Friday night we got another sitter and headed down to The Vortex to see a full evening of the Fusebox Festival. On the agenda for the evening was a little food, a fair amount of drinking, some great conversation, Listening to Spiders, Get Mad at Sin, and Discussing Art in the 21st Century_ A mixed media presentation of image demarcations via celebrity representation and theoretical post-functional analysis, sutured with the effects of cheap video technology and critical thought. We showed up a little early, got some vegetal tacos from El Chilito, ordered a couple of Lone Star tallboys and got our evening off to a great start with old friends and new. There’s a ton to go through so I’ll try to be brief.

Listening to Spiders was an amazing study in variations and play with shadow. Jason Phelps seems to strip all of the dance out of dancing leaving a bare and intriguing performance of gesture and movement. Even still I could see echoes of intense dance training and yoga among the nuanced display. Inspired by and choreographed to the album Spiderland by Slint, Listening to Spiders seemed at first to be sparse and simplistic but much like the music, revealed a quiet complexity as the show progressed. During the last piece I stopped watching the performance and began instead to watch the shadow he was creating on the large scrim behind him. The piece became a duet between man and self and I wished I had done more of this. All in all it was a good show and a great way to start the evening.

Get Mad at Sin was a painstakingly precise reenactment of a sermon given by Jimmy Swaggart pulled from a vinyl recording from somewhere around 1971, complete with all of the flubs and stutters that Swaggart originally made. Normally done on a church setting, the show was reworked for Fusebox as a tent revival in the courtyard of the Vortex. My father was a preacher and so was my grandfather, so this show was particularly touching for me and Andrew Dinwiddie does an incredible job. Everything from the black bible, to the polyester suit to the handkerchief he uses to wipe his sweaty brow to the music and bedraggled seating were just right. Andrew’s physicality was spot on. And being able to see the faces of the audience members on the other side of the tent added a lot of laughter and a welcome relief from the ring of fire and brimstone being spouted as ‘Jimmy’ stalked the line between us.  This was a dynamic and engaging show and a lot of fun.

Discussing . . . was a wicked and fun take on the panel discussion created by Phil Soltanoff. The panelist, Phil, Ron Berry, and KOOP’s own Slappy Pinchbottom sat in the front row facing the stage. On stage, three actors laid underneath tripods with video cameras focused down on their faces. This video was projected onto the faces of a third trio of participants who had their eyes and mouth taped over to provide a better projection surface. Overseeing all this was a meticulous videographer providing constant tweaks of placement and focus that became an integral part of the show and ensured the continuing success of the effect. The panelists discussed and provided voice. The three performers on the floor mimicked their mouth movements and provided the face, and the three performers in the chairs provided body language. To say this was a bit distracting is putting it lightly, but it was also fun, mesmerizing, and at times disturbing. Phil exploration into interaction, technology, and three dimensional space was a great twist on what are usually staid and scholarly events and the panelists were funny, engaging, and honest.

So that’s it… add a beer between each show, friends, fun, and conversation and you get the idea. The bar staff at The Vortex knocked it out of the park. They were all the way on top of the situation during each rush for drinks and likeable to boot. The Vortex itself proved to be a perfect venue for each show for different reasons and Bonnie Collum is the consummate host. Add a photo-shoot with Bejoy in the tin house outside and like me, your brain might explode. Another effing great night at Fusebox. Only two more days to go. Get out there and make some memories.

- Aaron Sanders

Coda – I caught up with the grey haired guy from my evening at the ND for Catch takes Fusebox. (See earlier blog.)Turns out, his name is Pedro and he’s been in and out of the Austin scene for quite some time. We had a nice talk and he was gracious and fun. . . I’m not sure if he drinks, but I still should have bought him a beer. I blame Dani. Sanders out.

In an effort to cross-pollinate Fusebox and the many avenues the world wide web has to offer, check out federal prisoner 30664 for blogs containing notes on Digestible Feats and the chefs and artists who have added to what has become one of the most talked about series Fusebox is offering this year.

