September 2007 Archives

While entering the theater, my boyfriend cut a few people off trying to get a front row seat. He totally left me high and dry, grabbed his seat, and then asked people to move to accommodate me. I ended up sitting between boyfriend innocently flirting with a woman (probably trying to avoid my cutting looks) on the left and the man that boyfriend knocked over on my right. Yippee. I felt completely ostracized and uncomfortable. But hey, wouldn’t you know it, this was just the emotional place I needed to be to really connect to the opening of Kassys performance of Kommer. Thanks boyfriend.

The only thing we know is that someone has died. We don’t know anything about him except that he had a significant other and his friends and family have all gathered to mourn. The dialogue was a saturation of what you might hear at any funeral and, for some reason, it was funny. The CD player played all the wrong songs. The guests expressed grief in varying amounts of humor, anger, busy-work, and distraction. The whole scene was entirely awkward and somehow ridiculously hilarious. Yet I kept thinking that there was nothing said or done on stage that had not been said or done in real life, just maybe toned down a little.

The show ends and the performance switches to video. In fact, the cast takes its curtain call via video screen, and the audience applauds them! In the video we see our actors retire backstage and discuss their performance and the audience. One-by-one, they all go home and we follow. Suddenly we are drawn into their worlds, their troubles, their collective sadness, only this time, no one is laughing. One woman deals with a dying mother and single parenthood; another obviously battles trouble with weight and health. While one man contemplates suicide another battles an eating disorder.

I found this performance to be extremely thought-provoking and walked away feeling overwhelmed. Kommer made me laugh and then broke my heart. Strange how we found comedy in the live performance and cried through the video. Why is an audience able to react more emotionally to film than to people on a stage in front of us? The film portion of the performance seemed more real simply because we were told that these were real people, behind the actors that had been on stage. In truth, they were still actors. The audience knows absolutely nothing about the real lives of the people who entertained us on stage. On a larger scale, I recognize that I know absolutely nothing about the real lives of people I am sharing space with. I have been completely avoiding the grumpy (totally projected, by the way) guy on my right. Maybe I should have asked him how he was doing and given him a hug.

Liz

One woman incessantly mops and the other repeatedly asks where she can get cocaine. We learn that they both have children and that neither have husbands. They conspire to figure out how to pay for their children’s schooling. We are made aware that they like to party at local hotspot 3.5 Floppies. We know these women; we’ve seen their type. We fear for them and maybe actually fear them, a little. We recognize their habits and attitudes, but never learn their names.

Though a thoughtfully crafted work with poignant, acerbic and, at times, comedic dialogue, I found it difficult to watch two women with such intensely real personalities, exist as nothing more than stereotypes. Surely life must have more meaning. The end product is more disturbing than pleasurable, yet the actresses portraying these roles were remarkable to study, each artfully breathing life into her chica. Aida Lopez and Gabriela Murray embody their roles to such an extent that we don’t even miss los chicas when they’re gone simply because we realize that there are always more chicas to replace them.

Liz

I have to be completely honest. They had me at little suits with shorts. Unfortunately that’s just what they wear just at the beginning of the performance, which is really the end. So first, the teased me, and then I had to wait. But that’s quite alright, in part.

The first half of the performance was boisterously fun. The premise is that the nefarious Board has declared that fruit is to be outlawed. Recognizing despotism and oppression, (and potential scurvy outbreaks?) one man ignites a rebellion. Sporting an apple-bedecked beret and arm band, proper regalia for any fashionable revolutionary, our hero enlists the help of a builder, a musicologist, and a philosopher (oh my!) and they begin the very important quest to bring back fruit. Now, toss in robot ghosts, a stuffed whale, ridiculously catchy songs, and an explosion of projected images and you get a whole lot of fun . . .and chaos, actually. Just when our hero and his friends are disbanded by the creepy Man with the Bullhorn and their journey falls apart, the performance, well, starts to fall apart. Right around the middle, the story got messy and much of the spring and zip that initially pulled me in disappeared. I’m afraid I lost interest up until the little suits with shorts reappeared, but that was the end. For real this time.

See ‘em if you can. They’re mostly awesome.

Liz

Twenty-five years from now your smart-ass kid and some of his friends think it would be, like, so fun to stage a production in the garage. Maybe it’s your birthday, so it’s sweet, really. They raid your closet and pull out the stuff you don’t remember that you had. They piece together a summer of your life based on re-re-reuns of MTV Spring Break. They decorate with leftover 4th of July decorations and back it all with the mix tapes you just couldn’t bare to throw out. For some inexplicable reason, they take a particular shine to the country mix that was given to you by that one guy. You only listened to it once, you swear. They sneak a couple beers, belt ‘em back, and belt ‘em out.

You watch the show. Hell, you’ve had a few yourself. You can’t say that you approve of the dry-humping but it’s the 32’s and you’re a modern mom. Nostalgia hits you like a brick in the face. You selectively forget that you never actually went anywhere good on spring break. You sincerely hope that your kid and his smart-ass friends recognize that Jackson 5 was WAY before your time. You remember camping, pie, and the 4th of July. You suddenly think that patriotism is kind of a cheap shot and maybe Freedom is about bragging rights. You wonder if you’d enjoy the show more if you knew all the words. You wonder what that country-mix-tape-making guy would think of the performance. Would he pledge allegiance and sing along? Would he recognize the irony of a bunch of smart-ass kids temporarily angry about never which song to sing next. Ain’t that America?

It all seems like a big disaster and for some reason that makes it better. For you anyway, and not cause it’s your kid up there doing something for you. You think that someone else with a different set of memories and ideas would just see the disaster. Or just like the music. Something starts to make some sort of sense. It ends and you clap. You were not expecting to find anything buried in a pile of your old clothes and stack of tapes, but there it was. So big that you are going to have to think about it more. Later. Your kid leaves the mess for you to clean up. Happy birthday to you. Ain’t it funny how the night moves?

Shit, now you are going to have that song in your head for days.

Liz

I have always loved the deep resonant sound a cello or two. Or twelve? Or fourteen? Sure, why not? The more the better, right? I really just want to know why there are so many cellists in Portland. Regardless, Portland Cello Project’s recent performance at the Wonder Ballroom had that oh, so Portland. Cello upon cello backed some our favorite local talent. The likes of John Weinland, Bright Red Paper, and Laura Gibson all took their turns and it sound soothingly good. Apart from one rotten apple, called Adagio for Strings (did we really need a 9-11 memorial song?), the show was a soothing success. In fact, I hope to get the recording for bedtime.

One might assume from the rather (un)clever title of Taylor Mac’s show that The Be(a)st of Taylor Mac would cover a full spectrum of work. Not so. Really, what the show presents is a beginner’s introduction to drag. I guess that was OK, because before sitting through this show I really didn’t know performance art could be such a drag. I am not going to blame Mac entirely. Maybe it was the exertion of my long, rushed bike ride just to get to the show or the uncomfortable heat inside the venue or the uncomfortably cramped wooden pew. Probably it was because the show ran unexpectedly long, thus conflicting with other shows in the TBA line-up. All of this was then agitated by what I found to be a lackluster performance from a superficially lustrous performer. Again, maybe not entirely Mac’s fault, 6:30 was, admittedly, a little early for sparkle and flare.

