Art Matters

I saw two plays this weekend. The first was about death, the terror of facing it for those who are close to dying and the terror for those left behind, the apparent impossibility of facing life without that person. The acting was flawless and I cried quietly. My favorite part of seeing a show is sneaking glances at all the crying strangers around me, even while I’m busy trying to be discreet and feeling embarrassed of my own tears. (Several months ago, in the row before me at Billy Elliot, a mother held her young daughter as they both wept through this scene.)

At this performance, as the small cast assembled for their curtain call, the audience stood and when I saw an elderly man rise with his face wet, I let out a small breaking noise, my mouth opening involuntarily for a moment. I was overwhelmed with the intimation that this man had probably weathered these emotions many times, not vicariously but intimately, and that soon he would lose his wife, or she would lose him. There’s something humbling about seeing an older man cry in public. I always feel honored.

The other play was more obtuse. No one cried although it too examined death. Certain moments echoed in me strangely and one in particular stuck in my ribs. An elderly woman reminisced about a conversation she once had with another woman “I spoke to her in a way I’d never spoken to anyone before,” she said, momentarily lightened by the joy of the memory. “Have you ever been speaking to someone and you suddenly find that you’re another person?” I think the best people have that quality—and by “best” I mean the most right for you. They make you feel expansive and capable, smarter, kinder, nearer to your true self and more aware of who that self might be. I think the best art does that, too. It brings you to new wells to peer at your reflection there, touch the surface, or plunge your hand down into the water and see what’s hidden below. And part of the pleasure is the unique intimacy of doing that in the quiet company of strangers.