Dramatists Guild War poster circa May 2008. 40 x 29.
A drowning playwright points accusingly. This is one of a large group of posters, warning against vicious and personal reviews of regional theatre productions, many of which are being sunk by critics before achieving their Broadway runs. These types of posters are also being displayed in regional theatre lobbies, theatre audience bars and restaurants-wherever there is danger of critics, reviewers, or other saboteurs attempting to initiate dramaturgical discussions before a production is ready for prime time.
Actors Equity War poster circa May 2008. 28 x 22.
A group of injured and shocked actors in a life boat rowing away from their critically savaged production. Central to maintaining a deluded sense of self worth and a duplicitous social facade of camaraderie, the PR Cliques’ broadcasts attempt to limit talk about productions in both the public and private arenas of American life, especially at theatre barbeques. The graphic designs of these “loose talk” posters are usually strong and eye catching using bright colors for impact.
Girl Bloggers Guild War poster circa May 2008. 40 x 29.
Attempts by progressive members of certain PR Cliques to bring women bloggers into the testosterone charged theatrosphere to “civilize” the conversation met with only limited success. Turns out that women often can be bigger “fuckwits” than men.
The PR Clique Wise Guise Nicks War poster circa May 2008. 40 x 29.
Careless Talk, Uncivil Talk, Anonymous talk, Preview Review Talk, Rehearsal Talk, the NPAC talk before the NPAC talk, and the Mike Daisey TalksAfter™ Mike Daisey talks. Talk, talk, who’s got the talk in our new FaceBookNation?
It was a century in which we touched ourselves in mirrors
over and over. It was a decade of fast yet permanent
memories. The kaleidoscope of pain
some inflicted on others seemed inexhaustible
as the positions of sex, a term
whose meaning is as hybridized as the latest orchid. Terrorism
had reached a new peak, and we gradually
didn’t care which airline we got on, as long as the pilot
was sober, and the stash of pretzels, beer, and soft drinks
remained intact. On TV, a teenage idol has just crawled, dripping wet,
from the top of a giant Pepsi can, or maybe I imagined it,
flicking through channels where the panoply
of reality shows has begun to exorcise
the very notion of reality, for both the scrutinized actor
and the debilitated viewer who becomes confused and often reaches
into the pastel screen for his glass, while down Broadway
sirens provide a kind of glamorous chorus
for this script of history where everything is so neatly measured
in miles, pounds, or megabits. How nice it would be
to drowse in the immeasurable. How nice
it would be to escape.
And there’s a wobbly marble bench
beneath an out-of-focus tree on the Web
I like to occasion my body with.
How brief we’ve become in our speed
I think. How fast the eternal.
we need a clearing, a place
beyond, but not necessarily
of nature. And the rain
was so deep the entire forest smelled of stone, then the sun
broke, burying the long shadows
in gold. And the wounded
king woke in a book long since closed, and the princess
came to in a bed so large
she could never leave. How desperately
we need a new legend, one with a hero, tired
though he may be. One who has used
business to give up
business, one who has bought
with his heart what we
sold with ours.