Joan Jonas

Sea creatures, magic shows, and inner spirits

By Sona Wink

I came to know Joan Jonas amidst unusual circumstances: We sat side by side for two consecutive Thanksgiving dinners, during each of which she read a poem, I cried, and our food went cold. We came to those meals to celebrate the life of our mutual family friend, Sekeena Gavagan. We sat alongside Sekeena in 2022, while she was undergoing chemo, and we mourned her absence in 2023, shortly after she died. 

Sekeena was a defense attorney. She would often print out Supreme Court decisions for me to read so that we could discuss them together; she was the only person who I ever witnessed defeat my stepdad in a political debate. She was whip-smart, deeply principled, and immeasurably warm. She was only 56 when she died. Her daughter Lila and husband Eddie outlive her.  

Joan and Sekeena were next-door neighbors and dear friends. Sekeena lived in an apartment where Joan used to make her performance art before she partitioned her loft into smaller spaces. During the lighter moments of our Thanksgivings, Joan and I talked about American history and Greek art. It instantly made sense to me why Joan and Sekeena loved each other: they are fiercely intelligent and confident, with gravitas that emanates from them. I admire them both so fiercely that it cuts through me. 

Joan is 88 and sharp as a tack. Interviewing her was, frankly, terrifying: she does not suffer fools; she does not mince her words. Since the late ’60s, she has pioneered the genre of performance art (a term that she dislikes, as I learned during our conversation). Her storied career, which spans half a century, was on display in a sprawling exhibition in MoMA from March to July 2024. Joan’s work can take many forms: for example, naked people shuffling mirrors around a room, crude drawings of fish, or footage of Tilda Swinton superimposed upon an Icelandic hot spring. These seemingly random components are, in fact, carefully planned by Joan and grounded in her vast knowledge of literature, art history, and folk tales. 

Ghosts were on my mind as Joan and I meandered through the cobblestone streets of SoHo on a warm evening in June. I pictured the mythic rough-and-tumble New York of Joan’s young adulthood, which contrasted sharply with the hyper-commercial sprawl that surrounded us. Joan and I spoke only briefly about Sekeena, but I felt the undercurrent of her loss throughout our conversation. As the sun set, casting pink on the brick edifices, I walked Joan home to the loft where she has lived since the ’70s, where Sekeena used to live. I imagined the unique loneliness of outliving your young friend in a neighborhood that never stops changing. We spoke about the energetic traces that linger.

Illustration by Phoebe Wagoner

This transcript has been edited and condensed for clarity.

. . . 

The Blue and White: Do you remember any “aha” moments you had at Mount Holyoke, any specific books, paintings, or artists that mattered to you? 

Joan Jonas: I mean, I read everything I could. What can I say? … I loved Jacometti, and then I discovered Agnes Martin in my last year … I wrote my thesis on, believe it or not, Picasso. Well, he’s a genius. Now I wouldn’t go there. Matisse is another favorite. 

I was particularly interested in early Greek art, Minoan and Mycenaean art … I don’t know if you’ve heard of the Minoans and the women dove with the fish, with the porpoises. It’s interesting, it’s a kind of ongoing theme in my work, the fish. That was why I went to Crete, but that was after college. 

BW: We are a Columbia Magazine, and you are a Columbia alum—

JJ: What did I learn at Columbia?

BW: Yeah.

JJ: In those days you got your masters in one year, if you can believe it, at Columbia. Studios were in the rotunda of [Low] Library … It was a very small group of us. Our teachers were, I hate to say it, second-tier abstract expressionists. I took a class in modernist poetry, I took a class in ancient Chinese bronzes … The modernist poetry class was really important to me in relation to my work and what I was thinking about. 

At that time I wanted to switch into a performative situation … That was my transition period. Columbia was pretty important, even if it was for one year.

BW: How did you get introduced to the downtown scene? 

