’s critique for postmodern rather than modern dance 3 remain largely undeveloped. 4 Despite advocating a formalist, modernist view of postmodern dance, 5 Banes has sometimes written about representational material; but the 6 works she seems to value most highly, such as Rainer’s Trio A and 7 Brown’s Accumulation pieces, were abstract. Banes appeared to believe 8 that the artistic possibilities of representational dance were exhausted 9 and that the most important dancers in the 1960s were moving towards 1011 ‘pure dance’. Greenberg and Fried argued that artistic progress is inde- 1 pendent of social and political factors and artistic value can only be 2 guaranteed when artists are unaffected by, and disengaged from, the 3111 social and political context in which they are working. In her early writ- 4 ings Banes subscribed to this view. However, at the start of her later 5 book, Greenwich Village 1963, she argued that, in 1963, ‘the arts seemed 6 to hold a privileged place in [the American Dream of freedom, equality 7 and abundance] not merely as a reflection of a vibrant, rejuvenated 8 American society, but as an active register of contemporary conscious- 9 ness – as its product, but also as its catalyst’ (Banes 1993: 3). While 20111 Banes therefore saw art as a reflection of the spirit of its age, she still 1 subscribed to the modernist paradigm of art’s steady progress towards 2 a goal of formally pure abstraction. Progress in the arts, in her view, 3 catalyses social progress, but only through affirmation. She therefore 4 argued that the work of Judson Dance Theater was entirely affirmative 5 in relation to US society in the 1960s: 6 7 the arts suddenly seemed freshly empowered . . . to provide a means 8 for – indeed, to embody – democracy. The early Sixties avant-garde 9 artists did not aim to passively mirror the society they lived in; they 30111 tried to change it by producing a new culture. 1 (ibid.: 10, emphasis in original) 2 3 The title of Banes’s most recent collection Reinventing Dance in the Sixties: 4 Everything Was Possible (2003) exemplifies this affirmative view. But if the 5 dancers associated with Judson Dance Theater believed that everything 6 was possible, under what conditions did they believe that these possi- 7 bilities might be realized? As avant-garde artists, they shared a utopian 8 vision of a more equitable and just society to come. It is, of course, a 9 characteristic of all avant-garde groups that their romantic idealism 40111 always seems naive in retrospect. In so far as the reality of the present 1 fails to live up to the promise of a possible future, avant-garde groups 21111 naively defend their vision from obstacles to its realization. There is no Introduction 11 1111 room in Banes’s affirmative account of artists’ agency and empower- 2 ment for any limitation caused by social or ideological factors. But there 3 is surely always a critical, negative aspect to avant-garde work. Avant- 4 garde attacks on art are an attack on the only institution over which 5 artists have any influence. But in attacking art as an institution, their 6 attitude towards institutions in general is made clear. Whereas Banes 7 believed the new dance of the 1960s embodied democracy, it would be 8 more appropriate to describe the dancers as anarchic. Writing in 1968, 9 Jill Johnston saw the new dance in this way: 1011 1 Every underground movement is a revolt against one authority 2 or another. The dance underground of the sixties is more than 3111 this natural child–parent affair. The new choreographers are out- 4 rageously invalidating the very nature of authority. The thinking 5 behind the work goes beyond democracy into anarchy. No member 6 outstanding. No body necessarily more beautiful than any other 7 body. No movement necessarily more important or more beautiful 8 than any other movement. 9 ( Johnston 1998: 117) 20111 1 The three No’s with which this passage concludes echo the much longer 2 list of No’s that Rainer issued in a well-known, polemic statement from 3 1965 that begins ‘NO to spectacle’ in which Rainer defined ‘an area of 4 concern for me in relation to dance, but existing as a very large NO to 5 many facts in the theatre today’ (Rainer 1974: 51). Where these dancers 6 said no to aspects of the mainstream dance of the day, they were not 7 affirming the values of a vibrant, rejuvenated society but criticizing its 8 failures and shortcomings. Rainer, herself, in a panel discussion in 1986, 9 said that she still clung to 30111 1 the somewhat romantic ideas of the avant-garde that launched my 2 own creative efforts: ideas about marginality, intervention, an adver- 3 sative subculture, a confrontation with the complacent past, the art 4 of resistance, etc. Of course, these ideas must be constantly reassessed 5 in terms of class, gender, and race. 6 ( Jayamanne, Kapur, Rainer 1987: 46–7) 7 8 The art historians Fred Orton and Griselda Pollock have argued that, 9 where American artists considered themselves to be part of the avant- 40111 garde, they constructed ‘an identity for themselves that was simultaneously 1 in opposition to, and an extension of, available American and European 21111 traditions’ (Orton and Pollock 1985: 108).10 It is this oppositional, critical 12 Introduction 1111 aspect of the avant-garde dance of the 1960s which, in my view, Banes has 2 underestimated. 