Aside from the outlandish make-up, there just wasn’t anything about the show that was innovative or provocative. While I appreciated the nature in which the show progressed: Mac threw clothes from previous performances all over the floor and changed outfits while changing scenes, there just wasn’t anything for me in the show itself. I found the dialogue too rehearsed to be confrontational. Even the presumably off the cuff stuff just didn’t feel like it was in the moment. Probably the most aggravating aspect of the show was that as a member of the audience I wasn’t even responsible for reacting to Mac. He unabashedly reacted to his own material and, frankly, I just didn’t have the energy to react to his reaction. That’s not the audience member I want to be. Not that I could have responded with much fervor anyway. Moments that should have been “oh, no you didn’t just say that” were more “what did you just say?” I didn’t feel that the show was smart or sharp and possessed only the requisite amount of sass. Alas, I have run into very few people who felt the way I did about the “play”, so please, don’t take my word for it.

Liz

“It’s very ironic that to create spontaneity, to make people feel special, you have to manufacture that… To get a truly genuine moment, you have to make it up, and you have to rehearse it.”

-Claude Wampler, during the excellent noon chat “Performance Now,” which you can (and MUST) listen to .

I knew nothing about Claude Wampler’s work when I entered her show, and for that I am eternally grateful. I asked my friends not to tell me anything, except whether or not they liked it. What I didn’t realize, is how much that innocuous question would play a role in thinking about “Performance (Career Ender).” When I was initially bouncing around ideas for this entry, I was thinking about the experience more in terms of Dadaist work, and I was heading towards saying that this has all been done before, and how even someone who knew nothing about her, and very little about art, was not surprised. But then I listened to the noontime chat, and then I went to the second Sunday morning Cartune Express, and then I got it. Or, more importantly, my “it.”

Stay with me here…

Hung over, tired, and disheveled, I took a seat in one of Living Room theaters comfy seats ready for some … stuff. There was room this time, as they had opened another theater next door to show the work, and so I didn’t have to sit on the concrete as I had the week before and wait a half an hour before the show started due to technical difficulties (is that a bell?). But on this Sunday, a week later, more technical difficulties ensued, and the show had to start and restart over about 6 times before I left to make the noontime chat. In the other theater, they couldn’t even get the DVD to play, and had to show the previous year’s footage. (Blame goes all around by the way, if you have a week to make a DVD play, and it doesn’t, you all screwed up. Or, enlightened me.) How I liked C.E was based upon a completely different experience than someone in the other theatre, pauses, disruptions, and the cleverness of the in-breakdown banter around us made each audience member’s experience unique, as it is at every event, and at every moment, and that is why Claude Wampler works this way. To give an audience a unique experience that is or seems spontaneous, she uses plants, breakdowns, etc… and it is actually far more a loving notion than simply wanting to fuck with people. (Some people’s love involves more ….discipline than others).

That Cartune Express accomplished what she was attempting so triumphantly is the reason why she is halting this line of performance for the time being, and I’m excited to see what she does next. Claude is obviously a very intelligent person, and writing her off is a huge mistake.

Wait Wait Wait! Maybe she’s manipulating Cartune Express…I should have known. And that jerk who cut me off earlier….Curse you Claude!)

by Abe

hollaback?

These were my notes, taken as a Claude Wampler virgin, during her performance

please see
part 2

by Abe

hollaback?

Last weekend, on my way to some other performance, I noticed a person perched on the edge of a concrete walkway, absorbed in the last precious pages of a book. Lucky for me, they were reading out loud. I came and sat down close to the reader, feeling cautiously voyeuristic. Usually when I'm nosing in on someone else's reading material, I have to mask it with feined interest in public transit upholstery patterns. I felt an odd mixture of relief and shyness as I boldly looked at the cover to see what was being read; Joan Didion. I listened for a little while, then pulled myself away, not wanting to spoil the very end of the story. Instead, the next time I went to the library, I looked for Joan Didion in the fiction section. Although I couldn't find the same book, (Play it as it Lays) I found another- Run River. From what I could tell from the few brief chapters I heard on the street, both books are equally tragic, featuring miserable characters slogging through difficult situations. I certainly was not uplifted by the content of Didion's work. I did, however, greatly enjoy the method by which I was exposed to her work. The simple act of reading out loud brought new life to her carefully written words.

posted by Amber Bell

I’ve been looking forward to seeing Larry Krone in concert all week. I finally made it on the last night, Saturday evening, September 15. When my friend and I arrived early at that, we got the last two seats, and soon after, the Someday Lounge was packed––the stairs, the balcony, folks were hanging around over the railing––all here to see Larry Krone and Holcombe Waller. We had time to kill before Larry went on so we sat there chatting about our day and drinking like good Americans everywhere. My friend said she read a couple of my blogs and thought they would be funny. I love that word––funny. Okay, so there was a seat next to us and two behind us that were reserved and interestingly enough they were reserved for the parents of Holcombe Waller and one of the members of his group. Curtain opens and there he is––Mr. Larry Krone. In front of his trademark colorful Mylar designed. Loud applause, every body has another drink. Here we are now entertain us. All in all, he played for about 20 minutes, a great set of a variety of mostly sad songs and much costume changing. He reminded me of Tiny Tim with his little guitar mixed with the wryness of Jonathan Richman. In a deadpan voice not unlike the comedian Steven Wright, he exclaimed, “I’m not shy.” The crowd went wild when he changed his outfits between sets as he made little comments. Sporting down to his briefs––nothing like you would find in Fred Meyers men’s underwear department–– Krone is a child at heart with all the humor, wit and irony played out on stage in a performance of him being himself.