JJ: At Columbia they didn’t teach anything about what was going on downtown. It was really separate. That was in the ’60s. But I knew there was a whole scene downtown … I got a job at a gallery on 57th called the Green Gallery and it was a job as a receptionist, which I was terrible at. I learned everything about what was going on in contemporary painting and sculpture. After that I got other jobs in galleries. Every time I worked in a gallery I learned about the artists in the galleries. It was part of my research, working in galleries.

BW: What was SoHo like when you moved here?

JJ: Just factory space.

BW: Empty?

JJ: Mostly empty, but there were people moving in. There was a group called “Fluxus,” a group of artists. There were different groups of artists down here … There was a guy in Fluxus, George Maciunas, who was buying lofts and selling them to artists. All these places that were empty, factory spaces, were slowly being bought. At first by artists, and later on it became incredibly commercial. My first loft I bought through that, paying very little. 

BW: What did you pay?

JJ: My first loft I paid $2,500.

BW: To rent it?

JJ: No, to buy it.

BW: Oh my god.

JJ: Really. Then I sold it and bought my second loft—I won’t say how much—for very little.

BW: Wow. And that’s the same place as today. What initially drew you?

JJ: The idea that you had a space to work, to live and work. 

BW: I once had a teacher who lived in New York in the ’80s, and she often talked about how it was cooler back then, how you could get away with anything. She spoke of it in romantic terms.

JJ: I never talk that way about that period. You know why? I don’t like to tell students or young people that it was better then than it is now. It doesn’t make sense. And who knows?

But the fact that it was cheaper to work then, as I just told you about, and there were a lot of places you could perform in. And then the galleries came in and things moved uptown. So, it was a very exciting period. Everybody, you know, Richard Serra, whatever, we all felt like we were on the cusp, but we weren’t calling it the most important moment. It was an exciting moment in that it felt like you were on the cusp of happening, of new ideas. But I don’t think any period is better than any other period because you never know.

BW: That’s refreshing, because sometimes I fall into feeling wistful about the New York I never got to see.

JJ: One should never feel that way. One should look at what’s here now. I’m sure there’s many interesting things now—it’s just harder now, much harder. It’s not so easy for young artists in New York. It’s awful, actually. The rents are so high.

BW: What do you think of the neighborhood now?

JJ: Well, I think New York is being ruined.

BW: Oh! By what?

JJ: By developers. You know, there’s no architects anymore. There’s developers. They put up these incredibly tall buildings, which are ridiculous. The tall buildings that sway in the breeze. Who would want to live there? I mean, some people do. What was your question?

BW: Do you still feel connected to this neighborhood, having lived here for so long?

JJ: I mean, this is my home. And of course I feel connected in that it’s so familiar, and I still have friends here, but not as many as I used to. 

BW: Let’s turn to your MoMA exhibit. Can I describe my first experience going there?

JJ: Yeah.

BW: I think, subconsciously, I went in with the naïve approach of trying to decipher it. I would read the plaque on the side and try to look for those themes in the work. Then I’d get frustrated and disoriented because there’s a lot of sounds, a lot of different images, a lot of which are often uncanny or challenging.

JJ: Yeah.

BW: I went twice, because it took me a while before I finally felt like I understood how I was supposed to be in the space.

JJ: What was that?

BW: Embracing disorientation. Submitting to the work, letting it be exactly what it was. I stopped trying to think about it or use words to explain it, which is what I’m often taught to do, as a student.

JJ: Right. That sounds good.

BW: I’m curious how you think your work ought to be approached.

JJ: I mean, that would be what I would say to somebody: Just look at it and don’t try to understand it or make judgements. Just look at it and enjoy it, if you can, and absorb it. That’s all. I don’t try to explain my work to people, except if I’m teaching a class.

But of course, it’s not just that … It’s my work. And there’s a meaning to it. I try to make it as clear as possible. Some people have trouble with my work because it is obscure. It’s based on art history, references to myth … My interest, always, when I was beginning was: How do things begin? How does Minoan or Mycenaean, those are Greek, that’s Western art, how did it begin? Well, it began as ritual. That’s how I began, was to look at the history of art and how things began.

