issue #14

Emily and Me, part II

Emily and Me, part II

The Emily Dickinson seminar – The Incredible Brightness of Being (given by Mark Scarbrough, at the Gunn Memorial Library in Washington, Connecticut) – is over now, and there is so much still to ponder, to appreciate and revel in. Bits and pieces of poems and background, philosophy and technique float through my every day since, sparking reflections, discussions, and work. The titles of Mark’s lectures tease a multitude of starting points: I -The Soul Selects Her Own Society; II -Take That, Emerson: Dickinson, Romanticism, and What It Takes To Make A Prairie; III – My Business Is Circumference; IV – “Our Lives Are Swiss”; V – Pugilist and Poet: The Struggle With God. No matter the topic or frame of his lecture, Mark attends to Emily’s craft as he reads her poetry, especially her deft use of rhythm and rhyme, her exquisite word choices, and her concision. Which are all revelations to me, the writer.

Another sharp awareness comes from two separate themes presented by Mark, that together center my intuitive understanding of powerful writing, and art. The first is the idea of Master Narratives, and how they play upon any reading of Emily’s (or any other poet’s/writer’s/artist’s) work. The second is his unearthing of Emily’s obliquity – her refusal to identify, name, or locate any idea she nonetheless engages.

The concept of master narrative is de rigueur now in the world of literary criticism, and a commonplace understanding among the rest of us, but it is worth noticing, again, here. Master narratives are the frameworks we construct and carry with us to filter and make sense of the world, like creation stories, or Greek myths, or any philosophy. What this means for art is that we the reader bring our meanings to bear on a work. We interpret, according to our mores, ideals, hopes, and experiences – according to our own master narrative(s).

Great works are just such because they allow our imprint. They have the capacity to hold many meanings: one work equals many texts. Think the Bible, and Shakespeare, the Constitution – even History itself. All start definitively, with words or facts, yet allow us to read between the lines, and importantly, to edit. And we do. As our contexts differ and change, so do the meanings we find among the givens. In this way open-endedness in art and text gives long life to created work.

Art-making has long recognized the active role of the reader, too, as has design and literature, most explicitly in the expressions of participatory art and open narrative. Umberto Eco’s beautiful essay The Poetics of the Open Work is an historical exposition of participation in art. He makes the case that the reader/viewer’s agency has always been recognized by artist and writer and composer; what has changed is how any created work addresses this fact. At one extreme the artist attempts to control the viewer’s experience with perspective and frame: This is what to look at, this is what to see, to learn, to know. At the other, the creator embraces ambiguity – Tell me what you think – or expressly leaves a role for the audience in performing the work: Show me what you would make, create this with me.

Emily Dickinson makes room for her readers in two ways. She is deliberately circumspect about her topics and themes, rarely if ever naming them. Instead she uses a marvelous mix of metaphors and aphorisms to dance around ideas, and to conjure feelings. To read Emily is to have emotional experiences first and foremost, rather than rational or logical or analytical ones. This is how she hooks us and so places an idea within us. She tells us what something is by telling us how it feels – how she feels – and reveals truths to us in that way.

I do wonder if this was intentional on her part. How much is craft, and how much is simply process writ down? Was she playing with an intended audience, attempting to gift an experience? Or, is her poetry more a diary of her own struggles to understand herself, the world, life? Another way to ask it: Is her poetry a simply a record of her attempt to put (nonverbal) interiority into words?

For myself, I have always felt my best work realizes processes of learning, and the deep yet fleeting emotions that accompany them: the ache of beauty, the rapture of an idea, the epiphany of wisdom. My work – writing and art – are simulations of acquisition, knowings wrought with feeling. I experience this most powerfully when I read my memoirs aloud to an audience. Then I am performing, reliving the feelings I remember, as much as if not more than the events I recount. My audiences confirm it, with applause and comments, and it is true, too, of the art work most special to me.

I’ll leave you with this poem, to experience and understand on your own terms. Or as Emily intended/wanted/crafted. You decide.

