Last night, I saw three short plays at the Henry Art Gallery.



Working against a 24-hour clock, three playwrights—UW theater grad school PhD candidates, I think—were each given a small cast (UW theater school kids, I think) and, thrown into one of the Henry's exhibits, tasked with writing, rehearsing, and performing a play inspired by the exhibit.

The audience, which assembled in the downstairs cafe at 7:30, was divided into three groups and sent off to each exhibit to watch the sketch performances, in which all eleven actors, all but one female, blazed with an unusual amount of exuberance, confidence, and charisma.

It'd be hard to recount all three exhibits (wild photographs, erotic (?) sculptures, agitprop posters, moon roof domes) or all three plays (dadaist tangents, infidelity, teenage love, and a gleeful monologue about universal patterns and "Godstuff"), but  for a second I totally believed everyone involved would go one to fame and fortune .
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