A beginning glitch in the sound system did not bode well for the entrance of Stephen Powell’s persona, coming onstage barefoot and backward. After putting on a tie, he faced the audience to proclaim that the sounds (apparently of a storm) “connect us.” He then moved forward to an imagined edge of a roof of a tall building where he could have “a private view of an urban place.” That he had intended to fall to his death from there was his sole absolutely clear communication. Because Powell didn’t take the plunge, the rooftop was his “Stopping Place.” The space seemed to change from time to time, however, as he discussed an air conditioner falling to the street and then dipped into a trunk full of what he said were textbooks from college days. He used little red balls seeming symbolically or metaphorically, but their referential basis was uncertain. He bragged at points about being successful in life and being “one hell of a guy.” He told a story about a princess forbidden by her king to eat fruit from three trees, but the ensuing details relied on an infusion of magic to be interpreted or understood. Then Powell continued in a mystifying manner to use the red balls, to fall back violently, to order us several times to close our eyes, to mention radiation, to present clear jars and talk about putting a ball in one. Powell’s finale involved what seemed to be a religious experience. He hugged himself and chanted, and then produced mumbling. “He’s here,” Powell announced and moved to the top of the trunk where he rocked in a fetal position. His final words were “Life goes on until we stop.” Several audience members asked me later for comments, as they had found the performance puzzling or they were in need of reassurance that they were not stupidly missing some deep message. I could only respond like the child who said he didn’t see the Emperor’s new clothes.