posted by Ben Killen Rosenberg

Larry Krone’s campfire exposition

When you walk into the museum there is a small show by Wendy Huhn put up to coincide and complement Krone’s show upstairs. They both use pop imagery, are very colorful, and both artists share an attachment to images from the past. Huhn is based in Dexter, Oregon, more of a cowboy town than New York City where Larry Krone currently resides. I’ve really enjoyed the new location of the Contemporary Craft Museum and it’s interesting to see how they utilize this space for the ever-changing shows. I had no idea what to expect and, as is usual for me, I talked to the guard who explained to me his excitement about seeing this show progress. The back wall is a work in progress. Two volunteers were clocking in and getting ready to cut colored Mylar and tape up to the wall along the specific lines that Krone drew. On the floor, small pipe cleaner sculptures with Mylar were placed around to give the feel of the tumbleweeds that blow around in the desert. The back wall piece made me think of Vegas and I could imagine that when it was completed Krone would shake his booty right in front. Oh, by the way, he passed me as I was walking into the space. I thought I should say something like “Uh, hi I’m Ben Rosenberg. I’m going to write a blog about this. Looking forward to seeing what you do.” But I didn’t. I was immediately drawn to the wall of sketches and pictures that are to the left of his work in progress. There were photo studies of campfires, drawing ideas for compositions reminiscent of Peter Max drawings, all the ideas that go on in Krone’s head. I noticed that his design for this space was very similar to what he did in St. Louis at the Contemporary Art Museum from the catalogue he had pinned up. I was curious to read in the catalogue that he has never witnessed cowboys or spent even a day witnessing what their daily life involves. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but it would be interesting to see how the mysticism that he has built around the image of the cowboy would change in his art if he were to do so. This is his fascination, romanticism about the image of the cowboy and his interpretation. By the soft sculpture logs campfire you just want to touch it, and more so if you are a child, but a sign reads touching harms the art along with a credit to the artist who made this work possible, Anthea Zeltzman. The artist Christo runs through my mind with the way Krone took the benches from the museum and wrapped them with burlap and rope. By the time I got around to looking at the industrial coat rack with his mix of hand sewn feminine and masculine clothes, and reading his campfire book, I was really looking forward to seeing him perform. If you haven’t seen this installation yet come by and ask the guard for any anecdotes he has to share.

posted by Ben Killen Rosenberg

The Devil You Know is Better than the Devil You Don't
Zoe Scofield dances (and choreographs) with a kind of animal ferocity - a predatory determination. Her movements are clear, chopped, controlled and precise. She uses many of these terms in describing her own work (also “clean”, “unfettered”, “simple”, “distilled”, “articulate”). Indeed, the dancing poses a tension of restrained wildness and delicate fury. It combines the poise of ballet with the distortions of butoh, recognizing that both are incredibly artificial, full of intense discipline and focused on warping the natural lines of the human body.

The costumes reinforce this quality of beautiful wildness, with strange furry belts, quilted aprons and ragged, multicolored “tails”. The group sections in The Devil... stand out with color, flamboyance and drive. A pervasive use of unison movement reveals the strict underpinnings of the choreography and enforces a feeling of compositional control. The entire group is well-tuned, breathing together, stomping together, flailing and twitching in synchronicity. It could have been interesting to see more polyphonic sections adding dense visual complexity and putting the unison sections into stronger contrast.

The music for The Devil... draws from classical traditions and instrumentation, but corrupts them with distortion, synthesizer drones and acoustic rhythms. The score by Morgan Henderson was wonderfully full, but sometimes seemed isolated from the dance, as if they were happening in two different spaces. Buzzing sonorities of cello or chiming guitars and dulcimers, the warm noise of overdriven levels and the rhythms of an off-kilter tribe or marching band formed overlapping repetitions and repetitive cycles. Occasionally the score reminded me of the rigor and quirkiness of post-minimalist composers such as Arnold Dreyblatt, and those rhythmic pieces worked best, matching the drive and energy of the dance. But then abrupt fades occasionally curtailed songs in mid-swing, making me wonder how closely the two elements were aligned.

The Devil You Know is Better than the Devil You Don’t is absorbed in the task of creating beauty. It’s a romantic piece, in the sense that passion, empathy, power and commitment are primary values. Subject matter falls away in the face of pure visual sumptuousness - the bodies behind sheer scrim, the fog machines, drifting snowflakes and falling confetti. But what a pleasure...

This clip from Scofield’s previous work displays everything that makes her work powerful - check it out.

- posted by Seth Nehil

This collection of 6 films (one scheduled film wasn't shown) all had a theme of the artist turning the camera on themselves. The filmmakers were the subject of their own film. The program started out with a bang - Untitled (Eels) by Patty Chang set the tone for a somewhat wild hour of watching. It wasn't clear what exactly was happening onscreen at the start; a girl with stressed facial expressions and a general discomfort about her was the sole object in view. It took me a while to figure out what to even pay attention to, and it all remains a bit of a mystery. You never saw any eels, but you could see movements of an eel-like creature. After a minute or two, things became more obvious, and I thought a snake was wrapped around her torso and squeezing her; the pain and discomfort were not veiled and I could feel it, the squirming, my gut instinct being grossed out. The subjection experienced in the film translated out to the audience quite viscerally, at least to me. I was somewhat glad the eels never came into view, leaving them to our imagination. Also, it was nice to not come across the film in a gallery, this needed to be watched in its entirety, as the effect of coming to the realization of the situation on screen, and sticking it out for the duration of the film required a bit of activity on the part of us in the audience. Had I come across this in a gallery, and merely saw a bit of it, the work would not have been able to really get beneath my skin. The film ended rapidly, just cutting to black. No indication that the discomfort was ending, no resolution or relief. This acted as a relief, but there was no movement in the film to relieve the mark left by the haunting imagery.

The next film screened, Beyond the Usual Limits: Part 1 by Deirdre Logue, brought a more light-hearted moment to the theater. With a happy musical score, the actor crawled into bed, but not in a normal fashion. Underneath the mattress, but above the box spring - yeah sort of silly compared to the last film. After the actor made it in, a cat came into view on top of the mattress and everything seemed warm and cuddly. The music and the warm colors helped this, but I think the general change of atmosphere from Chang's discomforting image influenced howLogue's work went over - relatively easily. It was only a few minutes long though, and we were quickly onto What by Reza Afisina. This wasn't as awkward as Chang's film, but wasn't comforting either. Reza repeated a passage from the Bible (Luke), and beat himself up in the process. This had an element of commentary on religion and culture that the earlier films didn't have. It was difficult to make out the words as he spoke them, but it was clear that he was getting physically worse off by his repeated hitting of his face. By the end, he was in bad shape, and lit up a cigarette as the film ended. The symbolism seems abundant, the metaphor being he beats himself up with the Bible, and then in the end indulges in an act representing a slide back into sin. Just as the smoking served as a relaxant forAfisina , as part of the film, it had an effect for the audience. In contrast to what was offered by Chang (she surely needed a cigarette after that),Afisina allowed us to see the person after ceasing challenging part of this: the self-infliction of pain. This was therapeutic, and made it a bit easier to continue on.

The last 3 films didn't act on me in the same manner as Chang and Afisina's work. True to the theme of the shows, there was the filmmaker taking center stage, whether it be in the form of a reading a diary as in Squiggle, or Live to Tell, which had a surveillance camera style presentation. These didn't have the same quality of endurance as Chang andAfisina brought to the table though. Good films, the title certainly holds true, simple and aberrant.

Posted by: Benjamin Adrian

After last year’s profoundly enjoyable/enjoying-ly profound Ballet Brut, I couldn’t wait to see what the OK Theater had ready for us this year. But “No Dice” is very, very different than what I expected. (In a wonderful, albeit difficult way.)