3 The way Banes has used the term avant-garde appears not to carry 4 the adversarial ideas Rainer herself associated with it. Whereas Susan 5 Sontag called the dancers involved with Judson Dance Theater ‘neo- 6 Duchampian’ and ‘Dadaistic’ (Sontag 1983: 100, 108), for Banes, 7 postmodern dance was not anti-dance as such. Banes argued that: 8 9 Post-modern dance came after modern dance (hence post-) and, like 1011 the post-modernism of the other arts, was anti-modern dance. Since 1 ‘modern’ in dance did not mean modernist, to be anti-modern dance 2 was not at all to be anti-modernist. In fact it was quite the oppo- 3111 site. The analytical postmodern dance of the seventies in particular 4 displayed these modernist preoccupations and it aligned itself with 5 that consummately modernist visual art, minimalist sculpture. 6 (Banes 1987: xv) 7 8 Not only was Banes wrong in believing that the modern dance of the 9 1920s and 1930s was not modernist, but she was equally mistaken about 20111 minimal art. The minimalist approach to formalist abstraction was more 1 avant-garde than modernist. Greenberg and Fried both therefore saw 2 minimalism as an assault on the values they felt modernist art exem- 3 plified. In a well-known essay, Michael Fried argued that minimal 4 sculpture by Robert Morris and Donald Judd represented a deviation 5 from Greenbergian modernist concerns because it positioned its viewers 6 in such a way that they became aware of the presence of the sculpture 7 and of their own embodied, phenomenological relationship to it. This, 8 he argued, was a theatrical situation that was antithetical to the process 9 of aesthetic appreciation as he believed it to be. Minimalist sculpture, 30111 in Fried’s view, by generating presence makes a demand on the spec- 1 tator to recognize it as art whereas a true work of art, in his view, is 2 complete in itself. For Fried and Greenberg, aesthetic appreciation of 3 painting and sculpture was an instantaneous process. Fried was partic- 4 ularly critical of Robert Morris’s proposition that the experience of 5 perceiving his sculpture was not instantaneous but durational (see Fried 6 1969: 144). I discuss this further in Chapter 3. Although dance is a time- 7 based art, it is often assumed that aesthetic appreciation of dance as art 8 is also an instantaneous process. Thus Maxine Sheets-Johnstone (1966), 9 following Susanne Langer, argued that one appreciates dance forms 40111 in an immediate and pre-reflective way. Doris Humphrey, referring in 1 her checklist for choreographers to the relationship between dance and 21111 music, advised that the eye is faster than the ear (Humphrey 1959: 159). Introduction 13 1111 Yvonne Rainer, however, like Morris, stressed duration when discussing 2 her dances. Writing about her 1965 work Parts of Some Sextets, she drew 3 attention to ‘its length, its relentless repetition, its inconsequential ebb 4 and flow [which] all combine together to produce an effect of nothing 5 happening’ (Rainer 1974: 51). Discussing Trio A, she pointed out that 6 it was designed to emphasize ‘the actual time it takes the actual weight 7 of the body to go through the prescribed motions’ (ibid.: 67). It is these 8 demands – that the spectator take time to see a minimalist work and 9 recognize its presence – that Fried called theatrical. This led him to 1011 make the much cited assertion that: ‘The success, even the survival, of 1 the arts has come increasingly to depend on their ability to defeat theatre’ 2 (Fried 1969: 139). The work presented at Judson Memorial Church in 3111 the early 1960s, and the 1970s work which Banes called analytical post- 4 modern dance generated a kind of presence that was surely, in Fried’s 5 terms, theatrical. 6 7 Performance and embodied experience 8 9 In Fried’s view, the object-like qualities of minimalist sculptures made the 20111 spectator aware of their embodied relation to the sculptural object. When 1 the new dance created situations that drew the spectator’s attention to the 2 materiality of their dancing bodies, it did so in ways which, in Fried’s 3 terms, were ‘theatrical’. What Rainer called the problem of performance 4 (Rainer 1974: 67) and dancers’ stage presence were topics of discussion 5 among dancers within Judson Dance Theater. Trisha Brown, for exam- 6 ple, felt in the early 1960s that modern dancers ‘glazed over their eyes, 7 knuckling down behind the gaze to concentrate and deliver their best 8 performance . . . resulting in the robot-look’ (Brown 1978: 48). This rigid- 9 ified, performative presence was quite different from the way dancers at 30111 Judson, in Brown’s view, reconnected with their audience: 1 2 At Judson, the performers looked at each other and the audience, 3 they breathed audibly, ran out of breath, sweated, talked things 4 over. They began behaving more like human beings, revealing what 5 was thought of as deficiencies as well as their skills. 6 (ibid.) 7 8 (The same could be said of Pina Bausch’s dancers.) Brown was articu- 9 lating an avant-garde view here, one in which artists attack the elitism 40111 of high art in order to reconnect with ordinary people’s everyday experi- 1 ence. Calvin Tomkins, writing in 1968 about the work of Duchamp, 21111 Cage, Cunningham, Rauschenberg, and Tingley, argued that: ‘What 14 Introduction 1111 they have consistently tried to do is to break down the barriers that exist 2 between art and life and not for art’s sake either’ (Tomkins 1968: 2). 