What art is, in reality, is this missing link,
not the links which exist.
It’s not what you see that is art;
art is the gap.
– Marcel Duchamp

The first time was a small venue. We fumbled over the process of getting on our masks, pulling out IDs, finding vaccination cards on my phone, and the printed tickets in my handbag. The second time it was a grand dame of an old theatre, and we were prepared. Masks on. Tickets lined up. Phone and IDs at the ready.

Introducing the first show, the curator noted its postponement from last year. Also postponed from its scheduled premiere, the second show was peppered with elation. Filled close to capacity (maximum 1,300), the host took pictures from stage of the audience. Cheer poured out for the dual truths that we could show up and that we did.

Leaving among a stream of hundreds of people, I felt my throat tighten up. All of these people. All of these people. All of these people decided to get vaccinated. Every single one of them. My first time in a crowd of 100% vaccinated, some new dimension of my consciousness expanded in that moment. Every person in attendance directly made the night happen; slowly emerging trust allowed everyone on stage to perform without masks, without their own protection.

A few nights later we attended our third show. Same vaccination and mask requirements, and close to a full house (capacity 2,800).

Fresh thoughts in a fresh world. This worldwide pandemic still is a fresh happening. One of the things that seems to be fading in memory is the fact that no one knew what to do in the beginning. The conflict in how to respond was universal; the politicization of our public health crisis still feels criminal.

But this re-opening leads to interesting fresh observations, too. Vaccination allows for culture to re-emerge, and culture exists in greater density in cities. Cities are places where people live complex social contracts all of the time. Shared walls, ceilings and floors. Shared elevators and laundry facilities, sidewalks and transportation. Every day, even on a good clear day, some level of negotiation is being made with another person.

Red, blue or purple, I am wondering if it is not just a little bit easier in urban spaces to add vaccination to the list of these negotiations the same way that we stay inside of the yellow stripe at the subway station. Or get in line. Or take the right side up and the left side down (in this country). Perhaps these don’t compare, perhaps there are better examples, but the fact is that in these settings we negotiate daily to survive.

Coming out of the country into the city, I feel awash in appreciation for the actions of many that allow the heartbeat of a society to resume. I said to G: Some part of me wants to thank every single person here. She laughed at me. But I meant it.

Yep. We have been out. In the past ten days we have been to Pittsburgh performances three times.

*

When I mentioned to G that I had a ticket for the Immersive Van Gogh exhibit I purchased last February for September (which was then delayed), I suggested she consider coming along, even though it’s not really her kind of thing.

The next day she said, sure, I’ll come, but actually tomorrow there is a show at the Warhol. Want to go?

We did. It was SRO. Two nights later, the big audience. The big theatre. The tears in my throat.

Both times we drove in at the end of the workday for a quick dinner and the presentation, and then home again. Slowdanger/Michiyaya Dance/Weighted Sky (11.11.21) and Abraham in Motion A.I.M. (11.13.21).

Pittsburgh is an hour away, but there is almost always traffic so the driving time can be much longer. In the past year, I have driven through a few times for errands, but not to stay for long.

Thursday was our first full day. Dropped off puppy for a sleepover. Left Ohio for a few miles in WV and the bulk of trip in PA. Followed our list. Fresh bread. Stained glass repair shop [Covid casualty. Note to self: always call ahead, especially now.] Parking and shuttle to IVG. Shuttle back. Chicken & Waffles. Warhol Museum. Mattress Factory’s three buildings. Thai dinner. Summer, the Donna Summer musical. And home again, jiggety-jig.

It was a day rich in discovery. Rainy and a bit cold, there seemed to be enough space to get around, and the range of works we saw provided ample fodder for discussion as we drove from one venue to the next. [Parking in Pittsburgh = mystifying; people in Pittsburgh = friendly.] It happens that G and I have very different taste, but it also happens that we are finding greater joy in each other’s company than we have in quite some time. A few hiccups along the way would have de-railed her in the past—now she rebounds. We rebound. I delight in this.