There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons –
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –
We can find no scar,
But internal difference –
Where the Meanings, are –

None may teach it – Any –
‘Tis the Seal Despair –
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air –

When it comes, the Landscape listens –
Shadows – hold their breath –
When it goes, ‘tis like the Distance
On the look of Death –


 

Prisoners

Prisoners

Theater – as all the narrative arts do – realizes an outward existence of our internal dramas, enabling us to see them clearly, and to meaningfully experience the feelings we have about our own like struggles. The very purpose of original Greek dramatic form was to facilitate catharsis for the audience, an evocation of emotion which relied on resonance with the characters and their moral, existential trials. A cleansing purge allowed the lessons of the story to be received, and so a fresh start for all. I have had this experience more than once, but the power of theater was made vivd for me when I attended a play as a chaperone, with challenged, troubled teens. This was a first for all of them, and during a scene change one girl turned to me and exclaimed, “It’s like my whole life is right there on that stage.” It stopped me, but I managed to say, “Yes, dear, that is the why and what of theater.” I was astounded, not at her response, but that I had had the same one, even though our two lives were nothing alike, and would never be. A play outside a play – my awareness engendered by hers. Something like it happened again for me just this week.

My friend Kathy died yesterday. I am too sad for anything today, except for the need to remember her, to keep her spirit alive. I was eight hundred miles away at the end, helpless to effect any outcome or to love her back to life. In the short week of her grave illness, I passed though all the the stages of death – denial, bargaining, depression, acceptance – except for an anger which stays with me even now. I am angry with her family – her co-workers, and her friends, too – but most emphatically with her sister and brother, her brother-in-law and step-mother, her niece and nephew, her daughter and granddaughter, who to a person, disastrously, let her down. I am certain the enormous difficulties of her past few years are the reason for her illness and death, and I put it all on them, for not being there enough, when she needed help.

The day before her death – still hoping and praying for her recovery – I saw The Prisoner, a new play by Peter Brook and Marie-Hélene Estienne here at Yale Repertory Theater. Maybe my worries disallowed engagement – although I’ll argue that being raw with trouble and sorrow assured my reception to someone else’s story – but I was not so taken with the play. It felt thin and worn. The dramaturg purported the play to explore twin themes of infraction and responsibility, but I found no touchstones or new perspectives there; rather the scenes and dialogues were trite or pandering. Although a quiet and spare space, with few actors and gently changing sets, I was not drawn into meditation, upon the characters or their situations.

On the walk home, and for a good bit after, Bruce and I talked about these and other dissatisfactions. Then our thoughts turned to Katie. Earlier in the day a DJ on my beloved local classical radio station played a piece that caught and steadied me with clarity and love and peace.You may know the song: Beautiful Dreamer, by Stephen Foster. But you have never heard it like this, performed by lyric baritone Thomas Hampsom. No surprise that Stephen Foster would speak to me over time and through tears. Kathy grew up on a thoroughbred horse farm, in bluegrass country, and Stephen Foster’s My Old Kentucky Home is the anthem that calls everyone to attention, to the sport of kings. His is the score of life in Kentucky. I played Beautiful Dreamer for Bruce that night before Kathy died, as a prayer, a remembrance, an offering, an entreaty.

My grief poured out of me, and this is what I grieved. I grieved the life she deserved, and never had. Kathy paid with her whole life for one small mistake she made forty years ago, a mistake that no one would ever hold her to account for, now, and hardly anyone even then. But fate would not forgive her debt. She was imprisoned forever by one act, one decision. No matter her penance, her good works, her contrition, the jailor only fingered his keys. So you see, Brook’s and Etienne’s play left its mark after all: Kathy was – is – The Prisoner.

