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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... cc&d magazine (v205) (the February 2010 Issue) This is also available from our printer as a a $7.47 paperback book (5.5" x 8.5") perfect-bound w/ b&w pages

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The Genre-Defying Art Experience

Sarah Enelow

    “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
    “What?”
    “That word, it’s meaningless.”
    “Really?”
    “You need to delete that. And these phrases at the end have to go.”
    “Are you sure? I think it helps tie back to the beginning.”
    “No, it doesn’t.”
    This woman stares at my draft, red pen clenched in one hand. She is short, nearly spherical, and extremely top-heavy. Her chest is resting on my desk as she precariously leans over, two sweaty sacks of fat perspiring onto my other papers. After haughtily excusing herself, I take a moment to recuperate and contemplate pleasanter, unrelated things, my weekend plans, etc. Two of my coworkers are discussing their own plans down the hall, from which I can hear a few words, including “wicked-huge loft,” “everyone’s invited,” and “lucky if I sleep tonight,” which ensures a widespread understanding of just how fortunate they are to have time for eating and sleeping. This revelry will be more exciting and unforgettable than even the most enlightening of experiences, more intense than reaching the summit of Mount Everest, more gratifying than reading War and Peace from cover to cover, and more characteristic of sprightly youth than backpacking through Central America. We are fools not to attend, except we are not invited.
    I leave my desk orderly and head out the door, walking downtown to the theater where I’m meeting a friend to see a play. This friend, Jane, assures me that it will be the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen, which she promises frequently, but typically she’s right. Most of the reviews agree, touting its virtues as being avant-garde, cutting-edge, genre-defying, offensive “post-art.” After noting that they distribute ear plugs with the programs, and talking to Jane, a bona fide disciple of this playwright, I am expecting an experience that is so overwhelming that I faint and end up in the emergency room, hallucinating, speaking in tongues, and seeing God. I suppose if I didn’t want to be slapped in the face by art, I wouldn’t go to shows with Jane.
    I see her outside the theater, wearing her theater-going uniform, a knee-length red dress, black shoes, and a black cardigan. She adopts this outfit for seeing a play because, as she puts it, she likes to sully only one outfit with the stink of theater, the way she periodically washes the cigarette smell out of her I’m-going-to-a-bar shirt. Before going inside, we notice a gaggle of teenage girls on the corner. They look barely 15 and they’re blasting techno out of a crackly cell phone, dancing to it in spurts, then feeling embarrassed and laughing hysterically to themselves, refusing to take responsibility for their own enjoyment. Both Jane and I are transfixed by this back-and-forth between wild, spontaneous movement, and the sudden realization of what they’re doing, which leads to shrinking away and tittering to one another.
    Jane and I go inside to retrieve our tickets from the box office, handed over silently by an androgynous intern-groupie, and we step inside a small, pitch-black theater. There are only 60 seats and Jane knows her way around, so she leads me to some Christmas lights lining the center aisle, and then we fumble our way into two available seats. The veteran attendees comment to themselves about how the newcomers are groping around like idiots. Two voices behind us pontificate:
    “You know it got a terrible review.”
    “Oh God, it sure did.”
    “But I hear it’s amazing, like his last one times three.”
    “Yeah, I know it.”
    “I don’t even know why I read reviews anymore; they’re so obsolete, with the internet and everything.”
    “Yeah, everyone’s a critic.”
    “Right. In a good way!”
    “Right.”
    “And the kids don’t even understand it. The reviewers should target them because they need to be told what’s quality.”
    “Exactly.”
    They nod in peaceful accord. Five minutes later, the Christmas lights are switched off and several bright red floodlights come on, forcing most of us to squint. The actors, all wearing pajamas and fleece jester hats, crawl out like infants to center stage, then slowly stand upright in unison, looking around at their own set, and each other, with childlike awe. Various stages of discovery ensue. The music, an abrasive drone that sounds like an accordion over an angry bobcat, is not loud enough for ear plugs. Jane is hypnotized, taking notes, which I’m sure we’ll discuss over coffee afterward. After half an hour, a female character doffs her jester hat ceremoniously and begins marching around the periphery of the stage, wielding a plastic scepter decorated with rhinestones and looking dead-on into the audience. We see her heading straight for a large glass pane hanging from the rafters, painted like stained glass. We’re sure that this is carefully choreographed, but lo and behold she smacks into its sharp edge and collapses, in a way that strikes me as unrehearsed. No one moves.
    One of her fellow actors comes over, then notices blood on her forehead and signals to the sound guy. She is led off stage; some audience members are convinced that this is part of the performance, until the house lights come up and an actor comes out front, still in his pajamas and hat.
    “We’re very sorry, but we’re taking a short break and will resume the art experience shortly.”
    Still, no one moves. The guy to my left is snickering, sure that the injury is fake. Jane and I rifle through our programs, suddenly bored, and I am bewildered by my sincere desire to resume the art experience. But the actor returns and informs us that the show must be postponed, and we’re welcome to come back tomorrow. The house lights come up and I survey the objects littering the stage: phony stained glass, decorative cardboard furniture, a giant plastic raspberry. Still confounded and suddenly feeling exhausted, I look at Jane for a cue. Jane scribbles more notes and we go for coffee.

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