"Eminent Outlaws:" Christopher Bram's Gay Literary Encyclopedia

I didn't do any outside research after this reading, so I don't know if Christopher Bram's Eminent Outlaws: The Gay Writers Who Changed America is the first, or at least most definitive account of gay/bisexual writers. If it truly is, it begs the question: why hasn't this been done before? The personal and creative lives of gay writers are usually explored within singular memoirs and biographies, and while a more encompassing work like this has to sacrifice some details in the interest of space and variety, it's the sort of book that has the potential to appeal to a variety of of readers and scholars, those interested in gay as well as literary history. Many people in literary criticism often make concrete distinctions between a writer's work and life, but as Bram shows, the identities of gay writers are sometimes impossible to separate from the books, since honest fictional accounts of gay lifestyles have been censored or forced to use metaphors, especially in the early and mid-20th century. Like gay acceptance and consciousness, the literary side has had to overcome discrimination and ridicule to achieve mainstream acceptance and judgement for the content rather than the labels.

In his introduction, Bram makes some important distinctions:

"This book is about gay male writers and not lesbian writers. I chose this focus reluctantly, but I needed to simplify an already complicated story. Also, lesbian literature has its own dynamic and history. It needs its own historian (Bram x)."

"This is not an all-inclusive, definitive literary history. I do not include everyone of value or importance. Nor am I putting together a canon of must-read writers. I am writing a large-scale cultural narrative, and I include chiefly those authors who help me tell that story--and who offer the liveliest tales (Bram xi)."

Eminent Outlaws is indeed simplified, but I don't mean that in a negative way. It follows a semi-chronological development and bibliography, but gets its dynamic from the mix of textual studies and sociological/biographical/historical explanations (which, in a sort of paradox that I'll get to later, marks the book's success and problems). Bram definitely chooses the liveliest stories, and while he's careful to mention that this isn't a collection of "must-read writers," the names are ones that people should have at least a passing familiarity with--Gore Vidal, James Baldwin, Frank O'Hara, et al. He also mentions a few writers who have flown under my literary radar, including Edmund White and Armistead Maupin. There's also the notice that this really is the first definitive history of gay writers, which goes against my initial introduction, but as I said, I find it fascinating that this type of history hasn't been compiled before.

The book opens with the 1950s and Gore Vidal, and along with Truman Capote and Tennessee Williams, Vidal makes the most appearances in the decades that follow. In 1948, Vidal published The City and the Pillar, the first obvious book with male homosexuality as the central theme, as well as setting a sort of template for the gay-themed novels that would follow: the act of publishing it was daring, the book found a passionate gay readership, and the reviews either overlooked the sexual content or dismissed it due to the social mores of the time. The history of literary criticism is worthy of its own story, but when applied to gay writers and books, the reviews seem to follow the trajectory of mainstream opinions of homosexuality, from outright contempt to acceptance as the years go on.

"Reviewers who ignored the sexual implications tended to give [The City and the Pillar]good reviews. 'A short novel which is as dazzling a phenomenon as has burst on the literary scene in the last ten years,' said the Chicago Tribune. The sexual critics almost all leaped to negative conclusions. 'The book is immature and its theme is calculated to make the flesh crawl.' said Time magazine. 'The distasteful trappings of its homosexual theme overhang it like Spanish moss.' Carlos Baker, future biographer of Hemingway, said in the New York Times Book Review, 'The story of Joel Knox did not need to be told except to get it out of the author's system'...as early as 1948, the mainstream nervously dismissed the subject as old hat. Other reviewers called the book 'disgusting,' 'sterile,' and 'gauche.' The two or three good reviews were couched in sociological terms (Bram 8)."

Even as culture and criticism advanced, some writers, namely James Baldwin, were tossed and torn between conflicting identities. Should Baldwin be remembered as a gay writer or a black writer? Was Tony Kushner's Angels In America specifically about gay life or the AIDS crisis? Bram presents the multiple sides of these issues without making assumptions, but rather presenting the histories and ultimately letting the texts speak for themselves. His best passages, however, are biographical. The research he put into this book is impressive, and the lives of the writers are shown with all of their ups and downs, from romantic struggles to creative blocks. Sometimes these themes come together all at once. For example, Bram presents the fascinating story of the development of Christopher Isherwood's A Single Man, told through both the creative process as well as with the backdrop of Isherwood's relationship with his lover, Don Bachardy. Bram presents a detailed history, and his experience as a novelist makes the best passages read like stories without sacrificing detail or knowledge.

