Do any of you ever feel cut off from the world when you’re busiest with your art? Say, you’re in the midst of a huge project, or readying for a showing or somesuch and time is of the essence. How do you stay present with the world? Or am I the only one whose bathroom goes uncleaned for a few weeks or who wears the same pair of pants for a week and doesn’t know what’s going on in the primaries when I’m prepping a show? How do you find balance?
my local source is www.wfuv.org, but it’s a syndicated show: Mr. NIN is going to be on The World Cafe Monday at 10pm Eastern.
I am happy to report that all is not lost in the world of commercial theatre. Following are a list of plays running on Broadway that are a thrill to see.
Tracy Letts’ August: Osage County (sooo many Tony noms AND the Pulitzer Prize)
Stew’s Passing Strange (again with the myriad Tonys)
The phenomenal adaptation of The 39 Steps (talk about Tour de Force performances and some of the finest physical theatre I’ve seen in a long time)
Lin Manuel Miranda and Quiara Hudes’ In the Heights (Its exuberance is contagious, and the opening number is the best I’ve ever seen and AGAIN with the Tonys — I’m impressed with this year’s nominations, I have to say)
All of these plays have cheap-seat tickets that are still great seats for $26.50 or less. And they’re good. And they’re moving. And they’re what the folks that get paid the big bucks should actually be getting paid the big bucks for…
Whatever the energy of acknowledgement is that’s on Broadway right now, they should bottle it and sell it to whomever it is that wants to make The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants: The Musical before the moment of high art passes.
Hello Shadowy Creatures of the Night,
As you know, on June 8th, Sunday, at 7:30 Life in a Blender will be playing
at Joe’s Pub in New York City with a contorted new horn section that recalls
the bugles of Appomatox. I consider them each brave warriors. The U.S. mint
should issue a coin with all their faces somewhere on it. So I suggest you rummage
around in your desk drawer for that Sharpie–give it a little sniff–go
ahead–and mark June 8th with a big X. Now pop a danish in the microwave, get that
cup of coffee, stand by the window and watch the children running…running
down the street….as if they had ants in their pants…but no it’s probably not
ants or at least not real ants…yes, it’s the school bell beckoning them to
another day of brain fertilization. You can almost see the the seeds of
intelligence taking root in the head of little Tubby Winkle as he tries so valiantly
to keep up with the other children. “Run, Tubby, Run!” you think to yourself
as you watch him, coffee cup in hand, robe left slightly ajar to let in the
gentle morning breeze. Ahh, thank god I live in suburban America where I’m free
to do and think and…oh yes…feel whatever it is I’m feeling without having
to pay a fine or suffer a scolding. That’s why my baby can wear this American
flag diaper and my husband can keep a collection of false Hitler moustaches
hidden in his underwear drawer. Freedom. I hear it ringing like the school bell
down the street. Or buzzing like my digital alarm clock in the morning,
waking me for the early shift. I hear it’s robotic voice calling Free-dom.
Free-dom. Get up and work now. I am in such a reverie. Ding-dong. It’s the door bell.
Who could it be? “Hello Ma’am, I’m the milkman. A wonderful morning, isn’t
it.? Beautiful morning for such a world full of hurt. Doncha think? Have you been
enjoying the milk I’ve been delivering to you for the last three months? You
have, have you? Well, let me ask you this then? Have you ever thought about
paying for that milk?” Of course, you have the money for his precious milk. Just
a minute. I’ll be right back. And off you go up the stairs, into the
bathroom, and harriedly scramble out the bathroom window. Into the backyard and
running….running…running. That milkman will never get catch you now. You’re
running to the arms of Life In a Blender. June 8th, Sunday, at 7:30. Our arms
await you.
If you really want to help, go to Joe’s Pub web site NOW and order tickets.
via the New York Times, a Russian curator pays for challenging church and state.
I have a question about pop culture and high art. Well, maybe not a question, but an observation. I mentioned Legally Blonde in a previous post– I think it’s the height of commercialism, for goodness sakes it’s BASED ON A MOVIE, yet when I saw it (yes, I saw it. But the ticket was a comp, so hey…) there were elements of it that seriously wowed me. (The dancing was exuberant.) I had a headache by the end of Act 1, but still, there was much to be impressed about. And those are some of the highest paid theatre actors in the biz. And I certainly wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to earn that kind of living creating a show like that. It’s not my sensibility, but there was much to be learned about that kind of scale and marketing in seeing it.
When I saw Passing Strange (run don’t walk), the wowing happened in a different way. The storytelling was personal, visceral and captivating. The seven actors and three musicians filled that enormous stage with their energy and created a totally different world without a massive set or hydraulics. A lot to learn in a different way, yet still a commercial production looking to make a return on its investment on The Great White Way.
Perhaps this goes back to Stephen’s question of “Why do you show your art”. Somehow, I don’t think Passing Strange’s Stew created his piece to make major money, while MGM’s Legally Blonde is probably a different business model…
Why do you show your art? That’s one of the questions we are asking in our interviews for the ASCA film. We have gotten a few pretty standard replies and one person didn’t understand how we could ask that question. It was taken for granted and never thought about.
Is it an ego boost? An opportunity to make money? (with the noble cause of producing more art no doubt) Do we show to gain the respect and admiration of our peers? To boost our visibility and become famous? To share the inner truths we have discovered with our poor sightless companions. To awaken a sense of moral outrage. To motivate, comfort, shock, and challenge.
