(De)lineating Story and Identity in the Work of Bill T. Jones
This project was born from my studies of El Ingenioso Hidalgo don Quijote de la Macha, written by Miguel Cervantes. The novel covers a variety of themes, including the formation and fluidity of one’s identity. Since I finished the novel, I have not been able to forget this topic. I started seeing it in everything I read and saw, including dance. Consequently, once I started analyzing the choreographic works of Bill T. Jones—a very famous contemporary gay black choreographer—I saw that same flexible identity present in Cervantes’ work. I analyzed three specific pieces: Story/Time, Still/Here, and D-Man in the Waters. I commented on the use of autobiography as a choreographic tool in Jones’ work and how it served as an exploration between the set continuums that form identity. Jones never offers us a clear and concise image of his identity. However, through his movements, he changes, sometimes with subtlety and other times all of a sudden and with great force. Just like Cervantes, Jones confuses the lines that distinguish one’s identity.
(De)lineating Story and Identity in the Work of Bill T. Jones
Story intersects with identity in the work of Bill T. Jones. He uses storytelling and autobiography to work through identities presented in his dance theater works. In 1982, he formed the Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Dance Company with his partner Arnie Zane. The two worked together until Zane’s death in 1988. Since then, Jones has created countless works for his company, many ballet and modern companies around the world, and has also worked on Broadway. Because of his identity as a gay, black man and the social politics of the 1960s and 1970s, Jones’ work typically focuses on the “Other” in society. In an interview with Jeffrey Brown for PBS, Jones said that “all history is a story we tell ourselves.”[1] Thus, his work discusses identity, but also confuses and juxtaposes its boundaries. In this work, I want to look into how Bill T. Jones’ experience as a black queer man informed his choreography and subjects of interest. How has his identity affected the themes and topics he chooses to explore (mainly “the Other”)? And how has his storytelling affected the different identities he has portrayed? Bill T. Jones uses autobiography as a choreographic element to explore the intersection and separation between different aspects of his identity as a black gay man.
Bill T. Jones was born in Bunnell, Florida on February 15, 1952. He was the tenth son of Estella and Augustus Jones. Growing up in a working class African American family, Jones experienced firsthand “the rich lodes of African American storytelling, the sense of being at the heart of community."[2] Popular music of the 1950s and 1960s also influenced Jones: the music he consumed spoke of equality and social change, which continued to be themes in Jones’ life and work. Jones also came of age in a time of political activism. The year before he went to college, 1969, the Stonewall Riots—brought on by the violence and bigotry of the NYPD towards the queer community—occurred in New York City. During his college years, he witnessed the Vietnam War, as well as the student protests. He started at SUNY Binghamton in 1970, where he met Arnie Zane, and started working with him in 1971. According to Jones, in college he actively participated in the counter-culture of the 1970s[3]. At SUNY Binghamton Jones and Zane both started studying dance. They—along with Lois Welk and Jill Becker—created American Dance Asylum in 1973. Then, in 1982 Bill T. Jones and Arnie Zane created Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Dance Company. The two created works together until 1988, when Arnie Zane died from an AIDS-related illness. It is important to note that Bill T. Jones is open about having been HIV-positive since about 1985. After Zane’s death, Jones continued to explore themes of “homosexuality, racism, and death.”[4] Even after Arnie Zane’s death, the Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Dance Company continued to address political and social issues. For example, two of Jones’ most famous pieces—Still/Here and D-man in the Waters—address the AIDS crisis of the 1980s. He continues to bring up and question other current events, such as gentrification and wars in the Middle East.
