City of God
Jeff McMahon
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Without this space, art tends toward the literal and prescriptive. Instead of images that speak for themselves, we get endless explanations of images. Instead of suggestion, we get declaration. Instead of possibility, finality. This sledgehammer approach certainly makes an artist’s message accessible; audiences can leave the theater satisfied that they have understood everything perfectly. But the truly meaningful artistic experience often begins precisely where understanding stops. Who “understands” the Mona Lisa, or Hamlet?
Nowhere is this problem more apparent than in the New York dance/performance scene. The work I’ve seen in New York, as well as those pieces that have recently toured to Chicago–Ann Carlson’s Animals, Bill T. Jones’s Last Supper at Uncle Tom’s Cabin, the various works in the P.S. 122 Field Trips–generally rely on obvious theatrical gestures, a lot of extraneous text, and extensive program notes. Jeff McMahon is clearly a product of this scene, although the subtlety and sophistication of the first half of his new solo work, City of God, suggest that he may be able to get beyond it. As a whole, however, City of God feels like a staged op-ed piece lamenting the collapse of the traditional structures that have given us a sense of identity.
City of God ultimately refuses to evolve. McMahon presents a beguiling, richly detailed, idiosyncratic world, but then instead of letting his ideas develop, he simply recasts them in broader, less personal terms. The imaginative journey that the opening promises never happens. If McMahon can learn to fully trust his own images–and if he can learn to trust his audience to appreciate them–he’ll take an important step forward, and perhaps help revitalize a performance scene that is certainly in need of inspiration.
