Fitcher’s Bird Kate Bernheimer (bio) This was the difficult part. I was in a cave and the cave featured bears. The bears, or at least one bear, was assembling small bones to make little dolls, and the bears, or at least one bear, kept herself busy with a small trunk filled with doll costumes. I joined in with the bears. Painstakingly, I mended a pair of tiny overalls for one bear, not for a doll. The fit was unlikely to work for the bear, yet I was determined. I rethreaded the needle with a nice shade of pink. The scene resembled a story I had read more than a hundred times called “Fitcher’s Bird.” It was about a girl whose older sister was mutilated, as in cut into parts. The girl had tried faithfully yet unsuccessfully to rescue her sister before her violent death, and carried her sister’s bones in a rucksack. All over the world. Later the girl reassembled the bones, and the sister came back to life. The story had been retold in wax figures by an American artist. She then photographed the wax figures—that was the artwork, not the wax figures themselves. She was invited by a very glossy magazine to create this story for them, but when she submitted it to them it was rejected for being too dark. What did they expect from her? It is a story about mutilation! I used to show the American artist’s images as part of my performance. However, it turned out that I was horrified by these images. It took me some time to recognize this, but as soon as I recognized this, I removed them. I thought of this in the cave, as I sewed with the bears. And I thought of a place called The Gardens, where I once saw a ballet with a dancing bear in it. I had been invited to perform there that night, and I spent the day in the city with a friend who dragged me all over the place. She had heard of a botanical garden that she said we could easily walk to. Well! It turned out to be two hours away, and besides, it had fallen into great disrepair. All the buildings had broken windows, most of the plants were dead, and the statue of Diana at its entrance deeply disturbed me. I smiled at my friend, of course, throughout our arduous journey, because she was eager to please me. She had joined me for this leg of the tour upon my request. She got lost on our way back to the hotel. It took us four hours to get there. I still made it to The Gardens in time for my performance. Before I was to be on stage, that was when the ballet took place. Dancing bear, [End Page 20] soldier, woman in gown, little boy (an irritant, of course—why must they cast children?) . . . tinkly music . . . white peacock. As the ballet dragged on, I thought about a lot of things, such as, “Are bears prehistoric? When were there bears? Were there bears thousands of years ago, at the time of cave painting? What is the sequence tonight—do I begin with the white dress and lullaby, then move into the swan’s theme, and then, when the neon begins, I do artistic ballet?” Would ballet after ballet be tiresome for the viewers, I wondered. No, it would not. And I rehearsed, in my head, the banter I had been given: “How was your supper tonight? Squash blossoms and pansies? Delectable! You, in the tuxedo with the red lipstick. You look beautiful, babe!” The banter was all wrong, I slowly realized. As the sun slunk down, a melancholy shadow cast over the lawn, which glistened with rain. The banter was entirely too jaunty for this remarkable setting. Too sensible. What I sought was more meaningful. I quickly found the right tone. “Have you seen the chestnut flowers by the Ferris wheel? You must, if you haven’t. Existential. You in the tuxedo, with the red lipstick, you remind me of a Russian bell. Dissonant. Spellbinding. Would you like to be my...