Transported, enraptured, captivated.
These are just a few of the words I would use to describe the way I felt through every waking moment of "The Bacchae" tonight at the Delacorte in Central Park. Until tonight I had only been familiar with "Shakespeare in the Park" by way of reputation. I knew the following:
1) It took place in the Park,
2) It wasn't always Shakespeare,
3) It was free, and
4) People waited in line from 6AM to get tickets.
1 and 3 were hardly enough to get me past the absurdity of 2 and 4.
That said, when a friend offers you an extra ticket and your Thursday night is otherwise unplanned, you say yes. Besides, I love New York, and I love when entertainment intersects with the city's culture in such a way that, for the most part, attracts true New Yorkers with only a smattering of well-educated tourists among them.
I'm also not a scholar nor admirer of Greek Tragedy, much for the same reasons I don't like to take razor blades to my eyelids. The whole concept just seems ridden with unnecessary agony.
That said, I have a vague appreciation for the gut-wrenching brutality that drives the ancient genre, mostly because Northwestern force-fed it to me for a semester.
And if ever there were a way to experience The Bacchae or any of its contemporaries, I am now certain that it is this: In the heavy August air, buried just far enough into Central Park that the eerie rustling the trees and cicadas are not muffled by city sounds, in an amphitheater that, when you forget all too easily about the electricity required to light the stage or mic the actors, might as well be plucked out of another century.
What results is a theatrical experience - not one that can be credited to any individual component of performance or direction or design or production value - but a unique experience for which we only have to thank mother nature, literature that has endured for thousands of years, and a collection of people - actors and audience alike - with a shared commitment to give themselves over to the consuming powers of unbridled imagination.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
This was fun.
Shamelessly stolen from Alyssa because, in the interest of conserving money, energy, and sanity, I am home on a Friday night:
Daily Intelligencer's 21 Questions →
Pretending I’m cool enough to be interviewed by NYmag.com.
Name: Kate
Age: 22
Neighborhood: UWS
Occupation: Singer, Actress, Usher, Theatrical Marketing Assistant
Who’s your favorite New Yorker, living or dead, real or fictional?
As a person he may not be my favorite, but Woody embodies New York for me.
What’s the best meal you’ve eaten in New York?
Probably caviar and champagne with my mom last Christmas at Petrossian, immediately before we saw Dustin Hoffman outside Carnegie Hall. Good day.
In one sentence, what do you actually do all day in your job?
Open mouth and make sound on pitch.
Oh, in my DAY job? Search for and implement new and effective strategies to uphold theater as a priority in the eyes of the public.
Would you still live here on a $35,000 salary?
I do, on less. Ouch.
What’s the last thing you saw on Broadway?
Ashamed to say Next to Normal, though this shouldn't be indicative of anything since I see pretty much everything that is on Broadway at any given point if I don't have to pay full price.
Do you give money to panhandlers?
Never. Street performers, often.
What’s your drink?
Morning: Coffee
Afternoon: Sprite Zero
Night: Miller Lite
Constantly: Water
How often do you prepare your own meals?
I work a mean microwave, but have taken to actually cooking (easy things) once or twice a week.
What’s your favorite medication?
Advil PM.
What’s hanging above your sofa?
A framed, black and white panoramic Henri Silberman photo of the Brooklyn Bridge/lower Manhattan. You know the one.
How much is too much to spend on a haircut?
$150.
When’s bedtime?
11:30 on weeknights, never on weekends.
Which do you prefer, the old Times Square or the new Times Square?
The old, if you're talking about the pedestrian plazas. Yuck. The last thing tourists need is another excuse to bring midtown to a standstill.
What do you think of Donald Trump?
I could care less. Completely ambivalent.
What do you hate most about living in New York?
Not having my car. Not that I would want to drive here.
Who is your mortal enemy?
Apathy.
When’s the last time you drove a car?