-Timothy Braun

“Discussing Art in the 21st Century: A mixed media presentation of image demarcations via celebrity representation and theoretical post-functional analysis, sutured with the effects of cheap video technology and critical thought” was not a discussion, and it involved little critical thought. Featured as part of “Machine Shop” (the new Fusebox residency program) the concept of a panel discussion was meant to be seen as both a subject and object.  Phil Soltanoff, who brought the ultra-hip “LA Party” to last year’s Fusebox, used “video puppetry” to project the image of one actor lip-synching a live discussion onto the face of another. The idea was to workshop the panel discussion as a theatrical form.

The issues with last night’s soiree into the world of artistic discussion are that this was no discussion. The audience was filled with partners and friends of the panelists and quickly diverged into inside jokes (I was connected to one joke about a man asking for water which no one got), and a pep rally for Fusebox. The event steered at times towards fascinating ideas such as how a talkback after a show can affect audience interpretation of work (the audience seemed split on this and genuinely wanted to, here it comes, discuss this concept), but when these ideas got expressed the conversation was quickly diverted back to the pep rally format. There came a point where I thought about asking why we were all missing the Spurs game for this, or what did they think of Kate and William’s wedding, or “Does this shirt look good on me?” since discussing art was at a minimum. At one point, I was jokingly going to ask one of the panelist what the weather was like up his own ass to get a laugh out of the friendly audience (this was going to be tongue and cheek and silly), but I didn’t want to take a chance in insulting anyone. So, I decided to pull out my iPhone to check on the NFL Draft (at that moment the Indianapolis Colts selected Drake Nevis of LSU).

The major concern with the event is that the audience was too friendly. Everyone knows each other, seems to like each other, and Fusebox needs to find ways to rope in a new audience, people from outside the theatre community, to continue the discussion on where art is now and where it is going. Even within the theater community of Austin, Fusebox is still an unknown. I teach at St. Edward’s University (several members of the Fusebox staff graduated from that school) and many of my colleagues in both theatre and the arts at the school have never heard of Fusebox. As Fusebox grows this needs to be addressed or the festival and the discussion will be nothing more than sports fans cheering on their team. A team with some thought, a little discussion, but mostly “cheap video technology”.

-Timothy Braun

Upstairs at the Seaholm Power Plant, amongst the spartan and disheveled cement corridors and destroyed restrooms, is a special place I refer to as “The Safe Room.” Actually, someone else referred to it as such because the thick, metal door has one of those large heavy handles you press down to open, like a giant safe. I think it actually was a safe at some point. The inside is an empty, maybe 12’x12’ room. There is no furniture, no electricity, no windows—just a cement room, solid, cold and echoic. It also could be a lot scarier to visit had there still been a lock on the door.

My thoughts had focused on this simple chamber every night I spent at Seaholm during the Fusebox Festival, not because of its stark minimalism, interesting sonic properties, or history at the power plant. No, I’m afraid it was because this appeared to be the ultimate getaway room, and by getaway I mean grab somebody and have seven-minutes-in-heaven getaway. Yep, I’m that guy. The following chronicles my evenings at Seaholm in “The Safe Room.”

Wednesday, April 20th.
What a scene! The place is packed, too hot, reverberating with a hundred strings and the carousing of the opening night festivalgoers. I wander upstairs with my friend “Baby Doll” and a couple others, drinks in hand (loved the Fusebox Sour, but that’s a discussion for my mixology blog). We marvel at the room featuring the “Exquisite Corpse” art installation, and by marvel I mean wonder why no one has taken it out with the recycling yet. It’s still early, we muse. There are a half a dozen more artists arriving daily who can fuck it up further.

But wait, what’s this door off to the side lead to, Baby Doll? Wanna check it out? To my surprise, she agrees.

“Are you afraid of the dark?” I offer sinisterly, as the door shuts behind us and we’re left blind with just our voices reverberating in the dark. “See if you can find me,” I challenge, as I creep around the room stealthily, listening to her voice and trying to keep silent myself. Finally I recoil in surprise as her hand touches my stomach. “I didn’t realize you were so close!” I then circle around the room some more, not giving enough of an indication of what I’m doing–not even to myself–until the door is opened from outside, and light and spectators spoil the scene.

