The theatre that must exist is ugly and unsatisfying, much of the time. It is defined by failed efforts and a bizarre-bordering-on-pathological determination to return to the scene of the crime (in this scenario, artists are the criminals; art is the bullet; guess who the victims are?).
We have to do better to offer arts programs in under-resourced schools. We have to do better to offer arts programs in communities of color. We have to do better in the future. But how are we doing better now?
Imagine their devotion. Imagine what they heard.
I hope you will forgive my using you. This trip we have no compass, but our ship, driven by Providence or stress of weather, needs some constellation to point us home.
The curtain opens on the cold, wintry Atlantic Ocean.
Can you see it? A huge expanse of water, crystal clear, a cliché. Dotted with little floating heads.
Payment for an imagined performance in the future.
Our theatre languages – not one, but many – will reflect the myriad visual, physical, social, musical and storytelling lives of our place and time, in the local vernaculars.
I’m a single lesbian looking for a lover. I’m 44. My favourite food is chops. I make art to make […]
It pays the artist at a rate commensurate to the time and labour of the work undertaken.