You could call it an exploration of the butterfly effect on a schizophrenic scale.
The bits of conversation that don’t quite work suggest a weirder reality lying under the normalcy we see, a reality which seems to bubble more and more to the surface as the day wears on.
A Blood Orange traffics in confusion, doubles, echoes and muffled voices.
Assaulted by sound. A noisescape that experientially presented embodied anxiety. Mic stand dialogue, alienating and surprisingly all the more evocative for it. Shit hanging from the ceiling. A donut that somehow is both a murder weapon and the patriarchy itself? A potato that is both
“Nostalgia” is appealing because its outlines are blurry, soft, malleable; it is easy to romanticize the past because you can pick and choose the parts of them you want to recall.
“What are we even trying to save!?”
We have long had a fascination with what our culture’s celebrities do behind closed doors. What nicknames do they use? What junk food do they like? Yeah but how do they talk to each other, really? These are just some of the many questions Gemma
this world doesn’t make sense. therefore, making art that tries to make perfect sense doesn’t make any sense.
There are few things more likely to turn me off to a realist play than fake food and drink. Piehole’s Ski End, presented at the New Ohio Theatre through May 19, is hardly in proximity to kitchen-sink-drama territory, but even if it were my worries
Me feeling uncertain that things can ever just be themselves. Aren’t our thoughts always intruding? Don’t we always “all feel like our own life is the center of the universe,” (as one of them also says) not because we’re self-centered necessarily, but because we literally cannot get outside of our own body’s perspective?
I. The Urge To Participate I don’t often sit in the front row. Not because I’m afraid to (I actually quite like it), but because it’s such a deliberate choice, and I want to reserve it for special occasions. And as the lights went down