With only days to go until Mature Young Adults bursts forward unto Toronto, I wanted to share some of magic that's going on behind the scenes. It's been a very busy week, culminating in an extraordinarily busy weekend. I'm showing a short scene from an entirely new play tonight at Theatre Passe Muraille, plus plotting some other schemes which - of course - have deadlines at the same time that all of this is going on. And we open in a few days. Right.
With all the craziness, I wish I had time for some further words, but instead I have enlisted our amazing designer, Joe Pagnan, to say a few words on an image we want to share with you today. Amidst the stress and rushed calamity, I look at this picture, realize this is something we are bringing to the world - making manifest - and immediately my stress is overwhelmed yet again by excitement. We hope it gets you excited too.
This image was an early render in SketchUp just to make sure the concept fit in the limited space. After we saw it would, and that the footprint could be used evocatively, the process continued down the rabbit hole. I hope you don't mind me sharing the design statement Wesley. Here it is! It was funny how I had an image from my childhood take me so roughly for this show. Its rare that those fleeting design moments strike you instantly. I'm thrilled we are trying to make it work. With only a handful of days left it will be an art rollercoaster.
"R.R.#3, Clifford, ON N0G 1M0"
A park where my adolescence was ripe, brittle flaking paint on a dizzy hexagon of wood, spinning, twirling, a cold rusty smell on my hands from holding a worn smooth metal bar. It was my only connection to the ground, to stasis. The sound of concrete grinding away under pine needle, mulch, and gravel as I would leave under a low wattage lamp attached to a characteristically empty barn. A mini put course long forgotten now an excellent place to sit on its rotting fence as the twilight buzzed, the nails holding... straining to hold a child that was leaving the discount behind. A dock, floating out. A rush because we did that, broke the dock from the land, a group of us so young, in sweaters with big letters and bigger arms, wet from running into shore. Laughing. scared, but invincible. The summer that would never end. The first time you see a firefly and actually see it. A settling of the sky and ground, and the water again still. Morning would never come. Even the long walk back to the mature adults around the fire, the fire you could smell mingling with the fire of all of the other adults escaping to find their dizzying seat, the bottle their metal bar grounding them to stasis. Us, drawn to the fire that would lull you to sleep. Though safe, it was the dewy chain links and clammy plastic seat of a seized swing and painful landing of a metal sea-saw onto a buried bumper tire that you would dream of returning to.
You dreamt that here you would lose it all, your first kiss, your virginity, you would understand the world, you would taste a beer, get lost in the woods, swim to the far dock. You expected it to be here because that coarseness was where it should have been. Funny that we said to each other it would, and then we grew up so many years never trying to make it happen. Only, thinking about it. Joking about how [HE] had a boner when he fought with [HER] in the water. Only, thinking about it.
Turning off my lamp in the park.
Three more days...