A long grueling day is best wrapped up with an aesthetic experience. I wanted to be in a sublime state of sensory overload that did not involve being chased after by my jaw snapping kitty or a canine shrieking at his reflection. I needed it bad. I’m single this week. My better half is somewhere over yonder in a strange land far, far away known as Chicago, also home of yet another venue that provides me with the most sublime aesthetic experience, in this case, culinary; Charlie Trotter, my favorite chef.

Mildred’s Umbrella Theater Company put on a very quaint, personal, and intimate production of “Last Easter.” Any play that claims to combine Caravaggio, Irving Berlin, drag queens and alcoholism while exploring the complex web of interdependent friendships has to be good right? My preconceived idea was one of a warped edition of “Friends” where perhaps Rachel used to be a man, Phoebe can sing, Joey can act but of course is gay, Monica is a drug and alcohol addict, Chandler falls in love with inanimate objects and Ross marries his monkey.

Bryony Lavery’s “Last Easter” portrays the story of a four friends brought together a la boheme style in creative pursuit: a promiscuous British gay catholic not so unlike Nathan Lane in Birdcage, the artsy-crafty lesbian American jew who builds a croaking frog prop, an Irish drunk tormented and haunted version of Samantha in Sex and the City, and a Caravaggio obsessed lighting designer unsuccessfully fighting secondary cancer.

Best line of the night? Religion is sexy.

Armed with a Venti Cof

fee Americano with two splendas, I walked in early as the venue was the Gremillion Fine Art Gallery and perhaps would catch a glimpse of their Belgium Impressionism exhibit currently on show. No such luck so I took a bathroom break. What did i find? I snapped one picture just as my phone croaked from over twittering and obsessive compulsive facebooking.

It was shiny. There was more. Lots more. Off to my seat. Keys in a place they can’t fall and make noise? Check. Coffee underneath my chair? Check. Phone Off? Dead. Check.

Calling the work hilarious is a huge injustice even though I laughed hysterically and repeatedly. I would call it more tender and thoughtful masked through cliche characters using humor to mask pain. I was having an aesthetic experience, being manipulated in a gentle roller coaster (which is good because I tend to vomit after wild space mountain type rides).

There was one middle aged gentleman in the audience who laughed so loud it was contagious. Perhaps I had found another “old lady that clapped, hummed, sung and boggied.” But his loud, overpowering and omnipresent laughter took on an air of imposing his aesthetic experience into mine. Times where I wanted to reflect introspectively were interrupted by his desire to express outwardly his interpretation of events.

I was annoyed. Not every humorous moment deserves laughter and laughter is not necessarily a blanket response for humorous moments. Humor can mask awkwardness, sorrow, pain, grief, despair and torment. Although we associate these as quite negative and not a healthy psychological (and social) place to dwell, allowing myself in aesthetic situations to visit them allows the positive to be blissful.

On my way home, I thought perhaps if in arts effort to be more participatory and inclusive we have eradicated certain spectator etiquette, Etiquette not to impose classic performance decorum, but to safeguard the enjoyment of those who wish to concentrate on what’s on stage, to allow others to discover their own aesthetic judgements and experiences, and less on external influences unrelated to the original work of art.

What is an emotional person to do? Back to the bathroom for more shiny art things. That, and an awesome red, violent, graphic wall installation over the sink, where the bathroom mirror enhanced its weight, allowing me to return to my aesthetic place after intermission.

Links:

http://www.gremillion.com

http://www.mildredsumbrella.com

http://www.nga.gov/exhibitions/caravbr-2.htm

http://www.charlietrotters.com/