WINTER/SPRING 2001
“A choreographer develops his own mature movement thought as he develops his own style along the way. Julian Gustus has done none of that. In effect, he has skipped the process and gone directly to something of (questionable) market value. There is something deeply disturbing in this. It reminds me of the guy selling ‘real Rolexes’ for $20 down on Broadway. Do the people buying this stuff really think they got a good deal?”—Adam Drake, Spy Ledger, May 22, 2000.
On May 15, 2000, the Emperor’s Festival Theatre presented Julian Gustus’ “Le Sacre/Expose.” The work, though welcomed by the public, caused the critics to cry “ruse!” Suspicions as to the authenticity of the work began as a rumble, developed into aesthetic controversy and then into full-on scandal. On May 17th The Squire dutifully published an accusation of forgery. Nothing could be better for ticket sales than such a headline. Presenters and performers gleefully extended contracts in view of expanded bank accounts. The public buzzed happily about the new avant. But what of Gustus, the much-maligned creator? Is he also smiling? I tracked down Gustus at his summer retreat, a self-proclaimed hideout from the public eye. Surprisingly, he granted me audience for an afternoon’s queries.
Julian Gustus is a tall man with closely cropped gray hair and an extended giraffe-like neck. His hands precede him in greeting. He towers over me, then pulls me into the chair beside him. He stays standing. I expect that he’ll ask the first question.
JG: I am hoping you have not come here to accuse me of anything. I have already been accused of so much—imitation, lack of intention, of outright mimicry. I find the thought of it all puts me in a stupor. You’re not going to be so unoriginal as to add to that, are you?
DV: Well, no. I certainly hope not. {pause} But as to be unoriginal, shouldn’t I be asking you about that? Considering the press…
JG: Oh, the press is difficult. Even the people working on the production have been swayed. It is as if people can only see what they’ve read they’ve seen after the fact of seeing. A horrible state of affairs.
DV: Are you suggesting the public is blind to your work? That their eyes have been, in essence, tainted?
JG: Yes. Having read that I have stolen the floats of Isadora, the slip slides of Trisha, and the hunk-jumps of Paul, that is what they see. They are great followers of the map provided by “authority.” Alfred [Drake]’s article actually delineates where he believes quotations begin and end, noting from which “authentic” work the movement has been (to use his words) “lifted.” Outrageous! Perhaps Alfred would like to accompany my work with a side, uh, I mean slide show. Then we could scrutinize each twist of the hand for “authorial integrity.”
DV: But wouldn’t that itself be proof of inauthenticity?
JG: On the contrary, references to earlier works are part of what is my work.
DV: Some would say that that is all it is.
JG: If my goal were to copy another artist’s work then my aim would be for pure transparency. I would want you to see through my presentation to theirs. I would desire my own authorship to be invisible. But that, obviously, is not my desire, as evidenced by the program and billboard ads which prominently and justly display my name.
DV: Is the only difference, then, that you claim authorship? Shouldn’t there be some difference in the work itself?
JG: Oh that is so 40 years ago. I don’t think it’s possible to simply “look at the work itself.” I mean, that is like looking solely at a person’s lips when they talk: everything becomes distorted and perverse.
DV: Not to mention meaningless…
JG: Yes. All audiences come to the theatre bearing the luggage of their past. No one clicks the “tabula rasa” switch before viewing.
DV: Perhaps that would be better…
JG: For whom? Imagine if every time you saw a work you thought “Oh, I’ve never seen anything like it!” It would be difficult if not impossible to talk about, and even more difficult to discern any semblance of meaning. The critics would be out of work, and the art-world nonexistent. Without a historical perspective, art itself may become extinct.
DV: That’s a pretty strong claim.
JG: Yes. But that is entirely my point. This is why my work is authentic. Every work lies in relation to its location in history. To isolate a work out of its historical context is, in a way, destroying part of its essence. “Le Sacre/Expose” would have a completely different impact presented in 1927, 1967 or 2007. An “Isadora-like” movement presented now is not the same as an “Isadora-like” movement presented in 1918. How could it be? We see it in a completely different way.
DV: Looking at the work now, do you have any doubts or regrets? Any moments of cringing?
JG: No, I like the work. My only doubt lies with the press and their accusations.
DV: Can you be more specific?
JG: When someone tells you that your body stretched in a particular position is a fake that it is merely imitating another more authentic voice, you begin to wonder: Is that possible? Can my body be fake? And if so, is it possible that the “original” auteur was a faker too? [laughs] My feeling is that to resolve this we’d have to define a “moment of creation,” a “genesis of movement.” And who defines that? God?…Perhaps Plato or Aristotle would have been so bold when defining their ideal states to define the moment of the first spinal curve; certainly I would not have the hubris for it.
DV: But choreographers always talk about creating and inventing movement.
JG: And therein lies the problem: a confusion of creation, invention and discovery. Somehow these words have become interchangeable. To my mind creation suggests forces beyond man; to create implies lofty, otherworldly power. To invent, on the other hand, is man’s tinkering. From the wheel to the telephone, man’s inventions are mastery over his domain. Discovery, in a way, combines these two, as it occurs when man recognizes existing aspects of the world. By labeling his discovery, man brings it into his realm; sometimes he even claims it as his.
DV: Isn’t that what you’ve done, claimed something that already existed as yours?
JG: No. I did not name any movement, nor have I claimed any movement as mine. What I claim as mine is the whole of the work. As a choreographer I do not create movement. The movement preexists as a by-product of anatomical make-up. What I do is frame, arrange and display movement.
DV: Nevertheless, the critics felt deceived, by which I mean that they were expecting to see original movement and instead saw a “cut-and-paste” view of other’s dances.
JG: How perfectly naïve! Tell me, how many different ways can the body move? Obviously at some point things are going to be repeated. Does Martha Graham own the spinal curve simply because she named it a contraction? I hardly think so. These acts are, first and foremost, human actions. They are actions within the “shareware” of being.
DV: So you feel free to download them for your own use. No fee, no copyright.
JG: Exactly. To me it is a kind of movement inheritance, a web of free software, a dance dowry or, to be quaint, a hope chest. How I choose to present these movements is mine.
DV: In which case, authenticity lies is…?
JG: Here I respectfully turn to Oscar Wilde, whose authenticity lies beyond reproach: “Truth is rarely pure, and never simple.”