Jones did not start his dance training until college. However, he was an athlete in high school, so he was not new to movement. In college he started in ballet; however, he was quickly put off by its racism, classicism, heteronormativity and whiteness. And, he “found ballet to be incompatible with his previously untrained, black male body.”[5] He quickly moved towards modern dance. “Jones studied experimental movement with Kei Takei, contact improvisation with Lois Welk, Humphrey-Weidman technique, Cecchetti ballet, West African and Afro-Caribbean dance, Graham technique, and Hawkins’s ‘free flow.’”[6] Contact improvisation would become a very strong influence in his work: his duets with Arnie Zane in the 1980s were heavy on contact improv and advanced partnering. After Zane’s death, the Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Dance Company continued to play with improvisation and partnering as a choreographic tool, as well as a display of identity politics.[7] The company’s work is well known for its use of text—specifically stories, many of which are autobiographical. The use of spoken word comes in part from Jones’ interest in many art forms.[8] While he plays with technology often, Jones is also interested in literature, visual art, and music. Thus, it is no surprise that different art media find their way into his work. And, as I have stated before, Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Dance Company embraces political and social issues. The work of this company always looks at identity through storytelling.
D-man in the Waters, which was presented in 1989, showcases the queer artist community facing the AIDS epidemic. The piece is short, about fifteen minutes long. We see a diverse cast of dancers: men and women of many different races, and a diversity in body type as well. The dancers are wearing blues and greens and completing very athletic movement on a bare stage. The piece has a lively start and the audience sees the dancers running to replace each other in a line. Then, the line repeats, but with a swishing gesture. The music also matches the energy of the choreography and dancers. It supports the athletic movement of D-man in the Waters. Through the course of this work, the dancers fall to the floor, roll and swim on the marley, jump, turn and run. Also, the dancers fall to the ground constantly; they either pick themselves up or have a fellow dancer help them. And, characteristic of Jones’ work, there is intricate and athletic partnering: at several points in the piece, the dancers jump wholeheartedly into each other’s arms and onto the floor. While D-man in the Waters is not narrative-based, there is an emotional arch. It starts off at a high level and builds. The dancers run, leap, and jump on and off stage. There are several complicated duets in which dancers throw themselves onto other dancers: these are literally moments of leaps of faith. Again, even though the piece is not explicitly narrative, Jones choreographed this work, a year after Zane’s death, based on a dream of his: his friend Derek (D-man was Jones’ nickname for him), who was diagnosed with AIDS, was swimming through an ocean. D-man in the Waters is about the artist community and how they supported each other through the AIDS crisis. Thus, the leaps of faith, the partnering, and the constant falling and rising lends itself to the theme of the piece. The first section of the piece ends with dancers in two diagonal lines walking off stage. They are walking to the unknown.
The second section of D-man in the Waters opens with a somber tone. The music and the choreography have dropped in energy. Dancers crawl instead of jump, run, leap, and turn. The partnering does not involve two high energy dancers now: instead, the dancer being lifted exhibits light weight and indirect focus. We see a moment of weakness in the opening of the second section. However, the music and choreography quickly pick up and the dancers return to that sense of joy that the audience saw in the first section. At one moment, we actually see the dancers holding hands in a diagonal line jumping and smiling. We see a community that supports its members, even through difficulties. And, to add to the energy of the piece, the dancers yell: the woos! and heys! are let out in partnering sections. For example, one man hollers out before he wholeheartedly jumps into the group. They catch him, and then caringly set him to the ground. After a climax in movement and music, we see the opening line again. However, the direction in which the dancers are replacing the line has reversed. Eventually, all but one of the dancers run off stage and we see a black man jump to the floor and swim his arms once, before the lights black out. D-man in the Waters ends with the continued survival.