I lived in the truth that our renewed friendship allowed her hope for and a path to redemption: that her grandchildren, grown to a healthy and happy adulthood would be her final atonement. They may yet be, but I wanted so badly for her to witness the victory, to know the blessing of a job well done, done right, by any standard. I wanted to stand by her as she regained the fellowship. I am undone that she did not live to see it. And I am angry at all the prisons of our own making, that lucky others do not open, break apart for us.

Katie meant the world to me. We were girls together, on the verge of being old together. She was the long-lost sister I never had; I will miss her endlessly. She was funny and witty, loyal beyond understanding. She lightened every room she was in. I mean to do her justice, to ensure that the promise of her grandchildren comes to be. It will be my tribute to her life; I pray that I do not fall short.

Here is the song Beautiful Dreamer, that I sent out to her that night. You, too, play it for Katie, to honor her spirit – the human spirit that will awake, that will go on – that will not quit.


The Play’s The Thing

The Play’s The Thing

The epitome of storytelling genres is The Theater, where words, objects, persons, art, and music are fashioned into a sense-engulfing parade-display-embodiment of narrative, sign, symbol, and meaning. I find it always a delicious treat. At its most exalted theater is a soul-filling experience, an enrichment, transfiguring and mesmerizing. And of course, the perfect assemblage of all of my favorite pursuits – art and design congruent, coherent with metaphor, philosophy, words, and song.

My favorites (mostly seen on or off Broadway, or here in New Haven) which all opened something new in me:

Mary Martin’s PETER PAN – I saw this on television when just a child, and was completely taken in to the world of Peter and Wendy and Tinkerbelle, the Lost Boys and Tiger Lily. Then I was unaware of the simplicity and minimalism of the set, using it unconsciously to build a most elaborate artifice in my mind that persisted in memory, as fact. I was astonished so many years later as an adult, to see its stripped down, bare bone structure, and to realize how the dialogue and personifications, acting and song witched up a few props and drops into a fantastic otherworld.

PIPPIN (directed by Bob Fosse) – My first Broadway musical experience, which I shared with Bruce. I was gob-smacked, no two ways about it, being a sheltered, inward, naive young woman from the Midwest, unused to the theatrical except for camp skits and middle school productions. This was a story for adults, told by adults, with adult language and memes (even though the word did not exist then). I most remember the spectacle, and the breaking of the fourth wall when the actors, in character, addressed the audience to start the show. Whoever could, would think of such a thing!?! My boundaries pushed so far out into the world, it took my breath away. A de-limiting, freeing-for-all delight. Did I mention Ben Vereen?

Peter Weiss’s MARAT/SADE, performed by the Tagangka Theater in town for New Haven’s Arts and Ideas Festival. OMG, a complex, heady, difficult script delivered in Russian, and nonetheless made intelligible as a circus. I’ll never forget the set, a two-story cage of bars that inmates, dressed in filthied, tattered sanitarium white climbed and swung from, while crushing us with a berating, Bedlam-ic mockery of song. Transcendent and transformational.

SWEENEY TODD Broadway musical revival (based on the play Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, by Christopher Bond). All I can say here is Sondheim, who beguiled us with rapturous melody and rhythm, a modern Orpheus taking us downward to hell, note by lyrical note. The acting was the best Broadway could offer, and the staging, scene by scene, set by set, distracted from the intrinsic horror until we were too far gone, having tasted the unthinkable. Amazing to have the musicians on stage while the story unfolded around them. Another boundary breaking production.

Mabou Mines’ PETER PAN seen at Yale. The story was performed as a puppet show with puppeteers on stage, requiring an initial suspension of disbelief. Very shortly the self-trickery became unnecessary and irrelevant, as the puppets drew dreamy breath and were realized as Beings, while the puppeteers whisped to smoky background.

ARCADIA, by Tom Stoppard (Yale Rep) – The Independent called it “the greatest play of our age”. A remarkable script that showcases a mind-bending interlace of themes and meanings, all resonant with one another, and all adding up to an encompassing though elusive whole. At first I was put off by the idyllic country manor house set/setting and the stately pace, but as the play unfolded, speech by speech, word by word I was convinced finally, of its propriety, its value, its necessity.

