social commentary – [art]seen

The lights dim, and a sense of communal excitement fills the air. This is asses.masses, a unique blend of performance art and interactive gaming that shows that UMS’s “No Safety Net series” is keen on shattering entertainment norms. Imagine embarking on an 8-12 hour journey through the whimsical yet poignant world of donkeys, alongside 60 of your newest friends—or better yet, fellow asses? It’s a spectacle that blurs the lines between audience and participant, reality and digital whimsy.

The night unfolds with this structure: bursts of gameplay, each lasting 1-2 hours, interspersed with 20-minute breaks full of delicious snacks to refuel the mind and ass (you were sitting for basically 12 hours straight). During each session, one, or multiple brave souls step into the spotlight to take control, leading us all through a donkey-laden adventure examining the complex themes of oppression amongst the masses (the asses).

And what a game it is! Without spoiling too much, let’s just say it takes you places: ass heaven (or perhaps hell), plots to save and slay donkeys, and interactions with the glinting eyes of ass gods. Our particular group, inventive as ever, decided to collectively voice these celestial beings, yielding echoes of laughter from the creators of asses.masses who were watching from a back corner. A spontaneous chorus, indeed and it seems we were pioneering uncharted ass communications.

What’s truly fascinating is the meta-narrative unfolding within and around this performance. It’s an interesting case study: you’re both an audience member of a performance and also a guinea pig who is trying the game for the first time. As we play, are we not testing the game itself? Watching each other’s reactions, it raises the question: how does our interpretation as audience members inform the art we’re immersed in? asses.masses challenges you to question whether passive observation equates to play; at the end of the evening, are you a gamer if you never held the controller?

Delving further, this unconventionally satirical journey through donkey society cleverly turns the mirror on governmental systems, ethics, and morality. Are we any different from the metaphorical asses, constrained by human societies’ dictates? In a delightfully strange twist, this absurdist narrative finds roots in eerily relevant social commentary.

If you ever get to see the show, bring friends along to share in the story and debate the ethical questions the story raises. But if you attend solo, then chances are you’ll leave with new friends, bonded over collective laughter, and some mutual existential musings about the plight of the ass.

asses.masses is a peculiar and transformational dive into interactive art. It encourages you to reflect upon and engage with the world, proving that games can be profound social experiments when left in the hooves of good company. Here, you’re not just along for the ride; you are part of an unpredictable, evolving story where the roles of ass and master blur. Hopefully, asses.masses will come to a city near you soon, and you can embark on a donkey-ful escapade.

**featured image from UMS.org

8:00pm • Friday, February 3, 2023 • Arthur Miller Theater

I feel that I did Our Carnal Hearts an injustice in my preview for the show by calling it a “comedy performance,” because it contained so much more. There were moments of humor, but it was the kind of humor that is a bit uncomfortable, the sort necessary to make a difficult reality easier to swallow. The show dealt with the un-picturesque reality of human jealousy and competitiveness in an age of both unprecedented wealth and heightening economic disparity, made starkly visible by a performative social media culture. Rachel Mars rendered envy both relatable and ridiculous, both a vindication of those with reason for envy and a criticism of an upper class with everything that still demands more.

Much of the performance conveyed a sense of frustration, maybe even righteous anger, that felt like a justification for jealousy. For example, Mars’ use of “Paper Planes” by M.I.A. with its repetitive “All I wanna do is… (gun shot, shot, shot, reload, cash register) and take your money” and the song’s connotations of barriers to immigration and work, advanced the social themes of the performance. In another scene, Mars repeated the mantra, “Congratulations, I’m so happy for you,” her throat constricting with pent-up anger until it was more of a forced wheeze than a well-wish.

One of my favorite elements of the performance drove home the point that envy can be gratifying, but in the end it is a two-way street. It began with an eerily mocking song from the three vocalists. Mars walked out into the audience and took a seat and, speaking to the guest next to her while the sound system broadcast their “conversation” to the rest of us, introduced the premise. A fairy has arrived at your doorstep, and told you that finally, out of everyone else in the world, you have been chosen to receive a wish–but there’s a catch. Whatever you wish for will be delivered to your neighbor twofold. Assuming the voice of our collective unconscious, Mars rallied off all the riches and glories we would like to receive–before doing a double-take, recalling the catch. At that point, her jealousy got the best of her and she scrapped all of those nice ideas–instead, Mars suggested, give her mild depression. Take away half her money. Cut out one of her legs, or better yet, one of her kidneys. We all laughed, but near the end of the performance, the lights lowered, and Mars began again. A fairy has arrived at your door, but this time, it says, “I’ve just come from your neighbor’s house…”

Our Carnal Hearts gave me a lot to think about in terms of the role of jealousy in my own life, how “envy” can be a misinterpreted reaction to injustice, and who is “permitted” to feel envious. Jealousy and revenge are eternally salient themes in the world of art, and I enjoyed Mars’ modern interpretation.