So excited to learn that my brother, Frank Little, is up for artist of the month at Renderosity. He does amazing things with computer art, and one of the things that I especially like about his work is that it's so much more than just a lovely and intriguing visual. It's all a part of a world he's created. You can even see a map of the place on his gallery.
Check him out and vote for him, eh? Renderosity is quick to create a user name for and free. You can click here to go directly to the voting page. It has link to all the artists up for the November artist of the month, and Frank is FCLittle.
Took me a while to find the place to vote, but somewhere under the part with the little bars showing the percentages of the current voting, there's a little line that says log in and vote... or something. Anyway, vote, vote, vote! His work is graceful and unique and subtle in ways that most of the other stuff I see just isn't. Here are a couple more examples of his work...
Also, you can click here for an earlier blog post on his work, plus my tattoo, which is written in one of the languages from his world.
It's number four in my series on stealing things off of Nora Robertson's website to shamelessly promote The Body Show Benefit, an event I'll be reading in, along with some amazing writers and performers, on Wednesday, November 3rd. Come on, people! Donut-eating contest! OK, the next voice you'll hear will be Nora...
Brody Theater’s Brad Fortier recently was invited to Amsterdam to give a talk on the Anthropology of Improvisation for the 2010 Applied Improvisation Network conference. Besides being somewhat jealous of his being in Europe, where they serve fries with mayonnaise, I also was super intrigued by his interview on the anthropological roots of improvisation.
Brad is something of an anthropologist, in fact. Brad holds an MA in Interdisciplinary Studies from Portland State University focused on the anthropology of improvised theater. His book, Long-Form Improvisation: Collaboration, Comedy and Communion, is a social science analysis of, well, long-form.
As an anthropologist, Brad bounces between doing archaeological contract work for Willamette CRA and continuing his ethnographic studies of improvised theater. His performance career has included shows in the US, Canada, the Netherlands, Belgium, Germany, Austria, and Slovenia. He is also known for his duo work with Fort Hal and Uncle Trouble with comedy partner Nate Halloran. Brad can also be found onstage with Icarus and, occasionally, Funnybusiness PDX. He is the Education Director for the Brody Theater in Portland, where he has been teaching since 1998. Brad has also directed several shows for the Brody Theater: The Bards - an improvised musical, Generic Hospital – an improvised soap opera, and Starhole 3060. He also directed “SexyNurd” in Portland’s 2010 ‘Fertile Ground’ Festival of new works.
For more of Brad’s work, check out his collaboration here with director Alden Morgan, or, on a more frivolous note, come see him eat doughnuts stylishly for the Body Show Benefit’s Voodoo doughnut eating contest, Wednesday, Nov. 3rd, Someday Lounge, door at 7PM, 7:30-9:30PM, $5-15 donation
When I linked my post on favorite tear-jerkers onto Facebook, I asked the group at large what their favorite tear-jerkers were, and I enjoyed those comments so much I thought I should incorporate them into a tear-jerkers post number two.
You know you're going to get great responses when you have so many friends who are smart writers and smart readers.
To start things off, I said:
"First that came to mind for me was when we were in the car on an hour drive and I was weeping uncontrollably, reading the end of Of Mice And Men. I don't think that story was what taught me how luxurious sadness can be, but it sure reinforced it."
Right away, writer Evelyn Sharenov weighed in with: Kristin Lavransdatter by Sigrid Undset. In fact, if you click into her webpage, you'll see that she has it listed there first under her favorite books. Evelyn is also nonfiction editor of Thumbnail Magazine.
My Mom said:
"I remember that day, Gi.. we were on our way to Northridge, just the two of us, to go with Kat and Heather to a fancy dinner.. Some women's charity event, I think.. and you were just dissolving in the seat next to me... for me, hmm.. there have been many over the years.. I remember a pretty good cry reading Sophie's Choice.. all you kids were little and I recall being obsessed with the horrible concept.. that was during a period when I read many many books about WW II... probably cried a lot..."
Monica Drake (who's best known for Clown Girl) said:
"Of Mice and Men never quits being absolutely heart breaking. Another is The Dollmaker by Harriette Arnow."
Evelyn Sharenov jumped in again:
"Gigi - I read your blog entry - I reacted the same way to Garth Stein's Racing In The Rain (I have a shelf of books about dogs that I refuse to read because I know I'll be reduced to tears at the end - Merle's Door is one of those as well); Sophie's Choice comes in my top five tear-jerkers."