It was a day as close as we have found to both normalcy and newness. The beginning of yet another chapter. At dinner we wondered aloud: if this is us a bit more than a year after getting here, what will our lives look like a year from now?

It was a day in which we continued to lace our words with gratitude.

I am so glad we are doing this.

Me too.

It was the first day we have spent together like this in years.

[And she did not miss a fire call. Phew.]

*

As I compose these words, I read that Austria is going into lock-down again, and is considering mandatory vaccines for all citizens. Numbers in the US are going up again.

What we share globally—regardless of our place on the spectrum of politics and opinion—is the umbrella of Covid 19. Undeniably it has affected all of us to one degree or another, and it is beginning to show up in artists’ work.

On our Pittsburgh day as we moved from a modern digital interpretation of Van Gogh to a rather encyclopedic archive-ization of Andy Warhol to in imperfect playbook on Donna Summer’s life, what popped clearly for all three was their freedom to live and create on their own terms.

In stark contrast, the two dance performances last week and the newer installations at the Mattress Factory presented visceral responses to the present moment: climate change, race relations, gender identity, the drug epidemic and the coronavirus pandemic.

In several cases I wanted to step outside just to breathe. The contrast is astounding. Today’s pain, fear and skepticism are palpable in these current works. The art emerging feels changed, battered, skeptical, divided, suspicious. Desperate.

It is only just beginning to be seen and heard.

*

On the other end of the spectrum, a few weeks ago a local friend told me she was going to take a gun class. A widow who now lives alone, she said she wanted to learn how to use the gun her husband left behind. There are a lot of guns here, and I realized that it might be good for me to learn how to handle one safely. This is how I wound up, somewhat inadvertently, in a concealed carry permit class.

Open carrying in Ohio requires no permit, no class or instruction. Gun sales have been skyrocketing for the past two years and show no sign of abating; in the past year, the number of concealed carry permits in this state doubled. Currently there is a bill that just cleared the Ohio House to get rid of concealed carry classes and permits as well, completely removing the requirement for licensure, joining twenty-one states including our neighbors in WV and KY. Permitless Carry, it’s called.

Things are getting crazy, a middle aged woman in the class said; we want to be prepared. Ages in the class ranged from about 21-70.

With videos presented by USCCA (US Conceal Carry Association, also an insurance provider), the class started by describing the “moral and emotional injuries” and “emotional fallout” of using deadly force. The need to defend actions. How actions could be seen in court and the real cost of being sued. Our teacher said, “You have to ask yourself how much justice can you afford.” But added, “We are lucky that the prosecutor and court system here in Ohio are in favor of the second amendment.”

After learning that the average gun fight lasts 2.7 seconds, we watched slides on color coded threat assessment as outlined by Col. Jeff Cooper of the Marine Corps: white— “tuned out” or not paying attention [with an image of a woman on her phone]; yellow—aware and constantly evaluating the environment; orange—heightened awareness; and red—action. Yellow is where to be, we were told. Also, a point was made that we were being instructed in defensive shooting; if the threat is greater than fifty feet away, run. It requires too much time to be accurate from that distance.

We also learned what to do when there is an incident. To call 911 if a gun is discharged, regardless of situation. To call an attorney next. To explicitly invoke our right to remain silent. And then be silent. To not consent to a search of person or property. If pulled over, our driver’s license scan will reveal if we have a concealed carry permit. That is why we should immediately put our hands on steering wheel, turn on the inside light if it’s dark, and state clearly before getting out our license and registration, “I have a concealed carry permit. I have a weapon in my car. Do you have any further instructions?” Or “I have a concealed carry permit, but I am not carrying today.” I found the instructions alone chilling.

I think of how, earlier in the week, I listened to a piece on traffic stops and how police training reinforces the message that they are one of the highest risks for law enforcement. I think of the fire department’s mantra: assume fire.