3 This was surely what Brown, who appeared in many of Rauschenberg’s 4 dance pieces during the 1960s, believed she and her fellow dancers were 5 doing during performances at Judson Memorial Church. 6 The particular kinds of spectatorship produced by innovative dance 7 performances opened up new possibilities for meaningfulness. The way 8 experimental dance performances have positioned spectators by making 9 them actively read works and appreciate them from particular, embodied 1011 points of view is a recurring theme throughout this book. For Brown, 1 the practice of improvisation played an important role in the early 1960s 2 in changing the relationship between dancers and spectators. 3111 4 There is a performance quality, that appears in improvisation that did 5 not in memorized dance as it was known up to that date. If you are 6 improvising within a structure your senses are heightened; you are 7 using your wits, thinking, everything is working at once to find the best 8 solution to a given problem under pressure of a viewing audience. 9 (Brown 1978: 48). 20111 1 In other words, improvisation made the spectator aware of what might 2 be called the performer’s bodily intelligence. Many of the dancers who 3 attended composition classes taught by Robert and Judith Dunn used 4 chance, indeterminacy, and task-based methods for creating movement 5 material and structuring choreography. These classes were largely based 6 on the ideas of Merce Cunningham and John Cage, neither of whom 7 used improvisation or valued it. Nevertheless, some of the Judson dancers 8 used improvisation. Brown, Simone Forti, and Rainer, as a result of 9 working with Anna Halprin in San Francisco, improvised together in 30111 the early 1960s in New York. Forti and Brown were fortunate in that 1 they started from a position of having less technical training to react 2 against than most of their colleagues, and could therefore use improvi- 3 sation as a means to find new and unprecedented ways of moving. As 4 Brown herself observed in 1996 during an interview with Charles 5 Reinhart, she was ‘eternally grateful to Merce [Cunningham] for not 6 having asked me to join his company. People mould themselves into the 7 body of the person whose company it is. I had to find mine on my own’ 8 (Brown 1996). Brown evidently approached improvisation and move- 9 ment research as positive means through which to rigorously develop 40111 her abilities as a professional dancer and dance maker. Brown and Forti 1 were practising during the 1960s what Steve Paxton and others associ- 21111 ated with contact improvisation began to practise in the 1970s. Introduction 15 1111 It was during the late 1970s that Pina Bausch began posing questions 2 to her company, to which they responded with short improvisations. 3 Bausch’s final pieces were assembled by setting material from these 4 improvisations. Improvisation was, therefore, important at this time for 5 the development of innovative dance in Europe and the US as a means 6 for finding and elaborating new types of movement material and for 7 devising new, more spontaneous kinds of performative presences. But it 8 also led to the performance of work that challenged conventional ideas 9 about the social and cultural meanings of the body and embodied experi- 1011 ence. As Bryan S. Turner has observed: 1 2 The Western tradition of the body has been conventionally shaped 3111 by Hellenized Christianity, for which the body was the seat of 4 unreason, passion and desire. The contrast in philosophy between 5 the mind and the body is in Christianity the opposition between 6 spirit and flesh. 7 (Turner 1984: 36) 8 9 This dualistic opposition is one that underpins the idea that the dancer 20111 has a feeling which the dancing body then expresses. Graham’s gener- 1 ation of modern dancers in both Europe and North America had defined 2 the modernity of their practice by saying that it was a living work of 3 art presented through the human body as a means of expression (Wigman 4 1980: 35), that it worked from the inside out (Humphrey), and that 5 dance movement never lied (Graham 1991: 20). Trisha Brown deci- 6 sively rejected the dualism implicit in the notion that modern dance 7 works from the inside out when she told Marianne Goldberg that: 8 9 My inside is not a little bird fluttering in my chest – it is chockfull 30111 up and down the length of me. My inside comes all the way to the 1 edge of my body, through the columns of my limbs, my neck, my 2 torso, and the bulb of my head. 3 (Goldberg 1991: 6) 4 5 This way of discussing embodied experience repudiated the Cartesian 6 notion of the mind as the ghost in the body’s machine. Like the practice 7 of improvisation itself, it suggested that intelligence is not a purely intel- 8 lectual or mental faculty but an attribute of the body–mind continuum. 