About 10 years ago, a friend of mine dragged me into a dingy warehouse and two hours later my life, my creative process, and my hope for live art were altered forever. The show was The Kitchen, a simple little story, dramaturgically unremarkable with the stereotypical tensions between chefs and waitresses. And then I saw Steven Epp, bobbing up and down in a ridiculously tall toke and Dominique Serrand in a magical suit of bright colors and plaids yelling “Sabotage!” in that commanding French voice he possesses.
Of course, most of the time, I was soaking in the space, the way the heavy steel girders disappeared into the lighting grid, the careful revelations of brick and plaster. Even the popcorny fireproofing on the steel columns seemed to add to the symphony of new and old textures which carefully feathered themselves into the scenery. There was no line between actor and audience, stage and theatre. The world, in this space, was truly a stage. It reminded me of the first time I entered the Guggenheim in Bilbao. When I walked through the Richard Serra sheets of steel, I realized that I was in a space at the edge art amidst art at the edge of space.
So yeah, the news of Jeune Lune closing was very sad to me. Yet, like every great piece of live theater, it must eventually close, the set must be struck, and the house must go dark. And it’s our job, the responsibility of the audience, to remember the space and the art. What’s your most memorable Juene Lune moment?
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