Reviewed by: Pac/Edge Performance Festival Roger Bechtel Pac/Edge Performance Festival. Performing Arts Chicago, Athenaeum Theatre, Chicago. 02, 04, 1104 2004. "You smell nice," remarked the smoky female voice as I rushed into the men's room at the Athenaeum Theatre. Persevering through the flash of panic that I had burst into the wrong quarters, I quickly discovered that I was in fact the inadvertent victim of art, a video installation by Sandra Binion titled watercloset(s), mounted and running on the wall that screens the urinals from the gaze—real or imagined—of the open doorway. Timing, of course, was the source of my initial discomfort, but Binion's relentless, insinuating colloquialisms ultimately touched a deeper nerve. For beneath the seductive voice was a broad-shouldered invasion of that most private of public spaces, the refusal to allow even a moment's respite from the endless demands of performance—theatrical, social, or biological. This kind of aggressiveness has long been a hallmark of the Chicago aesthetic, and it was on abundant display at the second annual PAC/edge Festival, a collection of the best of Chicago's performance vanguard. Crammed into every theatre and hallway, coatroom and restroom of the Athenaeum building, an enormous, converted, turn-of-the-century recreation center and schoolhouse, the Festival presented some forty-four performance, theatre, and dance events, nine workshops, and seven ongoing visual installations. And while most of the forty companies represented enjoy only a local reputation, some have recently begun to garner national attention, including such Chicago stalwarts as Goat Island and Plasticene. As with most festivals of this size and inclusiveness, the quality of the events varied widely, but even the least fully realized of the performances offered its own rewards. From among the twenty-something pieces I saw, here then is a look at some of the Festival's more outstanding performances. If anything separated the veteran companies from the neophytes at the Festival, it was the precision, cohesiveness, and sheer ease that come from amassing a sustained body of work. Nowhere were these qualities better exemplified than in Plasticene's Blank Slate, a trenchant examination of the ecstasies and depravities of language and learning. Founded in 1990 under the direction of Dexter Bullard, Plasticene is composed of four athlete-actors (Mark Comiskey, Dominic Conti, Tere Parkes, and Brian Shaw), whose physical aesthetic lies somewhere between Meyerhold and the World Wrestling Federation. But while the company is best known for the extremity and daring of its physicality, its work is also marked by an abiding intelligence and subtlety, as Blank Slatepersuasively demonstrates. Although the performers remain silent throughout, language itself becomes a gymnastic event here through the use of three mobile chalkboards of various heights and dimensions, as well as small, individual slates for each of the actors. The piece opens with a frenzy of writing, actors rushing from one chalkboard to the next, inchoate scratches gradually forming words, words gradually forming sentences, sentences engendering confusions that propel bodies into battle. At the peak of this sequence, the chalkboards themselves become weapons, spinning and rotating crazily, careering from one side of the stage to the other. Yet the violence of this controlled chaos finally gives way to an unexpected moment of sublimity as the three chalkboards come to rest center stage, each board cantilevered over the one in front of it, forming a large smooth surface running directly down toward the audience. From the hidden upstage edges of the chalkboards a rush of water washes over the dusty, scribbled surfaces, erasing all misinterpretations and misunderstandings, leaving them, with much relief, blank. If the synoptic first half of Blank Slateexamines the language of war, the second half focuses more specifically on the personal dimensions of language, the language of self and love. Early in this section, in perhaps the most arresting conceptual moment of the piece, each performer looks intently into the chalkboard as if it were a mirror, smoothing hair, licking lips, preening, despairing. It is the face that becomes the blank slate here, on which are written the social conventions of sexual attractiveness. This collective private moment is interrupted by the warped strains of...
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