“That was fun,” she says. Yeah. Tell it to your husband. I leave the upstairs a few moments later, not missing in my periphery Baby Doll returning into The Safe Room with another male friend. Perhaps he will be less refined. With any luck.

Thursday, April 21st.
“Hey, ‘Nancy-boots,’ wanna check out The Safe Room?” To my surprise, she agrees. This time we make little noises to listen to how the reverb lengthens the sound into a sinewy, sensual invitation. Well, it could, except Nancy’s interjecting little “Boops!” and “Beeps!” and I realize this is more about playing in the dark then “playing in the dark.” Nevertheless, I begin my invisible tiger prowl around the space, circling closer and closer to Nancy. Of course, I gather she could be off to one side of the room, leaving me playing with myself.

“It’s prrretty coool in here, eh?” I ask.
“Beep!”

We end up having a better time exploring the off-limits basement area, but that’s a story for my “How To Drug A Security Guard” blog.

Saturday, April 23rd.
I didn’t make it upstairs to The Safe Room this time, but my friend Shelley did as she was helping close the venue for the night. According to Shelley, who was volunteering for the festival, she passed by the room when making the final round at the end of the evening, and after a moment of deliberation, decided for the hell of it to open the door. Surely no one could still be in there…
Shelley was shaken as she unearthed two young, wide-eyed partiers, standing upright near the center of the room, aiming their drug-addled stares at the open door. It looked as though they had been in that position for weeks.

“Um, show’s over, guys…are you ok?”
“Uh…. yeah?”
Shelley managed to clear the room, and in another “for the hell of it” moment decided to take a final peek into the corner behind the door, where she found a third patron, crouching low, beaming with the same stoned scared expression. Kids today…

Shelley and friend demonstrate “Tripping the Dark Fantastic.”

Sunday, April 24^th

Sparked by @FuseboxFestival

1. Find Bijoy (or he finds you)

2. Accept your mission, if you choose it, to be the “subject”

3. Take possession of the orange sunglasses

4. Find a photographer, who takes the iPhone

5. Roam fusebox and take as many pics as you like

6. Pick your favorite for the project

7. Tag yourself & your photographer on the facebook album

8. Pick a tagline and share it on your pic. If you want to engage others, start a discussion about the tagline

“Kingsley” dons the orange sunglasses, I grab Bijoy’s iPhone, and we roam around the power plant for a few minutes, snapping pics. This is a shot I took of him in The Safe Room:

Tuesday, April 26^th

“Katy” and “Helen” are quick to exploit The Safe Room’s dark, ambient qualities with a low sung duet. It’s not nearly as pronounced and effective as the trio of singers in the cast of The Shipment I saw tonight, but it holds its own soulful place. We hear Rick Daddy spinning funk tracks downstairs. I decide not to speak or prowl this time, instead slinking off to a corner and making myself invisible—which is rather easy in this place. Katy and Helen chat for a spell, not concerning themselves with me at all. I wish I could record their conversation, the voices sound so resonant and mysterious, and I’m missing some of their gossip. But this would entail opening my iPhone and blowing my cover.   I imagine how cool it would be to escape through some secret trap door, sheltered from the light, and witness their surprise as they discover I’m not even there. I think they already assume that, but I’m not bothered by it. In fact, I’m beginning to think about the Safe Room and its guests in an altogether different way.

They finally search and find the door, and Katy is shocked for a brief moment as I remain out of view. “Where’s Adam!?”

Presto!

Wednesday, April 28^th – Closing night of the Fusebox Late Nights at Seaholm

1. “Tinkerbell” and I have a long and provocative talk about relationships out on the curb in front of the power plant, as I finish up a beer and wonder what to do next. What to do…I suggest a tour to The Safe Room and to my surprise blah blah blah…

Again there is the same sense of marvel, curiosity, and a little excitement if not fear when Tinkerbell and I enter the room, as the door slams with a hard locking snap (my favorite maneuver). I think a bit of our previous conversation and a few years of knowing each other easily lead to our first embrace, which is warm and friendly and maybe bittersweet.