"Like many quarreling couples, they remained each other's best confidant, even when the problem being discussed was the listener. One day at the beach Isherwood complained to Bachardy that the new book was slipping away. Bachardy asked what he really wanted it to be about. Isherwood told him. 'And in no time at all the blindingly simple truth was revealed that the book isn't about the Englishwoman but about the Englishman--me,' Isherwood recorded in his diary. Bachardy suggested he give this woman's problems to someone more like himself, a middle-aged gay man. Isherwood did not hesitate, despite his experience with Down There On a Visit. He immediately went back to his manuscript, retitled it The Englishman, and began again. Indirection hasn't protected him on the last book: he might as well go all the way. He must tell the truth or be silent (Bram 110)."




Eminent Outlaws does have its occasional misses. For the most part, Bram includes citations when he writes about specific passages, but often, a book or story will be discussed critically with no excerpts, forcing the reader to assume that what he says is true. This also leads to a sort of stylistic tug of war throughout the pages, with the occasional shift in tone from academic to general. Also, with the occasional lack of examples, Bram will offer an opinion along the lines of "we now see this [passage or character] as a representation of a gay person." As a gay writer himself, Bram is wonderfully unbiased, but this occasional reliance on assumption slows down an otherwise well-researched history. But for the most part, he can be critical of even the best writers, since no bibliography is composed of brilliance.

The book as a whole works well as an encyclopedia of gay writers, and while there are so many areas and time periods condensed, one can't help but wonder how the complete histories would look. Bram's best chapter, "Dead Poets Society," is a stunning look at writing and the AIDS crisis, and while the details are plentiful, it's clear that this era deserves its own book. Biographies of Gore Vidal and Truman Capote are plentiful, but these men make so many appearances (again, due to their long lives), that they can sometimes overshadow other subjects. Bram's passages on gay playwrights are generally well done, but his analyses of stage performances and dialogues don't translate well to the book. The background information shines, but the reader is occasionally presented with confusing critical assumptions. Take this summary of the meaning of Angels In America:

"So what does this thematic plotline mean? I think it's primarily a shaggy dog story or, more appropriately, a shaggy God story. There is no 'beautiful theory,' which might be for the best since we know from the Soviet Union where beautiful theories can lead. It's a deliberate letdown, a carefully crafted anticlimax (Bram 271)."

Intriguing? Definitely. But, for someone like me who hasn't seen the play, these kinds of thoughts can be shaky. This isn't meant to an attack on Bram, but I get the feeling that his critical eye works best with literature and not theater reviews. Like his own assessment of lesbian literature, this is an area that needs a specific scholar. However, it's an essential part of the overall arc, and Bram at least gives a thorough introduction to the subject.

As someone who studies literature, I recommend this as a unique introduction to a variety of lives, and I can only imagine how some of the passages and understandings would speak to gay readers. This encompassing story is one that has been decades in the making, and as an early volume into these lives and creative styles, it's an admirable achievement. Hopefully some of the smaller stories will eventually be expanded by other writers, and there are countless other voices that didn't make it into this volume. Bram alternates between the academic and the general, and while I feel that I learned some new ideas (my reading list has definitely expanded thanks to the titles mentioned here), Eminent Outlaws would have benefited from a more consistent narrative voice, and perhaps with more pages devoted to certain areas than others. But again, these are essential literary lives, and the entire history presented here succeeds more often than not.

Work Cited:
Bram, Christopher. Eminent Outlaws: The Gay Writers Who Changed America. Copyright 2012 by Christopher Bram.

Women and Shadows: "Disgrace"

I suppose that one of the hallmarks of exceptional acting and directing, whether done in theater or in film, is the feeling, during exceptionally tense scenes, that you're watching something that you really shouldn't be viewing. This idea goes beyond voyeurism. In the opening scene of Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho, the camera zooms into a bedroom window, in essence capturing Janet Leigh, in her underwear, with her lover. That's voyeurism. In Blank Line Collective's production of John O'Keefe's "Disgrace," there's a scene in which Simone (Stephanie Brown) pushes herself up against Katherine (Amanda Lucas) in a perverse "recreation" of a possible sexual offense that may or may not have happened in the past. It's one of the few blatant interpretations of the play's background, and is done so convincingly that I shifted very uncomfortably, losing the realization that it was a performance.