(So. Last year, when Nature Theater cam around it was. Um. Really great and really surprising. Because they just danced. And it was totally, like. non-verbal. .. But this year, they just, talked. And it was the meaningless junk we all say...)*

All of OK’s charm was there, especially in Anne, who is impossible not to adore, but while OK was still utilizing their clever, subversive way of delivering their message, instead of giving it to you in thoroughly enjoyable dance, it was delivered in the banal, clumsy, and fearful dialog of everyday American conversation.

(So it was kind of difficult? Because it was 4 hours long. And they just, like repeat things. And they try to connect but it's all, um, really trying and phony.)*

There was still dance, of course. And Nature Theater’s hipster Bollywood is a most pleasant interruption to what was sometimes painful self analytics. I never would have thought a Hasidic Pirate could be so difficult. But OK’s ending message of hope makes it all worth it. They show you that you talk like an idiot, and that it is because you are awkward, and nervous, a bit pretentious, and afraid people won’t like you, but that if you drop some of that, you can have more focused, connecting dialog, and you will be a better person, (or at least judged to be) because “One might describe a civilization in terms of the quality of its conversations.” But hopefully they’ll also take into account the deconstructionist theater it produces.

(but then of course. That's the point, and it's how we all sound, when we're not, like, filtering all the bullshit. And at the end they say that we are judged by our conversations, which is really... powerful. It's kind of an indictment, but at the same time, like, um. an opportunity.)*

Listen to the chat with Kassys and OK Theater here.

* I transcribed a verbal review of myself. ouch.

by Abe

hollaback?

The Great Gatsby is a funny book. I knew from reading and teaching this novel before that it has several funny moments, but I never quite realized just how comic it is until I saw Gatz, by Elevator Repair Service. The theatrical presentation of the book highlights and magnifies the humor and wry, at times sarcastic, observations of the book’s narrator. Characters who are boorish or clownish become even more so, worthy of laughter before they even speak. While at times ERS took some liberties to mine further laughs than the book would naturally allow, hamming it up a bit (as with using a doll for Daisy’s talking daughter), this was usually done tastefully or wittily (such as the third act’s facial tête-à-tête between the narrator and the sound operator/actor).

As the T:BA festival guide notes, Gatzstarts when an ordinary white collar office worker stops work (his outdated computer won’t turn on) and begins reading The Great Gatsby. The play follows him reading the book aloud, and soon after other office workers begin saying the lines of characters in the book, blurring the lines between the characters in the office and those in the novel. However, the characters in the office never quite achieve personalities, thus allowing the novel’s characters to shine (though there are some analogues: the book’s mechanic George Wilson is played by an office IT guy, and narrator Nick Carraway’s Finnish cleaning woman is played by a secretary). Looking at the relative inactivity of the employees, this is an office where nearly no work gets done.

The acting is terrific overall. Standout personalities include swaggering Tom Buchanan (Robert Cucuzza), squirmy Owl-Eyes/Chester (Vin Knight), creepy Klipspringer/Ewing (Mike Iveson) [who also perfectly pantomimes playing the piano as music plays], lusty and whiny Myrtle (Laurena Allan), and a beautifully understated Jordan Baker (Susie Sokol). Jim Fletcher’s deadpan delivery of Gatsby’s lines may have been a stylistic choice, perhaps to refrain from attaching too much sentiment or emotion to the performance so that audiences could add inflections of their own, but I often could not get past the monotonous vocalization. He seemed like a subdued Ed Harris. I wish he said every line with the same witty energy he showed when he said “little Montenegro.” Similarly, while Daisy is a hard character to play—a bit ditsy and foolish but instantaneously charming—Tory Vazquez’s performance was often flat and seemed amateurish. She carried no real presence during the first half of the play. Again, perhaps this was a stylistic choice or perhaps this is my poor reading of her acting.

To save the best two for last: Scott Shepherd as Nick Carraway, the narrator, and Ben Williams as Michaelis, several other bit characters, and the sound operator/designer. Shepherd’s performance is luminous, an awing feat of memorization, endurance, and colossal vitality. The audience really likes him from the get go, identifies with him, and roots for him to complete the book as we look to complete it ourselves. Without his bedrock talent, this play would not work. Ben Williams is wonderfully delightful as a master of all trades: a brilliant comic actor, deft dramatic persona, and skilled sound man. His performance is also one of stamina: like Shepherd, he is on stage for the entire play, managing the sound cues from his office desk and performing several limited roles with verve and personality. While Shepherd’s large role must hold the show together, it is Williams who makes the details run smoothly.

The set is magnificent. To the right, many musty cardboard boxes are stacked on racks, framing exits for the actors. To the rear left, an inner office window looks into the main work area, a convenient spot for the secretary and for Gatsby to look out towards the Buchanan residence across the bay. On the left sits a desk with an employee manning the sound design, showing viewers the nuts and bolts of the play, even as he takes on several acting roles. In the rear center, a large rectangular window allows us to see people coming and going, and is a spot mined for comedic effect as characters do pratfalls and stare into the audience. At the center of the stage is one long desk, at which the narrator and the man who plays Gatsby sit—facing each other across their workspace, the narrator with his broken computer and Gatsby with his typewriter. The gray walls, wood paneling, and fluorescent lights help create the fetid office atmosphere. I wondered where the eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleberg were.

The sound design was at times clever and at times distracting. On one hand, city noises, sounds of cars beeping or whirring by, and appropriate crashing sounds helped create an effect of urbanity and modernity. On the other hand, canned sounds of golf swings and bird chirping created needless white noise for the actors to overcome. The jazz music helped set the scene of the twenties, but at times it was unnecessarily loud and detracted from the acting.

The lighting design should win awards. Mark Barton’s work transforms this stuffy little office into a mansion’s sprawling gardens, a sweltering hotel suite, a mechanic’s garage and gas station, the living room of a modest home on the bay. Through dimming lights, changing angles, and other strategies, Barton’s work effectively makes the office seem like multiple locations, keeping audiences engrossed in the story as the office setting becomes the settings of the novel. It is a subtle trick and it is executed beautifully.

The blue lighting towards the end of the play parallels the blue melancholy of Gatsby’s final hours, and the twilight of the production. By this time, the central desk has been cleared of everything but the novel itself, no office clutter remains to obscure the world of the novel. Shepherd, as Nick Carraway, addresses the audience directly, no longer reading from the book. As Shepherd recites the final paragraphs, he eases into a Southern/Western accent, perhaps a bit Carolinian, reflecting the rural Midwestern roots of the play’s protagonist and narrator. This is a charming choice.

The play promotes literacy, perhaps indirectly, since so many characters in the office and in the novel are reading during the performance. Magazines and newspapers clutter the office, and actors are always picking them up, thumbing through them, reading them. Jordan Baker reads a golf magazine, Tom Buchanan is reading a magazine when he starts talking to the narrator about mixing races, and the Gatsby office worker character reads the newspaper (as Gatsby does in the novel, searching for Daisy in the Chicago news).

