It is almost inevitable that in trying to write about play, I will write very often about death.
A memory. I saw a performance by a colleague of ours.* She’d been collaborating with someone, a friend of hers, he’d been ill when they startedHIV-but after they showed the work some times in public he got very ill. He was in hospital and she used to go and work with him there-they taped a lot of stuff on video-he clearly wasn’t going to get out again-they figured he could be in the piece, you know, on video. So by the time I saw the performance the guy was dead already. Not long dead-a month, probably, maybe even less. And F was trying to show the work in public for the first time since he died and she was dealing with her grief in the piece and it showed and someone said to me that really she should have been home in bed. It was brave and fucked-up. It was raw and sometimes it didn’t make much sense. And it might even have been embarrassing except that death and loss hung over the piece so strongly you could never exactly dismiss it.