After the eight-hour class that included time on the range, I went home to walk the dog. I soak for a moment in what it would mean to me if I were carrying right then, walking the darkening sidewalk I take each evening. What it would be like to be carrying, in yellow, all the time. Warning. Caution. Alert. Some of the time. Most of the time. What it would be like to think things are getting crazy and I need to be prepared. What it truly would be like to carry deadly force in my pocket.

Just thinking about it raises my sense of threat, alarm, even paranoia where I once felt little to none.

I don’t like the feeling.

I am glad I took the class and walked through this thought exercise. I am glad that I can hit the target with moderate accuracy. But I am also disheartened to recognize that the reason for this class—the motivation for the rise concealed carry permits—is not bears or deer or turkey or any imminent natural threat but rather protection against the perceived threat of other human beings.

*

As soon as I finished gun glass on the range, received my certificate, drove home and walked the puppy, I went inside and tried to warm up. Taking off my Carhartt jacket, many layers, muddy jeans and construction boots, I jumped into the shower and changed into urban wear. Black pants, sweater, tall city boots, city wool overcoat. Kissed the pup goodbye, got in the car, picked up G, drove to sushi and the large, beautiful theatre to see Abraham in Motion, a group we once saw at Jacob’s Pillow in another lifetime.

The event with the audience whose sheer existence made me tear up.

A globally respected choreographer, Kyle Abraham is a Pittsburgh native who created this piece, An Untitled Love, as a love letter to his hometown. In an interview he said, “So much of the work I have made over the years is, in a lot of ways, rooted in a street or many streets in Pittsburgh. And this is one of those works. This is Pittsburgh.”

In it, we see dance used as a medium to show love relationships both intimate and collective. With the dancers’ sheer beauty and talent radiating through a quiet narrative, the energy was light, like the movement. A few lines were spoken aloud including one packed deep in the show. A line that felt so real, so kind and so tragic: all we have ever done is love this country.

Abraham commented: “I’ve made so many works that deal with injustice and with the untimely death of so many people who look like me or live a life like mine innocently. I just wanted to show something, create something, that just highlights the way that we love.”

*

It took me a week to realize the cohesion of these seemingly disparate parts of a Saturday from gun class to contemporary dance. My initial distance and skepticism over discussing the “cost of justice”; the wild emotional ride of fear and nausea with my first shots using a semiautomatic 9mm Smith & Wesson; the weird excitement as my accuracy and shot pattern improved; my discomfort with seeing the world as a threat; and then the plush seats of a full theatre with all of its embedded meaning both within this pandemic and within the context of racial justice.

In the first part of this reflection, purely about experiencing Pittsburgh culture, I wanted to conclude that maybe coming back together in theatres and sports arenas will help to soften the rigid bifurcation that is our country today. But when I started to think about my experience in and after gun class, I wondered what the “world is getting crazier” really means, what and whom my fellow students imagined their threats to be.

I wish I could say that I can see healing clearly in our future. I wish the world was not built on division. I wish that everyone could make pieces on love. I wish that unity and peace and love sold seats.

But what I can say is that everyone seems to wish for these ingredients in their own homes, in their own lives and communities. A lot of people love this country. A lot of differing kinds of people make this country what we love. A lot of differing kinds of people think things are getting crazy and mean completely different things when they say it.

Art seems to be a way to speak that packs no deadly force. No fear of the cost. No imminent threat.

Lacking answers, I wonder if maybe we need to look to artists for guidance. Maybe artists need to help us find answers within ourselves. To help us see less crazy and more possibility.

Like the marble. And the angel within it.**

REFERENCE:

*https://www.pittsburghmagazine.com/pittsburgh-native-kyle-abraham-shows-hometown-love-in-a-hometown-show/

**from Michelangelo: “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set it free.” And also: “The best of artists has no conception that the marble alone does not contain within itself.”

Featured image with title: Benedum Theatre Ceiling, Pittsburgh PA

“Art is to console those who are broken by life”
Vincent Van Gogh