"Disgrace," written by John O'Keefe and directed by Erica Barnes and Melissa Law, is currently in the middle of its Chicago premiere run. The play follows the travels of three women (Katherine, Simone, and Christine, played by Melanie Renae) on the run from a myriad of potential pursuers or problems. They don't know exactly where they are, there are issues even over what time of day it is, but they do have one goal in mind: to get over the distant hill. An unseen figure named Francois is a shared memory among the three, and his implications saunter back and forth. Was he a lover? A rapist? A captor? A case could be made for all three of those designations, and as the women continue to travel, it becomes clear that much more is at stake, including their sanity. The dialogue and the costume design add further confusion to the mix: who are these women? Why are they dressed in tattered, almost Victorian white dresses? If anyone in the audience feels that they've made sense of the timing, a can of Coca-Cola is thrown into the mix for good measure.


(Photo by Nk Mooneyham; Clockwise from left: Brown, Lucas, Renae)


Is the above synopsis confusing? Yes, but "Disgrace" is the type of play that simply needs to be seen to be comprehended, and even multiple show viewings will not tie everything together. On the other hand, too much information would give away much of the play's essence, even if, by reading this, one is still left in the dark. The direction by Barnes and Law makes "Disgrace" almost literally nonstop. Even when a given scene is concentrated in one area of the space (this interpretation is performed in all areas of a loft), there's still a lot of movement or anticipation, since the set and props are scattered about, hinting at future activity. Given the strength of O'Keefe's script and the talent of the actresses, Barnes is wise to let the story do most of the work, leaving the focus on the cast and the wealth of possible clues that are revealed.

As Katherine, Amanda Lucas displays her gift of wildly different emotions and her ability to switch from one to the other fluidly (her performance in BLC's "Heloise & Abelard" was another example of this). She veers from childlike innocence to indignation to unsettling rage, all within the course of seconds. Even if one knows what's coming, her emotional range is impressive nonetheless. Renae's Christine is much more understated, much more innocent, and works more as a foil caught between two much more unstable personalities. However, even in her most innocent moments, she's not exempt from the mental deterioration that all three women both fight and succumb to at the same time.

For such an excellently cast piece, it's difficult to single someone out, but Brown's work as Simone is absolutely stunning. In addition to matching Lucas with her own displays of emotional intensity, her facial acting is just as important to the atmosphere of "Disgrace." Brown was the picture of understatement in "The New Tenant," but here, she's able to let loose, and at times adds almost comic flares to her eyes and voice, teetering on exaggerated, but in the best of ways. One of the many themes to take away from "Disgrace" is the notion of mental instability, and Brown's performance is the epitome of a work that's both intense and, at times, perversely comical in the darkest sense.

Technical definitions aside, it's tempting to classify "Disgrace" as surreal, and while there are some undeniably strange elements, I feel that it would be too simple to give it such a designation. Besides, it's also too easy claim that something is surreal based on ideas and possibilities that cannot immediately be explained. That said, I don't think it would be too much of a stretch to call "Disgrace" an excellent example of the postmodern. Much like the best stories of Raymond Carver, O'Keefe's script doesn't shy away from confrontation or discomfort, but rightfully pulls away from easy answers. After grappling with wondering what "Disgrace" meant, I felt it was much more important to grapple with how it made me feel, for better or for worse. This is a stunning move up for Blank Line Collective, and one of the most provocative pieces of art that I've experienced in quite some time.

(NOTE: Blank Line Collective's production of "Disgrace" has four performances left: October 8th, 9th, 15th, and 16th, all at 8:00pm. Lacuna Lofts, 2150 South Canalport, Chicago, IL 60608. Visit the BLC website for advance tickets and more information.

"Likes/Dislikes:" Interactivities

(SPOILERS)
Anyone familiar with Facebook has surely come across online campaigns by Facebook users, demanding the addition of a "dislike" button to go along with the "like" feature. Supposedly, this is done a.) to show disapproval for bad news and to make sure that other Facebook users understand that news such as a broken leg or a crashed computer is nothing to be liked, and b.) because some people waste too much time on said website (I'll cast the first stone at myself). Perhaps it's saddening that such a widespread social media diversion was the first thing that popped into my head upon reading about Blank Line Collective's latest installment, "Likes/Dislikes." One final word about Facebook before I get into the more relevant thoughts: at best, the website can foster quick, yet inventive collaborations, with long-running commentaries and notes sometimes leading to a wonderful exchange of ideas. "Likes/Dislikes" is the epitome of collaborative creation, from its theatrical interpretation to its happenstance origins.