While D-man in the Waters is not a narrative piece, Jones still embarks from autobiography and identity. To begin, the piece is about the AIDS crisis, something that clearly had an enormous impact on Jones’ life. In fact, about halfway through the piece Jones puts a duet onstage that is reminiscent of his relationship with Arnie Zane. We see a tall black man, representing Bill T. Jones, and a short white man, representing Arnie Zane, engaged in a complex and metaphorical duet. “The body that we watch onstage is only understandable in relation to this haunting presence and comes to know itself through this relation . . . bodies are always already to a certain extent phantasmic in that they constituted spectrally through histories, affects, and others existing outside of the self.”[9] In this quote Hannabach, a dance scholar, is arguing that the race conscious allusion to Zane connotates history. In this case, that history is the tragic event of the AIDS crisis. Further, Jones choreographed this piece only a year after Arnie Zane died. Personal elements—like the metaphorical Jones/Zane duet within D-man in the Waters—take the place of narration and tell the story of his community. According to Martin Randy, another dance scholar, this story is “in Jones’s own reckoning not about AIDS but rather survival as such under the multiple fronts of assault that the 1980s introduced. ‘It’s about life throwing down the gauntlet and you rising to the occasion.’”[10] Thus, Jones used autobiography to tell a certain story: one of survival. Even though Zane had recently died, Jones highlighted and alluded to their previous work, their previous successes, to show this story. “For all the tragedy of loss and engagement with passing, the energy that the dancers display on stage, the exuberance they emit, and the enthusiasm they generate transform the vulnerabilities under which dance and dancers are placed as categories at-risk into those whose embrace of risk pushes past the strictures of survival and survivability that frame culture as and in a time of crisis.”[11] This subversion that Martin alludes to is important to note. Jones displays his community, which is one that was portrayed as suffering, in an explosive and joyful piece. Again, Jones, with autobiography and storytelling, is calling forth a certain identity—in this case it is a community of (queer POC) artists dealing with AIDS—then complicates it. We are most certainly not shown a group of victims (which is what one might expect), but rather a supportive and joyous community of survivors. Jones shows the audience a subversion of AIDS and the HIV community, and, quite possibly, a more realistic view. In D-man in the Waters he acknowledges the suffering with the opening of the second section; however, he does not choose to let this aspect of their lives define the group, something that the media had done. It is an act of self-definition. With autobiography, Bill T. Jones shares the (in this case, abstracted) story of his community and complicates the identity forced upon them.
Interestingly, Bill T. Jones’ Still/Here, which premiered on September 4, 1994, was branded as “victim art” by the critic Arlene Croce. The piece dealt with terminal illness, and took into consideration Jones’ personal history with the AIDS epidemic. Still/Here, unlike D-man in the Waters, is heavy and somber. However, it is not without hope. This is perhaps due to Jones’ process in making the piece. He mounted several survivor workshops all over the United States and worked with people—non-dancers—living with a terminal illness. After these workshops, he then went to the dance studio to choreograph and structure Still/Here. So, the basis for the stories in the piece came from Jones’ personal history and from the stories of the survivors in the workshops. Therefore, in each workshop Jones gathered people who were “dealing with the possibility of their own early death,”[12] just as Jones was dealing with his own possibly impending passing. In each workshop, Jones asked the participants questions about life, death, and pain in regards to movement. Many of the participants who were showcased in the documentary Bill T. Jones: Still/Here , a film about the process of making this dance piece, were diagnosed with cancer, AIDS, and other terminal illnesses.
Most of the activities that Jones did were centered around putting movement to their feelings and words. For example, the documentary shows a woman performing an improvised solo for the survivors’ workshop group. The task was to first improvise a solo based on the participants’ emotions elicited from a question Jones asked them. Then, they had to repeat the solo, but verbalize their thoughts and emotions. The woman performing this task throws her right then left arm out horizontally over and over again as she talks about her struggle to acknowledge her own mortality. Then, Jones also asked the participants to take them through their lives—their entire lives. So, the participants talked about their birth, life, and death. Every time they did this exercise, the leader was at the front of the group and the rest of the participants, including Jones, held the leader and followed them around the space, as if supporting the leader through their life and death. I bring up this image—a group of people holding onto each other—and arms being continuously thrown out because Jones included these images in Still/Here. Again, the point of the survivors’ workshop was to find authentic movement from people with terminal illnesses. As Jones said in the documentary, the piece is supposed to “evoke the spirit of survival.”[13] The best way to showcase movement from this group of people is to workshop the themes of the piece (death, life, pain) with actual survivors. The movements and monologues from the different workshops made their way into the choreography and song of Still/Here.