Two weeks ago. My beloved car, Roxie, gracefully navigating the twisting roads of suburban CT, where she belongs. Sigh.
How has the Wall Street crash affected you?
Emotionally and mentally far more than literally. It has significantly raised my sense of awareness, realism, and frugality.
Times, Post, or Daily News?
Times.
Where do you go to be alone?
My apartment.
What makes someone a New Yorker?
Being utterly unfazed yet deeply devoted to this city's limitless possibilities.
Daily Intelligencer's 21 Questions →
Pretending I’m cool enough to be interviewed by NYmag.com.
Name: Kate
Age: 22
Neighborhood: UWS
Occupation: Singer, Actress, Usher, Theatrical Marketing Assistant
Who’s your favorite New Yorker, living or dead, real or fictional?
As a person he may not be my favorite, but Woody embodies New York for me.
What’s the best meal you’ve eaten in New York?
Probably caviar and champagne with my mom last Christmas at Petrossian, immediately before we saw Dustin Hoffman outside Carnegie Hall. Good day.
In one sentence, what do you actually do all day in your job?
Open mouth and make sound on pitch.
Oh, in my DAY job? Search for and implement new and effective strategies to uphold theater as a priority in the eyes of the public.
Would you still live here on a $35,000 salary?
I do, on less. Ouch.
What’s the last thing you saw on Broadway?
Ashamed to say Next to Normal, though this shouldn't be indicative of anything since I see pretty much everything that is on Broadway at any given point if I don't have to pay full price.
Do you give money to panhandlers?
Never. Street performers, often.
What’s your drink?
Morning: Coffee
Afternoon: Sprite Zero
Night: Miller Lite
Constantly: Water
How often do you prepare your own meals?
I work a mean microwave, but have taken to actually cooking (easy things) once or twice a week.
What’s your favorite medication?
Advil PM.
What’s hanging above your sofa?
A framed, black and white panoramic Henri Silberman photo of the Brooklyn Bridge/lower Manhattan. You know the one.
How much is too much to spend on a haircut?
$150.
When’s bedtime?
11:30 on weeknights, never on weekends.
Which do you prefer, the old Times Square or the new Times Square?
The old, if you're talking about the pedestrian plazas. Yuck. The last thing tourists need is another excuse to bring midtown to a standstill.
What do you think of Donald Trump?
I could care less. Completely ambivalent.
What do you hate most about living in New York?
Not having my car. Not that I would want to drive here.
Who is your mortal enemy?
Apathy.
When’s the last time you drove a car?
Two weeks ago. My beloved car, Roxie, gracefully navigating the twisting roads of suburban CT, where she belongs. Sigh.
How has the Wall Street crash affected you?
Emotionally and mentally far more than literally. It has significantly raised my sense of awareness, realism, and frugality.
Times, Post, or Daily News?
Times.
Where do you go to be alone?
My apartment.
What makes someone a New Yorker?
Being utterly unfazed yet deeply devoted to this city's limitless possibilities.
Friday, August 7, 2009
I love:
Being a New Yorker.
Having grown up as a 'New Yorker' by association, living in the burbs but always knowing this as "The City" (and for some time genuinely believing that everyone in the world referred to it as such), I have always felt strong ties to this place. I had a pretty thorough grasp on the culture, the neighborhoods, and certainly the mentality. I understood Billy Joel's subtle and near-constant lyrical allusions. But having officially resided here for a full year, having met with extreme failure and extreme success, having a much more thorough facility with the subway lines than I do with my multiplication tables, having slept under the starless sky night after night and listened to the M86 bus outside my window reassure me that even the Upper West Side does not sleep, having had multiple jobs and perfect kisses and missed connections and sleepless nights of both the intentional and unintentional variety and major hangovers and 5 mile runs and head colds and revelations all on this very island, I can finally call myself a New Yorker without a pang of insincerity.
Extra Innings.