BW: You’ve described your work as ritual-like; I’m curious what makes a good ritual.

JJ: I can’t say what makes a good ritual. But for me … I’m looking at my mirror performances and I think they look like rituals. It’s moving very slowly, so the audience gets into that contemplative space and follows the visual.

My early research was all about magic and ritual … That’s what interested me. I grew up with magic shows. My stepfather was an amateur magician. I went to magic shows. We couldn’t afford it, but my schoolmates always invited magicians to come and do magic tricks. So that was one of my sources, magic shows.

BW: What does it feel like for you, in your body and your mind, when you perform in front of a crowd?

JJ: What does it feel like? There’s an energy that happens between the crowd and the performer. They exchange energies, in a way. For example, if I’m doing a bad piece, I know I’m doing a bad piece. If it’s going well, I know it.

BW: How do you know?

JJ: Well the thing is, I don’t always know. It’s intuition.

BW: Or, what does it feel like to know?

JJ: Well, when you perform, the time feels very different. Time goes very fast. All of a sudden it’s over. There’s no time; it’s over. On the other hand, I’ve had experiences where I thought it was awful and people come up to me years later and tell me it was the best thing they ever saw. So I don’t think you’re always the best judge of your own work. Those are my experiences.

BW: I was curious about how, on the one hand, your journals were on display, and I could tell you put a lot of thought and structure into your work. Yet at the same time, the videos of you moving or drawing seemed quite visceral or playful, they seemed to be spontaneous. I’m curious how much freedom you allow yourself, and how you go about—

JJ: I choreograph everything.

BW: Really?

JJ: Yeah. Everything. I mean, I edit everything. Yeah, because I don’t want bad work to get out there. You could say on one level I’m a choreographer. I choreograph my own work … I’m very careful about what I show. You don’t just show everything. You have to edit it, take things away, put things back. All the work you see here has been chosen, edited.

BW: What role does spontaneity play in your work, if anything?

JJ: In the making of it … To develop a work you improvise, in other words, you decide what you’re going to do, you find things, you put them together … You have to make a piece! How do you write a novel? How do you do anything? Somebody has to choose. How do you do a beginning and ending, and all that?

BW: I have a strange question.

JJ: What’s that?

BW: It’s a longer question.

JJ: That’s ok.

BW: I took a class where we read Elective Affinities by Goethe. In the book, there was a scene where characters reenact paintings by standing perfectly still and wearing costumes. The onlookers feel delight at first, but then they start to feel ill at ease. It’s a moment of diffuse anxiety: the feeling of looking at life that is still in a deathlike way. I was reminded of this scene when I was sitting watching your Organic Honey performances because I find that mask really disturbing, and it really gives me this feeling—

JJ: Really?

BW: Yeah, like diffuse anxiety. I’m curious what drew you to that mask, and what the Organic Honey persona involves for you.

JJ: The Organic Honey persona. When I began to work with video, I’d been in Japan where I bought my first video camera. I was very influenced by Japanese Noh theater, where they use masks. Because I was not a performer, I did not feel at ease in front of the audience. It took me a long time … This was in 1972. 

I didn’t want to be Joan Jonas. I wanted to transform myself into another performer. And so I found the mask. I liked the erotic aspect of it. It was the opposite of me at the time … I wasn’t this erotic seductress, but I played it. I think it had a lot to do with the technology of video—it brings up eroticism. 

I had a jar of honey on the table. I named it after that jar of honey, Organic Honey … I wanted to transform my persona, so I dressed up in different costumes, I wore the mask, I wore a headdress. I wasn’t Joan Jonas. I didn’t want to be. I still don’t want to be. Although now I don’t really disguise myself anymore, but maybe I will someday.

That piece was during the Women’s Movement. So in part, that piece is about exploring female imagery. In the late ’60s early ’70s, during the feminist movement, people were talking about, “is this female?” Sticks are male, the moon is female, the sun is male. I was exploring that idea.

