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“Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

It’s an adage pummeled into young elementary school students, a worn dictum whose extremity in triteness is likely to cause a self-conscious writer to hesitate using it even in irony. But in third grade, when the vast majority of us were unaware of the literary faux pas of clichés, I remember my class sitting and waiting to be turned loose among the shelves of children’s literature, or more accurately, wide expanses of Goosebumps, The Magic Treehouse and Animorphs genre of chapter books. In particular, I recall promising to myself I would never, in my life, ever, judge a book by its cover, lest I suffer a most unpleasant death by a swallowed watermelon seed (a recurring nightmare at the time, in which the seed germinated). I sat there legs folded, jaw clenched, and looking ambitious. If a shadow of desire to do the aforementioned crossed my consciousness, it was treated as a moral failure, and recompense, in the form of doubling all efforts to not judge, should follow promptly. I’d like to think that behind the hyperbolic sentiments towards inanimate objects was a somewhat misplaced effort of sympathy and an overshot desire for not letting preconceived notions get in the way of a good relationship. Or, it may have just been an early symptom of neurotic behavior. Regardless, in my eight-year-old mind, that’s what I believed. With that credo, I took it upon myself to deliberately find the ugliest, most ragged looking books I could dig from the shelves. I would read them, out of a mixture of pity and misguided moral rectitude. I did this for years, selecting amongst piles of books the ones that were most dog-earred, most sepia tinged (before nostalgia became an aesthetic), and truly most lamentable in terms of cover art. In the end, I can’t say for sure whether I have been better or worse for it. I realized much later that things shouldn’t be taken quite so literally, that books that were pretty did not disqualify them from being valuable, and that pretty is far too subjective.

Nowadays, if I’m browsing through an array of unfamiliar books, it is in fact the allure of its frame, its colors and shapes that initially draw me if its title or subject matter initially does not. The art of design has proliferated, and even old friends are getting renovated. Out of indulgence, I recently purchased a copy of Jane Eyre from Penguin’s hardcover classics collection, simply because I thought it was beautiful, crisp, and captured a lasting quality that would weather gracefully. The move to more abstract design, away from an artist’s depiction of a scene or character from the work, I believe, is a desirable change, as it does not put in place, before we can draw in our mind’s eye what is unfolding before us, a bias regardless how subtle. Interpretation, then, is left wholly to the reader. Salinger too, believed this to some degree, as he  insisted in the publisher’s contract that only the text of the title of the book and his name were to appear on any future editions of his work, with absolutely no images so as to not flaunt or broadcast itself unnecessarily for profit. This move towards a witty simplicity or minimalism resonates with me – geometric with a good-typeface can actually inspire me to pull it off the shelf and investigate further. Its gaping, unassuming initial impression leaves me to the duty of drawing out the complexities – it’s but a taste of what’s to come, an art that is incomplete until you delve into its counterpart.

Book cover design is often an overlooked art shadowed by the immensity of the text. Regardless, there’s a coterie of appreciators online; the following are a few interesting links to websites that treat them as the main attraction.

The Archive of Book Cover Design and Designers

The Pelican Project

Twenty Classic Novels’ First Covers

Lovely Book Covers

Here it is.  My Thanksgiving list, specific to theatre:

• Those who have come before me and paved the way.  Looking at you, Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller, Tony Kushner, Sarah Ruhl, Laura Schellhardt.
• Seeing my first play produced in my hometown.  It was surreal and I am unbelievably lucky to have had that privilege.  Something many of us have to wait years for.
• My talented friends and professors who inspire me daily.
• New work.  It is invigorating and vital.  I am glad it exists, and I am glad that there are places in this country (the O’Neill, Humana Festival, The Lark) that are fostering it and ensuring that our theatre will have a future.
• Artistic dialogues.  I joined the Literary Managers and Dramaturgs of the Americas listserv this year, and it is one of the best decisions I’ve made.  Every day, I get a nerdy little e-mail sent to me containing brilliant dialogues between dramaturgs who are sincerely enthusiastic about their work.
• The close-knit theatre community.  In theatre, they always say, “It’s all about who you know,” and I believe that is 100% true.  What’s more true is that whoever you know will know someone else.  Everyone knows everyone.  It’s like living in a small town. It may feel stifling at times, but in the end it’s very comforting to know that if you make great friendships with other artists, they’ll do their best to make sure you are taken care of.  Theatre is a scary profession, but there’s always something out there who’s got your back.
• The theatre department.  My classmates, my professors, other professors who I don’t have any more but who still sit down and talk with me about life.  I get to feel like my voice is valued and respected.  The support here is incredible, and because of that I am able to do the most important thing for a young theatre professional.  I can take risks.  Special shout out to my program, the BTAs!
• Basement Arts. I know it may seem shmaltzy, but if I hadn’t gotten on board a Basement Arts show my first year at this university, my experience would have been entirely different and not nearly as happy.  It’s how I made my first friends in the department, and I got to do it while defying what I thought possible of three weeks of rehearsal and a tiny theatre.  I am consistently amazed by the work done by Basement, and I am glad that my participation in it has stretched my three years here.
• Having the great advantage of knowing that this is what I wanted to do since I was seven years old.
• All of my theatrical homes, and there have been several.  Whenever I think of a place I feel safe and centered, I think of a theatre.  I know I am lucky to have that, and I am so thankful that I have always had a theatrical home.

