Speculation: Backstage We Players Macbeth at Fort Point, 2014 Backstage We Players Macbeth at Fort Point So always avoid banality. That is, avoid illustrating the author’s words and remarks. If you want to create a true masterpiece you must always avoid beautiful lies: the truths on the calender under each date you find a proverb […]
Continue Reading →I’ve seen a lot of places where people decide to make art happen, and most of them are lying to you about what they are. Di Rosa is different. It’s not lying. 22 acres of Northern California wetlands and this weird, sprawling collection that refuses to behave like a proper museum, it’s got that swampy, […]
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Solipsism Backstage at We Players‘ Macbeth at Fort Point “My darling,” she said at last, are you sure you don’t mind being a mouse for the rest of your life?” “I don’t mind at all” I said. “It doesn’t matter who you are or what you look like as long as somebody loves you.” Roald […]
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The peacock doesn’t give a shit about your aesthetic comfort. It struts through Di Rosa like some psychedelic deity that wandered off a Fillmore poster and decided to take up permanent residence among the sculptures. This isn’t cuteness. It’s dominance with tail feathers. The preserve itself sprawls across these wine country acres like some beautiful […]
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The government shutdown ran them off last year, locked the gates mid production like some kind of Kafkaesque joke, but they came back. The Golden Gate’s up there doing its thing, that low thrumming hum of bridge cable and wind and traffic I feel in my chest more than hear. The light comes through these […]
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Here’s the thing about Saul Bass’s little twenty-five minute head-fuck Why Man Creates from 1968: it’s the kind of film that makes you realize how completely we’ve commodified and neutered the whole goddamn concept of “being creative” in the decades since. We’re talking about a guy who made his bones designing title sequences, basically the […]
Continue Reading →There’s performance and then there’s this thing, this unholy exorcism Billie Whitelaw pulls off where she’s basically a human wound spitting words. Samuel Beckett’s Not I isn’t theatre in any way you’d recognize if you walked in cold. It’s a mouth. Just a fucking mouth hanging in the void, hemorrhaging language at like 200 words […]
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