9 Yvonne Rainer also demonstrated a desire to reclaim embodied agency 40111 from dualistic ways of thinking that posit a mind/body split when she 1 gave an evening-length piece the title The Mind is a Muscle. Her programme 21111 note for the first full performance of this in 1968 asserted a materialist 16 Introduction 1111 view of the dancing body through a characteristically polemical denunci- 2 ation of most of what constituted the mainstream dance culture of the 3 day: ‘If my rage at the impoverishment of ideas, narcissism, and disguised 4 sexual exhibitionism of most dancing can be considered puritan moral- 5 izing, it is also true that I love the body – its actual weight, mass, and 6 unenhanced physicality’ (Rainer 1974: 69). As I will show in Chapter 3, 7 Rainer’s materialist way of thinking about the body was informed by a 8 specifically American philosophical tradition of pragmatism and scepticism 9 in the writings of C.S. Pierce, William James, and American behaviourists. 1011 These were also figures who influenced Robert Morris and Donald Judd 1 whose work and writings Fried criticized. Rainer’s pragmatic and sceptical 2 critique of dominant, normative discourses of the dancing body can be 3111 seen as a starting point for reclaiming the body from traditional, dualistic 4 ways of thinking. 5 Despite a minimalist reduction of representational elements, the new 6 dance did not render the body neutral. The way in which Rainer’s work 7 acknowledged the body’s materiality, I suggest, did precisely the oppo- 8 site. In the Stairs section of The Mind is a Body, there was a moment when 9 each of the three dancers walked up a small set of stairs they brought onto 20111 the stage. As each ascended, the other two ‘helped’. Thus when Steve 1 Paxton or David Gordon was on the stairs, someone behind inserted a 2 hand between his legs and grabbed his crotch. When Rainer was on the 3 stairs, the other two supported her torso by each placing a hand on one 4 of her breasts (Rainer 1974: 81). In this case, reclaiming the body involved 5 acknowledgement of its biological gender. While I believe it is a mistake 6 to impute feminist aspirations to the work of Rainer, Brown, Childs or 7 their female colleagues during the 1960s, works such as The Mind is a 8 Muscle, through reclaiming the body from traditional dualistic ideologies, 9 created the conditions of possibility for a future feminist practice. I will 30111 return to this in Chapters 3 and 4.11 In her description of Stairs, Rainer 1 discussed the problem the three performers had in deciding how to 2 respond to being grabbed in this uncomfortable and embarrassing way. 3 Rainer and Gordon decided to show a spontaneous emotional reaction 4 while Paxton hid this by deliberately overreacting. Rather than being 5 solely concerned with formal issues, members of Judson Dance Theater 6 were concerned with the relation between their work and everyday 7 experience. 8 Key to understanding the difference between the expressionism of early 9 modern dance and the new anti-expressive dances of Rainer and her 40111 peers are differing approaches to the signifying properties of the dancing 1 body. In rhetorical terms, expressionist dances presented the body in a 21111 metaphorical way while the new dance of the 1960s treated embodied Introduction 17 1111 experience metonymically.12 Peggy Phelan’s distinction between metaphor 2 and metonymy is pertinent here: 3 4 Metaphor works by securing a vertical hierarchy of value and is 5 reproductive; it works by erasing dissimilarity and negating differ- 6 ence; it turns two into one. Metonymy is additive and associative; 7 it works to secure a horizontal axis of contiguity and displacement. 8 The kettle is boiling is a sentence which assumes that water is 9 contiguous with the kettle. The point is not that the kettle is like 1011 water (as in the metaphorical love is like a rose), but rather that the 1 kettle is boiling because the water inside the kettle is. 2 (Phelan 1993: 150, emphasis in the original) 3111 In early modern dance, the dancing body moved in ways which expressed 4 the universality of feeling that transcended individual experience. Thus, 5 for example, Martha Graham’s Lamentation (1930) was not about an indi- 6 vidual’s grief at the loss of anyone or anything in particular, but about 7 grief as an experience which everybody, supposedly, could recognize. 8 In Phelan’s terms, works such as this secured a vertical hierarchy of 9 humanist values. The new dance of the 1960s eschewed transcendence 20111 by asserting the particularity of embodied experience – its actual weight, 1 mass, and unenhanced physicality, as Rainer put it. Another example 2 of a dance that presented the body’s materiality in a way that was far 3 from neutral was Convalescent Dance, a version of Trio A which Rainer 4 performed while convalescing from major surgery. Convalescent Dance was 5 presented during Angry Arts Week at Hunter College in January 1967, 6 New York, as part of a series of art events protesting against the war 7 in Vietnam. The piece did not express an emotional response to the 8 war, but made an association between Rainer’s frailty and the condi- 9 tion of soldiers wounded in action in Vietnam. Rainer did not stop being 30111 herself in order to become, metaphorically, a wounded soldier or to 1 express the universal tragedy of war. Instead, Convalescent Dance signified 2 metonymically through contiguity and displacement – the weakness of 3 her body emblematizing, in a metonymic way, a soldier’s injuries. 