Fellow Dangerous Writer Brad Rosen said:
"I also cast my vote for Of Mice and Men. A haunting sadness. Also The Prettiest Girl in Town by Burkowski comes to mind. You can feel his personal pain through his prose."
of mice and men movie poster
My aunt Kathy wrote:
"Oh.. Yes.. I had forgotten the impact Of Mice & Men had on me.... and about the same age.. when I was about 12-13... I read The Diary of Anne Frank and that was HUGE for me. as well.... I am such a wimp that just about anything that portrays true human cruelty towards any weaker creature or person just dissolves me... then I also cry at happy triumphant stories of overcoming adversity etc.. so I'll pretty much cry at anything!!"
One last side note: I hadn't remembered where we were going that night that I finished Of Mice and Men - I was too deep in the book to remember much about my surroundings - but sounds from my mom's post like it was the night we went to a dinner for the National Organization for Women. Same night I accidentally on purpose bumped into speaker Barbra Streisand so that we could brush shoulders in the bathroom...
So, I realized this morning one of the coolest things about the movie Killer Bait. Which I saw under the title of Too Late For Tears, but how can someone call a film noir Too Late For Tears...
I love this film--well, half of it. The half that consists of Lizabeth Scott and Dan Duryea and Arthur Kennedy I love love love. The half that consists of Don DeFore and Kristine Miller is limp limp limp. But the man crush I have on Lizabeth Scott and the girl crush I have on Dan Duryea so make up for it that when I think about that movie, all I think is I love it. Then I think, oh yeah, there's the stuff about the sister. And then I forget about that stuff and want to put the DVD on.
Anyway, suddenly it occurred to me this morning that one of the coolest things about that film is that Jane Palmer (Lizabeth Scott), who wants so much to have money so that she can wear lovely dresses and furs and not feel poor and worthless around other people, has to hide the lovely dresses and furs she buys with her ill-gotten gains under the sink in the kitchen so her husband won't find out... so even with all the money, she doesn't even have what she really wants.
Less than two weeks from the Body Show Benefit, and over on Nora Robertson's website, she's included an excerpt from the story I'll be reading, along with a graphic I put together in a frenzy of frosting and photoshopping, to commemorate the upcoming event. [The next voice you hear will be Nora's...]
A woman decides to jump naked out of a cake to surprise her husband for their anniversary, and quickly ends up baking hundreds of sheet cakes. Gigi Little’s writing has appeared in the anthologies Portland Noir and The Pacific Northwest Reader, and she has written and illustrated two children’s picture books, Wright Vs. Wrong and The Magical Trunk. She works as In-Store Merchandising and Promotions Coordinator for Powell’s, and before moving to Portland, she spent fifteen years in the circus. To hear more of this story, check out Gigi at the Body Show Benefit, Nov. 3rd, door at 7PM, 7:30-9:30PM, $5-15 donation.
I never thought I’d be the kind of person who’d like frosting a cake in the nude. But, oh, I do. First is the smell of the sugar all around. Then there’s the way it feels. Trust me, if you think running a knife along frosting is kind of sensual, try doing it with nothing but air against your skin.
I say cake, but actually this is one of those giant novelty cakes a girl hides in and then jumps out of in a pink teddy. Or in my case, naked. Naked because today is our fifth wedding anniversary, and I don’t just want to celebrate, I don’t just want to give Andy a little surprise. I want to make an exceptional gesture.
That’s what he called it when he bought me that dress, the red one that cost like five hundred dollars. He could have bought me the sweater I asked for, but he wanted to make an exceptional gesture. So, this year, I’m doing something special for him. Something classy. I’ve got a bottle of thirty dollar champagne and the table in the corner is set with silver and candles. I constructed this cake all by myself—could have rented it from a costume shop, but then it might not have even had real frosting and definitely would not have been an exceptional gesture—at least not nearly exceptional enough.
Almost seems like I should open the champagne and have a tiny toast before Andy gets here. Because, if I do say so, this cake looks great. Well, mostly it looks like I frosted the washing machine. I tried to make it round, but somehow it came out with corners. Oh, it’s way wider than a washing machine and goes all the way up to my chin, so even if it’s not completely cakelike, at least it’s enormous. Guess it’s also kind of lopsided. But as soon as I decorate it with rosettes, it’ll be perfect.
