Forget the poison-pen reviews, the sparsely attended shows and the plain difficulty of creating a live performance, which requires sweat and money - pots and pots of the latter. The worst fate for any artist is to die while they’re in the prime of their career. Their future art is left unrealized, their legacy left unsecured.
The autobiographical choreographer, poet, vocalist and visual artist John Bernd was born in 1953 and died in 1988 of complications from AIDS, the disease that decimated creative industries in the ‘80s and ‘90s. Openly gay, he explored queer themes in his work and opened doors for current artists, some of whom might not know who he is.
Bernd’s work could have been absorbed into the tear-slicked grave where many lie forgotten since so many died in such a short period. Yet his friends remember him and they’ve asserted his place in the canon.
Conceived by Ishmael Houston-Jones and co-created by Houston-Jones and Miguel Gutierrez, Variations on Themes from Lost and Found: Scenes from a Life and other works by John Bernd premiered in 2016 at Danspace. The Bessie award-winning production was revived for a two-week run at Danspace, perhaps registering differently after the ravages of COVID-19.
Art tied so closely to its maker can resist resurrection, so Houston-Jones and Gutierrez forged a reimagining. They, with composer Nick Hallett and other collaborators, have united various pieces, notes and drawings into a 70-minute work. While not a retrospective, Variations on Themes from Lost and Found reveals Bernd’s preoccupations in such a way that I, in no way his contemporary, feel a kinship to him that transcends space and time.
Six dancers (reduced from the original seven due to an injury) enter the spare, spiritual realm of St. Mark’s Church-in-the-Bowery. Two red chairs (a recurring set motif of Bernd’s), one battered blue cabinet and a table with a blender under a cloth are strewn across the golden pond of the dance floor. Wearing nothing but tighty whities and the occasional tank top, the sextet forms a horizontal line and stares. At us? Into the middle distance? That depends on where you are and who’s in front of you. Expressions flicker across their faces: indifference, agitation, curiosity and acerbity. These miens hint at the emotional landscape that dips beneath and rises above what actually transpires.
The cast maintains a respectful, almost reverent tone through vignettes that range from a folk-inflected stomping sequence to a Meredith Monk-like chanting series (Monk was a mentor to Bernd.) Phrases of soaring assemblés and plunges to the floor emphasize a raw physicality that subverts gravity through personal will. Situated in a strip of blond light, Johnnie Cruise Mercer rockets forward and flings his body face-first to the ground. This act amplifies each time until it becomes an exercise in self-flagellating catharsis. Houston-Jones enters for a cameo and commands immediate attention. He army crawls, his combat boots and cuffed jeans giving him a boyish aura of rebellion though he’s in his seventies.
Other times, humor sugarcoats a core of bitterness. Performers cheekily toss everything from a banana (for potassium) to Mylanta (to counter the effects of prednisone) and even a beer into a blender. We know the concoction won’t work just as Bernd must’ve, too. But what other weapons can one wield in the fight against an almost certain death sentence?
While the East Village sure has changed since the ‘80s, inside, it feels like we’ve excavated a time capsule. Selections such as New Order and Prince evoke that time when everyone shared a similar musical lexicon. After the opening montage, the six put on tops and pants in shades of orangey-red, blue and gray. Coupled with the somersaults, sing-songy vocalizations and wheeling arms, these outfits summon the things we took seriously back then, like the political process, the Olympics and the ’86 New York Mets.
For all the nostalgia conjured, I couldn’t help but think of what Bernd has missed, both dancewise (from Gaga to TikTok challenges) and culturally (from grunge to memes). We’re watching what was, which is wonderful and meaningful and all the etceteras, but what could have been prevails as unanswered questions.
Of the many poignant notes sounded, the one that lingers longest is that of the sweet, pure intentions of Bernd and his friends. He cared, they cared, and so we care. In a world where everything matters, which feels like nothing can really matter, Bernd et al. set forth a clear thesis: art matters. Just a few days before his death, Bernd was hustling new projects and tours. The hope is we’ll rise again, so we can try again.