It may be too obvious for me to say that this play demonstrates the power of reading and the power of theatre. Here we have a world transformed through a man reading a book, as he is himself transformed. We literally witness a man identifying with and becoming a character, and an audience identifying with a character and an immensely talented actor. Theatre is transformed through this groundbreaking work, and the book is transformed through its performance. And, of course, we are transformed, in turn, by the power of the novel and the virtuosity of Elevator Repair Service’s accomplishment. After experiencing this achievement, I doubt viewers will experience the novel, reading, theatre, and perhaps—for some—life itself the same.

Posted by Dusty Hoesly

I never found Stan Shellabarger. I learned enough about him to find the places where had had been doing his thing. Stan’s artwork is to methodically walk a set course in such a way that he leaves a trace of his passage. Just by walking slowly over and over the same short path his basic presence leaves a mark.

The marks he left in Portland were two white chalk squares indicating the shuffling course of someone rigidly crossing from one corner to the next all the way around the intersection. Two chalk squares – made on the September days when the fall rain came back.

I followed all the leads I could get my hands on trying to find Stan. Along my way I thought I had found him more than once. I asked some fellow coming out of the Pica Headquarters if he had any clues, and was momentarily convinced that the fellow was Stan himself. I’m not sure why, maybe because of the conspiratorial looks he gave me while telling me I would just have to keep looking around town.
I also paused for a while looking at the Bocce bowlers in the NW park blocks. Could Stan be doing a Bocce bowling action? Those people also move monotonously and repetitively over and over the same piece of ground, measuring distance and ordering the passage of time.

The traces that Stan leaves on a place are not obviously the marks of human presence. But knowing that they were made by the humble act of shuffle walking makes the marks poignant. They show an individual person doing little more than existing for a short amount of time on a confined course in the corner of a city. These two scuffed and washed away white square paths show a purposelessness in contemporary life - while at the same time, honoring simple existence as worth noting.

Ariana

HERE:
http://pica.radio.tablesturned.com/archive.html?pname=podcast.xml

Those noontime chats are going straight to my iPod!

Holler thanks to Portland Radio Authority (www.praradio.org) and Matt Kirkpatrick.

--Carissa Wodehouse
Blogger, member, enthusiast

Eight hours of my life gone. I will never have those eight hours back. I thought that I was only giving up seven hours. This is not how it played out. Yesterday, yesterday afternoon and yesterday evening I sat through the performance of "Gatz." Although by the last hour I found myself being jerked awake time and again by my perpetual nodding off, slightly reminiscent of what college is like, I am thankful that I chose to go. It was a theater experience unique unto itself, brilliantly performed with a wonderful set and an amazing execution of story and character, albeit seven plus hours long.

It was really quite fascinating to watch how they pulled it off, a hugely difficult task of adapting a whole novel verbatim to the stage, and doing it effectively. But they did. And it was great! I will admit that when I first read the TBA handbook and the preview for Gatz said, " A man picks up an old copy of The Great Gatsby and starts reading it... and never stops," I was like, "What! That is the worst idea ever. Talk about signing up for a punishing experience." Alas, I quite enjoyed myself and lived to tell the tale.

After the show reached it's end, as I was walking out of the theater, I was not so exhausted as expected and I had an internal urge to talk of all things Gatsby, especially the death of the American dream. I like that theme. No matter what you can never reach it, whatever it may be. What a great ending, “Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch our arms out father… so we beat on, boats against the current, born back ceaselessly into the past.”

posted by noelle

Thank goodness for "like" and "as." Without metaphors, I don't think I'd be able to even begin describing the four performers from Japan. The vocabulary that I have developed over the years to describe art and performance was completely inadequate to analyze or even explain what they were doing. It was nothing like my expectations. Their art was far from anything that I would have actively searched out, but they caught me so off guard that I was engrossed by the good and the bad of their performances.

When Fuyuki Yamakawa ambled onto the stage, his gaunt physique and waist-length hair gave him the appearance of a industrial post-punk frontman beside his amp stack. He had a slightly strung-out, focused intensity, the eeriness of which was only exaggerated by the microphone taped up near the bridge of his nose. Heavy, prolonged breathing filled the microphone and then he reared back with a sudden outburst of a rumbling, circular, buzzing screech. His jerk away from the mic and the volume of the sound shocked me so much that it took me a minute to realize he wasn't using a repeater with effects pedals to produce the sound - it was his singing. Yamakawa is an acclaimed practitioner of Khoomei, a type of overtone signing in which the musician creates two notes at the same time. The best I can do to describe it is that it sounds like a didgeridoo from hell. It was jarring and compelling to experience, but when his performance really took off was when he revealed his audio stethoscope.

Taped to his chest, the device amplified his heartbeat, filling the room with its rhythm and synching up with up a cluster of light bulbs dangling from a boom. As a result of Yamakawa's khoomei mastery, he has developed an unnerving degree of control over his heartbeat, which he regulates to fill the dark room with a piercing light and static-driven sound. Grabbing a guitar that he manipulated without ever strumming the strings, the sum effect of his pulse and overdrive was blisteringly loud and totally enveloping. While the sounds ranged from resembling the feeback of a rock band to blarring white noise, it was hypnotic to watch as his performance and his body's vital systems merged into one force. It was awesomely terrifying.

In contrast to Yamakawa's sorcery, Kanta Horio played the role of the mad professor. His instrument consisted of an electromagnetic field, with which he manipulates paper clips and metal washers across a rough wooden board to make a percussive music that blends with the 8-bit whine of the electronics. All of this is filmed and projected in real time, so that you can watch the corresponding motion of the shrapnel. I found it interesting how much of a narrative the audience ascribed to the paperclips. The small leaps, feints and pauses seemed like a Lilliputian ballet. Horio kept stepping back from his work to watch with a look of delight as his little experiment took on a life of its own. At many points, he had the distinct look of a flea circus ringmaster. His joy in his process was infectious, but for me, the jerky play of the metal pieces grew tiresome once the novelty of his conceit wore off.

Everything on the program fit within the loose category of onkyokei, a Japanese branch of electroacoustic improv music. The pitfall of such improvisational work is that it can veer off into self-absorption as the performers become fixated on working out a sonic experiment to its conclusion. Many times, the musicians built a piece its apex and then held on to it for just a bit longer than the audience was willing. This was largely how I felt about Aki Onda's performance, which I enjoyed the least out of the four acts. The concept sounded great, like turntabling with cassette decks, but the combination of the meandering sound combined with his affectless stage presence didn't satisfy. I personally would have found the music to be more successful if it were a bit more tonic. All of the recorded sounds fight for primacy over the others - parades, cars, piano practices, airplanes, white noise. I understand that Onda is working with the illusive terrain of memory (the aural sort) and that, by nature, it is likely to be a bit muddled. Still, I feel like the qualities of his field recordings were lost in the droning sonic wall he created.