It seems to be divided two ways. Do I show for me or for the viewer? I have said in the past that showing my art is the next step in the creative process. I think thats bullshit now but I meant it then. I want to let the paintings fulfill their destiny. Let my children go out and see who they are in the context of the local coffee shop.
I’d hate to be seen as one who needs the support of their peers before knowing if it’s good or not. Damn it: it’s good, you just aren’t ready for it yet. You’re not at a place where you can understand, poor dears, someday maybe. I’ll die a martyr and the accumulation of my life’s work/folly will be stacked by the curb. A couple of smaller pieces hopefully scavenged by a passing painter with more visions than money. Then one day a century from now someone will find an old jpeg languishing on an ancient disc or in the hard drive of some professor of history and people will discover what was right under their noses the genius overlooked artist.
Why do I show my art?
I don’t know why.
Sure I still want to be famous but I’ll settle for enlightenment.
Sure I want lots of money (to make more art of course with maybe a large screen hdtv to watch pbs of course)
Yes I do want the respect and admiration of my peers, and at the same time I can’t stand them. “I wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member.” Thanks Woody.
I was having a conversation the other evening with Amir Parsa, whose project that we code-named “unfoldings” will be unveiling under its real name at the end of the month. We hit on the cost of living in Manhattan and its affect on artists (i.e., exodus?). I was thinking about it again while walking in SoHo yesterday — that what NYC (and other cities for that matter) needs is not just the successful artists, but those scrappy creators who keep challenging everything, who make it interesting to be in a cultural center — for the successful artists, designers, unsuccessful artists and appreciators, as opposed to just being up on what’s considered important (Did you see the XX at MoMA? Oh yes, but it wasn’t as good as the YY at Gagosian).
I picked up the thread again over breakfast this morning (whole grain french toast and CSA-supplied maple syrup, tea imported from Teaism, chez moi, if you’re wondering) in the NY Times Magazine tidbit by Bill Powers (Design and Living Spring 2008 Issue). A new hotel in the “LES,” which is the lower east side to those of us who aren’t realtors, is installing Lee Friedlander photos over every bed (apple and olive tree series, in light boxes); a painting by Peter Halley in the lobby; and a Gerard Malanga film-strip showing Andy Warhol that has been acid-etched into the bottom of the pool. The article concludes, “So, while a handful of locals might bemoan the continuing gentrification of the Lower East Side, few can complain about the hotel’s artistic pedigree.”
I don’t know if I’m more upset about the idea that showing Friedlander, Halley and Malanga is something to be happy about while gentrification pushes out dozens of contemporary artists; or about turning that trio into hotel decor. Good taste in the hospitality industry sounds like bad taste to me…
I have a little story of artistic provenance. I am embarking on a project that will present in the Anspacher Theatre at The Public this summer. This is the same space where Hair premiered in 1967. Usually, that wouldn’t seem such a big deal– this is New York and there are many theatres with rich histories. However, my mentor, the person responsible for leading me into the field of theatre directing and giving me an understanding of artistic process, was that seminal production’s director. In turn, the young woman about to play the lead in my production was a student of mine several years back. The person that taught me echoes through my teachings and processes to her. This place we will be working in feels the completion of an almost tribal circle– teacher to student, student to teacher and back to the temple for the culminating ritual. The work I will be doing in that hallowed space resonates with the same kind of rule-breaking energy of Hair, allowing me to understand more deeply my connection to my mentor and the meaning of artistic legacy.
One of my great joys in riding the A train downtown– the blessing and the curse that it is from 181st St. — is the hum of possibility that it holds from 125th St to 59th. Whether the mariachi band alights at 125 or the freestylers (flow like water, flow, flow) or the teams of kids crunkin’, breakin’ and jumping rope over each other ride in my car, I look forward to their performances, their outsider/autodidact/callitwhatyouwill creativity, often more than buying a ticket to a theatrical performance. I am fascinated by art that happens without a place built for it.
We are a rich culture of destinations. We go to the museum to see sculpture, the theatre to see a play, the met for an opera. But, I find there’s something more satisfying in the unexpected location for amazing performance. My day is elevated when I hear the elder erhu player on W4th St, that fabulous jazz trio that plays Columbus Circle or even the odd, old polka man on his Casio at Penn Station. I know, I know, they’re playing for cash. They’re not simply setting out to make my day brighter. But– there’s a spontaneity about street performance that feels like I can fold that art into my life and move forward with more creativity in my day. (Have you ever walked the 42nd street tunnel when the drummer plays at rush hour and found that everyone walking by falls into a rhythm that’s akin to dancing?) It’s that little piece of art that reminds me there’s something more to be aware of in my day– to not ride the train like a drone or pound the pavement without looking up to see the architecture, the people, the sky.
My sister lives in Bali, the bastion of spontaneous art. In fact, I would say that there, art is a way of life– there are daily offerings sculpted, woven or crafted for the gods, thrown on the sidewalk for prosperity or at shop entrances for fortune. The gamelan is played at every temple and the weaving of the sarong is the creation of a basic necessity with deeper meaning. The Balinese start every day with ritual, song, or artmaking of some kind. Most of the work is created in service to spirituality, but somehow, there is a larger capacity for human creativity that elevates the everyday into the creative. And all of this without having to buy a ticket to experience it. It just happens. It just is. It just gets experienced. No stage required. Art is necessity.
Maybe, in some smaller way, my A train performances are that for me.