Tuesday, May 31, 2005

What A Theatrical Moment Is Not I was at Thumpers last night, a Seattle bar equipped with a small cabaret venue separate from its bar, a venue that Ann Evans Zavada, a local voice teacher, often takes advantage of as she creates opportunities for her students to perform. Last night was a "cabaret" (an uptown version of a recital, and lots more fun) performance, and my family and I, along with a few friends went to see my son sing--which he did quite well, but that is another post, another time. As I watched these young performers sing various songs from the musical theatre, I thought I'd take a bit of time and analyze just what was going on in terms of "density" as I've referred to that elusive goal of theatre work in recent posts. There was intense interest in the students as most of the audience were, as we were, family and friends (not to mention financial supporters). Truthfully, most of the students were early on in their training, and as high school students go, they sang bravely and well enough, but without much art (as in skill), though they were all obviously growing in their skills. I say this not to disparage them--truly, it was a wonderful evening--but rather to seek the truth about the quality of interaction between the audience and the performer. Theatrical density can be aided, I suppose, by familial connection, but...not really. By familial, I would include not only blood relations, or close friendships, but I would suggest that close political, religious, or any other idealogical ties are no real help in creating true artistic density or wholeness. This is the whole problem with close relations (by blood or politics or religion) telling you whether you're any good at a thing or not. Give my novel to my Mom or my friend, and its a great novel. Give my novel to my Christian buddies who want to encourage me and they say its a great novel. Give my novel to my Christian friends who are also published writers and I'm moving closer to the goal of getting real knowledge. When the published atheist comes to me and tells me he was moved by the writing, perhaps something more deeply artful is approaching. Not that atheists no more about art than Christians (that, too, is another post), but trying to say that art will transcend the barriers. In the theatre, the density of the moment is what we are seeking. Were the moments dense at the cabaret? Some were, mostly when singers forgot their lines, or smiled in a particular way, the crowd erupting in a spontaneous laugh. Artfully dense? No. Again, please don't hear that as criticism, but as comparative analysis. So density of a moment is not mere interest--we were all terribly interested in our children. Density of moment in the theatre has to be related to skilled construction and structure, and the linkages between smaller structures, both in actors moving moment to moment in terms of their own arcs, as well as by the physical work of directors and designers moving bodies and other aesthetic materials in space. Sometimes I worry that Christians in the theatre still think that Christian fellowship buys them an out when it comes to that skilled construction and structure. Note that the paragraph above is no respector of religion: it is part of the discipline and mystery of the theatre, across culture, across time, across space. Faith will inform art...if the skill is there to make art to start with. ...faith does not art make. 11:56:38 PM    comment []

Death Next Door Last week, last Thursday, a neighbor died. She was not an old woman, perhaps 60, mostly housebound due to her ill health and enormous weight. She had lived here since 1970, and I met her on perhaps two or three occasions. Though no longer married (I don't know what happened to her husbands--indications are there was more than one), she was not alone, and had for many years kept boarders in her home, men and women who were down on their luck for one reason or another--she offered them a roof over their heads for a pittance of rent. I met a few of them over the past couple of years, and they all spoke well of her, and seemed to be thankful. The house itself, sitting on a busy city corner, fell into disrepair. The backyard is a bit like a junkyard, the grass was seldom mowed, and several disabled cars have been seen in the front yard, others in the side driveway. The curtains were closed all around, and life inside was a mystery. The only member of her family I had met was a nephew, who I think now was perhaps her great-nephew, but that's unclear. When he told me of her death last Thursday night (I think it was Thursday), he invited me over to the house to offer my condolences, so I went. There I met her family, her children, all of whom live in the area. Several daughters, a son, and a single boarder who they seemed to approve of. They had thrown the others out, citing unnamed activities not appropriate for this home. The family is now in the midst of sorting through the woman's belongings. She was a "hoarder," they said, and over the past two days they've been dragging the woman's possessions out into the front yard to sell. The lawn is now covered with what look to be the contents of a well-stocked thrift shop, untold treasures everywhere. As I wander through this heap of stuff, certain things catch my eye. An old movie projector from the 60's, the collection of 50's and 60's LP's, the myriad spools of thread, the 13 sewing machines, a collection of Barbie dolls and handmade clothes. It made me think of Dallas Willard talking about the things we treasure, and how what we treasure tells something of who we are, reveals our humanity, our dignity. And here's the point of telling all this. It simply struck me again how swiftly our lives will be disassembled after we're gone. Sitting in the midst of our earthly treasures one minute, and the next minute they are in the lawn, sold for a nickel, a quarter, a buck. Strangers pawing over what was no doubt held once in near reverence for the simple joys offered. The family was estranged from the woman, the distance a remnant of long-gone addictions and the damaging behavior so seared in the minds of the children. They speak respectfully of her, as a woman who was best at reaching out to those in even more desperate circumstances than her own. But there is little sorrow, at least not just now, the giant task of clearing the house bearing down too heavily. They have their families to return to, lives to be lived, and the moment calls for action, not sorrow. Who knows how they are in quiet of the night, remembering, reflecting, wishing it had all been different. Human beings, honoring as best they know how, getting through it, wading through shame and love alike, wistful, courageous, an odd sort of "best they can do." A moment of silence for those passing from the planet. ...Thy Kingdom come... 7:54:48 AM    comment []

© Copyright 2005 Jeff Berryman .