Antigona: One final bow

8/15

One final bow

Back from Dublin in time to walk in the doors of the church for the final bows for the final performance of Antigona. The applause is thunderous. Even from the balcony. After turning away dozens for each of the final weekend performances, the balcony was opened for special friends.  The cast absorbs the applause, the oles and bravos and bravas, looking at the audience but also at each other with a sense of wonder at what had been accomplished.

I see my friends Pete and Peggy, part of the balcony audience. Pete a noted preservationist and community historian, long on the side of West-Park in its many struggles. Speechless and amazed at what had happened here. The cast mingles with friends on the street, exchanging hugs. And Martin gathers the crew to begin the disassembling of the stage. Dion at the center of the crew, he had in his own unique way become part of the family.

Dion and Luli

Hard working, open and caring and authentic, he understood what this was al about and befriended the cast and crew members alike knowing he was part of what made it work.

I think back to other summer residencies, like Woodshed and the Tenant, the Representatives and their unique take on Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons, Bazarov, last summer’s Texas Trilogy. And the winter residency of Bread and Puppet. How a company moves in, slowly builds up to the opening, becoming part of the daily rhythm of the place, the daily preshow build ups, the crowds in and out and then the eventual, inevitable end and teardown until the place is quiet again. Only this time, Noche remains. 

Martin and Pastor Bob

I reflect on the history from Martin’s first mention, to his various draft scripts, searching the Internet for Jewish prayers of lament, Muslim calls to prayer. The frustration when traditional dance houses shied away from opening their doors to this production fearing their audience wouldn’t get it to Martin’s what if  and our decision to go for it. Turning the sanctuary into a full on stage. Taking the gamble, the risk and then seeing the results as the city caught on to what was going on. It was not only West-Park’s event of the summer, Antigona had become the must see arts event for the city this summer.

As cast members look in and see the stage being dismantled, many burst into tears.

The stage begins to come down

They know what they have experienced, what they have accomplished. Master singers, guitar players, dancers; they have been at the top of their profession but have never done anything like this before. For Martin and Soledad, this is the pinnacle of their creative career so far. And possibly for us as well. How do we move on from here? Build on this momentum? The building is living out what it supposed to be, any other use would somehow violate some cosmic principle. And what does any of this have to do with building an ongoing community of celebration and witness?

Celebrating

We all go to Mc Alpin to toast, to celebrate this experience.

Carlos and Leila

I try to say to the cast what it has meant to me, from the bottom of my heart. How what they have done remains, is woven into the fabric of the place. There is food from Flor de Mayo and Luli’s deviled eggs and hors d’oeuvres. There is music. Flamenco dancers rocking to Motown, r&b and soul. Soli dancing freely smiling radiantly. And even a raucous game of musical chairs among singers and dancers who are the best at what they do. There is laughter.

I am tired from my cross Atlantic flight today. But happy.

The deconstruction of the stage continues. The celebration will go on.

Flamenco master singers

I am tired from my cross Atlantic flight today. But happy.

The deconstruction of the stage continues. The celebration will go on.

Seeing Antigona again....

8/4

ANTIGONA

It’s been a very hot day and a day long struggle with the steps.  Alcohol is taking its toll. The older Latino man, stripped to the waist, barefoot, sitting and drinking from an open rum bottle, his eyes, liquid, beyond bloodshot to almost bleeding, mournful tears pouring down.  I tell him he can’t sit there drinking.  He points awkwardly to the two sisters sitting further down. Y ellas, alla…porque?  Because they are not drinking, I say.

Later, the main door is occupied by the man who reminds me of the evil twin of the man who used to be featured on the Uncle Ben’s rice box. Also stripped to the waist and drunk. I am relieved  when Dion arrives for his preshow set up work and helps me move people along.

                                                               ****

Tonight will be my last chance to see Antigona before leaving for Ireland tomorrow.  There are fans and iced down water to keep people cool in the heat. Since review after review has been positive, crowds have been building nightly.  Sold out every night.  But sadly, this one week extension will be it. Professional commitments and family concerns of cast members demand that much of the cast will be returning to Spain. Most disappointed is Soledad who is discovering more of Antigona every performance. She more and more is Antigona. She and Martin had wanted an extended run, especially because so many neighbors who want to see the show won’t return to the city until after Labor Day. Saturday the 15^th will be the final performance.

Something magical happens tonight. Even though I have seen the show countless times,  from the scenes at the Joyce theatre to preview performances at the University of Pennsylvania to the showcase performances at the Pearl to now the fully staged production here at West-Park, it continues to grow, evolve, become, not just Soledad, but the entire cast.

