Last night at Richard Maxwell added to my tally of plays where I’ve unintentionally been seated next to the playwright. When this happens, I always find myself more interested in watching the writer watching his or her play, rather than simply immersing myself in the piece. There are so many little tics to absorb- the way they show pleasure or frustration with their work, the way they take notes, the way they study other people studying their play. It’s an artist-spectator hall of mirrors.
A few years ago when a trip to London fell through at the last minute and I found myself stranded in New York for a week, I spent a small fortune on theater tickets, including one to the first preview of The Year of Magical Thinking. I sat third row, one seat in from the aisle, and at about 7:59pm a very small, sharp-edged old woman sat down next to me. It took me a few moments to realize it was Joan Didion, petite, wrinkled and with eyes so enormous there was something slightly alien-ish about her.
She seemed in excruciating pain throughout the duration of the play, usually staring at her lap instead of the stage and fidgeting with her hands. This likely had something to do with the subject matter of the piece, but it was also my first glimpse of a writer of high caliber regarding her work with the same sense of acute torture as a high schooler forced to read aloud to the class.
