Tuesday, March 09, 2004

There was something about Spalding Gray that made me think of him as immortal, immutable, a light, a voice rising on a darkened, quiet stage, an existential affirmation that, after all, it's all about the story. I forget that in all of that, he was human, profoundly so, which is what made his performances all the more riveting, as if I was privy, for a moment, to the stories that I'd heard so-and-so's uncle tells after he's had a few mint juleps at family gatherings. And even though his were performances, I remember, the first time I saw him, up in Gainesville, on the screen at the quirky art house cinema, feeling slightly more sane, watching someone else's brain expound iterative linkages that form a constant background hum in my own mind, jumping to and fro. And his mind meanderings followed a narrative, bringing even the most wayward spirals back into some order, some narrative framework, with an unexpected cogency that made his performance part magic. I guess the magic of DVD will ensure that I can check in with him on occasion, but I don't think I've been as sad about an artist's death in some time, if ever. 7:50:00 AM