Amanda Lucas and Erica Barnes (the actresses in "Likes/Dislikes") found themselves looking through the zine collections housed by Chicago Underground Library, and stumbled upon a zine called "Likes/Dislikes" by Lacey Prpić Hedtke, an artist/writer based in Minnesota. The subject is a massive collection of simple statements, all beginning with either "she likes" or "she dislikes." There are hundreds of such phrases in the zine, and it's refreshing to find that, after a recent Google search, none of Hedtke's zine work is immediately available, given the creative intent of zines, normally available for modest payments or creative exchanges. Chicago Underground Library (an organization that I'm still planning on being involved with, even though I wrote that several months ago) rarely, if ever, turns down any submissions to their ever-growing database, thus explaining how a tiny, self-created work was in their possession in the first place. Blank Line decided to adapt the work into their latest piece, and the result is a quick, almost avant-garde performance, and a small link in a much larger piece.



The audience is led into the performance space by The Expert (Stephanie Brown), and immediately thrust into a white space completely covered with ink, pastel marks, mirrors, and paintings, with Lucas and Barnes writing, shouting, and sharing various ideas in the vein of "likes/dislikes." There is no seating, and the audience has complete control of where they view the performance, if at all; there's nothing stopping anyone from exploring the art on the walls and just listening to the ideas being exchanged in the background. Furthering the idea of links and collaborations, the audience is part of the creation, functioning as a sort of background to the ongoing movements. The "likes/dislikes" are often hilariously funny, but tinted with some sadness, despondency, anger, and subtle hopes that the various declarations won't be met with jeers or disbelief. Lucas and Barnes work their physical and emotive energies quickly, their "characters" (possible metaphors for the right and left sides of the brain) rarely stopping for any reflection or insinuations to sink in; ideas are tossed about, sometimes with some breathing room, but more often than not written down and discarded for the next round of ideas. The performance was very evocative of the Blank Line production of Eugene Ionesco's The New Tenant, heavy on the action and letting the implications stand on their own.

The beauty of the audience interaction continued on Saturday with a group discussion of the meanings behind "Likes/Dislikes." Questions, complaints and discussions were welcome, and to me, was still a part of the original performance. Every aspect of "Likes/Dislikes" is based on shared creativity, and the decision by Lucas, Barnes, and Brown to open up the floor to the audience was a wonderful combination of shared artistic intent and personal meanings garnered by the people in attendance. Zines are meant to be shared, Chicago Underground Library is meant to be a physical and mental colloquium, and "Likes/Dislikes" is merely an extension of those missions. The performance may lead to some initial confusion and questions, but in reality, that's the whole point.

NOTE: "Likes/Dislikes" has two more performances scheduled:
June 25th and June 26th, 8:00PM
Fulton Street Collective, 2000 W. Fulton Street, Chicago, IL 60612.
Suggested Donation: $10-15, with a silent auction of stage materials beforehand. Click here for more information.

(Blank Line photograph taken by Nk Mooneyham)

Defining the Impossible

At one point in the performance of Eugene Ionesco's The New Tenant, one of the movers (Erica Barnes) begins an exaggerated, funny, and defiant vocalization of Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer." She's tired, sweaty, and overworked, having spent all of her time assembling a myriad of objects into a formerly vacant apartment. The apartment is now overrun with furniture, knick-knacks, boxes, and an accumulation of a lifetime's worth of objects. The movers (Barnes and Amanda Lucas) are dedicated, yet clearly unnerved by the demands and focus of the tenant (Stephanie Brown). The musical interlude provides some much-needed laughter to counteract with the tension, but for me, it provided a clear definition of the undefinable: namely, the emotions and actions that sum up the Theater Of the Absurd, of which Ionesco (1909-1994) was a major contributor. The song is naturally jaunty and light, but the mover inflects it with stress and confusion, even though she's singing it to fend off the exhaustion. As vague as human nature as a subject can be, it's rife with contradictions, and this performance highlights the absurd both literally and metaphorically.