Okay, I love baseball in general, and particularly a close game. But something happens about half way through inning 11, a sort of "we're all in this together" vibe similar to getting stuck in an elevator or a massive power outage. This is happening, and we're locked in it, and it will be over eventually, so instead of staring at the clock and wallowing in misery, let's embrace it completely. Let's relish the fact that this is a unique circumstance. And the ending, whatever it may be, is generally exciting.
Let it be known that I have never left a baseball game early, and once watched the Yankees win in the bottom of the 14th, which was, as you can imagine, most gratifying.
And with that, I have to get back to the top of the 13th.
Having grown up as a 'New Yorker' by association, living in the burbs but always knowing this as "The City" (and for some time genuinely believing that everyone in the world referred to it as such), I have always felt strong ties to this place. I had a pretty thorough grasp on the culture, the neighborhoods, and certainly the mentality. I understood Billy Joel's subtle and near-constant lyrical allusions. But having officially resided here for a full year, having met with extreme failure and extreme success, having a much more thorough facility with the subway lines than I do with my multiplication tables, having slept under the starless sky night after night and listened to the M86 bus outside my window reassure me that even the Upper West Side does not sleep, having had multiple jobs and perfect kisses and missed connections and sleepless nights of both the intentional and unintentional variety and major hangovers and 5 mile runs and head colds and revelations all on this very island, I can finally call myself a New Yorker without a pang of insincerity.
Extra Innings.
Okay, I love baseball in general, and particularly a close game. But something happens about half way through inning 11, a sort of "we're all in this together" vibe similar to getting stuck in an elevator or a massive power outage. This is happening, and we're locked in it, and it will be over eventually, so instead of staring at the clock and wallowing in misery, let's embrace it completely. Let's relish the fact that this is a unique circumstance. And the ending, whatever it may be, is generally exciting.
Let it be known that I have never left a baseball game early, and once watched the Yankees win in the bottom of the 14th, which was, as you can imagine, most gratifying.
And with that, I have to get back to the top of the 13th.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
You hide your wings so well.
Thank you, 65 year-old Mr. Philharmonic Attendee, for your contagious energy and unshakable optimism.
Thank you for, during hour 11 of my 12 hour work day, reminding me how lucky I am to be 22 and healthy and surrounded by art in my favorite city in the world.
Thank you for not yelling at me when you couldn't get back into the concert hall between the two pieces in the second act. Thank you for knowing that it wasn't my fault - just my job - without me having to say so.
Thank you for cajoling me out of my near-comatose state with your genuine conversation. Thank you for listening to me over the Mendelssohn you were paying to hear. Thank you for reminding me that money and circumstances aside, the most important thing in the world is to do what you want. Thank you for assuring me that somehow, miraculously, everything else will fall into place.
Thank you for doing all this out of the kindness and sincerity of your heart, your youthful spirit eager to connect with someone younger rather than resent them for having decades head of them that you willingly admit you could have spent better.
Thank you for wishing me good luck. Not just saying it, but actually wishing it.
I promise to do you proud.
Thank you for, during hour 11 of my 12 hour work day, reminding me how lucky I am to be 22 and healthy and surrounded by art in my favorite city in the world.
Thank you for not yelling at me when you couldn't get back into the concert hall between the two pieces in the second act. Thank you for knowing that it wasn't my fault - just my job - without me having to say so.
Thank you for cajoling me out of my near-comatose state with your genuine conversation. Thank you for listening to me over the Mendelssohn you were paying to hear. Thank you for reminding me that money and circumstances aside, the most important thing in the world is to do what you want. Thank you for assuring me that somehow, miraculously, everything else will fall into place.
Thank you for doing all this out of the kindness and sincerity of your heart, your youthful spirit eager to connect with someone younger rather than resent them for having decades head of them that you willingly admit you could have spent better.
Thank you for wishing me good luck. Not just saying it, but actually wishing it.
I promise to do you proud.
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