MOBY DICK, at Long Wharf Theater – Melville’s classic was adapted and beautifully performed as a monologue by Conor Lovett of Gare St. Lazare Players Ireland. He was accompanied onstage by a deliberately unpolished fiddler (Caoimhin O’Raghallaigh), who hauntingly evoked the sea and the age.

 

TURN OF THE SCREW, at Madison Lyric Stage – Benjamin Britten’s opera was performed in two rooms of a historic house museum (which the audience moved between!). Musicians and conductor off-stage in a hallway, were just visible to the cast. Single row seating surrounded the actor-singers, and the immediacy of flawless performance intensified the creep of the story and Britten’s score. Luscious costuming, especially the ghosts’.

An exquisite little off off off Broadway play … in the Village – I remember nothing of the plot or even the title, but will never forget the lean six rows of audience seating, my complete immersion into the world of the play, and the ethereal music – voice and guitar – that seamed the play together.

THE MOORS by Jen Silverman @YRT – Wow!, I said after it was all over, having been taken on a journey from such an intensely flat perpetual moor-ish b o r e d o m, that I wanted to scream bloody murder – to, well, bloody murder. Just as the Victorians craved, created, and consumed their Gothic horrors.

 

RACE by David Mamet, seen in Shepherdstown, West Virginia. Oh, such a delight to have my attention – my inner jurist – entrained/captured/focused/directed/manipulated by Mamet’s words, flipping guilt and accusation back and forth like tennis volleys. Mamet is a Master Storyteller, and a wordsmith with few equals. Expertly cast, directed, and performed.

 

Honorable Mentions

STONES IN HIS POCKETS (by Marie Jones, at Yale Rep), for its rich, entrancing rapid-fire dialogue.

 

 

HAMLET at the Yale Rep – because, Paul Giamatti

 

 

THESE PAPER BULLETS (Rolin Jones, Billie Joe Armstrong) at the Rep – joyful, clever, infectious

 

 

JULIUS CESEAR at the Yale School of Drama – Graduate students of drama did a wonderful job, bringing Shakespeare’s story into the present with set, scenery, costume, and prop, all the while retaining the moral and rhetorical import bound in Shakespeare’s poetics, with forceful, postured acting.

Baz Luhrman’s LA BOHEME (Puccini), on Broadway – a grand production of a familiar story, made new by film editing and photographic tropes adapted to the stage, notably zoom-out and zoom-in. Fun.

THE SKIN OF OUR TEETH, by Thornton Wilder at Yale Rep. Yeah yeah Our Town – this is a much better play, and this production was a visual delight.

 

 

NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND – Dostoevsky, adapted by Bill Camp. Heavy, heavy themes and exposition but done well enough that I attended to every minute.

 

 

THE FAIRYTALE LIVES OF RUSSIAN GIRLS by Meg Miroshnik @Yale Repertory Theater – A entrancing presentation of very modern stories about women, told through the veil of ancient Russian folk tales. Wonderful sets. Zhyli, byli …
and, The more things change ….

 

FREEWHEELERS – A Broken Umbrella Theater production, performed at New Haven’s annual Arts and Ideas Festival. A sweet story of New Haven’s past, set in an historic building and told with charming alacrity. An inspired use of space and prop.

 

GLASS GUINOL The Brother and Sister Play, conceived and adapted by Lee Breuer and Maude Mitchell @Wesleyan – Boy, did this play make me think ! I mean really, I worked.

Also worth mentioning, though a film and not on stage – THE WIZARD OF OZ. No explanation needed.

CAMELOT and THE MAN OF LA MANCHA, for the original cast albums alone. The songs tell the story, in both productions.


 

Pliny’s Villa

Pliny’s Villa

Playwrights give some direction regarding settings, accessories, and the placement and movement of people, but most of the visual nature of a play is left unsaid. Interpretation, and then realization of the physical aspects of a production are left to set designers, costumers, and prop departments. It is quite a creative challenge to evoke the world of a play from dialogue alone.