I take the knife across the living room to the table. Balance it butt-end on the edge so the icing won’t get all over the tablecloth. The bottle is hard and a little wet—I twist the cork, let it pop, and wow—I never noticed before, but opening champagne is sort of suggestive of something. I don’t want to smudge the crystal glasses, so I swig right from the bottle. Shimmery crisp. A different sort of sensual from the soft of the frosting knife, different from the chill air on my skin. It’s an icy prickle of sexy in my mouth, so I’ve got to take another swig.
Frosting a cake naked does take some restraint. If you’re not careful, you might end up wanting to roll your body all over that smooth, lovely frosting. So I step back. Just in case. Andy’s not due for another fifteen minutes at least, but who can say when he’s driving all the way from Seattle. That’s the real reason I’ve got my clothes off. The minute I hear his key in the lock, I’m taking a nose dive into that cake. The thought that he could show up any second makes a tingle like champagne in my stomach. Makes me want more. So I go and pour myself exactly half a glass and take it back the couple steps to the cake. Then I drink it down in one go. Which feels a little excessive, but I have to keep my hands free for my work.
Usually these big novelty cakes are made out of wire and cardboard or something, but mine is an exceptional gesture. Andy always says I go overboard when I get excited, but this time he’s going to have to admit it’s worth it. How can a woman hope to be sexy jumping out of a cake made out of wire and cardboard? If you want to be sexy, you want to go real all the way. And what could be sexier than cake?
I thought it would be fun to do a display on favorite tear-jerkers. I asked some of my friends around Powell's what their favorites were--just to get a list of books--and all of the sudden I had all these great, tiny reviews, these personal accounts of relationships with books.
Here are a couple of my favorites:
Shawn D. on The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein - "I sent it to my mother last year for her birthday. When I called her a week later to see if she liked it, she broke down crying hysterically. At first I was worried that a friend of hers may have died, but through her sobs I could just barely make out, 'I loved that book sooooo much.'"
Kevin Sampsell on Happy by Alex Lemon - "Alex's struggles made me cry. Alex's mom's love made me cry. And when it was over, I thought about how grateful I am for everything and I made myself cry."
Had fun, too, with the graphic I made for the window...
I interspursed some of the little blurbs people wrote with some pulp novel images that I changed up a bit to go with the theme...
Lately, I dream all night about family and wake up sad.
On Sunday, we hauled eight heavy [heavy!] shopping bags full of books down to the car and out to Powell's Industrial to sell. I've sold books to Powell's once before, but not my own. Wait, that sounds like I'm a burglar. I did it for a friend. Anyway, this time, three bags were mine and five were Stephen's. Pulled during all that work we did cleaning out the apartment to get rid of a bookcase and fit the new easel in the studio. Both of us had books we were long finished with and wanted to lighten the load. Lots of mine were children's picture books, which are much thinner, and Stephen had big, thick history volumes, so I figured I must have close to the same book count.
After the selling, we got back in the car and headed off for errands. My experience had left me depressed. Pretty heavy [heavy!] weight hanging just under my ribcage as we drove away. Stephen's experience left him feeling good. Almost giddy. Said he felt free. I already couldn't remember most of the books I'd just jettisoned from my life, but I missed them anyway.
Granted, Stephen's books were mostly going to end up right back on his own shelves, at least the shelves he manages at Powell's. Maybe some will go to other locations, but in the coming weeks [days?] he's going to be going through a cart and see old friends come through. He'll be able to open a book and know that that page is where he used to have a yellow sticky note to mark a favorite image. And my books? Most were piled on the counter to be left in the recycling bin, to go off somewhere, through some donation process. Rejected.
Recently I was talking to a writer friend about the fact that once something's published, it's out there to haunt the writer forever. Any part you don't like, wish you'd said differently... is out there in the world. And I said, "I suppose for the most part, though, what's out there fades into some bit of ghost in, really, not all that long of time. Something that exists - but who really looks at it except someone who owns and loves it."
I thought about this as I drove away from my rejected books. And part of that weight under my ribcage - I was sad for those books. Those ghost books, now faded into the world, no longer honored by my shelves.
