Parson slowly and deftly reverses the lens, edging away from the endlessly verbal Sam and leaving us with only Bess.
You could call it an exploration of the butterfly effect on a schizophrenic scale.
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.
Deepali Gupta responds to VEIL’D at the Astoria Performing Arts Center
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.
In Donly’s theater of gentleness and Bosch’s garden of delight, we are granted a vision of the world in which disagreement is not the harbinger of the end of love but the engine of love’s continuance.
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
She exists, she conjures, she illuminates through whisper and scream.
Its in-betweenness, like the liminal space of “not me…not not me,” grants us the ability to be in two places at once.
A Blood Orange traffics in confusion, doubles, echoes and muffled voices.
To what degree must our celebrities look, sound, and live lives enough like ours in order for us to fetishize becoming them?
This place where language is familiar because of airports and tampon boxes and online preachers and being cat-called and the slow drip of consumer rhetoric.