FLOODESIGN

1 McCarthy, Mary. "Mary McCarthy's Theatre Chronicles 1937-1962." New York: The Noonday Press, 1963, x. 2 McCarthy, 9. 3 McCarthy, 134. 4 Johnston, Jill. "Marmalade Me." New York: E.P. Dutton & Co., Inc.: 1971. 100. 5 Johnston, 208. 6 Carr. C. "On Edge: Performance at the End of the Twentieth Century." Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 2008. 141. 7 Carr, 10. 8 Carr, 148. is not an act of authority, but an act of self-possession. "Life is a rain check to oblivion," she also wrote. In other words: live-ness is power, our best weapon; our presence in time produces, whether on stage or on the streets, the only real art worth paying attention to. Years later, Cynthia Carr, who wrote for The Village Voice under the byline "C. Carr" from 1984 to 2003, would bear witness to the fleeting moments before, during and after the downtown New York art and performance scenes were utterly decimated by gentrification, by the eroding of artwork into investment property, and, most horrifically, by AIDS. Carr wrote in vivid, at times livid prose, to guarantee those future histories would always dance before her readers' eyes: Lydia Lunch ("She came to tell us the end was near. But not near enough." 6 ), Stelarc ("I was the first one out. Had not wanted a close-up of that horror show of stretched skin" 7 ), the Kipper Kids ("two giant, beefy, baby boys, two pub-crawlers from hell, two pugnacious blokes" 8 ) and so many others. At the end of her preface to her book "On Edge: Performance at the End of the Twentieth Century," she remembers those who died — Ethyl Eichelberger, John Sex, Craig Owens — and asks the question "What if the torch can't be passed?" One answer to this question is that her record of these losses becomes essential, monumental. A year and a half ago, I became an art columnist at The Village Voice, the home of these two great heroines of criticism. When I think of what these women witnessed, I have worried that I've missed the best American culture has to offer. And then I remember: my time is now, as is yours and all of ours. When I attend live performances, when I see what is being imagined and offered, I realize that any wish to be elsewhere is my failure. I remember that any self-respecting, self-possessed critic — just like any self-respecting, self-possessed artist — must stay present and attentive, eyes and mind wide open, pen in hand, to capture and contribute to and revolutionize the here and now, ever unfolding. CYNTHIA CARR WROTE IN VIVID, AT TIMES LIVID PROSE, TO GUARANTEE THOSE FUTURE HISTORIES WOULD ALWAYS DANCE BEFORE HER READERS' EYES. Cynthia Carr. Photo: Timothy Greenfield Sanders www.peakperfs.org 9

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