When I came out of the Roundabout Theatre production of Arthur Miller’s play, All My Sons, I immediately faced an unbearable truth.
The discussions about gender were more congenial to me than the groups that confronted the problems heterosexual relations posed for women committed to some form of the revolution.
Walking back to my hotel through the nighttime madness and splendor of the city, I felt the hope that dancing always brings, the hope of not just enduring despair but leaping over it.
I have been blessed this week by two immersions in the work of Tennessee Williams, a writer I’ve always adored.
I am fortunate on this visit to find the dampness of New York City a great relief after the deadly dryness and manifold allergies of the Southwest.
My visual recordings of New York City are written in words, not images, as part of my new venture which is called, “You Travel, You Write.”
It has been difficult, all these years, for me to say, “My teacher,” to accept with gratitude and a degree of humility that I have more to learn, and that when I’m ready to learn, the teacher will appear. Now it has happened.
So the place breathes—if it breathes at all—an air of masculinity and propriety that seems to have disappeared but of course has not really. When I go into the dining room to eat, I am nearly always asked, “Are you meeting your husband?” (“No, I’m meeting myself”) or “Just one?” (“Isn’t one enough?”).
Now, all these years later, I wonder if the fact that these boys were all scions of well-known families contributed to their noteworthy mildness. Was there then—certainly not now—an emphasis on right behavior and staying out of trouble that actually corralled their adolescent male desire?
My little practice restored my faith in one crucial phrase, one crucial possibility, which I feel to this day, and that is the possibility of achieving through my body the peace that passes understanding.