It can be a fun and challenging design exercise, too. My Scholar Garden (published in Issue 13 of MUSE) was invented from a description, as is this collage – my imagining of Pliny the Younger’s1 Laurentian villa, which he described lovingly in a letter to Gallus. The letter follows.


To Gallus:

You are surprised that I am so fond of my Laurentine, or (if you prefer the name) my Laurens: but you will cease to wonder when I acquaint you with the beauty of the villa, the advantages of its situation, and the extensive view of the sea-coast. It is only seventeen miles from Rome; so that when I have finished my business in town, I can pass my evenings here after a good, satisfactory day’s work. There are two different roads to it: if you go by that of Laurentum, you must turn off at the fourteenth mile-stone; if by Astia, at the eleventh. Both of them are sandy in places, which makes it a little heavier and longer by carriage, but short and easy on horseback. The landscape affords plenty of variety, the view in some places being closed in by woods, in others extending over broad meadows, where numerous flocks of sheep and herds of cattle, which the severity of the winter has driven from the mountains, fatten in the spring warmth, and on the rich pasturage. My villa is of a convenient size without being expensive to keep up. The courtyard in front is plain, but not mean, through which you enter porticoes shaped into the form of the letter D, enclosing a small but cheerful area between. These make a capital retreat for bad weather, not only as they are shut in with windows, but particularly as they are sheltered by a projection of the roof. From the middle of these porticoes you pass into a bright, pleasant inner court, and out of that into a handsome hall running out towards the seashore; so that when there is a south-west breeze, it is gently washed with the waves, which spend themselves at its base. On every side of this hall there are either folding-doors or windows equally large, by which means you have a view from the front and the two sides of three different seas, as it were: from the back you see the middle court, the portico, and the area; and from another point you look through the portico into the courtyard, and out upon the woods and distant mountains beyond. On the left hand of this hall, a little farther from the sea, lies a large drawing-room, and beyond that, a second of a smaller size, which has one window to the rising and another to the setting sun: this as well has a view of the sea, but more distant and agreeable. The angle formed by the projection of the dining-room with this drawing-room retains and intensifies the warmth of the sun, and this forms our winter quarters and family gymnasium, which is sheltered from all the winds except those which bring on clouds, but the clear sky comes out again before the warmth has gone out of the place. Adjoining this angle is a room forming the segment of a circle, the windows of which are so arranged as to get the sun all through the day: in the walls are contrived a sort of cases, containing a collection of authors who can never be read too often. Next to this is a bed-room, connected with it by a raised passage furnished with pipes, which supply, at a wholesome temperature, and distribute to all parts of this room, the heat they receive. The rest of this side of the house is appropriated to the use of my slaves and freedmen; but most of the rooms in it are respectable enough to put my guests into. In the opposite wing is a most elegant, tastefully fitted-up bed-room; next to which lies another, which you may call either a large bed-room or a modified dining-room; it is very warm and light, not only from the direct rays of the sun, but by their reflection from the sea. Beyond this is a bed-room with an ante-room, the height of which renders it cool in summer, its thick walls warm in winter, for it is sheltered, every way, from the winds. To this apartment another ante-room is joined by one common wall. From thence you enter into the wide and spacious cooling-room belonging to the bath, from the opposite walls of which two curved basins are thrown out, so to speak; which are more than large enough if you consider that the sea is close at hand. Adjacent to this is the anointing-room, then the sweating-room, and beyond that the bath-heating room: adjoining are two other little bath-rooms, elegantly rather than sumptuously fitted up: annexed to them is a warm bath of wonderful construction, in which one can swim and take a view of the sea at the same time. Not far from this stands the tennis-court, which lies open to the warmth of the afternoon sun. From thence you go up a sort of turret which has two rooms below, with the same number above, besides a dining-room commanding a very extensive look-out on to the sea, the coast, and the beautiful villas scattered along the shore line. At the other end is a second turret, containing a room that gets the rising and setting sun. Behind this is a large store-room and granary, and underneath, a spacious dining-room, where only the murmur and break of the sea can be heard, even in a storm: it looks out upon the garden, and the gestatio 1 running round the garden. The gestatio is bordered round with box, and, where that is decayed, with rosemary: for the box, wherever sheltered by the buildings, grows plentifully, but where it lies open and exposed to the weather and spray from the sea, though at some distance from the latter, it quite withers up. Next the gestatio, and running along inside it, is a shady vine-plantation, the path of which is so soft and easy to the tread that you may walk bare-foot upon it. The garden is chiefly planted with