4 An objection could be made that Convalescent Dance was not a typical 5 dance of the period because it was ‘political’. As Susan Foster has 6 observed, the category of ‘political art’ is often invented as a way of 7 ‘dismissing such art as insufficiently artistic’ (Foster 2002: 248). I will 8 return to the problem of ‘political art’ shortly. However, other dances 9 from the period also presented a debilitated or uncomfortable body that 40111 could not be dismissed as merely political and hence insufficiently artistic. 1 These include Rainer’s Stairs, discussed earlier, and Paxton’s Intravenous 21111 Lecture (1970), during which a doctor friend inserted a medical ‘drip’ 18 Introduction 1111 into a vein in Paxton’s arm from which salt solution proceeded to flow 2 into his body while he lectured about the nature of performance. In 3 each case the artists did not cease to be themselves in order to express 4 an ideal metaphorically, but their performance troubled such ideals by 5 drawing attention to bodily discomfort. Phelan has argued that: 6 7 In moving from the grammar of words to the grammar of the body, 8 one moves from the realm of metaphor to the realm of metonymy. 9 For performance art itself however, the referent is always the agoniz- 1011 ingly relevant body of the performer. 1 (Phelan 1993: 150) 2 As in performance art, the referents in Convalescent Dance, Stairs, and 3111 Intravenous Lecture were the agonizingly relevant bodies of Gordon, Paxton, 4 and Rainer. 5 6 Discursive interventions and unruly dancing 7 bodies 8 9 Phelan has written of the grammar of the body and I have suggested, 20111 in relation to improvisation, that physical activity is a manifestation of 1 bodily intelligence. To speak about the body in this way is to reclaim 2 it from deeply ingrained beliefs about the opposition between mind and 3 body that underlie ideas about the inferior status of dance as a non- 4 verbal form in relation to the other arts. Aristotle, in his Poetics, proposed 5 that dance was inferior to poetry, which for him, and for most Greeks, 6 was the highest form of art. Poetry deals with words that are under- 7 stood intellectually, while dance, in his view, could not appeal to 8 intellectual understanding because it was a non-verbal form. Dancing 9 nevertheless occurred in his day during performances of plays which 30111 also involved music, acting, and poetry. In the eighteenth century, new 1 ideas about aesthetics contributed to the idea of art forms existing in isolation from one another. As the art theorist Craig Owens observed: 2 3 In Germany, Lessing, and in France, Diderot, located poetry and 4 all the discursive arts along a dynamic axis of temporal succession, 5 and painting and sculpture along a static axis of spatial simultaneity. 6 Consequently the visual arts were denied access to discourse, which 7 unfolds in time, except in the form of a literary text which, both 8 exterior and anterior to the work, might supplement it. 9 (Owens 1992: 45) 40111 1 Owens argued that the emergence of conceptual art in the 1960s over- 21111 threw this division of the arts into discrete disciplinary categories, by Introduction 19 1111 reclaiming discourse as a medium of aesthetic activity within the visual 2 arts. ‘What I am claiming here,’ he wrote, ‘is that the eruption of 3 language into the aesthetic field – an eruption signaled by, but by no 4 means limited to, the writings of Smithson, Morris, Andre, Judd, Flavin, 5 Rainer, LeWitt – is coincident with, if not the definitive index of, the 6 emergence of postmodernism’ (ibid.). Robert Morris, Carl Andre, and 7 Donald Judd were painters who had turned their attention to sculpture 8 and found the resulting work labelled as minimalist. Robert Smithson, 9 Dan Flavin, and Sol LeWitt were sculptors working with non-traditional 1011 materials. The fact that Owens included a dance artist, Rainer, in this 1 list is significant. The way the new dance was reclaiming the body was 2 making an important contribution to the development of art theory at 3111 that time. What links all these artists is the way each of them actively 4 engaged in writing as a way of defining the particular, conceptual issues 5 that spectators needed to understand in order to appreciate their work. 6 One consequence of the adoption by visual artists of writing as a 7 medium was to disrupt the idea that the visual arts were supposedly tied 8 to ‘a static axis of spatial simultaneity’. As I have already demonstrated, 9 the new dance and minimalist sculpture stressed the durational nature 20111 of spectatorship, thus troubling widely accepted ideas about aesthetic 1 appreciation that had been formed during the Enlightenment. Language 2 and time were thus erupting in an impure, ‘theatrical’ way (in the sense 3 that Michael Fried used the term) into the field of dance as well as visual 4 art. Where Owens identified visual artists’ uses of discourse as an act of 5 reclaiming possibilities that had been ‘out of bounds’ since the Enlighten- 6 ment, so, too, dancers have been denied the kind of direct access to 7 discourse that Owens has discussed. 