Like D-man in the Waters, Still/Here plays with identity and story. Just the premise of the piece suggests the fluidity of identity: Jones worked with real life people who were dealing with terminal illness to originate choreography and song for the work, yet trained dancers who were not present for these workshops perform the movements. The dancers are putting on the physical manifestations of survivors’ stories. To add to the layers of identity in the piece, Jones showed on screens video clips from the workshops, as well as old duets between himself and Arnie Zane. Jones is using many different people to tell a story. And, in this piece, he further blurs the lines of identity by involving technology. We see on the screens the “originators” of the movement: the participants of the survivors’ workshop. However, Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Dance Company members are alive and dancing in real time for the audience, while memories share the space. Perhaps this convergence of time and identity gets at the paradox of the piece: people living with the knowledge that they could die at any moment. They are literally living with death. Thus, the survivors that Still/Here represents dealing with the fact that their own existence—or story—could end much sooner than anticipated. In the workshops it is evident that the participants, including Bill T. Jones, live with their past, present, and possibly short future. In Still/Here these different timelines converge through the videos played on the screens and the live dancing. The identities also converge: the participants in the survivors’ workshop talk about the multiple identities or lives they have inside of their bodies. There is the pre-diagnosis life and the post-diagnosis life; and, each life has at least one identity. Consequently, they experience “moments of destabilization and disruption that loss produces, when one’s sense of self is violently shaken. Seen in this light, a melancholic ethics emphasizes that to mourn a loss is not to incrementally restore one’s sense of self, but rather to corporeally inhabit a state of unknowability that dramatizes the tenuousness of one’s ties to others.”[14] With this quote Hannabach is arguing that Jones’ presentation of death and pain in Still/Here is a manifestation of the uncertainty (of time, identity, and existence) of the survivor’s body and story. Like D-man in the Waters, this 1994 piece is not actually about AIDS or any other terminal illness, even though it addresses AIDS. Instead, Bill T. Jones looks at how survivors work through trauma verbally and physically. The piece is not a self-victimization, as Croce argues. I see Still/Here as a complication of the helpless victim narrative that was so closely tied to the AIDS Epidemic. Jones is showcasing the unsteady ground that is terminal illness. More aspects of the piece suggest instability. Even Jones’ description of “here” is not steady. Here is “where I [Jones] can stand and not feel pain, love others, be present, stand on my two feet.”[15] Here is a liminal space. In fact, “Here” is more of a feeling than a physical place. And, perhaps most importantly, “Here” is not permanent. Here is where, when, and how identities and timelines converge in the face of imminent passing.
The final piece I will discuss is Story/Time, which premiered in 2012. At this point in his career and art making, Bill T. Jones has moved almost completely into dance theater. To begin, the space for Story/Time is radicalized. The stage is almost deconstructed, in that the wings have been removed and the light trees are fully visible. Jones is seated at a chrome desk center stage reading from papers for the entire seventy-minute piece. He wears a white sweater and gray pants, as well as reading glasses. Behind and above Jones is a clock that starts counting up from 00:00. The stage itself is split into a grid with 12 numbered boxes. When the dancers are not dancing, they are sitting on the sides of the stage, outside of the grid. Story/Time also employs props: there are two transparent screens that fold in half which are often used to create separate, individual spaces. Essentially, they frame the dancers and sometimes provide visual context to the stories. Besides the desk at which Jones sits, other pieces of furniture are used as props, like a couch, an office chair, and green apples. Throughout the entire piece, Jones is sharing seventy one-minute stories from his desk while a sound score plays. The music consists of mostly electronically produced music; however, Jones often sings black folk songs over the sound score. And, in moments of pure chaos, the sound (Jones’ voice and the sound score) become distorted: there is one moment about halfway through Story/Time in which Jones’ voice is distorted and made to sound faraway. In other moments we hear a painful ringing sound. And, to add to the pandemonium, there is a moment (in which the lighting, movement, and stories are all at a climax) and the sound score has a delayed echo and seems to move back and forth between the left and right speakers. To top it off, the dancers scream, shout out HEY! and speak at times all while Jones is telling stories and the sound score is running. The compilation of oral elements alone is almost information overload.
