I left ‘Sleep’ as if I was waking from a dream—confident that what I had just experienced was meaningful, but entirely unclear as to why.
While the spirit remains centered, the chorus spins wildly out of control – dispersing, translating, perverting, transmuting, contextualizing Thomas Paine’s words with deliberately mixed results.
A white light emits from the mouth of a vintage Shure Unidyne microphone dangling from the ceiling on what looks like an electric vine with various twists and hooks adorned. When Richard comes unhinged, as he does at various times during Schaubühne Berlin’s production of
Aesthetically, Tiny Hornets lives in the neighborhood of a surrealist depiction of an early twentieth-century carnival—somewhere in between a sober version of Burning Man and Bob Dylan’s Rolling Thunder Revue.
“The play you are performing has never been seen by anybody”
The Ones are always in transition, moving from one version of themselves to the next, not out of fear, but human necessity.
what do people feel is owed them in life? What do the living owe the dead? What happens to people when they don’t get what they feel is owed them and how far are people willing to go to bridge that gap?
Does American culture itself have a death wish? Will we inevitably become complicit in destruction because we’re lazy and uninformed, or do we secretly, subconsciously desire the end, a final respite from the ceaseless barrage of meaningless content and absurdity?