A Reflection

"I sit, exhausted and exasperated, on the stairs in the entryway of the Shiva Theater at the Public, listening to the acts of a show that shall remain nameless.  This particular show has developed quite a name for itself among, not only my co-workers, but all the audiences that have endured this lengthy work in this 99 seat house.  My favorite part of working this particular show is seeing the looks of elation and exasperation on the audiences faces, for this particular show accomplished little within itself and left meaning and catharsis to the audiences discretion. This kind of show always makes me question everything I know about art, it practices, and its place in our society.  Interestingly enough, the first time I saw this piece, I almost enjoyed it. I could appreciate the themes and ideas it put forth and the dramatic devices it used. I found the declamatory dialog almost charming. This time however, I'm finding I have to force my hands in my pockets to avoid repeatedly punching myself in the face to alleviate some of the pain I'm feeling.  Ah theatre, you are a cruel mistress..."

I wrote that blurb a while ago and I still sit reflecting its content and ramifications in my life.  Maybe it's my age and education level that makes me prone to existential crises, perhaps it is the subjects I chose to study within my higher education. Either way, this particular show had a great effect on me and I'm sure it wasn't the intended one.

When I was still in high school, I undertook the daunting task of not only researching philosophy through a particular thinkers eyes, but also to map out my own ideals and compare the two. This high school class was unlike most in the rest of the country (thank you Ms. Sterns) and this particular semester culminated in, for me, a 29 page paper.

I was fortunate enough to draw John Dewey out of the hat noble thinkers and could completely identify with his ideas at the time.  He succeeded in completely changing the American educational system for the better during his lifetime (it seems we are due for another like him.) He also however, spent a great deal of time studying aesthetics. You see, according to him art isn't determined by its sheer beauty or meaning, but by an emotional response that it elicites...any emotional response at all is enough to qualify something as art. I, as a teenaged adult ready to spring into the artistic world, thought this was the most refreshing idea I had ever read.  I remember the first time I experienced this revalation. 

In the Robert A. Peck gallery, a place that would take up quite a bit of my time in the near future, a particular sculpture stood out to me. It was an overly tall, eyeless baby with the hind legs of a goat holding a baseball bat ready for pitch, cast in bronze.  I found the damn thing horrifying and would actually have payed to have it destroyed more than have it in my home or a museum, and yet, I still remember it to this day. Boy did it elicit a response! 

John Dewey was correct about emotional

responses being memorable, that is scientifically validated. As I grow older however, I find my pendulum swinging ever back toward aesthetics being necessarily (at least in part) beautiful.  I have realized that according to the principles, a dog crapping on the street and another stepping in it, is art; a set if emotional responses were created, indifference (maybe even schadenfreude) and anger.  Is art really art without the beauty to back up the response, the craft to marvel at? In the performing arts, I have been moved by the sheer beauty of the crafts in every form.  In music, the resolution of a passage of dissonance so perfectly, it creates goosebumps.  In dance, a feat of balance and form that flows so beautifully into the next, tears inexplicably form in eyes. In drama, a moment of revelation so interinsicly rendered that chills down the spine complete a moment of perfect communication betwixt audience and actor. These are the moments artists and audiences crave and spend lifetimes pursuing! Meaning, connection, absolvence, undeniable beauty in its purest form.

Back to the nameless play... Are some plays designed to only be viewed once? Was it some sort of personal endeavor that made the second viewing so painful? Should I have forced my senses not to drift, not to wander?  Or can I assume that once a show such as this has the novelty worn off, it appears as it truly is: a pretentious, masterbatory, scum sucking piece of detritus laden, perversity.

Who can say?