Part two in my series of stealing stuff from Nora Robertson's website! She's giving little previews prior to the big Body Show Benefit, which is coming up on November 3rd at Someday Lounge. I'm excited to post this particular preview as Margaret Malone is one of the best writers I know. Spare, smart, funny. Check her out. [Nora's voice to follow...
A couple is running late for a medical appointment which turns out to involve an exam and a doctor in knee-high boots about to go on African safari. Oregon Literary Fellow Margaret Malone and filmmaker Brian Padian recently released a short film Brian adapted from her short story by the same title, “I’m Your Man.” Cinematography by Scott Ballard, song by Joe Haege, performers include Christine Calfas and Karen Hepner. Real-life couple Margaret and Brian are also collaborating on a memoir about Brian’s survival of a brain tumor, The Year of Travel & Good Fortune.
Also catch Margaret reading more of her hot fiction at the Body Show Benefit on Nov. 3rd at Someday Lounge. Performers include Arthur Bradford, Gigi Little, B. Frayn Masters, Nathaniel Boggess and Danielle Fish, and there will be a Voodoo doughnut contest judged by style points. Door at 7PM, 7:30-9:30PM, $5-15 donation.
EXCERPT: I’m Your Man
We sit in the small room. It is already crowded. Bert is on the papered exam table and I’m on a loveseat smooshed into the corner. The loveseat is pink pleather cushions and wood arms and legs, like something out of a medical office furniture catalogue under the heading – Make Your Patients Feel Right At Home – only of course it doesn’t, because our home does not look like the exam room of a urologist.
I am still holding everything, coats, purse, coffee in a jar. I heave the pile over onto the cushion next to me, unscrew the jar lid and, praise god, I hit the coffee, three big sips.
On the wall is a poster of inside a penis, capillaries and vessels in sharp reds and blues. Next to that in the corner is the mandatory metal sink with a tall-necked faucet like the top of an f, stinky-clean medical handsoap, automatic paper towel dispenser, and above all that on the cabinet door is a sign that says, We’re all in this together.
Bert says, “I’m nervous.”
I say, “There is nothing to be nervous about.”
He says, “What if the doctor wants to cut my penis open?”
“That’s crazy,” I say. “You sound crazy. It’s just an office visit.”
I am not as understanding as I could be.
This is when the door opens and a woman with a long face like a summer squash walks in. Straight dark blond hair, low cut black sweater, short black skirt, black stockings, and black knee high boots. Obligatory white coat.
She says, “I am Dr. Foote.”
Her voice like the edge of a serrated knife.
She will not look us in the eyes for more than a small part of a second, so when she speaks to us she speaks to her clipboard.
She says, “We don’t have much time.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “We didn’t have any idea how far away it was.”
Her lips spread a bit. A smile, maybe. Her dark eyes meet mine for a moment.
“This will be a short appointment,” she says. “I have other patients.”
She lowers herself onto a round black stool. The wheels squeak as she settles in.
Without moving our bodies, Bert and I look at each other. Look back at Dr. Foote.
The three of us sit in the shape of a triangle. Dr. Foote, on her stool. Me, on the loveseat. Bert, legs dangling from the papered exam table.
I take another hit of coffee from the jar. I drink too fast and it gets caught in my throat. When I am done coughing, Dr. Foote speaks.
To her clipboard she says, “How long have you been trying?”
Bert and I look at each other. Our voices hopscotch.
Me, “One year.” Bert, “About a year.”
Dr. Foote writes on the clipboard.
She says, “Your hormone tests came back and everything looks normal, slight elevation of Prolactin. Doesn’t mean anything though.”
Sound of a page turned in the file. Paper creased by a hand. Scratching of pen onto paper to test the ink. She is in love with that clipboard. If it disappeared, she would have to actually look at us.
To Bert up high on the exam table, she begins her barrage of questions. She says, “Do you smoke?”
“Drinking, how much per week?”
Bert says, “Per week? Maybe seven drinks?” His eyes meet mine. “Ten?” he says. Sure, ten sounds good. No need to tell the doctor that Bert drinks like a dock-worker.
Dr. Foote crosses her legs revealing her black stockinged knee above her boot. She says, “Any street drugs?”
Bert says, “No.”
Dr. Foote’s dark animal eyes swing my way. My stomach does a flip flop.
“Not even marijuana?” She says this to me even though she’s talking to Bert, like I am his pusher, like I’ve got a nickel bag in my purse and I’m just waiting until she leaves the room so we can get high.
