first published in
The choreographer Jonah Bokaer is the most meticulous of artists
and the most meticulous of personages—elegant, courteous, soft-spoken,
self-contained, and focused. It would be wrong to describe him as
restrained, because he doesn’t seem to be holding anything back. His
works—in which he appears—are masterpieces of control in every
aspect—the movement to be sure, but also the lighting, the décor, the
music, and the very molecules of the air around him. Of all of these,
the light is perhaps the most controlled. He chooses what you will see,
how you will see it. In this Bokaer resembles the second master
craftsman with whom he worked: Robert Wilson, whose signal
characteristic is über-control of all theatrical elements—words,
mise-en-scène, and movement all in equilibrium, as if components of an
intellectually driven interior décor. This kind of superintendence
is—and I find this compellingly—the antithesis of the way of Bokaer’s
first aesthetic mentor, Merce Cunningham.
Cunningham famously left everything but the movement to collaborators,
with little in the way of suggestion or direction other than the
duration of time, achieving a Zen-ish depersonalization that,
paradoxically, made the work uniquely personal and instantly
recognizable. So too, the Cunningham dancers, whom Bokaer joined when he
was 18 years old.
There was a plushness to him then, glowing in the stage lights like a beautiful puppy, radiant of visage, dedicated of purpose, and endearing. He stayed for seven years, partnering an older blonde beauty he flattered at every turn, growing up, and being given a rare, and as far as I know, unique chance to choreograph his own solo within a larger work. (In “Split Sides,” it transpires as a small tour de force with which Bokaer’s successor Silas Riener enjoyed show-stopping popularity.) Cunningham would say: “Jonah is a man of the theater.”
Jonah Bokaer, The Ulysses Syndrome. Photo © Bénédicte Longechal.
This man of the theater morphed his “Split Sides” solo over time—it
contained for a while a witty and beautiful swan allusion of which I was
especially enamored—growing less creaturely and more precise. Sharp,
like a titanium Swiss Army knife. The rest of his performances probably
changed along the same lines, but it would have been harder to see since
the qualities might have changed, but not the movement. Certainly his
body changed from plush to linear. Later, one could look back and see
that these changes were not only of body, but also of mind. Or that they
were in him the same thing.
Still in his 20s, he departed from the Merce Cunningham Dance Company to make his own choreography, while also working for Wilson, whom he cites in an essay in the book “BAM: The Complete Works” as the artist he most admires. Perhaps given their stature, it is inevitable that Wilson, and even more so Cunningham, are still invoked in discussing Bokaer’s work, though he has made some 32 dance works of his own, plus works in video, film, motion capture, apps, and interactive installations. I’ve done it myself—though I think another influence or inspiration is often overlooked. That would be William Forsythe, whose deconstructed ballet alphabet Bokaer mastered, and taught in software workshops. But it is Wilson you hear or read, or Cunningham, or just Merce. How frustrating, perhaps—no matter the affection one holds and no matter the respect—to read and hear all the time about the early influences, these “fathers.” At least I won’t be making that mistake again, because I know now who Jonah’s father is.
 |
| Jonah Bokaer, The Ulysses Syndrome. Photo © Bénédicte Longechal. |
There was a plushness to him then, glowing in the stage lights like a beautiful puppy, radiant of visage, dedicated of purpose, and endearing. He stayed for seven years, partnering an older blonde beauty he flattered at every turn, growing up, and being given a rare, and as far as I know, unique chance to choreograph his own solo within a larger work. (In “Split Sides,” it transpires as a small tour de force with which Bokaer’s successor Silas Riener enjoyed show-stopping popularity.) Cunningham would say: “Jonah is a man of the theater.”
Jonah Bokaer, The Ulysses Syndrome. Photo © Bénédicte Longechal. Still in his 20s, he departed from the Merce Cunningham Dance Company to make his own choreography, while also working for Wilson, whom he cites in an essay in the book “BAM: The Complete Works” as the artist he most admires. Perhaps given their stature, it is inevitable that Wilson, and even more so Cunningham, are still invoked in discussing Bokaer’s work, though he has made some 32 dance works of his own, plus works in video, film, motion capture, apps, and interactive installations. I’ve done it myself—though I think another influence or inspiration is often overlooked. That would be William Forsythe, whose deconstructed ballet alphabet Bokaer mastered, and taught in software workshops. But it is Wilson you hear or read, or Cunningham, or just Merce. How frustrating, perhaps—no matter the affection one holds and no matter the respect—to read and hear all the time about the early influences, these “fathers.” At least I won’t be making that mistake again, because I know now who Jonah’s father is.