And tonight, it’s all there. No more awkward transitions, it’s almost seamless from scene to scene with an organic and emotional logic. No more sense of flawed wonder. The drama and emotion build and build. Every time you think Soledad has reached her peak, she comes back higher and deeper. Until finally, hair hanging sweat soaked, eyes burning with intensity, defiant and vulnerable, she stares down life itself fiercely embracing its beauty and declaring her agency in the face of the abyss. She, not Creon, not fate, is in control of her destiny.

 And it is the small details I notice, the open smile as she and Haemon share one last dance of love.  As if in that moment, this is enough to redeem. And at the performance’s conclusion, she comes to the center of the stage and gently lifts the chastened, broken Creon, sharing  a look of compassion. (My brother the English teacher maintains Creon is the tragic center of the play.) In that one simple gesture, a suggestion of possible redemption.  And tonight at that moment, I am brought to tears. My breath taken away. And speechless. One of those moments where for just a moment, you see truth. Which is the only purpose of art.

I was asked by someone if I could write an essay on the Christian meaning, the Gospel interpretation of  Antigona. I said No. In theology, we deal in the Word. Our scripture is a word. Jesus is a living word. Those words are their own expression. Art exists not to serve those words, not to be a handmaid, as my friend says, not to illustrate like a children’s Bible.  Art is its own word, seeking to reveal truth. This production of Antigona explores  a host of issues, social-political, spiritual, emotional, but ultimately it is life itself, and the truth revealed in the living of that  life that is at stake. And in that process, the word that is artistic expression is in dialogue with not in service to our words.

That is why this production of Antigona with its intelligence, its competence, its passion and transcendence belongs in a sanctuary. Our sanctuary.

I will visit with my friends. Try to say this. And I will visit Soledad and tell her it is dificil para entender que es possible a ir arriba y arriba….impossible as it seems, she has gone higher and higher.

And for this, I am thankful.

                                                            ****

Tomorrow I will visit with Rudy, seeking a way to bring his work back to West-Park. And then off to Ireland.

......in a poke

8/3

Just when I think I have seen everything….

Martin and I are sitting the chapel, talking about future possibilities for Antigona. All of a sudden we hear the most horrendous screaming sound like from the worst  horror movie.  We run into the hallway, yell up the stairs What’s going on up there?

I’m just strangling somebody…comes the reply.

Just then, we see Leila’s husband Berik running down the stairs yelling,  Is a pig, a pig…and he’s out the door. Martin grabs a long metal rod and we go up the stairs to the gym where we see a guy we’ve never seen before and the largest black pig I’ve ever seen, maybe 300 pounds. I calmly ask, What’s going  on here? The guy tells us that he’s been hired to sand the floor and the pig is his pet. Accompanies him everywhere. I am incredulous. He tells us his boss is outside.

a pig in the gym

So we go back downstairs out to 86^th street where one of our renters is sitting in the front side of a van. I ask him what’s going on. He tells me that he hired the guy to sand the floor. When he got there, the guy had a pig. What was I supposed to do? He asks. Try calling me on the cellphone? I ask. The pig was very quiet all the way here, he says. That’s not the issue, I say. But it’s 90 degrees, he can’t stay in the van…

And he can’t stay in the church, Martin and I say.

Martin’s producer Sharon has joined the conversation. She always brings a keen  eye, rational perspective and level head to things. Something like a negotiation begins to take place. The pig owner joins us, defensive of his pig and  maintaining the dispute is over ego.  No, it’s over a pig. His boss suggests he would be better off  to stop talking. At a certain point, Martin is exasperated. Why are we negotiating? It’s very simple. No pigs! Which is a good point. We agree to let the sander be unloaded. Then the pig must go.  Those responsible for the pig will be responsible for finding a solution for the pig.

Martin and I return to our conversation. Then a new round of screams begins. Accompanied  by human sounds of alarm.  We go back into the hall to discover that Martin’s mother, a former dancer herself, entered the building only to hear horrendous sounds then see a pig coming down the stairs, reluctantly, driven by a man beating it with a stick. She immediately sought the security of Dion’s protection, who was standing  there in disbelief. The pig finally exited the building. Soon neighbors were on the street  snapping shots with their cell phones.

The pig on his way out

Late in the afternoon, I’m approached with the theory that if only the pig had been quiet, no one would have ever known. I say, once again, that this was not the point.

Martin has brought his security people to ensure there will be no further pig incidents or other disruptions, he’s got a show to put on.

Steve Phelps arrives, ready for Bible study.  Hears the various appeals being made to me, the pastor, as surely being  the one who understands. He admires my calm. Sees it as a parable of urban ministry.

I tell him I’ve survived the worst of Occupy Wall Street, people demanding exorcisms, drunks and unstrung visionaries and other demonic visitations but this is the hands down award winner. We retire the trophy here and now.

The pig has left the building

All is well.