2. “Well,” I tell my longtime friend, confidante, and co-conspirator ‘The Mistress,’ “I think it’s time we go to the Safe Room. “Let’s do this,” she agrees.  Immediately she is drawn to the operatic ambience and plies her skills as a vocalist. Below is a recording of The Mistress in The Safe Room.  Hide your crystal.

The Mistress

3. When “Sara Sota” and “Jezebel” arrive at Seaholm, I am practically dragged into The Safe Room before the invitation falls from my lips. The door slams shut, the light disappears, and for once, I don’t feel safe. Three friends with shared intentions get busy, and now my thoughts turn to: “Darn, it’s kind of hot in here.”

“I hope no one opens the door from outside.”

“Whose hand is that?”

“Thank god for snap button tops.”

“Does this have an ending?”

“Whose mouth is that?”

“My, there’s a lot of sweat.”

“Do I have lipstick all over myself?”

“Whose fingers are those?”

“Did somebody just come?”

“Did somebody just come?”

The door cracks open.“HEY-OH!” we laugh at our awkward but inevitable bust.

*****************

By now, a little late in the game, I have accepted a role someone has bestowed upon me as “the tour guide.” Your friendly, Seaholm Safe Room tour guide. Why haven’t I thought of this sooner? And why won’t Seaholm be around for next year’s Fusebox Festival? (That’s a cynical assumption).

******************

4. “Poupée” enters The Safe Room just ahead of me. Slam, snap! Silence. I stand a few feet away, listening for some sort of cue. Poupée does not make a sound. For a long time she does not utter a word. I ask her what she’s doing. “Listening,” she tells me. I listen too. I hold her hand. I put down my drink and have her do the same and I take both of her hands. I’ve returned to a sense of safety, and at the same time not knowing, and not anticipating. In some sense we have become one with the dark echoing space. There isn’t a lot to say or do, so we say and do little. It is an extremely gratifying experience—I hope for the both of us.

5. My last guest is “Lisa.” She is drunk and I am tired, but stir up the energy for this final tour of The Safe Room. Lisa reminds me of an innocent child—not because of what she doesn’t know, but because of her curiosity to know. While feeling a bit uneasy, she is enthralled with the sensory deprivation of the almost weightless space. Quietly she is testing her level of security. “I trust the space. Now can I trust you?” We put down our drinks. I accidentally kick over her cup of wine. I have to gently keep her from opening the door, ending the tour. As long as we’re comfortable, I want to stay in here for as long as possible. That seems to be something I’m discovering more with each visit, regardless of the plot line or deviation from it.

Now our senses are becoming more acute. After a few minutes we can see the faint line of light under the door, the barely perceptible shadows on the opposite wall. We can certainly hear the echo of the room, though Lisa, now resting against me as I lean back on a wall, notices how the hushed whisper, the faintest suspiration, seems to circumvent the long echo of any louder utterance. Our faces almost touch as we feel each other breathe. “I don’t even know you, Adam,” Lisa whispers.

“I know.”

But somehow playing with these notions of expectation, safety, entertainment, and daring has made me feel a lot closer to a lot of really good people.

Thanks, Fusebox.

-Adam Sultan

I had heard a lot of good buzz about The Shipment in addition to the research I’d done about Young Jean Lee. So, I was pretty excited to see the show and I must admit a bit apprehensive about what I might be in for. I expected challenging theater I just wasn’t sure exactly what kind. I like that feeling. The anticipation of the unknown and the little bit of courage and trust it takes to submit yourself to something new.

The Shipment was astonishing and is easily one of the ten best shows I have ever seen.  It was funny, and brazen, poignant and heart-felt. I left the theater more aware of my own racially ignorant tendencies and still somehow happy. This was a feast for the soul and a gift for the conscience; something to digest and hold dear for a long time to come.