However, because Story/Time is a dance theater piece, the audience is forced to digest more than just oral elements. The choreography, like the sound score, is dynamic and always in flux: there are moments of extremely slow movement contrasted with bursts of expansive movement and intricate partnering, which is ultimately contrasted with prolonged stillness. Jones also juxtaposes the interactions between the dancers. In the beginning of the piece they do not dance with each other: they do not even look at each other. The dancers are individuals in their own worlds. Soon after though, they begin to dance and partner with each other. Then, of course, they continue to go from individual dancing to group dancing. Neither the choreography nor its structure ever stays in one spot. That being said, Jones relied on repetition heavily in this work. Since he repeats two or three stories several times, the choreography related to those stories is shown again, but with variations. A story, which I will discuss later, about an eviction and rape is repeated five times. However, the choreography is always varied with each new iteration of the story. The audience barely has time to look at each story before it is gone and a new idea/story is presented with its own new choreographic elements. One moment we see a man sitting in the office chair while Jones talks about visiting Los Angeles, and then the next minute we watch dancers crawling and rolling on the floor while Jones talks about Noah’s ark. Like the stories themselves, the choreography is an eclectic and emotional mix of identities and lives.
The intersection of story, autobiography, time, live dance, live spoken word, and a rich sound score is almost too much for the audience to take in. Jones does not set up the stories in a linear manner. In fact, verisimilitude is thrown out the window. None of the stories connects with each other in terms of linear time and that just has to be accepted by the viewer. By throwing logical ordering to the wind, the audience experiences each story as its own pocket of time and space. And, the stories cover the entire globe. We travel time and space within seventy intense minutes: an American airport, a New York City eviction, Mesa Verde, Jones’ childhood home in Florida, Noah’s ark, a Los Angeles apartment, a massage parlor in Singapore. Much like the auditory elements, the stories are a whirlwind. It is also important to note that many of the stories are autobiographical. Jones mentions moments with Arnie Zane and Bjorn Amelan—his current partner. The personal elements are clear in that Jones starts the stories with “I” and “we.” Similar to Still/Here, the dancers manifest someone else’s stories and again we have this play on identities. The dancers take on Jones’ lived moments without actually having lived these moments or been to these places.
The most striking story in Story/Time for me is a phenomenal example of this constant blurring of identity. Jones tells us of a mother who sits on her couch crying because she cannot pay rent while her husband and daughter try to comfort her; then her landlord walks in demanding the money. The mother tries to plea with him, but he does not listen and starts to “ravish” the daughter. The father tries to stop this horror, but suffers a heart attack. After the carnage is over, the brother runs into the apartment and takes his revenge.[16] As I mentioned before, this story is repeated five times. The first version involves a black woman sitting alone on the couch performing simple gestures alone for the entire minute of this story. The second iteration is with the entire “cast,” meaning there is a dancer for every actor in the story. In version two, the mother is played by a woman, the landlord by a man, etc. Unlike version two, version three switches the gender roles: a man plays the mother, a petite woman the landlord, etc. Yet, the choreography is the same as Eviction/R*pe 2.0. In iterations one through three Jones says the same exact words. However, the fourth repetition of the story involves Jones switching out “the mother” “the husband”, etc. with the dancers’ actual names. The son becomes Jenna, and she takes her revenge on I-Ling (the landlord). In the fifth and final version of the Eviction/R*pe, Jones does not speak. However, the viewer can recognize the story because we have seen the same choreography three other times. With each version Jones is complicating the original story he gave us. At first, we are led to believe that it is a piece of fiction with abstract gestures. Then, we see a more literal and “fully cast” presentation of the same story. Now we are forced to believe the reality of the story a bit more. With Eviction/R*pe 3.0 the gender is subverted and identities have changed. Then, Jones breaks the illusion of the story by using the dancers’ real names: we are no longer dealing with fiction since this narrative has entered reality. Yet, Eviction/R*pe 5.0 is not carried by words, just movement. And, again, in the final version different dancers play the different roles. What are we to believe? Which version, if any, is true? Who is really the mother, the father, the landlord if the dancers can slip in and out of these roles so easily? Each version of the same story is completely different even though all five iterations take up the same time. The dancers move freely in and out of each of the identities even though the spoken words and the choreography do not change, excluding the gestures of Eviction/R*pe 1.0 and the lack of words of 5.0. All the while, the clock keeps ticking and time keeps moving forward.