8 The way in which the new dance of the 1960s engaged in discourse 9 was unruly. Dancers who performed at venues such as Judson Memorial 30111 Church in the 1960s not only ‘talked things over’ as Brown put it (Brown 1 1978: 48), but addressed the audience and used speech within their 2 dances. During Ordinary Dance (1962) Rainer talked about all the places 3 she’d lived in, while performing an unconnected series of mundane and 4 inartistic movements. Brown’s own Skymap (1969) consisted of a tape 5 recording of a monologue which, as Banes describes it, was ‘an attempt 6 to make a dance on the ceiling by verbal instructions to the audience to 7 project words up to its surface’ (Banes 1980: 90). The best-known piece 8 in which Brown talked to the audience was Accumulation with Talking Plus 9 Watermotor (1979) which I will discuss at length in Chapter 6. Most of 40111 Brown’s generation of experimental dancers had university degrees and 1 were intellectually well informed. Many have subsequently taught in 21111 universities. Not only did Rainer publish statements on her work, but 20 Introduction 1111 Steve Paxton, Brown, and Lucinda Childs all published texts in the 1960s 2 and 1970s that were not only informed by current theoretical develop- 3 ments in the visual arts, but steered the reader to take up a particular 4 point of view in relation to their work.13 In Fried’s terms these were 5 ‘theatrical’ because they made particular demands on their audience 6 rather than presenting works that were self-sufficient aesthetic wholes. 7 Rainer’s Convalescent Dance and Stairs and Paxton’s Intravenous Lecture inter- 8 posed unruly bodies within social and aesthetic discourses. What I am call- 9 ing here unruly bodies are very different from the effervescent bodies that 1011 Sally Banes has suggested were produced in 1960s avant-garde perform- 1 ances. In her view the effervescent body exuded what avant-garde artists 2 saw as the ‘amazing grace of fleshly reality’ and was part of ‘an utopian 3111 project of organic unity’ that ‘created a vision of the “conscious body” in 4 which mind and body were no longer split but harmoniously integrated’ 5 (Banes 1993: 191). But Convalescent Dance, Stairs, and Intravenous Lecture, by 6 placing the performers’ vulnerability and mortality at the centre of the 7 privileged space of artistic practice, surely troubled notions of disembod- 8 ied ideality inherent in Banes’s effervescent body. Banes acknowledged 9 that Rainer was ‘committed to installing center stage . . . the “actual,” 20111 unidealised body’ and by doing so unmasking its human materiality (ibid.). 1 Rainer, she pointed out, championed ‘the intelligent body’ and saw per- 2 formance as ‘the site where body-consciousness thrived’ (ibid.: 242). Banes 3 attributed transcendental qualities to this conscious body of the 1960s, 4 5 arguing that the avant-garde ‘imbued corporeal experience with meta- 6 physical significance’ because it was ‘through experience of the material 7 body itself that consciousness could be illuminated and expanded’ (ibid.: 8 235). However, the idea of performing work while in an uncomfortable or 9 debilitated physical state surely challenged the kind of affirmative embod- 30111 ied experience that Banes hypothesized. How can an artist who is lacking 1 in vitality and whose attention is divided, being partly directed towards 2 and invested in an awareness of being in pain, express fullness, presence, 3 and totality? Just as I noted earlier that Banes did not believe the work 4 of Judson Dance Theater was anti-dance, she has resisted interpreting 5 the kinds of embodied experiences created by avant-garde dance in any- 6 thing other than affirmative terms. I am suggesting instead that through 7 avant-garde subversions of conventional aesthetic values, works such 8 as Convalescent Dance, Stairs, and Intravenous Lecture had a critical potential. 9 Like the scene in Bausch’s Auf dem Gebirge hat man ein Geschrei gehört when 40111 Josephine Ann Endicott’s bare back became crosshatched with red lip- 1 stick, they presented unruly bodies that, in Phelan’s terms, were agoniz- 21111 ingly relevant. Through their refusal to conform to normative aesthetic Introduction 21 1111 expectations, these unruly bodies of European and American dancers were 2 creating a context in which embodied experience could become a site 3 of resistance against normative ideologies rather than an affirmation of 4 them. 5 6 Overlapping European and American contexts 7 8 Although dancers associated with Judson Dance Theater created works 9 whose avant-garde radicalism sometimes had a critical potential, indi- 1011 vidual dancers have never admitted that their work was political. Bausch, 1 Brown, Paxton, Rainer and their fellow dancers grew up during the 2 cold war. They, therefore, became artists at a time when the term ‘polit- 3111 ical art’ referred to the aesthetically conservative model of socialist realism 4 that was the official art of the Soviet Union. In the 1960s, Rainer and 5 her peers saw their work as avant-garde rather than political. As members 6 of an avant-garde, they were both ‘engaged with, and disengaged from, 7 the current social turmoil and ideological crisis’ of the 1960s (Orton and 8 Pollock 1985: 108). This permitted them to present work in the context 9 of protests against the Vietnam war. The failure of these protests, and 20111 of the 1960s counterculture as a whole, robbed them of their avant- 1 garde identity and created a situation of political disappointment. This 2 has overshadowed experimental art in the US and Europe since that 3 time. The term avant-garde is rarely used to describe art work created 4 after the mid-1970s. It