It is the product of two years of workshops and collaboration shepherded by the diligent and masterful hand of the writer/director Young Jean Lee. Through open and intimate conversations the show was molded into an unabashed reflection of truth and faith. Lee asked the cast what made them mad, what kind of parts they were always getting type cast for, and what kind of parts they wanted to play. This and rehearsal and more was fused into an indelible experience that gave each artist time to craft and hone their performances and gave the audience something unforgettable.

The first half of the show is a whirlwind of short pieces that pull pictures from our past and present and twist them into new focus. There’s a dance at the beginning that made me think of The Nicholas Brothers. Not tap, but that kind of wide smiling ‘anything you can do I can do better’ energy. The foul mouthed stand-up comedy section was gripping and hilarious. He worked the audience and pushed us from laughter to uneasiness to stunned silence with charm and fire. The story of the drug dealer and the rapper with the gee whiz zing was against type and still rung painfully true. There was more, but for some of it you just had to be there. It was experiential and words won’t do it justice.

The second half of the show was an amazing bit of realism that showed off, not only the ensemble’s undeniable talent but also the director’s brilliance. Each picture was perfect. Each actor seemed perfectly cast.  It was a showcase of what theater can be, given time and attention and heart. At the end there is a twist that is striking and immediately obvious in the same way a well-placed punch line is.  The kind of thing that stains your brain, makes you clap for five minutes and then drop, heavy back into your seat to take deep breathes and contemplate.

Afterwards I went over to Seaholm and trolled around looking at the art instillations, chatting with friends, and listening to the tail end of Pecha Kucha, which was a cool collage of artist giving slide show presentations about their work and experiences.  I had the good fortune to spend some time with some of the cast and crew of The Shipment (Thanks HH). I found them to be approachable and funny, smart, sassy and easy to like. We talked about art and their travels with the show in Europe and some stuff that is locked away in the vault. I laughed until my face hurt at Best of Super Happy Fun Monkey and our reactions to it. Japanese TV is like being on LSD without all the trouble of actually doing the drug.

I stayed way too late, eventually saved by a bad case of hiccups that sent me out into the dark and home without the awkwardness of goodbyes. This is the kind of night that defines Fusebox for me and will keep me coming back again and again. Thanks to everyone who is doing anything to help put this festival together. I am inspired and energized and so grateful. I had such a good time and I’m hungry for more.

-Aaron Sanders

I met Young Jean Lee in, I think it was, February of 2003. I was the box office manager for Richard Foreman. She was an intern for Radiohole, and the night she came to Foreman’s show we talked when she returned to the theatre after the performance for her forgotten jacket. She was nice and a little silly and she convinced me to take a playwriting workshop she was attending. Five months later we both produced short plays from that workshop in Foreman’s theatre, the Ontological-Hysteric, as part of a series called “The Blueprint”.  Her script was an odd and funny spin on white people in China, which included a Chinese Emperor dancing to Eminem and shockingly subtle moments of sincerity in a sea of post-modern ridiculousness. I’m not certain, but I think this was her first play.

The Shipment is not Young Jean Lee’s latest play, but it is arguable her best. As the show developed in New York City and toured the world I hadn’t heard a single bad note about it. Not a bad review, not a grumpy facebook status, and I spoke to several friends who all commented with some variation on “you just gotta see it”. The show is a none-apologetic romp on race in America (primarily Africa-American issues, with a few cunning twists and turns), juxtaposing shifts in crude humor, to poignant moments of unflinching honesty. The show starts with a choreographed piece of well-dressed black men dancing to Semisonic’s “Fascinating New Thing”, a move I gathered to be a subtle address to New York’s notoriously white down theater audience (and it’s a fun, inviting song too), then quickly jumps to a comedian providing unvarnished comments about pedophilia which prompted three audience members seated in front of me to exit the theatre. This technique is nothing new for Lee, and it is nothing new to theatre, she just does it better than any one else I can think of.  From this point the play systematically goes into mini-plays confronting stereotypes and subjects Lee hates to see on stage (another technique she relishes) to such a personal effect one can’t help but hope for the characters.