Luckily, Atsuhiro Ito provided the perfect companion piece to Yamakawa's opening work. Ito's performance was probably the most musical of the entire night and served as a coda to the line-up. Using the Optron - essentially an amplified florescent light ballast - and a bevy of distortion pedals, Ito made a pulsating, driving electronica out of deep beats and surprisingly guitar-like strums. If Yamakawa's performance was the digital embodiment of his organic presence, then Ito was an android; all techno-geometry. On one end of the evening was a throbbing heartbeat and the elliptical flares of a cluster of round bulbs. At the other end of the night, Ito delivered blaringly staccato noise and the linear flash of a florescent tube.

To call any of these performers musicians would be a hasty misnomer as their work has more affinities with contemporary new media artists than songwriters. I imagine that venue is always a difficult decision with work like theirs. In some ways, it could be better suited to a warehouse installation, but the performative aspect of the pieces demands a stage. At the end of a long week of performances, it was an overwhelming spectacle and a bit of an endurance test. But at the same time, it was like that boom of the bass drum in a marching band; the kind of experience that forces its way inside you.

posted by patrick l.

My favorite performance of the entire festival was Young Jean Lee’s Theater Company’s Songs of the Dragons Flying to Heaven. It was brilliantly written and accomplished what many plays cannot. It made the audience laugh, cry, question, wonder, and walk away with better insight on two different cultures. From the first moments of the play it was already in my opinion an original masterpiece. The first ten violent minutes of the sounds and visions of a woman being smacked in the face were very disturbing and powerful. It was almost like the footage was a wake up call for the audience to pay close attention to the performance and the messages about the myths and truths of both Korean and American cultures.
Once the violent film came to an end and the audience’s uneasiness subsided came the more lighthearted but still powerful rest of the play. Young Jean Lee told two stories about two unique cultures on the stage. One being based around a Korean-American woman (played by the talented Becky Yamamoto) who throughout the performance ranted about Korean stereotypes, white people’s superficial ideas on racism, and how all we have is vanity. Along with the help of three traditional Korean women their story was wildly entertaining, hilarious, and shocking. From the suicide attempts during “All I Want For Christmas,” or the Anti-Jesus Bible Study every colorful scene was great.
The second storyline involved a white couple dressed in hideous neutral colored clothing having problems with their relationship. Jean Lee’s portrayal of the typical self-absorbed Caucasian couple was right on and fulfilled the ridiculous but usually truthful stereotypes of our culture. The domineering woman tarnishing her boyfriend’s sub par intelligence, and wanting to go to Africa for the banana trees was ingenious. Every time the Korean based characters would discuss the problems and narcissism of our white culture the next scene involving the feuding couple would creatively fit the discussed clichés.
Songs of the Dragon Flying to Heaven was one of the most inventive and thought provoking plays I have had the privilege to see. All the performances were outstanding and did complete justice for the brilliant writing and directing by Young Jean Lee. It allowed us in the audience a chance to view hilarious stereotypes and traditions that take place in both Korean and American cultures and the numerous similarities and differences they both have.

Posted by: James Maxwell

During every Saturday night shift at the bar I am currently employed at my fellow employees and regulars always ask me the routine question “What did you do today?” Usually I always have to respond with the mundane shopping, great workout, happy hour response, but not on this previous Saturday evening. Thanks to Gary Wiseman and his inventive Tea Project Self Portrait I was able to brag to everyone I went to my very first tea party.
I had been hearing about Wiseman’s themed parties during the entire TBA festival and knew my cousin and I had to catch the last performance on Saturday afternoon. The selected show was entitled For Possibilit(ea)y 1993-2007 at the Rimsky-Korsakoffeee House. All of the guests were advised to wear red, black, and white, and bring bees or our interpretation of the insect. I saw everything from live bees in a jar, the letter B, and pictures of Bea Arthur. All the guests at the party looked beautiful and were perfectly coordinated with the theme of Saturday’s Party. The unique environment the coffee house provided along with the creative decorations made me feel like I was entering a modern day fairytale when I ventured into the Tea Party. I spent the next two hours taking part in some of the best people watching I have ever experienced while listening to the pianist play perfectly themed whimsical music.
Wiseman portrayed the perfect host of the party making his rounds to each table handing out his inventive brochures making sure we all were enjoying the treats and lemon hibiscus tea. It was truly a magical afternoon filled with inspiration and creativity. Wiseman showcased such an original, interactive view of visual art that allowed me to walk away from my first tea party full of wonder, sweets, and fun.

Posted By: James Maxwell

Found discarded on the floor after a show.
Is a "chance meetings" ad time based art?

T:BA:07 Day Eleven – Sunday, 16 September 2007

This just might be the last of the bLogs. It has been fun attending yet another year’s T:BA Festival, jotting down some thoughts, and hearing responses both in person and via this site. I must say though, it has been interesting on a sociological level that most of the bLog comments are quite negative, even though the in-person communication has been quite positive, intelligent and thought provoking.

I also find it interesting that people seem to mostly react with passion when I ‘dare’ to say something negative about an artist or performance. Fascinating! Even when I try to paint a context, to frame a negative criticism within the comfy nest of the many other wonderful aspects of the rest of the show, or the rest of the artist’s intentions, people seem to just latch onto that one bad / juicy morsel, and freak out.

C’est la vie.

I have no intention of starting to lie or pander. If you hate my work, please tell me, but also please tell me why, so that I may then improve what I am doing, and take your intelligent thoughts into consideration for my next endeavor.

Right, onto covering the last day of PICA’s T:BA Festival…

9:30a Zoe Scofield Workshop, Conduit
11:00a Cartune Xprez, Living Room Theater
12:30p Moving Images, PNCA
1:30p Affair, Jupiter Hotel
3:00p Elevator Repair Service, Imago
8:30p Claude Wampler, Gerding Armory
10:30p Some Cats from Japan, Wonder
1:00a John Carpenter Band [secret performance]

The day started with a dance workshop, which has become a really fun way to begin. I might start going through withdrawal now that T:BA is over and need to start taking classes with someone. Anyone have any suggestions?

Zoe, Christiana Axelsen and Allison van Dyck were at Conduit to convey some of the methodology that they use to inspire and inform their dance troupe. Zoe took the lead, and Christiana and Allison just faded back into the horde of participants. Basically what we did was to think not about flowing full-body movement, but to allow a finger, wrist, elbow, or shoulder to inform out movement and dictate it. Keeping yourself still, relax your body and mind,… Now, bend a finger, not the entire hand, just the finger. Feel the relationship between that finger and the rest of your hand, the rest of your body. Now, move from your wrist. Not the entire arm, don’t bend your elbow, just your wrist. But, keep that finger, which you moved earlier in the same relative position to the rest of your hand. Try it again. Move your wrist in a different direction, keeping that finger / hand relationship pure and undisturbed. Now try moving your elbow, not the wrist, finger or hand. They are to stay in place, relatively. If it helps, start thinking of your body as a series of servo’s like C3PO in Star Wars, you are only moving on set at a time, and all of the other bodily relationships are staying fixed. Keep going, try some more movement, now don’t let the limitations of ‘range of movement’ impeded you. Move your finger, move it so that it guides your entire body. Imagine a cable attached to your finger. As you move it, it stretches forward, first pulling your hand, then your wrist, arm, perhaps your entire body. Like a marionette, that pulling upon your finger could lift you through space like the marionettes in the film “Being John Malkovich”. As your finger is pulled, as the motion is translated through the other joints of your body, which are affected, which are not and therefore stay the same. If one of the area does not change, then the ghost imprint of the earlier movement stays strong. It is this play between ghosts and impetus that informs their work.

