As an act of solidarity, we went to the last night's performance of a community theater production of one-act plays, since our neighbour (who's also a musician, businesswoman and completely solid) was performing in one--back on stage for the first time for decades. (She was great--who knew she had great comic timing?)
The sketches were uneven in performance and quality, but couple sketches by a young black woman playwright (Misha Templar Sinclair) were so well-written and well-performed that even with a nearly-bare stage in a nondescript church basement, you felt yourself being transported into another world--of the raw wounds from someone else's upbringing, or the difficulty of defining yourself as a woman against the dominance of the man in your life.
I was reminded of a student production of Hamlet I saw at Cambridge, performed on a simple dias in a medieval building--no props, no costumes, nothing--just the words and voices of the actors carrying all of us into another world in a darkened room.
Theater is magic.
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