Blank Line Collective kicks off their fall season with a major challenge, performing the Chicago premiere of Ionesco's The New Tenant. Milan Kundera once wrote of Ionesco (along with Samuel Beckett): "How many dramatists of the past century have had such power, influence? One? Two?" An appraisal of this magnitude offers two observations. One, how is it possible that this piece has gone unperformed for so long, in one of the country's most prolific theater cities? Two, such a gem is vital for the creative side of a small company. This particular play demands a lot from its actors, not just in historical stature, but in the performances, which are written with the intentional possibility to be over-acted to the point of absurdity, and not in a good way.

The play opens with a building caretaker (Jen Sava-Ryan) meeting the new tenant, who has arrived earlier than expected. The tenant is dressed in black, uptight with a sense of decorum, and oblivious to the hilarious, gossipy ramblings of the seemingly lonely caretaker. As the tenant takes notes on the state of the new apartment, the caretaker gives a virtually non-stop monologue on the inhabitants, both past and present. There's a loud police officer who lives upstairs, and the previous tenants were prone to domestic violence. The caretaker knows everything, but claims to not pry into anyone's private lives, even though she blatantly gives off the vibe of someone who listens through walls with a drinking glass pressed against the door. For anyone unfamiliar with the Theater of the Absurd, this is a wise opening; one would expect that The New Tenant would be a standard, two-act play that's heavy on dialogue. However, once the movers show up, absurdity and surrealism take over, along with the aforementioned contradictions.

The movers know exactly what to do, but are given constant directions and orders by the tenant. She allows them to place some objects wherever they want, but for the most part has a strict order that she wants to follow. The bulk of the play revolves around the dizzying amount of objects that fill up the apartment. There are boxes, a mattress, paintings, a large camping tent, chairs, and lamps. In the middle of this move, the movers are given a quick break, monitored by a cooking timer. This, along with the final scene, are the only real moments of calm that permeate the entire piece. It allows the movers to rest, but it's also a rest for the audience, a small chance to process the speed of which everything has accumulated. The tenant and the movers have a very strict relationship based on the job at hand, but one cannot help but wonder if there's more below the surface. The movers shoot each other the occasional exasperated looks, as if they've known the tenant's eccentricities all along, bracing each other for what could happen next. The final scene is somber and unexpected, yet seems to make perfect sense in context. Most importantly, it just adds more intended questions to the poetry of the movements, and the absurdity of life's actions. As Barnes said after the show, "when you think about it, moving is absurd." This might seem almost too easy of an explanation, but given the play and the movement from which it came, this definition works.

The performances are almost reserved in spite of the kinetic pacing. Barnes and Lucas play the movers with an air of comedy, complete with almost slapstick movements and exaggerated determination. This is not a knock against them, since the characters are given no time to react in between their given tasks. Their eyes and facial expressions are giveaways, since they see something either wrong or amiss below the surface of the tenant's expectations. Stephanie Brown's performance is the center of the play, an almost uncomfortable calm in between the accumulation of materials. She plays the tenant with an almost minimalist tint, her cold eyes taking constant mental notes, her perfect posture never wavering, and a wealth of emotion portrayed with a stare or a purse of her lips. Jen Sava-Ryan's portrayal of the caretaker is intriguing, the kind of role that seems to be a constant in many of the productions I've seen. She's needy and scattered, and works as an excellent foil to the tenant. They act as opposites, but from the first moment, they have each other figured out to a tee, even though their private opinions of each other are probably not savory.

Without giving anything away, there is a slight element of audience participation in this performance, which made me slightly skeptical at first. There's only so much breaking of the fourth wall that can be done without it becoming a distraction from the performance, but this interaction is kept to a minimum and works well. Overall, this is an excellent production, but I felt it would have benefited from a slightly slower pace. Yes, there's an energy that needs to be maintained, not to mention the wealth of materials that need to fill the apartment in little time. The fleeting moments of serenity highlight the metaphysical nature and questions of the play's theme, and one or two more "breaks" would have helped to let the audience catch up, mentally. However, the questions that people will have after the performance are the best kinds, and they will likely center around that most impossible, vague query:

"What does it all mean?"

Blank Line Collective's performance of The New Tenant runs every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday of October. 8:00pm, 1803 W. Byron, Unit #104, Chicago, IL. Click here for more information, or call 773.325.2119.

A Play On Words

Review: Heloise & Abelard, by Blank Line Collective.