Sorry if this seems a little self-centered or self-indulgent, but I hope it at least got you thinking about what you’re thankful for.  Artists have to constantly step back and think of what they’re thankful for so they have fuel to keep going.  Happy Thanksgiving!

It wasn’t just the energetic crowd- that was expected at the Blind Pig. It wasn’t the intimacy between said crowd and the performer- that’s easily attainable at any live DJ show. And it wasn’t even the dynamic transition between the opening act and the main artist- that was only recognizable long after the show had finished. No, what really set The Hood Internet’s concert last Saturday night apart from any other live mashup performance I’ve experienced was my steadfast faith, born early in the evening, that Steve Reidell knew precisely what he was doing.

Formed in Chicago, The Hood Internet is a combination of DJs Aaron Brink and Steve Reidell, although last Saturday proved that one member is enough to produce an amazing live show. The duo specializes in combining Hip-Hop and Rap acapellas with indie and alternative instrumentals. This untraditional type of mashup drew a different sort of crowd than those who usually flock to these shows. Always hesitant of paying money to hear music that is free online, most people stray away from them. One of their only appeals is the constant stream of popular music which is supplemented by a much more dance-provoking beat. The Hood Internet, faithful to their own style, barely fits that criteria, further excluding more concert-goers. Regardless, the Blind Pig was still well attended, and the audience was extremely entertained.

Although only half of his team was present, Steve Reidell manifested no signs of concern or unease while in the spotlight. He approached his two laptops and mixer (no turntables) with confidence, and exhibited such an authoritative composure that I, and I’m sure the rest of the crowd, had no skepticism as to his abilities. Towards the end of his piece he paused the music to ask the crowd, almost rhetorically, if he should continue or end his consistent and addicting stream of mashups. We answered, and the stream began to flow once more.

My expectations for the Hood Internet’s live setlist could not have been more wrong. I anticipated that they would enhance their show with their most popular singles, to cater to the general population’s desires. However, the majority of their setlist was comprised of the less played, harder to identify tracks that hide in the middle of their monstrous mixtapes (of which there are five and generally last over an hour) and serve as transitions. This worked in an interesting fashion for the show; because of the similar nature of most songs (indie or techno beat with ’80s or ’90s Hip-Hop verses), the mashups infused with present day tunes were very distinctive. For instance, I couldn’t tell you the songs prior to or after “Back that Sleepyhead Up,” but I specifically remember screaming along with Passion Pit’s classic. This should not be interpreted as a flaw in the performance, however. Despite being uncommon, the transitions remained undeniably enjoyable. Highlights of the setlist include when Reidell combined Sir Mix-A-Lot’s anthem “Baby Got Back” and Cee-Lo Green’s horridly addicting single “Fuck You,” as well as two renditions of one of their newest creations: Big Sean’s “Marvin and Chardonnay” and techno genius Wolfgang Gartner’s “The Way It Was.” Ann Arbor appreciated your shout out to the D, Reidell.

Overall, the show was invigorating because it quite literally did not stop. While Reidell took minor breathing pauses, the music and dancing continued. He maintained such an impressive flow of tracks that it was impossible to deny that he knew exactly how to present the perfect dance party. For those wary to pay for a ticket to a mashup show, know that you aren’t paying to hear the music; you are paying for the experience, and in my opinion, as of last weekend, the Hood Internet is the best in the game.

You first know by the taste of the air. The people standing in the queue at the local ice-cream shop lift their shirts away from their skin, fan at themselves with a free hand, glance up at the sky. They comment on the quality of the atmosphere— stuffy, they say. Stagnant. But when you take in a deep lungful you can feel the tangibility of the moisture-laden air, full, rich, alive. Then comes the wind. A sudden breeze sends people scrambling to recapture their paper napkins, fluttering away like so many errant birds. Hands dart out to pin flyaway items against the tops of picnic tables. An empty plastic cup escapes to skitter across the pavement. Behind the parking lot, the stand of lindens begin to flash the pale undersides of their leaves in unison. A storm brews.

The shop is a favorite of the local citizenry. Everyone refers to the proprietor with fondness, and her husband was probably half the town’s grade-school teacher. Everyone knows her, knows them. The side of the shop’s whitewashed cinder-block wall bears brightly-delineated images of other local landmarks. A number of your peers have secured summer jobs there. They are friends with one another. They are friends, of course with Mr. Oddslot and Mrs. B. They seem to embody the spirit of small-town America, where everyone knows everyone else and there is a distinction between natives of the town, and outsiders.

The queue has shortened up, and you and your friend finally reach the counter. You sneak glance while she handles the transaction. The girl at the counter, as you had rather hoped against, is someone you know. Closer than acquaintances, but certainly not friends.

