GRAY’S ANATOMY
The historical trajectory of Gray’s connection with his audience is essential–and in fact something like a marriage: initial euphoria (Sex and Death to the Age 14 through A Personal History of the American Theater), occasional disillusionment followed by jubilant rediscovery (Swimming to Cambodia), and sporadic resentments and small joys (Monster in a Box).
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Gray’s the kind of performer–perhaps even more than other performance artists–whose scripts couldn’t be done by anyone else, not even in parody. There’s no question that one of Gray’s greatest strengths has always been his uncanny ability to relate his one-of-a-kind adventures, his daunting self-doubts, and his encounters with the absurd as if we were already familiar with them.
And though, as always, Gray’s language is solid, this time he seems to be relying more on description than on insight. Occasionally the descriptions themselves fall short–more journalistic-style lists than the keen observations of before. Perhaps this has more to do with Gray’s failing eyesight–the ostensible subject of Gray’s Anatomy–than with any other failure, but whatever the cause, Gray’s language seems flatter, less original. There are times when he just seems superficial.
Perhaps this may seem nit-picking, as if Gray were being judged by rules that don’t apply to other performance artists. And it’s certainly true that Gray’s Anatomy by anyone else would be astonishing, but that’s the point: no one else could have done it. It not only relies on Gray to live and perform it but on Gray’s past performances–so much so that it practically demands a comparison with them. And it’s good, very good, but not as good as what’s come before.
