As I write this, Tim McPeek is presumably in the eleventh hour of a 26-hour performance in the back room of Rust Belt Books. I fully intended to check it out and write something about it here tonight, but the rehearsal I was in ran late and I didn't make it. But hey: I--and you--still have till 6 p.m. Wednesday to walk in the back door of RBB and peek in on Tim's super-slow-motion journey from one side of the room to the other.
One of several reasons I've been looking forward to The Crossing is its sense of time. Most (though not all) of the other festival events are an hour or less, which can lend an air of consumerism to the proceedings. (For instance, last week I was distracted during one show because I didn't want to miss the next one, mere minutes later.) Here's an event that doesn't play by the usual rules/conventions of theatergoing, and that's pretty exciting... in a slow, subtle kind of way.
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I did eventually make it to The Crossing myself, at about 2:30 p.m., a few hours (and a few feet) from the end. There was a little confusion re the one-audience-member-at-a-time rule, so I found myself in the space with Tim and two other viewers for a moment. And my cell phone went off the minute I walked inside, dammit. Naturally I felt like I was invading a very special situation (and I certainly idenitified with Pam's "church service" metaphor), but eventually I made my peace with all that and settled in for a few minutes to watch and witness.
"Witness" is probably the better word to describe the experience. The event was indeed like a religious ceremony, but a very private one, like a monk praying and fasting. I thought, too, of things like butoh dance (thanks to the slllllow pace and Tim's shaved head), the "lost weekend" of an alcoholic (the long line of bottles left in his wake--never mind that they bore messages from fellow onlookers, with instructions that they be opened at certain times in the future), the last few hours spent at someone's deathbead, the gradual descent into madness. And probably more.
I originally planned to take and post pictures of the event, but it just didn't seem to lend itself to that. I'm even hesitating to describe anything about what happened in writing, so as to preserve the uniqueness of the memories of the few who were there over the 26 hours. There was an incredible intimacy to the whole thing (written instructions suggested that we feed Tim a spoonful of water, for instance) and the amazing quality of light in the room intensified that sensation.
The Crossing is, for me at least, less about the concept than the reality. Descriptive words, images, etc., are beside the point. But now that the piece is over, they are all we have. (Tim has the bottles with messages, to be opened for years to come--perhaps even after his death.)
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