Unless it’s sex, death, or murder, I just don’t have time for it.
That didn’t really hit me until night before last when I was talking to a friend about the basic divide in 20th century theatre [Ed. note: Yes, I am (a) dull, and (b) a theatre fag], which essentially comes down to Bertold Brecht vs. Antonin Artaud. And Brecht was all like, “Ach! I’m gonna turn up the lights in the theatre and talk directly to the audience so they’ll know they’re at a play and they can really think about the issues onstage instead of getting caught up in the emotional story. Ya?” And Artaud was all like, “Mon dieu! Dude, that is so not what theatre is about. I’m gonna create a terrifying, wordless spectacle with no logical narrative. I’m going to get at their gut, not their brain. Enculeur!”
Now, I used to like the Brecht stuff. I used to think that sort of approach to art could create social change. [I know: whatever, right?] But one day I woke up and I said, “Damn, she’s preachy, ain’t she? Screw that condescending bitch!”
So maybe it’s intellectual laziness on my part. Maybe it’s my unwillingness to really think about issues and things. Maybe it’s my natural impatience, my inability to focus on complex arguments for too long and see all the nuances. But for whatever reason, I’m totally on the Artaud tip these days.
I want to see news broadcasts full of death and destruction artlessly captured on fuzzy home video. I want to see ain’t-life-grand sunny days turn suddenly black with gore. I want pornography that’s pure animal rutting. Screw all this conceptual stuff: I want theatre and dance and photography and everything else to be sexy, painful, horrifying, sad. I want to be totally aroused or nauseous or dizzy or furious or some combination thereof. Tell me: is that too much to ask?!?
. . . Whew.
Sorry about that. I’ve seen too many Agnes Martins the past few days, and it’s starting to get on my nerves.
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