Spoiled Jewish Cream - Article by Lucien Dulfan

It’s the 4th of June. Morning. Phone rings. ‘Dear Lucien, it’s Michael Kaunts. Come today to my performance, at 8 pm in Whitney.’ With a young friend, an American artist, in the pouring rain, I stand in a line as long as to the Mausoleum. We enter into rumbling noise.Deafening music. But melodious, expressive. Thick smoke, like in purgatory. The smell of sulfur. Blinking imitation candle-lights. Gigantic Hall.

On a pedestal, that looks like a giant drum, there are people: a group of muscular beings in bikinis and high heels, with peacock feathers on their heads; a couple in suit & gown tied together; a group of dervishes wearing fezzes; an Iranian Mullah sits reading the Koran; a Japanese Sumo wrestler… Monologues, dialogues, irreproachable directorship, sharp technique, flawless coordination. Said is something kind, eternal, and very serious. Within 15 minutes, my young friend said, ‘See ya’ and disappeared into the smoke. Heroically, I venerated till the end.

Michael Kaunts – playwright, director, artist, rising star, author and producer of this performance, gave me an embrace and asked to stay for drinks.

Coming home, a strange sensation trickled across my being, a rumble in my soul, a sense of vulnerability. A feeling that I’ve been in a place that was wrong.

On the 5th of June, the phone rings again. ‘You haven’t forgotten? My Mariana’s performance is today on East Broadway.’ This is an old friend of mine, a collector and expert on books, Jewish artifacts, theater production sketches, a lover of exotic liquor, tobacco, a patron of all that’s art, a Jew-cavalier, a fellow Carbonari, a Garibaldi in age as much as in principle. In other words, an Odessite - Ilya Bekerman.

Returning for a moment to my first introduction to Mariana Bekerman. It was a warm October of 2002. Queens. The edging of a green field slopes right down to the full-flowing East River. Stage. The planes are flying above, as scheduled. Peace. Behind the stage, on the river, is a barge on which is a pile driver. The show begins. The
machine starts to rhythmically hammer a pile. On stage, young flexible people speak of their
feelings in the language of dance. A very tall, elegantly built African American violinist with a beautiful tattoo on her back, starts to play in league with a Brazilian drummer and an American saxophonist. The audience - a mishmash of Chinese, blacks, white Russians, Ukrainians - cheers with approval.

Fast-forward to 5th of June, 2003. Lower East Side. The Mazer Theater. Modest auditorium,
modest fans. Loads of flowers. The plot is simple: a Latin American boy is in love, mutually, with a Jewish girl from Russia. Soundtrack: Klezmer Music, Russian folk songs, Argentinean Tango, Rumba, Flamenco.

Set design and lighting were created by a Cuban, Julio Mendosa, an engineer who received his education in Frunze, Kyrgyzstan, my historical homeland. He spoke Russian flawlessly. I was moved.

Choreographer, artistic director, the author of the play, the motivator and organizer – Mariana Bekerman.

It made me think of a line from a poem by Bagritsky: “Spoiled Jewish cream… Jewish peacock on the seam… A crutch in the way… And all in me screams: Away, away, away!”

Why and where to? Peacock feathers – they may be nicer on a seam, than on the heads of muscular dancers. A crutch in the way – from old age and helplessness one can’t go away. So lets rejoice at those rare moments that fate gifts us, when delight at the successes of our children, of our friends’ children returns us to our youth. Lets wish them to invest dedication, fueled solely by passion and belief in themselves, to work and to love. Now I understood why the Whitney performance brought on such feelings of emptiness.

Mariana Bekerman gifts us her love and leaves hope. She gives us strength to prepare for old age. “ Into the incapability, into the weakness of old, take all your childhood dreams.’ - N.V.

Translation by Stasia