fig and mulberry trees, to which this soil is as favourable as it is averse from all others. Here is a dining-room, which, though it stands away from the sea, enjoys the garden view which is just as pleasant: two apartments run round the back part of it, the windows of which look out upon the entrance of the villa, and into a fine kitchen-garden. From here extends an enclosed portico which, from its great length, you might take for a public one. It has a range of windows on either side, but more on the side facing the sea, and fewer on the garden side, and these, single windows and alternate with the opposite rows. In calm, clear weather these are all thrown open; but if it blows, those on the weather side are closed, whilst those away from the wind can remain open without any inconvenience. Before this enclosed portico lies a terrace fragrant with the scent of violets, and warmed by the reflection of the sun from the portico, which, while it retains the rays, keeps away the northeast wind; and it is as warm on this side as it is cool on the side opposite: in the same way it is a protection against the wind from the southwest; and thus, in short, by means of its several sides, breaks the force of the winds, from whatever quarter they may blow. These are some of its winter advantages; they are still more appreciable in the summertime; for at that season it throws a shade upon the terrace during the whole of the forenoon, and upon the adjoining portion of the gestatio and garden in the afternoon, casting a greater or less shade on this side or on that as the day increases or decreases. But the portico itself is coolest just at the time when the sun is at its hottest, that is, when the rays fall directly upon the roof. Also, by opening the windows you let in the western breezes in a free current, which prevents the place getting oppressive with close and stagnant air. At the upper end of the terrace and portico stands a detached garden building, which I call my favourite; my favourite indeed, as I put it up myself. It contains a very warm winter-room, one side of which looks down upon the terrace, while the other has a view of the sea, and both lie exposed to the sun. The bed-room opens on to the covered portico by means of folding doors, while its window looks out upon the sea. On that side next the sea, and facing the middle wall, is formed a very elegant little recess, which, by means of transparent 2 windows and a curtain drawn to or aside, can be made part of the adjoining room, or separated from it. It contains a couch and two chairs: as you lie upon this couch, from where your feet are you get a peep of the sea; looking behind, you see the neighbouring villas, and from the head you have a view of the woods: these three views may be seen either separately, from so many different windows, or blended together in one. Adjoining this is a bed-room, which neither the servants’ voices, the murmuring of the sea, the glare of lightning, nor daylight itself can penetrate, unless you open the windows. This profound tranquillity and seclusion are occasioned by a passage separating the wall of this room from that of the garden, and thus, by means of this intervening space, every noise is drowned. Annexed to this is a tiny stove-room, which, by opening or shutting a little aperture, lets out or retains the heat from underneath, according as you require. Beyond this lie a bed-room and ante-room, which enjoy the sun, though obliquely indeed, from the time it rises till the afternoon. When I retire to this garden summer-house, I fancy myself a hundred miles away from my villa, and take especial pleasure in it at the feast of the Saturnalia, 3 when, by the licence of that festive season, every other part of my house resounds with my servants’ mirth: thus I neither interrupt their amusement nor they my studies. Amongst the pleasures and conveniences of this situation, there is one drawback, and that is, the want of running water; but then there are wells about the place, or rather springs, for they lie close to the surface. And, altogether, the quality of this coast is remarkable; for dig where you may, you meet, upon the first turning up of the ground, with a spring of water, quite pure, not in the least salt, although so near the sea. The neighbouring woods supply us with all the fuel we require, the other necessaries Ostia furnishes. Indeed, to a moderate man, even the village (between which and my house there is only one villa) would supply all ordinary requirements. It has three public baths, which are a great convenience if it happen that friends come in unexpectedly, or make too short a stay to allow time for preparing my own. The whole coast is very pleasantly sprinkled with villas either in rows or detached, which, whether looking at them from the sea or the shore, present the appearance of so many different cities. The strand is, sometimes, after a long calm, perfectly smooth, though, in general, through the storms driving the waves upon it, it is rough and uneven. I cannot boast that our sea is plentiful in choice fish; however, it supplies us with capital soles and prawns; but as to other kinds of provisions, my villa aspires to excel even inland countries, particularly in milk: for the cattle come up there from the meadows in large numbers, in pursuit of water and shade. Tell me, now, have I not good reason for living in, staying in, loving, such a retreat, which if you feel no appetite for, you must be morbidly attached to town? And I only wish you would feel inclined to come down to it, that to so many charms with which my little villa abounds, it might have the very considerable addition of your company to recommend it. Farewell.