Bert swallows. He says, “No.” Bert says, “Not anymore.”
“And you don’t wear tight pants do you? On a regular basis? Bike shorts? Or what have you?”
The squeak and click of the stool’s metal wheels against the hospital floor. She pushes a little bit forward, a little bit back to find the right spot before she continues. Jar of coffee in my hand which I see now is ridiculous. I’m not relaxing at a café on the Seine. I chug the rest, put the lid back on and set it down on the floor.
Dr. Foote says, “We got the results of your semen analysis. Your count is slightly lower than normal.”
Bert says, “Right.” We’ve heard this all before.
She says, “That’s not a huge deal.”
She says, “Your motility is a bit low and your percentage of normal sperm is quite low.”
Bert says, “Right.”
We have not heard this before.
We don’t know what this means. What does a normal sperm act like? I picture Bert’s wayward sperm, painting its fingernails black, getting a tattoo.
She swivels to the loveseat, her eyes land on me. She says, “And everything with you is functioning normally? Ovulating? Healthy?”
Dr. Foote’s squash face is already back in her clipboard. She is not a very good listener.
I clear my throat. “Yes, we thought it was me,” I say. “My eggs, you know, because usually it’s the woman, but now we think it’s not. I took that test where they inject this…”
She swivels back to Bert. She says, “Well, let’s do a quick exam.”
Dr. Foote rises from her stool, sets her precious clipboard on the counter by the sink. She says, “Stand up and drop your pants and underwear to the floor.”
Bert’s expression says, Yikes!
I point at me and then point at the door, like, you want me to leave? Bert shakes his head no. From a cardboard box, Dr. Foote pulls a pair of heavy blue latex gloves, stretches them over her hands.
Bert stands, unfastens his belt; his pants and boxers fall to the floor. Bert’s naked half torso in profile. Dr. Foote facing him, blue hands reaching out.
I turn my head toward the pile on the loveseat, cross my legs, pick up my purse. I look really hard for something to look for. My hand trolls the bottom of the bag. Keys; pen; chapstick! Perfect. Put on that chapstick, take your time. Really smooth that waxy chapstick all over your lips.
Dr. Foote’s blue hands feel Bert’s testicles.
Do not stare. Do not seem uncomfortable. This is all perfectly normal.
There is no comforting small talk.
The sounds of give and stretch of blue latex over skin.
I check the inside of my purse again. Probably I should put on some more chapstick. Yup, that’s better. Maybe I’ll just check my phone. No messages. All-righty. No problem. There’s probably an old mint in here somewhere.
Dr. Foote says, “Okay.”
Oh thank god.
Bert leans down to pull his pants up.
Dr. Foote says, “Now just turn around and lean against the exam table. I’ll check your prostate.”
Things I found cleaning out the bookshelf by my desk in the studio:
A book of 37 cent Christmas stamps.
An ipod adapter cord in its box, never opened.
A bag of pennies and the unused paper sleeves to put them in, which I got from the bank years ago.
Doctor appointment reminder cards from 2007.
2 type-2016 batteries--for what, I don't know--in the package, with notation, "Best if installed by 2006."
Note from the vet during the time of José's old age, reading: "1. Benedryl liquid 5 mg orally twice a day (bedtime). 2. Hot water bottle, in bed."
1 set of ear buds with the bud parts pulled off.
1 set of headphones which I knew on sight did not work at all.
Tiny sketches for a set of paintings I thought about painting 5 years ago.
1 folded-up note from Stephen on the occasion of our 2nd anniversary... Which anniversary, I'm not sure. Not wedding. Maybe first meeting. More likely from the content of the note, our first e-mailing. Which is coming up again next Thursday. Which, in a way, started everything off in the studio because the big clean-out was necessitated by a big move-around which was necessitated by the fact that I bought Stephen a big, new easel for painting, and that thing was not going to fit in the studio if we didn't get rid of and move some things. And the reason I'd decided to buy him the easel was two reasons--to celebrate the recent developments in his art career and to celebrate the up-coming anniversary of our first e-mail.
What Stephen in his note calls, "that awkward, little e-mail that started everything."
The note was written not long after I'd left for work on that earlier anniversary, Stephen sitting in bed with coffee and Kitty burrowed under the covers with him.
"You left about a half hour ago, looking fresh and pretty, almost unbearably lovable. You almost forgot your earrings--again. Your hood was wedged under your coat--again..."