Story/Time blurs not only the lines between different identities, but those between reality and fiction. By having Eviction/R*pe 4.0 include the dancers’ real names this story is no longer solely fiction. There are other moments when Jones references the piece itself. For example, when he shares (for the second or third time) the story of him and Bjorn visiting Mesa Verde he tells the audience that he was “writing this story” while in Colorado. Jones breaks the fourth wall and situates this piece, which crosses time and space, in the present moment. The ending of Story/Time also serves as a “meta” moment. Jones tells the story of visiting the art exhibit of a friend, then going out to dinner with that same friend. While at dinner, Jones tells the artist what he thought of the work, to which the artist responds: “You motherfucker! You were thinking about yourself while watching my work!”[17] At this point (which also happens to be the end of the piece), the audience realizes that it has been doing the same exact thing. We have been thinking about ourselves while watching different stories unfold. Personally, I was left dumbfounded over the ending: Jones led us through a whirlwind of stories, sounds and movement to then be scolded for our subjectivity and self-centeredness. How is it that we think of ourselves even when we hear his autobiographical stories?
The blurring of identity that I have discussed does not negate the established identities that do exist in Jones’ work. He draws clearly on culturally, sexually, and racially significant stories, songs, and ideas at times. He uses these explicit elements to establish a group; then, through the course of the dance piece, Jones complicates the identity of that group. In D-man in the Waters we see a tall black man and a small white man, which recalls Jones and Zane. Current events at the time (1989) also inform the viewer. At that time, the AIDS epidemic was at its high point, and it was public knowledge that Zane had died from AIDS complications just the year before. The context surrounding the company let people know that D-man in the Waters was about a certain demographic. It was then the job of the choreography and Jones’ storytelling to offer an alternative narrative. Still/Here functioned in a similar way. Again, the piece is very personal. By 1994, people knew that Jones himself was HIV positive. And, we hear his voice in the piece. That, mixed with the videos of his younger self dancing with Arnie Zane, the videos from the survivors’ workshops, and the general knowledge that Jones is a gay black man function as the context for the piece. Through these elements, Jones establishes the base identity, then goes on to break apart the stereotyped victim narrative that has been shoved onto this group, thus redefining their identity as survivors. Finally, Story/Time also calls upon culturally specific elements. Again, Bill T. Jones, a gay black man, is verbally sharing all of these stories. Additionally, he sings segments of several black folk songs. Again, just by knowing who Bill T. Jones is, we come in with an already formed identity. With the Eviction/R*pe story, he sets up certain links between race and gender with the different roles. Then, as with the previous two pieces, he complicates these identities and brings them into the present reality. Bill T. Jones is not satisfied with a monolithic presentation of identity. He shows many different roles, people, characters, identities, etc. as nuanced, as complicated. This not only presents a more realistic view of people, for people are complicated, it also humanizes the characters he talks and choreographs about, which typically fall under the “Other.” Jones purposefully subverts the “Other” and shows that these stereotypes do not have a cookie cutter identity. Instead, they are whole people.
