Outside of HOW TO SUCCEED IN BUSINESS WITHOUT REALLY TRYING is a crowed of crazed media-fed fans sweating in anticipation for Daniel Radcliffe. Each one extending their needy, safe, suburban hand to a total stranger, asking him to fulfill his role as the object of their fantasy. The society of the spectacle has really become a dangerous weapon of removal and there is no better vantage point then on 45th St. and 8th Ave. around 10:45pm. Symbolic visions bind a crowd of the young and old, and in the midst of it all I stood, a watcher on vacation from my sense of reality. No one seemed to see him, and I wondered with a seething fear why I was there at all. Obviously I had lost my way, psychologically, curiously wandering in search of answers concerning fame and power. The mythological Radcliffe, who had charmed me in his interviews with his integrity about the theater, his seemingly earnest character, and surprising wit, was the venus fly trap that had ensnared me into realizing I too was delusional, shamefully ripe with intrigue about an innocent man I have no access to or right to know. Though all I wanted to do was thank him for publicly supporting LGBQT causes, buying art, and keeping sincerity in the spotlight, hands off, I need to dissolve my ego and stop my escapism, because I really have no reason to speak to him.
The generic temperament of that crowed was harvested in the sterile hallways of malls across the United States. Capitalism has achieved what I thought was impossible, shared desires created by distorting reality to a point where everyone feels they own that which doesn't belong to them. It is deeply disturbing. The word 'fan' is a dirty word.
I grapple with the shadows of nostalgia, Radcliffe reminds me of my past admiration for great acting, and the ghosts of film, flickering forms that fool the eye into a relationship with absent people.
Baking in the heated crowd I learned that Justin Bieber has a line of shoes, and that the totems of consumerism continue to be shallow symbols for happiness. The experience made me remember the people I love and know, the path I want to take towards my muse, and the smallness of my life.
The sad truth is that I wish I could work with Radcliffe, as though he weren't totally famous and a big name. Maybe his self deprecating charm unarmed my logic, allowing my own crazy thoughts about him being an actor in one of my plays to creep up on me, my experimental multi-media background in exchange for his thoroughbred experience. So for a moment I was absolutely, totally, 100% fucking nuts, but at least I know I want to keep improving. Maybe this dream has nothing to do with him, maybe it stems from wanting to return to a time when I could make work without being bogged down by the money. Maybe I want all the beautiful creatures I know to come together and make extraordinary work with the freedom and life that comes from the security of a big budget. Or maybe I want to enjoy rehearsals without so much concern about keeping the whole ship together. The sparkle in his eye when he talks about doing theater reminds me in a very deep way about myself in childhood watching the RSC, admiring Judi Dench, or in New York watching Cherry Jones. Cherry who let me sing to her so I could get over my cold feet before I sang on a stage for the first time since high school, she gave me bravery by telling me I was good. I have left the theater for the art world, I work in museums, I teach people aesthetic principles and ideas. My personal work is being directed towards video, but Radcliffe's joy reminds me that I cannot travel too far from my life long love of performance.
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