August 15, 2008

Obsidian is a kind of naturally occurring glass, created when hot lava freezes quickly. The wild shift in climate change, also associated with some obsessive relationships, is what makes this beautiful material a reality. Because of its finite and complex structure, when broken, Obsidian partical-izes into tiny shards, that get under your skin, cut a place into you and remain there.

Obsidian is used now in delicate surgeries, and back in the day to make arrowheads, because its compound is so fine, that when fractured its edges are so sharp they still appear smooth under an electron microscope. It slices to the core, cleanly, with such slick grace, you probably won’t even realize what’s happening. At first. And once you do know, all that’s left to do is marvel, and likely, grieve.

The Obsidian show is a show centered around the theme of obsessive love It’s heavily psychological, raw, edgy, elegant, graceful, dramatic, visual.

The feel of the world is dark, ominous, ruthlessly seductive, dangerous, thrilling. I’m thinking black and peacock (rainbow obsidian) as costume inspirations, elegant and somewhat edgy but not over-the-top or too stereotypical ‘gothic’. Lace, mesh, corsets, with splashes of color and an air of eloquence. The characters are varied in personality but move with grace and a deep power. Think vampiric moulin rouge meets nightmare before christmas in an underground dungeon with delicate fine china place settings. I see little comedy in this show, but when there is, it’s dark.

I want to encourage those involved in this show to see it as an opportunity to push their limits, and that of our audience. I want to grip them, slice past their defenses, show them the things that no one talks about – what it is to be human, to love, to enmesh, to obsess, give in to seduction and revel in it – and the consequences, both great and terrible. I want to do it, for the most part, with a sense of poise, precision and cunning; almost quietly.

Ever since putting a reworked Obsidian to calendar, the smokey shadows of its tendrils have begin whisping their way around me. Currently, when I envision myself as a whole being, I see the cloud floating beside me, a strand encapsulating my right bicep, like a grey, bony halo around my arm, waiting to cinch itself down.

Memories I’d long forgotten of the first show are flooding back. The pieces of music I never stopped listening to suddenly lurch me into the vibrating, broken, torn vessel I occupied then. I can feel the urgency, the jagged crystalline pain I was impaled on, like the soul of me I poured into that show is suddenly rising up out of the floor and pooling under my feet.

There are so many tiny, profound moments surfacing. The flash of Davids face as we danced the first steps of the Obsidian Tango. Chopping my wrists into Donns expectant hand, gritting my teeth. Snowflakes kissing my face as I contorted myself in the air. Shoshana’s shrill, penetrating, desperate poetry. My vision going blurred as my contacts dried out after slitting my own throat and sinking to the floor.

I remember the other side, too. The stress, the frustration with the venue, that fucking cigar box, the ulcers. The drinking. Being a new director, going through a very public and polarizing breakup, being filled with hatred. Having been forced out of my space for most of the rehearsal process for the show. Not knowing who I could trust.

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When I hear this song begin now, each time, I can feel myself being picked up from that red stage and set down next to Shawn. Every show, I relived the depths of despair I am capable of, brought it out and away and through me. Every show, I tried not to cry there, laying naked in a fetal position, offering myself to our audience and their paintbrushes. Most shows, I failed.

Each time I laid there face to face with him, Shawn, who was supposed to be playing dead, did something to assure me. Every time, it was a different, unrehearsed gesture. Once he took my hand. Another time we met eyes for a moment. Every time, he did something unique and tender to show me I was loved and appreciated for what I was putting myself through, and that he was there to support me. Even if I cried, when I was supposed to be dead.

I can hear the ambient shuffled whispering, feel the purposeful grace of movement in the people around us handing out paint. I can feel that first prick of the dried, ancient bristles on those brushes penetrating my aura and coloring my skin. I can feel the tenderness and the love that coalesced in that room when we each, audience and cast alike, brought all those elements of ourselves into it.

I can sense again the unspoken connection in being so naked, so raw, and so honest about what it is to be in the dark. What it is to BE the dark. Why it is that I do what I do.

Over these last two years, I’ve said more than once that I would never do this show again. That what it was meant to do had been done, I didn’t want to revisit those wounds, I didn’t have anything more to say.

I lied.