 

Issue #14 – Storytelling

Issue #14 – Storytelling

ISSUE #14:  Storytelling

This week in MUSE I delve into the sister crafts of writing and storytelling.


CONTENTS:

Emily and Me, part II
Prisoners
The Play’s The Thing
Pliny’s Villa


NEWS AND NOTES:

Recommended: The Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by R.W. Franklin, Belknap/Harvard University Press Cambridge, Massachusetts and London England, 1999.

Select reviews of favorite theatrical productions:
ARCADIA
MARAT/SADE
SWEENEY TODD
THE MOORS
PETER AND WENDY
THE FAIRYTALE LIVES OF RUSSIAN GIRLS

Credits:
Cover image: “Old Typewriter”, unattributed
Photos: Courtesy of Bruce Wujcik

Emily and Me, part II

Emily and Me, part II

The Emily Dickinson seminar – The Incredible Brightness of Being (given by Mark Scarbrough, at the Gunn Memorial Library in Washington, Connecticut) – is over now, and there is so much still to ponder, to appreciate and revel in. Bits and pieces of poems and background, philosophy and technique float through my every day since, sparking reflections, discussions, and work. The titles of Mark’s lectures tease a multitude of starting points: I -The Soul Selects Her Own Society;

Continue → Read More

Prisoners

Prisoners

Theater – as all the narrative arts do – realizes an outward existence of our internal dramas, enabling us to see them clearly, and to meaningfully experience the feelings we have about our own like struggles. The very purpose of original Greek dramatic form was to facilitate catharsis for the audience, an evocation of emotion which relied on resonance with the characters and their moral, existential trials. A cleansing purge allowed the lessons of the story to be received,

Continue → Read More

The Play’s The Thing

The Play’s The Thing

The epitome of storytelling genres is The Theater, where words, objects, persons, art, and music are fashioned into a sense-engulfing parade-display-embodiment of narrative, sign, symbol, and meaning. I find it always a delicious treat. At its most exalted theater is a soul-filling experience, an enrichment, transfiguring and mesmerizing. And of course, the perfect assemblage of all of my favorite pursuits – art and design congruent, coherent with metaphor, philosophy, words, and song.

My favorites (mostly seen on or off Broadway,

Continue → Read More

Pliny’s Villa

Pliny’s Villa

Playwrights give some direction regarding settings, accessories, and the placement and movement of people, but most of the visual nature of a play is left unsaid. Interpretation, and then realization of the physical aspects of a production are left to set designers, costumers, and prop departments. It is quite a creative challenge to evoke the world of a play from dialogue alone.

It can be a fun and challenging design exercise, too. My Scholar Garden (published in Issue 13 of MUSE) was invented from a description,

Continue → Read More

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