We then worked as partners, moving each other, one part at a time, like one of those little wooden figures you can buy at Utrecht with ball joints to allow articulation.

It is a simple idea, but a beautiful one.
Often it is the must subtle of things that is most powerful.
Thank you Zoe, Christiana and Allison.

The dance workshop finished up just after 11am, so I could have rushed over to the Livingroom Theater for Cartune Xprez, but I was more motivated by the prospect of yummy food, as I had not yet eaten. So, to Blossoming Lotus I went. YUM!

Today’s PNCA Noon:30 was with Aki Onda and Fuyuki Yamakawa. Pablo de Ocampo moderated, which was wonderful, but also sad as a reminder that he no longer lives in Portland; as he is not the artistic director of the Images Festival in Toronto. I do miss having Pablo’s vision and quiet wisdom in town. Aki showed some of the ‘memory stills’ and ‘memory sounds’ that he samples to fill the void in his life. Having re-emerged from depression, he is greatly interested in that which might otherwise become forgotten, and using these ‘memories’ as a basis for his work. [More later at the Works.]
Fuyuki Yamakawa discussed the technical and biofeedback meditations he does with his heart music. The discussion group was concerned about the gimmicky nature of their work, and wanted to know about the potential for either type-casting, or just having a cool toy that people want to see. This is something that “That One Guy, musical alchemist” and the more famous “Blue Man Group” often have to struggle with. Do you want to get famous and ‘sell-out’ for your gimmick, or do you want to become respected for your creative process and exploratory vision? No one, well mostly no one, wants to be a one hit wonder; but just getting that first hit, let alone being able to sustain it for a life-time artistic career, is very difficult. Many ‘famous’ artists died penniless in gutters, and were not ‘discovered’ until later. Dickson’s path aside, I still think we should focus upon process and artistic journeys that span a lifetime. [Please note, I only know about what they discussed here, and the pieces they presented at the Works. I’m mostly writing about the conversation that group had during the Noon:30 chat, and not making a critique of the artists themselves.]

Have a little time before Gatz was to begin, I headed over to the Jupiter Hotel to see the Affair. This is a wonderful annual event that was started by envisioned by Stuart Horodner, formerly with PICA, now with the Atlanta Contemporary Art Center. This was not a T:BA event, but out of respect PICA was kind enough to list it. I was impressed with some of the work from Quality Pictures [www.qpca.com], which is a gallery at 916 NW Hoyt right here in Portland. Funny, that with galleries from all around the country, that I was drawn to the work from one here in town. Quite unexpected.

The lovely bonus was that I had a chance to sit down with Gary Wiseman and chat for a bit. I had missed his three T:BA tea parties, and was thrilled to find him at the end of the walkway with a few cups of tea and sesame treats. He is a really nice guy, and I am looking forward to having many more conversations with him. He simply wants to help people start having genuine and sincere relationships, and it all begins with the first conversation.

We also were able to speak about the temporality of the universe, specifically in relation to some of the pieces that he is currently creating. I told him a bit about a project out Japan called “Shinkenchiku” and some of the ideas that I mused upon for an earlier response to the project, but I will just let the reader do some follow-up if they are interested, and not lengthen this posting unnecessarily.
Look, I’m trying to be a ‘better’ bLogger…
;P

3pm, time to get a drink, eat a snack, pee, or whatever else you need to do before sitting down for a seven-hour performances. OK, so going in, I knew that I was not going to be able to stay for the full thing, as I had a reservation for Claude Wampler, so I knew I had a ‘way out’ if it got too bad. But it wasn’t. This is another one of those pleasant T:BA surprises.
Mark Russell has been raving about Elevator Repair Service’s “Gatz” all week. My expectations were low, as I tend to not connect much the theater pieces, but in I went.
“The Great Gatsby” by F. Scott Fitzgerald was one of those books that I read when I was a kid, and I remember enjoying it. Elevator Repair Service did a wonderful rendition of the work, being quite inventive, interpretive and intelligent about how to translate the work into a contemporary setting. I did enjoy their show, or at least the four hours worth that I witnessed, but I had to make a choice, and even though I saw the play starting to evolve into something with a great energy and personality, I did not feel that I was going to “WOW” me, so I decided to keep to my original plan, and head over to Claude’s piece.

Claude Wampler’s work is something that I have heard rumors about, and was quite interested in. Plus, as I was having a bit of dinner before heading over to the show, a number of things crystallized in my mind…
1) Claude spoke about her work being contrived, and full of rigged drama in the Noon:30 chat;
2) Linda Austin had posted a request for performers back in July, and when I had cross-referenced the rehearsal schedule, I realized that it had to be for Claude’s piece;
3) PICA, I had thought, was only taking thirty reservations for each show….

Now, before I got to the Gerding Theater, I thought that the show was going to be upstairs where we had just seen Marc Bamuthi Joseph. That’s a 300 person theater. If PICA only took thirty reservations, then there were going to be 270 plants. THAT’S INSANE!!! Ok, so that cannot be the case. To give T:BA passes to 270 performers would be an in-kind cost of thousands, and certainly out of the budget for the performance.

What else?
What if a fire alarm goes off during the show?
Should I get up and exit the building in an orderly manner, or would it be part of the show?

I do not know, but I do know that I did enter the space in the heightened paranoia that Claude was speaking about the other day in the Noon:30 chat.

I got there a bit early.
When I arrived at the Gerding, I looked around, and remembered that it was a brand new space, and that the management would probably not allow anything really crazy to happen. No infernos were going to consume us, no bulldozers were going to come crashing through the wall… what then was the twist going to be?

Much like Liz Haley’s piece, the audience became the show. We were not watching the work enfold, Liz and Claude were watching us. We were their entertainment, their rats running the maze to an end we did not know.

They held off for a bit in letting us inside, suggesting that we go elsewhere for a snack or drink, which is strange since they have a coffee bar right there in the space. But, when I got downstairs, I started to understand why. While I was waiting, once they opened up the rope, I saw about a half dozen folks head downstairs, but when I got down there, there were a good two dozen folks. The paranoia was kicking in.

