Sunday, April 15, 2012

Arts week

I had another great arts week. Great arts weeks are never planned, they just happen. They're like finding the love of your life, you can't look for a great arts week, they just pop up when you least expect it. In some ways they're even better than finding the love of your life.  Questions like, Is this the love of my life? How sure are we about this? If only they had different parents. Should we take a break to be sure about this? Why do they insist on saying 'will you borrow me this' instead of 'will you lend me that'? cannot be applied to arts weeks.

 On Wednesday I went to Hay Fever at the Guthrie Theatre. This was a hilarious show, I laughed a lot and my cheeks hurt from smiling. Hay Fever isn't Shakespeare or high art, but it's fantastic comedic writing and just all around great fun.  The highlight was Harriet Harris who played Judith Bliss, a recently retired actress and mother of two grown children who call her 'darling'. She did an expert job at being the drama queen who would be fun to have around, the kind of person you watch on stage and think, 'I need to know someone like this.'

Friday I went to the James Sewell Ballet. I like JSB. They can always be counted on for someting creative and different.
I went with a group called Theoroi which goes to shows and then meets with the artists/directors/someone related to the show.  After the performance we went to the super cool JSB rehearsal space for drinks and apps (I ate a very un-ballerina like number of macaroons) and a Q&A with James Sewell and the dancers. It was the kind of thing you go to and think, 'My life should be more like this all the time.'  The best part was when one of the dancers was talking about the second part of the show and said, 'We were changing stuff at 6:30 today. I had no idea what was going on.'

Saturday I went to Madame Butterfly. I forgot how terrible this story is* but the music is just outstanding. Kelly Kaduce's (Butterfly) singing and acting was really moving. I actually almost cried and I always try not to be that pretentious person that is 'just soooo moved by the beauty of opera' that they can't control themselves (people who cry at the opera aren't always pretentious but it's a fine line I'm nervous about and therefore always lean more towards appearing to be an emotional black hole).
*To clarify, the story isn't badly told, it's just a terrible story - Pinkerton is a grade A jerk.

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