The auteur at the heart of her text yearns to close the gap between the art object and herself, the art star. At least, she wants the appearance of having forsaken aesthetic detachment. And we’re with her.
I would like the house to be un-crumbled, to undo the damage done by an earthquake, time, distance and neglect, and to place the performance and the audience in that house.
This was a long way from the contained theatre of a Chekhov play presented over a couple of hours and yet it was the same play. Instead, the audience was living with the characters in that house.
It’s a performance about parents and children, about generations and time, about a beautiful, troubled nation, about race, about a father imagining a reconciled future for his son...