I saw a new friend of mine from the dance workshops, and I went to chat with her. She was wearing a brace on her leg, which certainly was not there earlier in the day, so I asked, as I was concerned, “What happened?” She told me about a rehearsal she has after our workshop with Zoe, and that she had rolled her ankle. It was going to be at least a month before she could get back to the rehearsals and can continue dancing. We spoke for a while, and I related stories about other dancer friends whom had rushed their recovery, and then had recurring injuries. “It is best to baby yourself a bit, and not rush things”, I said. The ushers opened the doors, and let us in with the caveat that it was a one-way door, and once exiting, you would not be re-admitted.

OK, let the games begin.

I went in, and promptly headed straight for the back row. I wanted to watch the audience, as I knew they were going to be part of the show, or the full show, depending upon how you look at it. Perfect, back row, center, full view of it all!

Crowd comes in, I start counting heads.
There are some ninety people there.
WOW, sixty plants, that’s quite a commitment for PICA!
A really tall guy sits down next to me, and starts chatting right away.
He just won’t stop, chatting with me, chatting with the fellow on the other side of him, he just keeps going. But, I want to stay focused, I want to figure this thing out. Where are the smoke and mirrors, what is the secret code behind all of the magic.
They guy next to me keeps going, so I start thinking, “ok, so this guy is a ‘talker’ plant”… what are the other roles that are being played out there.

A projector comes one, and a polar bear costumed person saunters across the stage. Kinda cute, in a kitschy way.
Then three more bodies appear, light and smoke merge to create holographic personas that we can watch working out a new music piece. It is entertaining, but just takes a long time.
Well, as their momentum starts to build, this guy flicks on his lighter. Oh, he has got to be a plant!
Then more people with lighters. Some people get up and leave, the crowd hisses at them, more band practice, more chit chat in the audience, it is getting very informal in the space, I’m watching a social transformation. People laugh at things that are kinda funny, but not really. People start talking with each other, the guy next to me is trying to strike-up a music history dialogue with the other fellow on his other side, as he has realized that I just refuse to give-in to his role. A lady in the front is swaying her arm, like a good Portland hippy chick [just a descriptor, not a slam] ready to dance with the least of a bass line, the intensity grows.
The ‘real’ band emerges. It is Johnny Carpenter, straight from NYC! Cool!
Johnny is wearing silver undies, and looking quite cute.
The crowd erupts. People are singing along, dancing in the aisles, it is all just too much.
I catch a glimpse of Claude standing in the back corner, puffed up and with a head mic like a roadie or bouncer. I keep one eye on her.
The ‘show’ ends. And people leave, but some stay behind.
I want to stay, I am waiting for that fifteen minute solo that she spoke about with the dogs in the back of another show.
There are some minimal things.
A lady picks up the polar bear head that is sitting upon the floor, places in over her head, and does a few dance steps.
Someone goes to head back stage, to talk with their friends in the band, and Claude grabs her and tosses her back as any good bouncer would do.
Then, that seems to be it.
Some people come in and start breaking down the set.
Some others are cleaning up the seats.
But, Claude is still down there.
I’m watching her, it is over, is she just watching the end of the piece with a sense of satisfaction.
I figure I’ll just go talk to her.
“Thank you, I enjoyed the show”… “Those cigarette lighter people had to be plants”
“No, it was a genuine response by the audience”, Claude says.
Hummm…

Tonight was the last night of the show.
I had reserved my ticket just so that I could be there at the end.
If it was really to be the end of her artistic career, I wanted to see the last hurrah.

As I exited, still watching the people around me with inquiry, as was the show really over?
I checked my watch, and it was 9:30. The show was scheduled to be an hour, so it might have really been done. But, I just want not sure.
When I got up to the ground level, I saw some friends whom are Gerding staff getting ready to leave, so I figured that it was really over, that I could relax and just start chatting with folks. And lucky me, the group of ladies I met up with were discussing the predicament and beauty of menopause. Ah, yep, back in reality.

Well, the ‘plants’ were getting together, as it was the last show, and they were going to go celebrate. I did not know whom they all were, but I knew that Linda was the conductor, so I followed her to the group. My friend in the brace was not wearing it any longer… She was a plant too?!?!?! What the #$^&*(!
The lady in front of me with the great swaying pants, she too was one of the plants.
And the lady with the el-wire headband, I thought she was just a burner still glowing from the playa.
Yeah, the guy next to me was one of the plants, that I expected, but the guy he was annoying on the other side of him, whom I thought was as genuine as myself, he was a plant too!
Oh, and the guy that started the lighter thing, whom I assumed was a plant from the get-go, he wasn’t. He was just a drunk guy that was hitting on a lady whom actually was a plant. How’s that for irony!

Oh my goodness, it was brilliant!
Claude, you might be right, to create something ‘real’ it might need to be completely contrived!

It would be amazing to get inside of Claude’s head, because she seems to keep her cards close; but that is the nature of her creative vision. She has to keep other in the dark.
Thank you Claude.

One last night at the Works to see some cats from Japan. Aki Onda and Fuyuki Yamakawa I had heard speak about their work earlier in the day. But, Atsuhiro Ito and Kanta Horio were still unknowns.

Fuyuki Yamakawa I really liked. He was the one that earlier spoke about amping his heart sounds with a midi connection of light strobes. It was very cool, intense, and visceral.

I was not so into the other three performers. Kanto Horio’s electromagnetic work was interesting for a few moments, but no more impressive to me then when I started playing with that stuff as a kid. Mind you, the sounds for a disc of metal tossed upon a resonant surface and spinning to flat is one of my favorite sounds, right up there where the drawing a sword out of a scabbard, but the duration lost my attention. Atsuhiro’s piece with the light tube was interesting, and I really enjoyed it on one level, but as it seemed that the light was midi’d to the bass, and not the other way around, I lost interest on a higher level. I thought he was going to ‘play’ the light, but it was just schtick. Good music though. Aki’s work was fun, and with his images could have been much more theatrical, but he chose to stand quietly upon the stage while his mix pummeled.

I enjoyed the intensity of the three ‘loud’ piece, but having one of those ear plug vending machines that they have over at Mt.Tabor might have been nice.

Is the night over, is there more?
Yes, there is.
But, much in Claude Wampler’s vein, after much of the crowd left, Mark Russell got on stage, did a few thank you’s and then introduced the John Carpenter Band. It was great. Like when you purchase a CD and there is a secret track at the end of the play, which you were not expecting.

A bunch of us cleared ways all of the chairs and a little dance floor was filled up with people. Mostly the plants from Claude’s show, and a few PICA staffers, we had a great time! Even ended the night with a little pillow fight before they toss all of us out.

- - - THE END - - -
[time to get some sleep, and clean the house…]

Ciao,
Fredrick H. Zal
Architect | Sculptor | Advocate

Atelier Z
an.architecture and industrial design studio
advocating dialogue in the fine + applied arts
http://www.fhzal.com

Prior ‘Day in the Life’ Posts:
Navigating T:BA;
Day 01 – Opening Night;
Day 02;
Day 03;
Day 04;
Day 05;
Day 06;
Day 07;
Day 09;