The difference from play-to-play that I’ve seen over the years from Lee is how detailed and precise her shows and collaborators have become. When we did plays in Foreman’s theatre all those years ago Lee had to ask the playwright Thomas Bradshaw, a black man, to play the Emperor of China because she didn’t know many actors.  With The Shipment her actors are so specific I can’t imagine this play being produced with any others. Even the set, by long time collaborator David Evans Morris, is so exact in its IKEA perfection the final line of The Shipment becomes obvious, and even a little sad. Lee and her team is aware of her audience, and knows hoe to affect them and effect their theatre. Like an architect, Young Jean Lee has been working with the same blueprints for years, but now she’s building shows bigger, strong, and more striking. She is no longer a fascinating new thing, she is just fascinating and getting every ounce of credit she deserves.

-Timothy Braun

CODA

When I say IKEA perfectness, Morris clearly used the Expedit bookcase, the Adum rug, and the Karlstad sofa, and I might be wrong but I think it was a wink to white America.

So, a little background – CATCH is a multi-faceted, multi-disciplinary, rough and ready performance series-event put on every two months or so, usually in Brooklyn, NY. Since the curators of the CATCH series are in town with performances for Fusebox they agreed to give Austin a taste of this wonderful and approachable format. Andrew Dinwiddie has a show called Get Mad at Sin and I believe Jeff Larson is a producer for The Shipment. – don’t hold me to that, but that’s what my brain is telling me after four sips of coffee. This iteration of Catch was made up of artists that were in town for the festival with a couple of locals sprinkled in for flavor.

Andrew and Jeff are terrific hosts. They have that sort of ‘been there, done that’ stage presence that puts the audience at ease and enough charm to power a space shuttle. There’s a great vibe to the show that I can only assume is due to their influence. Everyone chips in to make the show work and cleans up after themselves. There’s no air of superiority or entitlement. At intermission Andrew and Jeff swept the stage.

Now the show – Each piece was about 15 minutes, give or take. All of the acts for the first half were announced at the top of the show so that each piece could just naturally dovetail into the next. I don’t think there was a program for the evening or anything so I don’t have the names of the artists or the pieces, but I can give you a rough outlined of what you missed.

First up was a young woman with a solo dance piece that was sexy and funny and fun. The image that sticks with me is her squatting down, reaching her hands under her pants until they popped out at her knees, grabbing her legs, and then hopping; which is odd, since she was topless for half of the piece. I blame tEEth.

Next, was a theatrical piece, performed by five or six women. To me, it felt like an old Native American fable told in a deadpan haze by post college girls waiting for the mushrooms they just took to work. There was a tree that was gone, which meant now there was a hole and they were gonna fill it by putting all of these lockers in wood chipper like the one from Fargo.

I think the next one was called Baba Yaga. It was a dance piece and one of my favorites of the night. Imagine a dancer being forced to dance by an African song of exultation that never ends. It teases and taunts, but will not stop. It’s hard to describe, but the song itself became a long joke that was funny and then stopped being funny and then was funny again and just kept getting funnier. The dancer’s performance was nuanced and ferocious. It was, at once an athletic and a comedic feat.

That was hard a hard act to follow, but I think they chose wisely by bringing on a quiet performance piece. It was one woman who brought, balanced on her head, a tub of soil and an old whisk broom. She poured it out on the stage and then made impressions on it with her body in several ways, then simply cleaned it up and walked away. It was engaging and just the right kind of palette cleanser.

After intermission, a fluorescent light was dropped to just above the stage and a man in a black robe came out. He performed a dance/performance piece. For the most part the dance was perfectly timed tiny movements that accentuated the music combined with a tongue-in-cheek seduction of the audience. He stroked his chest hair and drew sexy lines from his head to his toes. It was subtle and awkward and really funny.

Next, a brother and sister act came out. The brother played guitar and sang and the sister danced. After professing to have real life experience getting each other kidnapped like the movie Labyrinth, they proceeded to improvise the movie without dialogue. It was not a linear depiction and ran the gamut from comic slapstick to what was really some astonishing dance. Her balance and flexibility were amazing and his musical timing betrayed a history of improvisation.