is under the shadow of political disappointment 5 that Bausch, Brown, and Rainer all refused during the 1970s to accept 6 that their work was feminist.14 7 When Bausch and her generation developed a new experimental 8 modern dance theatre in the late 1960s and 1970s, this involved a re- 9 evaluation of the German tradition of modern dance. In the period of 30111 German stabilization following its defeat and partition, modern dance 1 had seemed inappropriate for institutional support because of its strong 2 association with German nationalism. The internationalist focus of West 3 German politicians led to patronage of ballet as an international form. 4 Bausch’s teacher and mentor, Kurt Jooss, famously left Germany in 1933 5 so that he did not to have to make any accommodation with the Nazi 6 Government. The fact that Laban, Wigman, Kreutzberg, and most of the 7 key figures in German modern dance had been involved in preparations 8 for the opening of the Berlin Olympic Games in 1936 meant that dancers 9 of Bausch’s generation had to consider the relationship between modern 40111 dance and politics. The German debate about the extent to which some 1 of the older dancers had become implicated with Nazi cultural policies15 21111 needs to be seen in the context of a wider discussion about the basis for 22 Introduction 1111 post-war stabilization and Germany’s subsequent affluence. As Bullivant 2 and Rice (1995) have shown, there were concerns that former Nazis had 3 been too easily re-assimilated within industry and government. I noted 4 earlier Bausch’s aspiration to find new ways of relating to movement. 5 When she told Jochen Schmidt that she couldn’t go on working in the 6 previous way (in Servos 1984: 230), many Germans of her generation will 7 have understood this in relation to the problem of coming to terms with 8 Germany’s recent history. 9 Dancers in the US have never confronted these kinds of difficult 1011 questions about their heritage. Despite, for example, the overt racism 1 of Isadora Duncan’s comments about jazz dance and the ‘tottering, 2 ape-like convulsions of the Charleston’ (Duncan 1983: 265), ideas about 3111 the way modern dance expresses freedom have become associated with 4 a particular view of an American tradition which claims Duncan as a 5 founding mother. This view of modern art had its origins during the 6 cold war when, as art historian Serge Guilbaut observes, ‘abstract expres- 7 sionism was for many people an expression of freedom: freedom to 8 create controversial work, freedom symbolized by action and gesture, 9 by the expression of the artist apparently freed from all restraints’ 20111 (Guilbaut 1985: 163). Scholars in the US have identified this expression 1 of freedom in American modern dance. Thus, for Marcia Siegel, Amer- 2 ican dancers ‘haven’t had to please anyone, repeat their past successes, 3 reinforce societal norms, or refrain from shocking people. They have 4 been free to dance as they saw fit’ (Siegel 1981: xi). While Duncan’s 5 vision of America dancing might have seemed to exemplify abstract, 6 ahistorical ideals of freedom and individualism for a later generation of 7 dance writers, Duncan herself seems not to have recognized the need 8 to extend to all citizens of the US, including African Americans and 9 people of colour, these constitutional rights. While it is widely assumed 30111 that the work of Judson Dance Theater exemplified these ideals, it is 1 also the case that the dancers themselves were almost entirely white. 2 African American dancers were not, of course, excluded, but, as I show 3 in Chapter 5, they did not find the artistic aims of Judson Dance Theater 4 particularly appealing. What is at stake is not democratic freedom and 5 individualism as such, but a modernist belief that artistic value can only 6 be assured if artists are unaffected by, and disengaged from, the social 7 and historical context in which they work. 8 Noting that American art became apolitical in the 1950s as a result 9 of the McCarthy anticommunist witch-hunts, Sally Banes claimed that: 40111 ‘To some, the detachment of American art from politics was not a 1 measure of freedom but rather of apathy, or even repression’ (Banes 21111 1993: 161). In her view the American avant-garde of the 1960s ‘sought Introduction 23 1111 to give freedom more concrete form, partly through forsaking modernist 2 abstraction and introducing specific political content, and partly through 3 further heightening of the metaphoric emphasis on liberating formal 4 methods’ (ibid.: 140). In other words they reacted against the previous 5 generation. Thus pop art replaced abstract expressionism and the work 6 of Judson Dance Theater reacted against ‘the abstraction both of 7 Balanchine’s modernist ballet and Cunningham’s modern dance’ (ibid.: 8 164). One way or another, in Banes’s view, artists went on affirming 9 the ideals of democratic freedom. It is, however, sometimes also neces- 1011 sary to refuse to comply with some aspects of the present in order to 1 begin to try and imagine what the world might be like if freedom were 2 realized. There was what may perhaps appear in retrospect a naive 3111 idealism about the way dancers engaged in the counterculture of the 4 1960s. They subsequently had to confront the limitations of these ideals; 5 hence Rainer’s comment in 1987 about the romantic ideas of the avant- 6 garde and that any radical cultural practice ‘must be constantly reassessed 7 in terms of class, gender, and race’ ( Jayamanne et al. 1987: 46–7). While 8 they subsequently abandoned their romantic idealism, these American 9 dancers, like their European colleagues, have nevertheless continued to 20111 exercise the right to say no that is at the heart of the avant-garde’s crit- 1 ical project. As I will show, the result has been performances from both 2 sides of the Atlantic which, in sometimes painful and disturbing ways, 3 have signified a sober, legal understanding of bodily freedom that under- 4 lies our basic human rights. 