New York Journal - Part Five

I cut my finger on a brand-new knife yesterday. It hurts to type.

Ouchie.


September 19, 2008

I'm now in a cute little Italian place near Luke's apartment. Interesting how I feel the need to situate each journal entry. Maybe that's why I never journal at home. "I'm in the bedroom. I'm in the living room. I'm in the office." Of course, with these entries, I'm always drinking, itself a kind of monotony.

Last night was cool! Check out L'Image at FIAF, which is huge. Chatted with the gallery curator afterward; apparently the cultural program alone has 50 employees. Fuck!

The theatre - which I guess is usually a catering hall - was laid end-to-end with sod. I wound up sitting cross-legged in the grass, presumably because I'm a hearty youth whose body is built to withstand such trials.

They're playing Frank Sinatra. Awesome.

A fly has tumbled to my table. It seems disabled. It buzzes, and shifts awkwardly, then lies still. A tragic figure, and I'm not sure that I can make its trials any less ... y'know ... trying.

So, L'Image. It was an impressive production, wherein a dancer, an actor and a media artist collaborated to dramatize a short story by Beckett. I quite liked the story: a disturbing and vivid portraid of a suburban (?) scene, a man, a woman, a field, a dog.

The problem: the elements didn't cohese. First, a projection of the translated text (in English) scrolled Star Wars-style up the wall. Partway through, a woman standing arm's-length from me, covered in tape and wires, started conducting an invisible symphony with subtle movements.

(Later, in the lobby, I asked about an incongruous sound mid-show. "I relaxed my hand," she admitted sheepishly.)

Then, the projection cuts and she folds into a fetal position for the rest of the show.

The actor picks it up. She speaks the text in its entirety, this time in French, complemented with sporadic and understated movements. She, too, collapses to the floor.

The dancer, this whole time, has been splayed on the grass as though he'd fallen from a far distance. He comes to life, leaping and spasming in startling, electric movements. His hands come to life and explore his body, eliciting a yelp when they reach his penis. He becomes a dog, traps his own pant leg in his jaws and leaps about.

Then he finishes, and bows, and the show is over.

All told, a thousand times more compelling than Spring Awakening. But for chrissakes, why not mix the movement-based music with the frenzied dance? The dance with the actor's dramatization? here is a performance that deserves a closing ensemble song-and-dance number. Instead, we get three translations/interpretations of an identical text, treading a predictable path.