When I look around, this studio, and the moving around that happened last night, is all about our lives together. Stephen all order and smartness, getting everything fitted into its new spot right. And our gifts to each other: From me to him, the easel. From him to me, the desk space I was going to give up to accommodate the easel, for me to keep even though I do my writing out in the family room, for me to keep even just to use to pile my stuff and forget about it.
Over on Nora Robertson's page, she's going to be putting out a few pre-show teasers for her upcoming event The Body Show Benefit, in the days leading up to November 3rd. As one of a bunch of really cool participants in that event (I'm not meaning to call myself really cool, but it would take too much early morning effort to restructure the sentence to take the me out of that part), I thought it would be fun to re-post them here.
I think we should call these posts...
Here, in Nora's voice, is #1: Matt Bors.
Portland cartoonist Matt Bors recently traveled to Afghanistan with Ted Rall to cover the state of the country. I happened to catch his and Ted’s panel presentation at Wordstock and was super intrigued by their experiences as the sole team of unimbedded journalists covering this conflict in a place where no one, literally no one, goes on the streets at night. There was one leg of the trip where they had to fly over despite the excellent condition of the roads because even at I believe it was $2,500 the two were offering to take them, it was not worth it to the driver. If he was caught with Matt and Ted, the driver would be killed, and if he was caught on the way back, he’d be robbed of the cash and his car. One lady from the audience: how do you get there? Do you have to have special permission? Ted and Matt: You just go! It’s an ally to the US. Though the State Department will tell you not to.
To see more of Matt Bors, albeit in a less serious context, catch him as a contestant in the Voodoo doughnut contest in the upcoming Body Show Benefit on Nov. 3rd at Someday Lounge, eating doughnuts creatively. Judged by Tres Shannon, Tiffany Lee Brown and Shannon Wheeler. Door at 7PM, 7:30-9:30PM, $5-15 sliding scale.
So, at Powell's today I'm doing some work on the new round of featured titles. Each team... subject... basic section - say, Literature or Fine Arts or History books - sends me their list, and I order the books for featured spots around the store.
Among the titles requested by the Humanities Team (poetry and reference and classics) are:
I read The Iliad in high school. Or was it The Odyssey? Or was it both? I just remember that it didn't really connect with me--too much going on... too much story spooling out forever. Also, I was in high school.
On Friday, I saw An Iliad at Portland Center Stage. A smartly-written play and a great production that brought out all the elements I don't think I was mature enough to notice back in high school. Surprising themes of war-as-tragedy wrapped up in that particular hero's journey. Surprising moments of heart in what I always figured was one big swashbuckling adventure story. The writers Denis O'Hare and Lisa Peterson take the themes further by their shaping of the play--what stories they highlight, what stories they leave out, what stories they touch on in tiny, particular ways and then let lie--and also in the ways they lift up and away from the stories: some very surprising moments that I won't spoil, but which I'll say... do the trick.
There's some definite audacity in the writing of this play, and you need some good acting and directing to pull it off. Both go into the creation on stage of the storyteller who takes you through this Iliad, and since I don't for a minute understand the art that goes into directing, I'll just say that what Penny Metropulos did worked... and move on to the actor, Joseph Graves, who was so excellent in playing the drunken storyteller morphing in and out of all the sub-parts in the stories he tells. One-man shows can be a forum for actors to get up there and parade their ability to play different parts right down your throat, but Graves doesn't do that. He plays the different parts but in a way that keeps the storyteller on stage. There's some lovely, ancient storyteller magic that gets up inside him--you witness the transformation--and then moves him from narrator to Hector to narrator to Achilles to narrator to Hecuba fluidly and gracefully. In a way that keeps narrator folded into story and present folded into past--which could feel gimmicky if not done well.
Present-folded-into-past was set up really well by the stage set. Particularly the wall that surrounds the whole space of the theater--graffiti all over the stone in different languages. We all remember references in history books to old graffiti, whether in Pompeii or Egypt or carved by American frontiersmen. The mind bounces around these things, touches on the cave paintings at Lascaux, sees the thread through time and through place, which is just what the play itself does.
The show, the production, the set - it all has a way of letting you feel smart even if you were the kid who was bored by The Iliad in high school and didn't retain any of it except for the thing about the face that launched a thousand ships.