In gorgeous language—"the myriad machines he has yet to manhandle"—Taplow's story crawls forward, full of tidbits about the process of recording than biographical anecdotes, suggesting this is what our lives are really made of: mellow afternoons, the eyes rather than the storms. Meanwhile, Trudy's trudges backward, zipping through years, hitting jobs, family, loneliness, and her relationship with a peculiar bit of magnetic tape. As such, Kitson keeps his show rooted in the past and present, knowing that life's glories lie here and not in the unknowable future. The climactic Benjamin Buttoning is in fact anticlimactic, but the ways the stories move and collide isn't quite the point. The tapes become the perfect metaphor for our lives as a collection of memories, our memories as scattered fragments, some bound to touch the future, but most of them lost, erased, reused, repurposed, misunderstood. Form is content in Kitson's show—one of the most moving and very best of the year.
Tickets are only $25. Through December 21.
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