This is Drama Masks, a Bay Area performing arts column from a born San Franciscan and longtime theatre artist in an N95 mask. I talk venue safety and dramatic substance, or the lack thereof.
Cambridge Dictionary’s word of the year may be “parasocial,” but since the dawn of this pandemic, many like myself are more familiar with the word “vicarious.” Rather than mistaking online interactions with a personal relationship to someone famous, we watch acquaintances celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, and the like as we send them well-wishes from afar. We can only be happy that they’re happy.
One advantage of vicarious living is that it provides a much more visceral experience than that of the always scary parasocial. Sure, vicariousness can be plenty unsettling in its own way—there’s a reason why “stage parents” make everyone uncomfortable—but there are plenty of reasons why the once-removed experience can be both satisfying and healthy.
Despite nearly 40 years of pearl-clutching, for instance, science has proven over and over again that video games—be they violent or cutesy—actually benefit mental health in a number of ways. Same with movies, music, and other forms of entertainment. Whereas parasociality dangerously blurs the line between consumer and creator, vicariousness provides an understanding of why we enjoy the things we enjoy.
I bring this up because visceral reactions were at the heart of choreographer Keith Hennessy’s weird inkling, which I saw at the closer of the figure it out dance festival, which ran November 21–30 at San Francisco’s Space 124. Hennessy and his seven collaborators (B Dean, Clarissa Rivera Dyas, Emily Leap, Kevin CK Lo, Miriam Wolodarski, quinn dior, and Snowflake Calvert) often did little more than roll around the loft like infants, recalling tired punchlines about contemporary dance that have been long-subverted.
But then, the advantage of being an infant is that everyone expects you to express strong emotional reactions to everything around you. It’s a special kind of freedom.
The set for weird inkling was a contrasting mix that found a bohemian-style tent in one corner, hanging metal scaffoldings swinging one way or another, at least four disco balls of various sizes hanging down, and even a makeshift hammock upstage. The floor was a crudely constructed cardboard tapestry held together by black electrical tape. Stage-right was a mound on the floor, as if a gopher were expected to pop out eventually. Upstage-left featured a three signs reading “FREE PALESTINE,” “figure it out,” and “FUCK ICE.” The audience members who didn’t sit in chairs sat around the perimeter of the three-quarter thrust on pillows or blankets.
Among the rhythmic chants and the cacophony of odd sounds coming from the speakers, Hennessy (adorned in a familiar neon-orange cap that wouldn’t stay on) improvised movements that showed an emphasis on connection. When random contact was made between two dancers, there appeared to be an urge not to break that contact unless absolutely necessary. That could include directly mirroring one’s movements or one dancer using another as a “carpet” with which to cross from one side of the stage to another. Hidden microphones enhanced the sounds of moving equipment without increasing to a volume that would make it unbearable (for me, anyway).
Occasionally, audience members were invited to take part in the goings-on. That could mean everything from holding a stage light to accepting Hennessy’s invitation to crawl under the carboard floor with him. At one point, people seated in the tent helped hold the far end of the aerial rope used by a dancer all the way on the other side of the stage. There was never an action that made anyone question potential safety, but there was this repeated theme of wanting to get the audience out of their seats. To do what? Well, there’s a reason the festival was titled figure it out.
As things drew to a close, dancer quinn dior—having changed out of a casual pink-dotted tee into a green-sequined dress—took to the mic to introduce the ensemble and give an impromptu quiz to the audience: “Everyone have a good Thanksgiving? Anyone come out as trans [to their family]?” dior, who is trans, recounted a personal history with Hennessy (including a tale about Hennessy’s infamous Saliva piece) and having been attached to this project for about a year. There was also some light ribbing on Hennessy himself: “He used to have an ass! Now, he just farts in rehearsals.”
The proper conclusion came with Hennessy imploring the audience one last time not to step onto the stage, but to destroy it. One by one, the seated guests joined the eight dancers in ripping the cardboard floor to shreds. It was part of the final performance ritual, and audience members of all ages (there was a toddler in attendance) took great delight in spending their post-Thanksgiving weekend ripping apart cardboard slabs with wild abandon. Perhaps they did go through the scenario dior pointed out or perhaps they were just full of caffeine. Whatever the case, the people destroying that stage found a necessary catharsis.
With the way this year has gone, who could blame them?
Perhaps a third of us were masked. I didn’t get to attend the mask-required performance on November 22 and the old factory building isn’t the best for ventilation. Still, CO² readings on my Aranet4 only peaked around 1,720ppm by the end of the hourlong show, which is by no means the worst reading it’s gotten.
figure it out could very well be the theme for 2025 as a whole. It’s been a year of natural and man-made disasters, the latter done at the whim of a tantrum-prone toddler with a spray-on tan and a bad comb-over. It’s been a year in which one wants to both lash out in frustration as well as hold onto whatever connections they’re lucky enough to make.
It’s a year where something as simple as ripping up a cardboard floor can provide even the briefest respite. That may not have even been Keith Hennessy’s intention, but that’s the sort of visceral (and vicarious) experience he provided. The very improvised nature of the piece means there wasn’t a specific plan. Like the rest of us, he was just trying to… well, you know.