BW: I have another long question. You mentioned in an interview for your 2015 Venice Biennale: “Video projections will tell fragmented ghost stories, which … function partly as a reference to what remains and what is lost.” I was very struck by that. I also was struck by how, in your work, you often repeat the same action over and over—it reminds me of exhausting something out of your system. I’m curious if you’ve felt haunted by anything.

JJ: I was always interested in the idea of ghosts, and I always wanted to experience a ghost but I never did. I found it too scary or too disturbing. However, I’m very interested in ghost stories and in the supernatural … Interesting, it’s very seldom that I talk about this—how we are involved with the invisible side of things. It’s magic; by that I mean that it’s not like the everyday. Art comes out of something else. It comes from the everyday, and it comes from the inner spirit of people, which is not describable. Why do artists make what they make? It’s based on dream and fantasy in many cases. Anyway.

BW: Does your artistic practice connect to your sense of inner spirit?

JJ: I hope so. That’s all. I mean, I hope so. Everybody’s does. Whatever one’s inner spirit is … it does connect. But it’s very hard to translate it into the world. It’s about translation. How do you find the form? You have to find the form. 

For me, installations are a form that I deal with … For a long time it’s been about the form of video installation. It’s a three-dimensional, multi-layered work. They call it “multimedia.” I mean, they always have to call it something. So it’s “multimedia.” Somebody came up to me today and said, “I do multimedia.” They didn’t have that when I went to art school. 

BW: Do you like the term multimedia?

JJ: I don’t like any of those terms, even “performance art.”

BW: Do you have a name for it?

JJ: I’m an artist. A visual artist. It’s okay. I think it helps people to name things. But also, I get worried about naming certain research of animals because it means that people are doing research and going into a situation in which they might destroy. I’m talking about the present situation.

BW: Which situation?

JJ: Well, whatever situation where they do, say, research about birds or about whales. They’re going to put machines in there, they’re going to take pictures and find out where they are.

BW: What do you think of the putting of those machines?

JJ: I think it’s invasive. But it’s also part of our culture, we have to find out. Researching how animals communicate requires listening and recording with machines.

BW: Your dogs are a clear through-line throughout your work, and the later rooms in your exhibit revolve around marine life especially.

JJ: Well, dogs are very important because they were part of my life. I included dogs because they were there … Have you ever had an animal?

BW: Oh yeah.

JJ: So, you know, you communicate with the dogs, in a different way. Which I do. I speak with my dogs. I’m sure many people do.

I was commissioned to do a piece about the oceans, but I already had curiosity about the oceans. At MIT I had a class called Action Archeology of the Deep Sea. I had my students do research in relation to their project on a subject they chose … That was some years ago, since then a lot of research and knowledge have been accumulated about fish and animals in the sea which they didn’t have before because it was unknown territory. I started working with this marine biologist David Gruber, who was a diver and has developed cameras and lenses to photograph animals in the ocean, deep sea animals. Things like luminescence that we can’t see with our naked eyes that he has found a way of photographing and recording. And now he’s doing a project about whales. He contributed his footage to my work. That’s the way I work with him, to put his footage into my work as backgrounds. You can see it.

BW: Yeah. And then you would draw on top of it, if I remember correctly.

JJ: I would draw, but I didn’t alter it … I also had figures in front of it. I also did a lot of shooting. I went to aquariums and recorded the fish. Whenever I went to a new city I had my camera and I went to an aquarium. So a lot of that footage is in there too. During this period of working with the so-called ocean, I learned a lot about fish.

BW: What did you notice about fish?

JJ: Well it’s not about me, what I notice. Fish are sentient beings, you know. They have feelings. They have another kind of intelligence that they’re exploring. In the research about whales, whales have an alphabet. They’re more intelligent than we think. We don’t know anything about them. They have diphthongs, which I didn’t even know what that was.  

BW: Oh my god! That’s amazing. I think those are all of my questions. Is there anything else you would like to say?

JJ: Well, I can never think of anything else. What else would you like?