Her physical knowledge of Cunningham's work gives her assertions a distinct authority, and her descriptions of the choreography are fascinating. The same cannot be said for everything here; once in awhile — say, after the umpteenth description of lost luggage, inadequate theaters and turista traumas — you wish for a bit more economy of detail. But how to decide what should go? Most pages contain absolute gems, like this description of a 1965 performance in New York, excerpted from Brown's journal:
"State Theater programs were an absolute gas! That is, I had a glorious time!!! God, what intoxication it is to perform in a theater like that. The space is so marvelously HUGE, it makes me giddy with delight."
"When it was over," she continues, "and we took curtain calls, I felt like some member of a tiny minority group that the whole world hated and was booing. We ran on stage — the six of us — as though electrified with strength, defiance, courage, and belief in what we were doing ... and the people shrieked, booed and hissed. And other people cheered and bravoed."
Brown's romantic relationships are documented, including her marriage to the composer Earle Brown, but the true love story here is an artistic one. She fell early and hard for Cunningham's choreography, for the vigor of Rauschenberg's riotously creative contributions and for the holistic art-and-life philosophy embodied most fully by Cage. Like any true love affair between complex, often difficult people, it produced deeply felt, wildly varying emotions. No matter the length, a book can offer only glimpses of such relationships. But what glimpses.
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