Next up was a piece that was part theater and part dance performed by one woman. There was a brief monologue that sounded to me like a grandmother talking on the phone to her granddaughter about the time when her husband died. It was not nearly as depressing as it sounds and added layers to the dance that surrounded it.  This was a celebration of life and a nice one.

Finally a single male came out on stage and took several bows. Then went off stage and got a chair, a microphone and a notebook for an improvised talk-back about the dance piece we didn’t see that preceded the bowing. He had no moderator and instead decided to read the reviews for the aforementioned not-dance. You know, to spread the word about it. The reviews were the only part of the show not improvised and they were well written and laugh out loud funny. Indicative of the actual reviewers while poking fun and taking it to outlandish places. It was a great way to end the night.

So there you have it. Catch was fantastic. The ND was a great choice as venue for this show. The laid-back, local feel was a good fit.  It was great to see so many familiar faces and nice to get a chance to talk to the artists and meet new people. There’s more Fusebox, but we are quickly running out of days. Go see something and I hope to see you out there.

-Aaron Sanders

One more thing

Last night after Catch I had a conversation with three gentlemen at the bar. One was a dancer with Ballet Austin, one was a Fusebox performer and one was an audience member who was obviously intelligent and a patron of the arts. When the conversation turned to There is So Much Mad in Me, the audience member began to talk about his issues with the show and how he thought it could be improved, despite the fact that it was his favorite piece so far.

He felt that many of the moments in the show were caricatures and while I disagree with him I can see his point. He wanted the stakes to be raised. He wanted higher highs and lower lows. He wanted to know with certainty when to laugh and when to cry. He described his belief that there is no more hierarchy in art, that things have become muted because of the way people consume entertainment and the desensitization of our age. I think he just meant we need couch paintings and we need Picasso equally. They provide us a gauge with which to calibrate what we see and this allows us to inform our experience.

I bring this up because we spent a fair amount of time questioning his logic and trying to convince him that he has looking at Mad in Me the wrong way. While the conversation was amiable albeit spirited, I think our intention was somewhat misplaced. One of the great things about Fusebox is that it brings divergent points of view together to see and discuss art; to engage and debate about what we like and what we expect from it. I’m not suggesting that there can’t be differing points of view, but I think that we should allow those differences to challenge us and make us think as much as the work we’re discussing. We should be more welcoming of those counterpoints, because they stretch us, give us the opportunity to reach a broader audience and inform our creative process.

So to the grey-haired gentleman at ND last night: Thank you for standing your ground. Thank you for being a good patron of the arts. And thank you for reminding me to remain open to new ideas as I see new work and discuss it with my peers. If I dismissed your thoughts in any way, I am sorry. I hope our paths cross again and I look forward to the conversation.

Thursday, April 22^nd

When words such as “daring” and “fearless” are used to describe a dance or piece of theater, one may conjure a picture of brave, striking display; provocative or perhaps offensive content; that which is hardly boring. Directed by French choreographer Jérôme Bel, Cédric Andrieux offered a courageous sense of space and simplicity to describe his life as a young dancer under the tutelage of Merce Cunningham and others that carried a pronounced alternative to the shock and awe of a lot of modern theater, while being no less engaging.

In this gentle and witty autobiographical narrative infused with demonstrative dance pieces, Cédric expounded on his last couple decades in the dance world with a dry and unapologetic pacing, which (in my mind at least) elevated the simplest tasks—such as catching one’s breath or drinking from a water bottle—into compelling acts, enjoyable as any dance he performed, at times almost more so.

At one point, while describing Merce Cunningham’s monotonous and unvarying set of warm ups of which he was to practice daily for eight years, Cédric summoned the Zen philosophy that looks at each moment with a sense of freshness rather than predictability.

I decided to do the same and see it again.

