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5 february 2001 Submit to lid. Earn fame. Lots of fame! Fortune, well... |
the sound of one hand scratching my chin There's art. And then there's stuff that leaves me puzzled. That would be what they call "art for art's sake". I must admit that I am a reality-based gal. Highly creative, but extremely practical. I suppose this is why I haven't yet developed a knack for Zen medidation, and why I don't understand 75 percent of the maxims contained in fortune cookies. The echo of the completely empty valley bears tidings heard from the soundless sound. What-EVER! So I'm a dolt. Give me a cookie with some good advice. I don't know, "Confucius says 'don't walk in traffic'". Now there's a fortune I understand. Get your hands off my cookie. So last week, I enjoyed quite a bit of art. I saw Requiem for a Dream , which was fabulous, if way more disturbing than Trainspotting . I took in a performance of the Pulitzer-prizewinning play, How I Learned to Drive , which was simultaneously humorous, thought-provoking, and distressing in its subject matter. And the Southeastern Center for Contemporary Art had their biggest-ever opening, in part due to their new exhibit Crowns: Black Women in Church Hats . If you're in or near this area, you really must see it. Michael Cunningham (photographer) and writer Craig Marberry collaborated on a book of the same name, featuring local African-American women in their Sunday finest. An added bonus of attending this opening was that some of the women were there to sign books. Talk about some headgear...these ladies outclassed everyone there. In fact, they looked as though they outclass everyone no matter where they go. As I sit here in my ballcap and messy hair. Be quiet. You'd think the week was a regular coup d'art, right? Well, right, until last Thursday evening when I took in an event of performance art that was described as such: "Ephemeral sculpture moving slowly in a thousand intricate pieces" Was it dance? Was it performance art? What's the plot? I need a PLOT! So here's the thing. When stuff like this comes to town, I'm always fighting myself, trying to figure out the RIGHT thing to do. If I don't go, then it's less support for community art, and therefore less likely that other (more fun-for-me) events will come to Winston at another time. And I am nothing if not a community art supporter. Which sometimes leaves me sitting and scratching my head as a naked lady in a big, noisy costume assumes uncomfortable positions and makes alien baby noises for an hour. Thank goodness I don't snore. Toward the middle of the performance, I think it was supposed to represent life cycles or something. So it ended with the dancer crawling out of the costume, nude, assuming a few more uncomfortable positions, and departing the dark stage. The crowd was silent for a moment, some unsure clapping, then full-on clap clap clap until she returned for a curtain call. Yay, flexible costume lady! Please tell me there's a post-show Q and A session. No such luck. So I stroll out to the lobby, where I discuss the show with various friends. They, of course, loved it. Joe liked the alien baby noises, which I have to say were pretty funny. Everyone seemed very "ooh" and "aah". I felt very, "huh?" Such is art for art's sake. Which is not to say that I witnessed bad art. In fact, the woman who put this show together not only constructed an extremely detailed costume (which is considered sculpture by many museums), but she can also dance in it! (Not exactly the Lindy Hop, more Tai-Chi, but you get my point.) I guess I've always had a problem just allowing stuff to wash over me without rhyme or reason. I need reason. I need a plot line. I need a big "The End" sign in front of my face, telling me when to clap. Perhaps I've spent too many years in the Wile E. Coyote/Road Runner school of entertainment. Bugs Bunny. Now that's art. I returned home and wallowed in the comforts of the Cartoon Network. The End |