Bibliography
Barber, Tiffany E. "Ghostcatching and After Ghostcatching, Dances in the Dark." Dance Research Journal 47, no. 1 (April 2015): 45-67. International Bibliography of Theatre & Dance with Full Text, EBSCOhost (accessed September 7, 2018).
Bill T. Jones: Extended Interview. Produced by MacNeil-Lehrer Productions. 2009. https://search.alexanderstreet.com/view/work/bibliographic_entity%7Cvideo_work%7C2 320560.
“Bill T Jones.” Oxford Reference. 19 Sep. 2018. http://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/oi/authority.20110803100024600.
Bill T. Jones: Still/Here. 1997. Accessed September 7, 2018. https://fod.infobase.com/PortalPlaylists.aspx?wID=97897&xtid=6802.
Dancing on the Edge, Volume 1. Directed by Douglas Rosenberg. Produced by Stephanie Reinhart, Charles L. Reinhart, and Douglas Rosenberg. American Dance Festival, 1992. https://search.alexanderstreet.com/view/work/bibliographic_entity%7Cvideo_work%7C4 25032.
Hannabach, Cathy. "Choreographing a queer ethics: Between Bill T. Jones and Keith Hennessy." Women & Performance 23, no. 1 (March 2013): 83-106. International Bibliography of Theatre & Dance with Full Text, EBSCOhost (accessed September 7, 2018).
Martin, Randy. "Allegories of Passing in Bill T. Jones." Dance Research Journal 40, no. 2 (Winter2008 2008): 74-87. International Bibliography of Theatre & Dance with Full Text, EBSCOhost (accessed September 6, 2018).
Story/Time: Bill T. Jones and the Arnie Zane Dance Company. 2014. Accessed September 7, 2018. https://fod.infobase.com/PortalPlaylists.aspx?wID=97897&xtid=60786.
Tracy, R. (1998). Jones, Bill T. In (Ed.), The International Encyclopedia of Dance.: Oxford University Press. Retrieved 19 Sep. 2018, from http://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/acref/9780195173697.001.0001/acref-9780195173697-e-0879.
End Notes
[1] Bill T. Jones: Extended Interview. Produced by MacNeil-Lehrer Productions. 2009. https://search.alexanderstreet.com/view/work/bibliographic_entity%7Cvideo_work%7C2 320560.
[2] Martin, Randy. "Allegories of Passing in Bill T. Jones." 76.
[3] Bill T. Jones: Extended Interview. Produced by MacNeil-Lehrer Productions. 2009. https://search.alexanderstreet.com/view/work/bibliographic_entity%7Cvideo_work%7C2 320560.
[4] “Bill T Jones.” Oxford Reference.
[5] Barber, Tiffany E. "Ghostcatching and After Ghostcatching, Dances in the Dark." 53.
[6] Tracy, R. (1998). Jones, Bill T. In (Ed.), The International Encyclopedia of Dance.: Oxford University Press.
[7] Barber, Tiffany E. "Ghostcatching and After Ghostcatching, Dances in the Dark." 55-56.
[8] Ibid. 53.
[9] Hannabach, Cathy. "Choreographing a queer ethics: Between Bill T. Jones and Keith Hennessy." 90.
[10] Martin, Randy. "Allegories of Passing in Bill T. Jones." 76.
[11] Ibid. 77-78.
[12] Bill T. Jones: Still/Here. 1997.
[13] Ibid.
[14] Hannabach, Cathy. "Choreographing a queer ethics: Between Bill T. Jones and Keith Hennessy." 86.
[15] Bill T. Jones: Still/Here. 1997.
[16] Story/Time: Bill T. Jones and the Arnie Zane Dance Company. 2014.
[17] Ibid.