5 6 The rest of this book 7 8 Rather than attempting to narrate a comprehensive historical overview 9 of innovative dance in Europe and the US since 1960, this book covers 30111 the period in an intentionally selective and uneven way. Chapter 2 exam- 1 ines the connections between the historical avant-garde of the early 1900s 2 and the new dance of the 1960s, focusing on the precedent and inspira- 3 tion that Marcel Duchamp and Erik Satie provided Merce Cunningham, 4 John Cage, and the dancers of Judson Dance Theater. As well as tracing 5 personal connections between Duchamp and dancers in the 1960s, it con- 6 siders the relationship between the theoretical basis of the historical avant- 7 garde and the ideas informing the dances performed by members of 8 Judson Dance Theater. Chapter 3 looks at minimalism, primarily from 9 the point of view of dance and visual art, thus expanding on areas that I 40111 have touched on here. Focusing on the work of Trisha Brown, Simone 1 Forti, Robert Morris, and Yvonne Rainer, it therefore examines what 21111 dance got from visual art theory and how the insights into the social and 24 Introduction 1111 experiential construction of embodiment contributed to the theorization 2 of minimal and conceptual art. Chapter 4 sets out to prove that these 3 ideas about embodiment not only informed the work of the more con- 4 ceptually and theoretically oriented dancers but can also be identified in 5 the work of others working in more dramatic or poetically allusive ways. 6 Looking at work by Lucinda Childs, David Gordon, Fred Herko, Steve 7 Paxton, and Carolee Schneemann, it focuses in particular on the way 8 these artists explored the problem of performance by troubling and 9 undermining conventional notions of presence. Chapter 5 examines the 1011 way in which people involved with experimental dance responded to 1 social and political changes in the late 1960s. It reveals cases in which 2 circumstances forced individual dancers or writers involved with dance to 3111 confront the limitations of existing value systems. Such confrontations, it 4 argues, represent a turning point in attitudes towards avant-garde dance. 5 Following this relatively detailed discussion of experimental dance in 6 downtown New York during the 1960s, Chapters 6 and 7 focus in a more 7 selective way on subsequent progressive dance in the US and Europe. 8 Chapter 6 looks at affects generated by uses of repetition in works by 9 Pina Bausch, Trisha Brown, and Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker, created 20111 during the late 1970s or early 1980s. Through an analysis of these, it 1 identifies significant absences, missing qualities that the spectator would 2 conventionally expect to be present. These choreographers were building 3 on aesthetic strategies discovered by dancers associated with Judson 4 Dance Theater. What emerges is a process through which an aesthetic 5 that had been informed by a pragmatic, sceptical analysis of the mini- 6 malist dancing body turned into a sensibility that was marked by worries 7 and concerns about the social construction of embodied experience. 8 Chapter 7 examines solos by two establish choreographers – Bausch and 9 Brown – and pieces by four younger artists – Lea Anderson, Tim Etchells, 30111 Felix Ruckert, and Meg Stuart. It focuses on the way these works troubled 1 distinctions between public and private and subverted conventions sur- 2 rounding the performer–audience relationship. It argues that, by doing 3 so, these pieces raised questions about the ethics and politics of friend- 4 ship. The last chapter evaluates the renewed interest in Judson Dance 5 Theater in the 1990s and 2000s, this being the specific context within 6 which this book was written. Just as Chapter 7 brought together older 7 and younger dance makers, Chapter 8 identifies and discusses differences 8 between this revival of interest in Europe and in the US. 9 To conclude, in their attempt to renew the vitality of dance as art, 40111 the generation of Judson Dance Theater critiqued the traditions of ballet 1 and modern dance using strategies and tactics inherited from another 21111 tradition, that of the historical avant-garde. In doing so, their sceptical Introduction 25 1111 and pragmatic approach to the dancing body led them to discover its 2 sometimes affirmative but sometimes agonizing social and political rele- 3 vance. Bausch and fellow German tanztheater choreographers engaged in 4 a similar critique and, under the shadow of political disappointment, 5 made similar discoveries about the relevance of the dancing body. 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