Friday, April 23^rd

I once heard a Buddhist teacher explain, when discussing the challenging concept of emptiness, “It’s not necessarily a negative thing. For instance, when you’re looking for parking and you find an empty space…”

On at least three occasions (just one might be excruciatingly enough for most theater audiences) Cédric left the stage, to change clothing or exit from a dance. The audience was left in a timeless space viewing the same empty white-lit black box as the beginning of the show. On my second viewing I began to ponder, and even appreciate, the possibility and the fullness of this space. While some found an opportunity to relax and collect themselves, I was beginning to find the boundaries blurred between performer and the environment, movement and stillness, physical prowess and motionless monologue. It was akin to Cédric describing his relief at witnessing a performance of the Merce Cunninham dance company for the first time, discovering he was given allowance to simply watch or not watch, without judgment or hesitation—a daring and fearless occasion for both performer and audience.

CODA

Homemade
tEEth

What could symbolize the awkward, violent, unpredictable, tender, nuanced beauty of human kind better than the picture revealed as a standing nude woman draws one leg up and holds the stretched limb wide open to one side?

So why was this bold move hidden by a crafty turn that hid the picture from the audience in the same manner each of the several times it was repeated?

That’s all I’m asking.

-Adam Sultan

I didn’t expect to see There is so much mad in me, but we finished up the Easter festivities fairly early and so I threw on some flip flops and torn-up jeans and made my way down town. I arrived a little early, so I popped over to Fado’s for a quick pint of Stella and a breath or two. It was a beautiful day and I felt calm, comfortable and properly lubricated.

They lined us up to wait for the house to open and we stretched pretty far down the hall on both sides. It was clear the show was going to be packed. As show time approached the clamor of conversations grew. Anticipation was building, for good reason.

I was awed by the show. I’m still kind of stuck in an odd cerebral malaise. There is so much mad in me managed to defy genre and become a reflection of our time through the blending of performance arts. It held an unflinching mirror up to our TV and internet age. It was a rapid fire accounting of our own violence; the violence of wanting, of seeing, being seen, and not being seen. It was our culture on stage from school to work to nightlife to relationships, government and the violence of war.

Each moment seemed to melt into next blurring and blending the lines that we have drawn to help us stay sane. It was rough and painful, and yet funny, energetic and alive. I felt a little schizo at times watching it. As an example here are some of my notes in more or less chronological order of the show:

Idol worship – fear of the spotlight – promise of a song – love triangle – broken ménage –  relationship: one is energetic, alcoholic, crazy and other is trying to keep up, help out, get away – televangelist – trends – following the pack – workout video – a lot of loneliness with fits of joy – fighting – sex – sexuality – identity – flash mob – mob mentality – fight! – fleeting success – pain of the spotlight – party gone too far – gang rape – Abu Grahib – robbery – control – fear – hostage situation – the craziness of power – lust – sadness – how weak and needy the power-hungry really are – some just mean to say – look at me – look at us – help me – help us – Then the song we’ve been teased with – first 1, then 2, then 3 then all – choral – church choir – talk show – 5 girls, 10 vaginas – married 2 years no sex – a collage of real transcripts – throwing up – devolving into sex, orgy, birthing, marriage – group beating – a chase – military march – solo – Earth and War? – hurting it – pain – unsureness – marching on – us? – morphing – different people taking the lead – together – voice over – movie lines? – be truthful – tell me – I don’t know . . . This isn’t nearly a complete account of what I saw.

I waited after the show a bit to collect myself and my thoughts. I even tried to approach the choreographer to ask questions, but my timing was awkward and just off. In the end I decided that this befuddled, filled up, heavy feeling was proof enough of the shows brilliance, its power and its success. Getting answers to my questions wasn’t going to change anything.

This amazing group of dancers is a diverse, tireless, multi-talented, dynamo of an ensemble. It is a pleasure to see such commitment and ferocity on the stage. And Faye Driscoll is an amazing talent. At times I felt like I was looking at the entire internet at once as interpreted through dance. It was an experience that left me agog and punch drunk, happy and contemplative, like eating too much of a great meal. If you didn’t see it, its too late. Let this serve as a cautionary tale. Get out there and see as much as you can, ‘cause you never know what you might miss.

-Aaron Sanders