i find that there have been times in my life that i found myself blinded by an onslaught of creative energy filling every dimly lit corridor of myself. times that i could feel the pulse of the universe coursing through the work i was experiencing of which would remind me how very small we are all in the grand scheme of things. that magic intercession of artist and audience that for some odd reason makes me cry whenever i am able to catch it. more importantly, there have been times i have been part of such work and i find myself smack dab in the middle of another one right now.
twelve years ago almost to the day i was in a small town in connecticut with a group of young artists undertaking the staging of angels in america: millennium approaches in less than three weeks. i had spent the previous four months with these people learning about the business we all so desperately thought we wanted to be a part of. i remember the ridiculous 7.30 in the morning warmups with instructors lovingly known as the bone crusher and the human pretzel. seeing as we had started this journey in january, it was fucking cold most of the time, new england cold. some might say new england cold isn't all that bad. only those who have lived through this type of cold know about the saber-toothed wind that could and would cut through as many layers of thick clothing you could encase yourself in. and every morning we would have to trudge across a farm to begin our day even before the sun had.
and so the days continued. we found time only to feed, fuck, and fight. well some of us did. there was an us of us that wouldn't or couldn't join in to that side of the experience. and there was an us of the us that through the majority of it all, just didn't feel at home. like something was amiss. like this wasn't us at all.
somehow, though, the magic of four months in an intensive artistic bunker drew us together at the end. after months of bullying, dick waving, and art destroying we somehow pulled it all together. we found deep meaning in our lives as artists through the work we were doing, white became black, them became us.
twelve years ago almost to the day i was in a small town in connecticut with a group of young artists undertaking the staging of angels in america: millennium approaches in less than three weeks. i had spent the previous four months with these people learning about the business we all so desperately thought we wanted to be a part of. i remember the ridiculous 7.30 in the morning warmups with instructors lovingly known as the bone crusher and the human pretzel. seeing as we had started this journey in january, it was fucking cold most of the time, new england cold. some might say new england cold isn't all that bad. only those who have lived through this type of cold know about the saber-toothed wind that could and would cut through as many layers of thick clothing you could encase yourself in. and every morning we would have to trudge across a farm to begin our day even before the sun had.
and so the days continued. we found time only to feed, fuck, and fight. well some of us did. there was an us of us that wouldn't or couldn't join in to that side of the experience. and there was an us of the us that through the majority of it all, just didn't feel at home. like something was amiss. like this wasn't us at all.
somehow, though, the magic of four months in an intensive artistic bunker drew us together at the end. after months of bullying, dick waving, and art destroying we somehow pulled it all together. we found deep meaning in our lives as artists through the work we were doing, white became black, them became us.
we did it.
doing it left an indelible stain on all of our hearts. so permanent that whenever i speak to someone from that time, we talk about it animatedly over cocktails in new york, or through facebook relationships that you know will never amount to facetime. this work touched usl so deeply that it still informs the work we do now. a truly magic time.
here i am 12 years and some change later and i find myself working with someone from back then. both of us on our own journey to find some meaning to this world. trying to find our places in this never ending story where we all do fear the nothing. and somehow, our paths have crossed again. in a metaphysical miracle of living we find our work begging for the collaboration only artists can truly understand. with our imaginations in syncopatic harmony for this brief moment in time we find ourselves finishing each others sentences as if we had been planning for this over the previous twelve years. the further we go into this, the more we find indeed we have somehow been planning this. in an odd way, everything that has happened since those cold mornings in new england has directed the story we are trying to tell now.
i guess that is one of the magic qualities about art. how art can transcend painting, the theatre, and the studio. we all have an art of our own that can bring our own version of beauty into what we do. for cllr husband, he tries to create a more beautiful and fair world for our community. for others, it is raising the children who will inherit that future and teaching them to love, care for, and respect the gifts given to them from the past. on a daily basis, i see artists everywhere- all connected by a genuine desire to make things better, to make the world make more sense. at positive east, i see a whole building of people all united in their desire to not just make tomorrow better, but the here and now better for my brothers and sisters who are finding it hard to see the beauty in the world.
here i am 12 years and some change later and i find myself working with someone from back then. both of us on our own journey to find some meaning to this world. trying to find our places in this never ending story where we all do fear the nothing. and somehow, our paths have crossed again. in a metaphysical miracle of living we find our work begging for the collaboration only artists can truly understand. with our imaginations in syncopatic harmony for this brief moment in time we find ourselves finishing each others sentences as if we had been planning for this over the previous twelve years. the further we go into this, the more we find indeed we have somehow been planning this. in an odd way, everything that has happened since those cold mornings in new england has directed the story we are trying to tell now.
i guess that is one of the magic qualities about art. how art can transcend painting, the theatre, and the studio. we all have an art of our own that can bring our own version of beauty into what we do. for cllr husband, he tries to create a more beautiful and fair world for our community. for others, it is raising the children who will inherit that future and teaching them to love, care for, and respect the gifts given to them from the past. on a daily basis, i see artists everywhere- all connected by a genuine desire to make things better, to make the world make more sense. at positive east, i see a whole building of people all united in their desire to not just make tomorrow better, but the here and now better for my brothers and sisters who are finding it hard to see the beauty in the world.
now, i am gorging myself on the artistic energy the universe has put here with gusto and i find my friend Tand collaborator is reigniting a spark that i thought lost long ago. she is reminding me to stop and smell the roses, to listen to the silence, to breathe. to remember that what i am doing makes complete sense, our mountains seeming just that much smaller now by realizing that art is living and living is art.
the great work begins.
the great work begins.
