3 Rizzo, which is French for I love Rizzo Sep 17, 2012

by Samantha

Tonight marked the kick off of the new season at OtB, and thank a higher power because I was getting a little feisty.  

I'm not a creative individual.  I've dedicated my life to the advancement of the arts, but generally speaking I'm a color-by-number kind of gal.  I like to play by the rules.  I'm the girl who always asks if something is right.  I go to OtB because it's impossible for me to do it right.  

Tonight, I left my right brain at home and walked down the hill to see Néo-Fiction.  OtB was looking snazzy and fresh after a summer vacay and back-to-school decor updates.  I settled into a seat and listened to the conversations around me; a couple very clearly on their first date, a long-time Christian Rizzo lover, and a few pretty girls who sounded disarmingly like Quinn Morgendorffer and her posse (come on, I know you had a Daria addiction in 1998, too).  I went alone, intentionally not having read too much about this performance, ready to dive into what I expected would be the last thing I could expect.

The lights dimmed and there sat Lori Goldston, shoeless, behind her cello.  I thought I'd found my anchor for the performance - I'm a classical cellist.  And oddly enough, for a contemporary performance, the sounds she created were acccesible.  There were times when it was so tonal that at any moment it seemed she might just begin playing Bach... if Bach had suffered a stroke.  Or something.  And within a few minutes, I hardly noticed she was there.  So much for my anchor.

Enter Christian Rizzo against a projection of our Washington summer by Sophie Laly.  My obvious first question:  Where can I get a pair of those shoes, Mr. Rizzo?  Seriously.  Velcro high-tops?  Need 'em.  My next observation:  The pacific northwest is undeniably gorgeous, and I'm suddenly transported out of the theater.  I'm visually and aurally immersed in something I definitely don't understand, and not sure I need to.  Christian's movement seems unaturally easy.  I'm tempted to ask my yoga teacher to adapt our hatha flow to include little white tennis balls and black wigs.  I won't give it away, but that chick who looks like The Grudge in a red hoodie?  Totally not who you think it is.

So I walked back up the hill, my brain a little tired and my thoughts a little jumbled, and began to think of what I could say about what I saw and heard.  But to me, it's more important to say that I felt content.  I felt free from the restriction of experiencing art correctly, and felt grateful that as a Seattleite, I have the opportunity to be at OtB any old time I want.  And I think I can rest a little easier now knowing exactly what I would look like if I were, in fact, the Wicked Witch of the West and had just been splashed by water.


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