I don’t know what the fuck happened in that room, but I know something happened.
This is the thing nobody tells you about live performance, about actual live performance, not the kind where everyone’s mentally composing their Instagram caption while politely golf-clapping: it’s supposed to be theft. Grand fucking larceny. That’s the whole beautiful, fucked-up point. You stand up there and you take something from the audience, then someone else gets up and steals it from you, and if you’re lucky, if you’re really lucky, the whole night becomes this escalating series of heists until nobody knows who owns what anymore and everyone’s covered in fingerprints.
Ryan and Angrette apparently understand this. Once again Ryan and Angrette steal the show. They make these salons. Then Kellen stole it from them, he understood the assignment. Then… Angrette and Tonyanna steal it all back, which is where it gets good, where they apparently said fuck your narrative arc and reclaimed this whole mess.
My photographs don’t come close to capturing the magic and electricity that happened this night. Of course they never do. Because a camera can’t catch the moment when a room collectively forgets to breathe, or when somebody says something so raw that everyone has to look at their shoes for a second. I can’t photograph the feeling of watching someone take a real risk in real time.
And the mantra that floats around the kitchen during these salons or out in the street with the smokers about no bullshit and look at how smart and cultured I am performances… that’s the difference between art and performance art studies. That’s church versus the church parking lot where people actually talk.
By far the best salon so far because when you stop performing your intelligence and start performing your guts, something real can finally happen.
Also: once again I bought the wine, but this time it was good wine for a change. Good wine matters. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying or broke or both.
performances from Ryan Tacata, Angrette McCloskey, Kellen Hoxworth, Jamie Lyons, and Tonyanna Borkovi.
It is natural to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes to that siren until she allures us to our death.
Gertrude Stein
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This was the best one. The one where people stopped performing their intelligence and actually performed their guts. The one where good wine mattered and theft became art. If you want to understand what these fourteen nights were supposed to be, this is the one that got closest.
Salon #8 is next. We were past halfway. The illusions of hope were still intact.
Or go back: Salon #6, the one about silent gratitude.