abrons arts center Archives - Deeply Fascinating

“Engaging and frustrating, imaginative and jumbled, original and derivative” –Alexis Soloski, The New York Times

“The refreshing result (half-documentary, half-Genet) is chaotic, but it’s also productive and genuinely subversive; Hamilton gives us the kind of mess you learn from making.” –Helen Shaw, TimeOut New York

“[A] dramatic seed blossoms late in the production when the otherwise goofy Isabel Sanchez delivers a sedating monologue on the real-life implications of the Papin sisters’ brutal act,” –Tara Sheena, Hyperallergic.com

“[A]s intentionally messy as the stage floor after the performers have spit Fritos all over it.” –Tom Sellar, the Village Voice

“To flood a small space with emotion is not an easy feat. I hope, upon entering the space, to see reflections of the artist’s emulated interests. I hope to enter into a place that is somewhat secret, forbidden, and where words and reason are non-essential. That space can be a memory, it can be triggered by the exclusivity of language, it can be a hotel room in LA, or a theater at Abrons Arts Center. But when those spaces collide, and when you realize that the unifying factor is the story of unheard stories, you know you’ve found something worth experiencing. And then you clean it off.” –Georgina Escobar, Culturebot

Sister Sylvester’s The Maids’ The Maids Opens Oct. 31

A note from the dramaturg:

I was just re-watching a video we shot in early summer during the first rehearsals we did for The Maids’ The Maids, (opening Oct. 31 at Abrons Arts Center; tickets $20). It was unpleasantly hot that day, and I’m wearing multiple layers of clothing—basically every shirt, light sweater, jacket, and hat we could find in the space, even a bright pink rain slicker. We’re working with a woman I’ll call Juana, one of our collaborators on the piece, and we’re having her teach us how to be one of her nicknames. She has several, it turns out, each referring to a different part of her life, and this one was “Rambo.” Even though I’m not an actor in the piece (I’m just the dramaturg), when she cast us in roles, she chose me to be Rambo, I guess because I was the only man in the room, or because she likes to flirt with me. (I got my own nickname during rehearsal: “El lechero,” the “milkman” who Genet’s maids lust after in his original play.)

I’m wearing all of these clothes because Rambo is the nickname Juana got while illegally crossing the border, and you’re dressed against the nighttime cold of the Nogales desert. I am quite warm though, and sweating under all those layers, as she has me scurrying back and forth in the rehearsal room, stopping every couple steps to yelp and tug at my pants. “Espinas!” she explains—thorns or cactus needles caught in your pants. You can’t stop to pull them out, so you try to keep the pants off the skin. Then we stop and drop into a crouch. It’s time to rest. The only food you have is in the front pockets of your clothes. There’s no light. You cross when there’s no moon. No cigarettes, no cell phones. Complete darkness and silence.