I’ve been waiting for this day for weeks. I bought my ticket well in advance, knowing that seating would be limited. Only ten audience members would be allowed at each showing - we were, after all, going to see a performance in someone’s living room.
It is a warm evening, the dusk sun is low and has produced a golden aura on the blacktop of the street, the tops of buildings, the parked cars - the kind of warm but intense backlight that, as it retreats to the west, darkens any objects in the foreground and makes you squint to see them. I made my way down the street, stepping over litter and crumpled newspaper. Store fronts gave way to brick-faced row houses. The sameness of the houses made me wonder what was happening inside. Who lived in there? If I were invited in, what would I find? What was there dinner time ritual? It is seven o’clock and my thoughts turn to food. I am carrying a container of fried rice with sausage, shrimp, and vegetables. It is still warm, and heavy. I’ve brought enough to share, as this performance concludes with a potluck dinner.
I see a small gathering of people outside one of the houses, and a Philadelphia Live Arts Fringe Festival sign on the sidewalk. Polite greetings are exchanged, we wait for others to arrive. Finally, we are welcomed by the Headlong Dance Theater staff. We are given instructions on how to enter the house and find seats. The tone is warm and welcoming, putting me at ease. “In this house, we take off our shoes”. Immediately I understand that the Headlong crew feel they have become members of this household, and by making this journey, entering this home, and sharing this experience, they suggest that we are now members of this household, too. I enter, take off my shoes, and take a seat.
I am struck by the intimacy of this space. I feel the wave of ambient sounds of low tones and nature waft over me. The air is thick and warm, the room is full of shadows contrasted by bright, backlit objects, as if the dusk sun followed us into this space. There are strings of small lights everywhere. Lights and sound work to transform this living room into a sort of portal through which we can peer into this family’s life. Home movies, and family pictures are projected onto left and right walls. A tall, wide, wooden hutch cabinet stands straight ahead against the back wall. Inside of it, more stringed lights emphasize the karate, baseball, and soccer trophies, as well as the oddly placed santa doll and other random (or not so random) knick-knacks. Couldn’t this be my mother’s living room? I have a heavy feeling, I want to be respectful of their space. Though she’s trying hard to engage me, I cannot make small talk with the audience member next to me... not yet. The familiar and comforting cover of the dark space between audience and stage is absent here. I feel exposed, as though I am in this performance. I need to sit and become part of the space, perhaps so I don't feel like such an obvious interloper?
Three young children peek around corners, like the munchkins in the Wizard of Oz. They are giggly with anticipation, seemingly oblivious of any formal performer/audience protocol. The smallest boy is doing handstands on the top of the stairs, watching us upside-down. It reminds me of my childhood antics on the steps with my sister and brother... nostalgia is setting in. It is amazingly refreshing to me and it seems to ease my tension, letting me relax more into this new role I’ve been placed in - part audience, part performer, part member of the family.
The movie projections come to an end, marking the transition to the next phase of this performance. The lights flicker on and off in a manner seemingly designed to transform the space once again and transport us through the portal they created. The light show culminates in the illumination of the entire living room. I made it through to the other side. And now, I feel totally immersed in this scene... no longer like an interloper. A buttery voice sings a soulful song from the 60’s. The father enters from the kitchen, the mother walks down stairs, slowly their eyes meet... they hold hands over the banister. Tears immediately come to my eyes. I am struck by their showing of love. My response is visceral as I recall that I will never again see such a display from my own parents. I feel my muscles burn, chest tighten as I hold back tears. I am wallowing in my own loss. Is this about my story as much as it is about theirs? Or am I being too self-centered? I re-focus, and watch.
The couple meet in the living room, the kids run out and join them. Their unique personalities are evident as they fit themselves into this scene. Their unique movement qualities and energies seem to be such an adamant exclamation of how they each belong - what their role is in this family. They are each holding a binder filled with pages of typed script. They flip each page down so we can see them, revealing new words on each page that combine with each sibling's page to create sentences. This choreography of page flipping introduces us to the family:
Hello. (flip)
We are Iranian-American. (flip)
eee-ranian, not eye-ranian. (flip)
We are the Aryadarei family. (flip)
Page-flipping continues, evoking laughter from the audience. It is fun to learn about them in this way. We learn their names, ages, hobbies, I am gobbling it up.
The children exit with the mother. The father sits on a bench and let's us know he will be telling us three stories about three fights. The first fight, he explains, taught him what it means to be a good father. I am enthralled.
We are taken on a journey of movement, music, and spoken word. At the end, after the family takes a bow, we clap and cheer. But it is not really the last story, not really the end. It is time to share food, and more stories. We set up tables and chairs and sit down to eat the food we brought. One of the Headlong directors pulls out a list of prepared questions meant to ignite conversations, but he puts it away as he realizes we don’t need it. Conversation flies in all different directions across and around the table. The air is filled with compliments, questions, and myriad stories of family, Philadelphia, and the arts. I learn that my street used to be cobbled with stones years back. I learn that the daughter's favorite dance in the performance was her duet with her father. I learn that the Aryadarei's applied to take part in this event, and were one of 4 out of 40 families chosen. I smile as the Aryadarei kids run up and down the stairs with their new friends - a few kids from the audience. We share food, pass dishes down, take care of each other. I believe that we are members of this household, at least for this night.
 |
| Photo by John Collins. From www.philly.com |
Read the reviews:
