A performance artist who grew up in the circus uses clowning, street dance, and butoh in playful and provocative combinations.
Body swapping, infinite loops, and ’70s conspiracy thrillers haunt the dynamic performances of a movie-loving artist and the actors he works with.
“If someone hands over their repertory theater group to you, what are you going to do with them?”
Feminists face off against Norman Mailer in the Wooster Group’s reenactment of the notorious ‘71 Town Hall debate
The actors chat about performing masculinity, transitioning, and Blackwell’s one-person show They, Themself and Schmerm.
In Tongue PhD––Lithuanian-born, New York-based artist Ieva Misevičiūtė’s latest solo performance, which had its US premier at The Kitchen this September––the muscular movements, animal ancestry, and (countless) metaphoric permutations of the tongue are explored and presented in the style, oddly enough, of a PhD dissertation.
“I asked my students for the image of the essence of tenderness. One girl brought in a small, silver plate with a bunch of grapes neatly laid out on it. When I noticed she had stripped the skin off the grapes, I got goose bumps.”
A play that updates European absurdist techniques to take aim at liberal America’s great existential troubles: race and gender.
“Like holding hands with a stranger—for kind of a long time.”
“I hope it’s not a masochistic impulse within me, but I will always stay until the end to see how a creative thought completes itself.”
“They said, ‘You’ll be in charge of the children and the dogs.’ And I said, ‘Okay! But what does that even mean?’”
“There’s the scientific and mathematical—how stuff is—and there’s the prosaic, the poetic—how people are.”
“If there is a despairing quality to our work, it is despairing of the fact that once upon a time there used to be an earnest revolutionary spirit in this country.”
I was hearing about the return of this legendary serial epic for a few weeks before it happened.
Winnie is buried to her neck in scorched earth. A black revolver rests beside her chirping and disembodied head. Willie, her companion, feebly scratches on all fours at the impossible mound that separates them—at one point nearly rolling down its face into an empty abyss below. “Oh,” cries Winnie, “this is a happy day!”
Madness, melodrama, mundanity, and the legacy of Antonin Artaud.
I remember Florentina Holzinger’s first costume. It was an oversize, orange-dyed dress, a muumuu really. She was sitting in a chair center stage. A minute or so earlier, a high fan kick had revealed her lack of underwear.