Seated in a the AV-earie on a Sunday afternoon with the At-Last Spring Sun freeing specks of dust, sparking bluer blues and greener greens, shadows that move and disappear; the wind breezing through recently opened windows, tugging at the corners of pages, forcing your hand between T-shirt or hoodie; the echoing chug of metal wheeling across metal and the distant city sirens of distress and disinterest; we, seated in the AV-earie on a Sunday afternoon at the respective epicenters of Chicago's hidden industrial purgatory and nature's own wielding cape of change, discussing the intricacies of Sex Pistols punk rock, the fuse-lit Situationists, the sentence-slashing Lettrists, the murderous peace-mongers of Dada, all the human wars and the art it bore, and all of this swirling in the that spring air as we sat on a Sunday afternoon inaugurating the journey. Day One writing our own history.
David Perez, the Artistic Director of Pavement Group and the director of the play itself, delved into his first address with the deliberate abandon of a pre-dissected moment, a scene long ago
festered in his brain. He produced, for the present team, a measured, seismographic exuberance for the vastness of the content and the process. "It," he said, referencing the text, "will be difficult. It'll be fine, but it will be difficult."
The same, too, goes for me, in my role as Malcolm McLaren. We read the play aloud and I discovered quite quickly that the words continue to jump from the page just as they did during my very first read almost a year ago, but I do not yet jump with them. One of the biggest challenges in assuming his character relies on my ability to speak not as the Malcolm McLaren that lives and breathes in this world, but the Malcolm McLaren that lives within me and exists in the world of Lipstick Traces.
Somehow, I think, the stage is being set.
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