ABSTRACT
February 1, 1964: my surprise on entering the theater. An exposed space, the stage literally denuded. No “wings” either, only “fire walls” of striated, burned, discolored brick. Hunter Playhouse in New York City as a sinister cavern. The stage lights, pipes and all, are dropped practically to the ground where they cast small, intense specks of light. Some stools and chairs scattered about at random. Behind the rows of low-hanging lights, a higher pipe to which an unkempt mass of painted canvas is attached, looking shredded and bloodied. A devastated curtain.