"What if you could write a letter to that one person? What would you write? What if you had to re-live the entirety of that relationship from start to finish as you write? Would this be the letter where you finally get to say everything you ever needed to say?"

While killing time before Saturday night's performance of Heloise & Abelard, I had one of those moments that are equal parts serendipitous and just plain creepy. Reading Don DeLillo's novel Underworld, I stumbled across this particular passage about ten minutes before showtime, and I had to re-read it a few times:

"She stood on the roof of a factory building, a space made available for the evening so that a small theater group might launch a fund drive, and fifty people drank tepid wine out of plastic cups and said, We need theater."

Yes, there's potential to read way too much into this chance paragraph, so I'll keep it to a grateful minimum. Heloise & Abelard is being staged at Sip Coffee (1223 W. Grand), not on a rooftop, and while the audience sipped coffees instead of wines, the inherent message, namely in the final three words, is the same, no matter which direction it is taken. Chicago, even with its thriving theater companies both large and small, needs theater. Local ensemble members will tell you the same thing, for a myriad of creative and communal reasons.

The play is loosely based on the emotions and ideas behind the love letters between titular 12th century couple, a doomed love long before the fictional Romeo and Juliet, and a lot less hammered into popular consciousness. The performance revolves around the notion of having to remember, summarize, heal, and comes to terms with a failed relationship, and to do so via letter-writing. In this play, this comes down to one final letter, and the drastic range of emotions that swell once a love affair comes to an end. It opens with Heloise (Amanda Lucas) storming into her apartment, pulling a letter out of an envelope. The letter is crumpled, and as she reads it, her energy is both sapped and invigorated, all while her emotions visibly rise. Initially, there is little doubt that the letter is from the unseen Abelard, and she goes about writing her own response. In this process, there are hints to not only the sympathy for a woman scorned, but also traces of mental instability and obsessive-compulsive behaviors. She gets her typewriter set up, sits down, and says "Dear Abelard." A voiceover, both echoing and haunting, repeats this phrase. She types some more, gets up and paces nervously, and goes about some odd routines.

She replaces a wine glass on her table with one that looks identical. A hand towel is replaced with another one next to an ewer and wash basin. As she looks over what she has written thus far, she smiles coyly and becomes enraged, often within the span of a few seconds. The voiceover gives more hints to what is written on the page, and as this scene progresses, it grows into a long monologue detailing their relationship. It alternates slyly between imagined scenes of genuine love and connection, but laced with anger, not only with the apparent break-up, but also with the everyday "chores" and assumptions that go into any relationship. As the voiceover continues, it leads to the performance's most powerful scene, as Heloise delicately peels a mango, and ends up devouring it, tearing it apart, and becoming awash in the juices with equal parts anger and unbridled lust.

Some may be reading this with a hint of skepticism, assuming that a "modern interpretation" of a piece of history has been done a million and one times. However, Heloise and Abelard, is much more than that; it depicts reality and emotional distress that everyone has at least felt internally, even if they haven't "acted out" (no pun intended) Heloise's particular actions. The production design is fairly minimal, given the performance space and the forty-five minute run time. However, despite this minimalism, not a single piece is unnecessary. Heloise uses her typewriter, but also a Mac laptop. A few feet away from the wash basin is a CD player (which is used for a very effective few moments, playing a few strains of Neko Case's "Outro With Bees").

Carrying a one-act play, Amanda Lucas does a phenomenal job with next to no dialogue, committing her range to pure facial expressions and physical actions. Her scenes could have easily been over-acted or played for unintentional laughs in the wrong hands, given the fact that it's a performance piece in a virtually literal definition. At her most volatile and broken, she never gives too much, and at times makes her performance very unsettling, as if the audience is spying on some very private actions that shouldn't be viewed by anyone else.

Heloise & Abelard takes an interesting turn in its final climax, leaving the audience with quite a few unanswered questions, but in the best ways possible. This is the point of the play, to inspire discussions and personal interpretations, none of which can be outlandish in the proper context. In addition to being genuinely moved and thoughtful afterwards, I did some research into the lives of the actual Heloise and Abelard in order to put some of the scenes into context. If a performance can inspire deep thought, intentional discomfort and education, then there's no doubt as to its success.

Heloise & Abelard has two more performances scheduled at Sip Coffee House, 1223 W. Grand (at Ogden), August 21st and 22nd, 8:00pm. Please visit the Blank Line Collective website for more information.