“Oh hey,” she says in greeting, but offers nothing else. Then: “What can I get for you?”

Another gust of wind, and you beat a hasty retreat to the blue minivan out in the lot, shielding your high-piled cones from the first drops of rain. There is some distance between you, but also enough to talk about. She had insisted on catching up, so you do that, sitting in the minivan you’ve borrowed from your parents. A slow plunk-plunk starts overhead, hollow and metallic.

Odd, that this friend who frequents this ice-cream shop more than you, who rarely comes, seems more out of place here than you are. Odd, to think you have lived in this town my entire life. Somehow, you are not alike, they and you, you and all these people out there, those people withdrawing under striped awnings and under the eaves and into their cars. Odd, that.

It rains.

I know it’s not my normal blogging day, but I feel compelled to write.  I had the privilege to see previews of two amazing shows this week: Cabaret presented by MUSKET and Trumpets and Raspberries, a University Production.  What struck me the most about both of these productions was how stylistically innovative and complete they were.

Remember, I was watching tech rehearsals, so at this stage in the game, the look of the show wasn’t even 100% complete, but I was amazed by what I saw.  Both shows possessed distinct styles, from movement to costumes to scenery to lights.  I don’t want to say that it’s rare to have such a fully immersive theatrical experience, but in a way it is.  I think that these shows specifically struck me because they were set in wildly imaginative and different worlds: Cabaret in 1930s Berlin and Trumpets in 1960s Italy.

The directors of each of these shows had very clear concepts, and that was evident in the final product.  These are not safe directors.  Malcolm Tulip, a professor, and Roman Micevic, a senior directing major, each have very individualized styles.  I could watch Trumpets and say, “Oh, this is a very Malcolm show.”  When I tell that to people in the department, they nod their heads and understand, but what makes Malcolm such an effective director is that “Malcolm style” is something you recognize when you see.  It is not predictable or by the numbers; it is almost the unpredictability that makes it Malcolm.

Hats off to the designers of these shows.  I would name them all, but since I don’t possess programs, I would be to worried to leave someone out.  They not only perfected their vision in the show, but made that vision mesh with the other members of the team.   I can’t imagine what Cabaret would look like if the Emcee’s make-up and the harsh white spotlight weren’t working together.  Trumpets would be a completely different experience if the props and costumes weren’t both willing to take a step into the absurd together.

Both of these shows took steps outside of realism, a tricky thing to do in American theatre, and the final products are stunning.  Theatre is about taking risks, going for broke, thinking outside the box.  These two shows, which could not be more different– one comes out of the commedia delle’arte tradition, while the other stems from expressionist cabaret– have inspired me to be fearless.  What is most incredible is that by moving beyond the bounds of contemporary realism, their themes resonated with today’s culture for me more than many shows I have seen that are based in everyday life.  I left the theatre amazed by the visual but also touched by the emotional and tugged by the cerebral.  I know that this is a crazy time in the semester, but I hope that if you have time this weekend, you will let yourself get lost in these fantastical enchanting worlds for  just a few hours.

For the most part, it seems as though the vast majority of novels and non-fiction books we read growing up in the United States were from either American or European authors.  However, the Middle East has a rich literary tradition to rival the West’s with famous poets like Hafez, Rumi, and Khalil Gibran and novelists like Elias Khoury, Tahar Ben Jelloun, and Kahled Hosseini, famous for writing The Kite Runner.  The Middle East is often stereotyped as having heavy restrictions on intellectual pursuits and freedom of speech, which in some cases is true, there are many writers who are internationally renowned.  There is even a high school in Brooklyn named after Khalil Gibran and English translations of Rumi have sold over half a million copies worldwide, him being one of the highest selling poets in the U.S.

“When I am with you, we stay up all night.
When you’re not here, I can’t go to sleep.

Praise God for those two insomnias!
And the difference between them.”

-Rumi

Middle Eastern nations have embraced many Western authors as well.  Though a good deal of the books have to be pirated, some of the best selling writers in Iran are John Grisham, Danielle Steel, and Harry Potter is a favorite of young people, just as it is here, same with “Pinocchio” for young children.  There has also been a longstanding divide between Israeli books and those from other Middle Eastern nations which, in recent years, has seen some progress.  In 2009, Israel overturned a law from World War II which banned books from or translated in “hostile countries” like Syria and Lebanon.  This means that Israeli citizens will now be able to access a much larger selection of Arabic writings, which will hopefully add to some form of open dialogue in the region.

Americans often have a very one dimensional way of viewing daily life in the Middle East, and usually focus on aspects related to violence, insurrection, Islam, terrorism, and sexism.  The region is viewed as a place of constant turmoil, where daily life is shattered by suicide bombings and oppressive military presence.  These generalizations overshadow the culture that continues to grow out of a historically literary, but diverse, place.  There have been many writers who encourage the de-stigmatization of the Middle East, like Reza Aslan, Edward Said, and Tariq Ali.  Literature is important in spreading this awareness because it allows for a personal aspect of Middle Eastern life to be shared globally in an enjoyable manner.