Out of Sight
Houston
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Winter Wonderland
Dallas Premiering at Undermain Theatre just in time to distract you from all that holiday shopping you still haven’t finished is “The Snow Queen.” Dubbed “a fairy tale for strange adults,” the play is loosely based on Hans Christian Andersen’s story of the same name and unfolds as follows. The scene is Denmark in the early 1890’s, and the titular character, Nina, has traveled south to find a paramour for the winter. But there’s a small glitch: Christian, the younger man she brings back with her, is loved by another, the brave Analiese, who journeys north to reclaim him. Penned by Lynne Alvarez, whose works have been said to follow in the magical realist tradition of Federico García Lorca and José Rivera, The Snow Queen proves the lengths we will go to for love. Undermain, which commissioned this work, was founded in 1984 and has been noted for its avant-garde offerings and its intimate (read: tiny) basement performing space in Deep Ellum. With more plays by better-known playwrights (such as Conor McPherson and Sam Shepard) and the recent addition of seven actors and designers to the payroll, the company is amplifying its presence in the community. Dec 1—22. 3200 Main, 214-747-5515, undermain.org
Lost and Found
Houston, Nacogdoches, Austin, Dallas Davy Rothbart is the kind of guy who saves his gas station receipts when he goes on road trips—for sentimental purposes. In fact, the self-confessed pack rat has parlayed his fascination with the odds and ends that the rest of us throw away into a popular publication, two books, a Web site, and even a 65-city national tour. Found Magazine, which was launched in the summer of 2001, has an uncomplicated objective: “We collect found stuff: love letters, birthday cards, kids’ homework, to-do lists, ticket stubs, poetry on napkins, doodles—anything that gives a glimpse into someone else’s life.” And anything goes. Readers send in a steady stream of misplaced and discarded items that have been plucked from gutters and sidewalks or harvested from the floors of city buses or from underneath park benches. Now Rothbart and his brother and co-editor, Peter, are bringing a trunkload of those finds to Texas with this month’s There Goes the Neighborhood Tour, which marks the release of Found’s crime-themed fifth issue (inside of which you’ll find an FBI agent’s files—complete with mug shots and correspondence from J. Edgar Hoover—which were found in an Indiana dumpster). At each stop, Davy will read excerpts from particularly interesting notes, letters, journal entries, and other reclaimed ephemera, and Peter will play new jams inspired by the discoveries. Audience members are encouraged to bring their own found stuff to the shows too. By now, the Rothbart brothers know better than to say they’ve seen it all. Among the more intriguing pieces they’ve come across are a “to not do” list (“DO NOT fall in love with any strangers”), a curious receipt that read “Gun, gun, gun, ski mask, Nerds,” and a love letter addressed to Cookie Monster. One man’s trash, it seems, is another man’s cultural phenomenon. Houston: Dec 7. Aurora Picture Show, 800 Aurora; 713-868-2101; aurorapictureshow.org. Nacogdoches: Dec 8. Millard’s Crossing, 6020 North; 936-564-6631; millardscrossing.com. Austin: Dec 9. Alamo Drafthouse, 320 E. 6th; 512-476-1320; drafthouse.com. Dallas: Dec 10. The Public Trust, 2919 Commerce; 214-760-7170; trustthepublic.com
Go Figure
Austin A fluffy white pillow hangs vertically on a wall, strapped down by five taut cords that are attached to springs, which are nailed into the wall. Once you’ve seen it (or envisioned it, as the case may be), the questions begin to arise: What is it? What is the artist trying to say? Perhaps it’s a political piece meant to connote violence or censorship. Or maybe it’s just an insomniac’s ode to bedding. The artwork in question, Pentagrama, is deliberately elusive, not unlike its creator, the up-and-coming Jorge Macchi, who is known for using common objects to spare, understated effect. In fact, “poetic,” “cryptic,” and “minimal” are the descriptors most often associated with his work, about forty examples of which you can see this month at the Blanton Museum of Art’s “Jorge Macchi: The Anatomy of Melancholy.” The first comprehensive exhibition of its kind in the U.S. (the Argentinean is already well on his way to stardom abroad), it’s a superb introduction. The pieces on view, which date from the nineties to the present, offer a satisfactory overview of his oeuvre, which, as Gabriel Pérez-Barreiro, the Blanton’s curator of Latin American art explains, “walks the very fine line between sophisticated conceptual strategies and emotive content.” So what does that mean exactly? Consider Monoblock, for which Macchi has taken obituaries out of various newspapers and then snipped out all the blocks of text, leaving only the religious symbols above each (either a cross or a Star of David). He’s layered several sheets of these in such a way that they look like the outline of a building, albeit one with a bunch of holes. It provokes a visceral response. So too does Nocturno, even though it employs the simplest of materials. There are two pieces of staff paper on the wall, but Macchi has hammered in nails where the notes should be in this musical score. The light from above throws ominous shadows downward. Macchi’s arrangements—as well as his recasting of everyday items—are clever. Aside from his forays into found art (you should see what he does with maps and guidebooks), Macchi also dips into video with his installation Fim de Film (End of the Film), in which film credits too blurry to read scroll up the screen as a specifically commissioned tune (composed by Macchi’s countryman Edgardo Rudnitzky) plays. (The Blanton, which has been lauded for its Latin American collection, is actually in the process of acquiring this work.) But perhaps even more varied than the types of media that Macchi uses are the subjects he covers: from meditations on unrequited love to musings on random acts of violence. As Pérez-Barreiro is quick to stress, Macchi’s nonnarrative works allow one’s own associations to bubble to the mind’s surface. There is no single explanation. Dec 15—Mar 16. Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd & Congress Ave, 512-471-7324, blantonmuseum.org
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