I wasn’t going to write about Barbara Ann. Because I was just peripheral. I heard what happened because her sister Janice called me to see if I could help her find Keir. Otherwise, I suppose I would’ve seen Ralph’s blog and then eventually asked him about it. Fortunately Ralph, who has become a really good friend to me, has been there to help me navigate what is a large and complex web of connections.
These connections can form between people who are only vaguely acquainted. Then they may get stronger or weaker, depending on lots of things, time being one of the most prominent.
So back to Barbara Ann. When she died, my connection to her was weak, and no time left to strengthen it. You’d think that would be the end. But something else went to work after that. I heard her speak. A week or so ago, about 3 months after she died, Barb’s husband Ernie and the theatre company they had both founded put on an event. It was called Barbara Ann’s Visions of Electric Perturbia. Her art would be on display and three of her plays would be performed at the Katherine Gianaclis Park for the Arts (KGPA). The same place, incidentally, where Barbara had lived, and died.
I was told that the place used to be a bookstore/restaurant. I arrived there and passed through what would’ve been the park/yard, an area covered with pieces of art, and assorted junk, and met up with Janice. She showed me, and Karen, another friend of hers, around the house. There was a small living room type space with old furniture such as a bunch of students might have: salvaged from curbsides, held together with tape. The most notable thing about the room was that it was covered with art. Paintings, photographs, signs, stickers and numerous other items covered the walls, even the ceiling. The kitchen was a small L-shaped counter with no stove in the corner of the room leading into the hall. A small kitchen tile plaque hung on the wall next to the counter. It said “Barbara’s Kitchen.”
A step down from here led into the hall, an addition added at a later time to connect the original house to the space that was now the theatre. “That was Barb’s room,” Janice told us, indicating a closed door on the left. She said that someone else was living in there now, and it was locked probably to keep the cats from getting out. On the door to the room hung Barbara’s painting of a giraffe. Janice said that Barb had seen the giraffe in a dream and called the painting “Morning Visitor.” Many of Barb’s other paintings were on display both in the hall and throughout the areas which the residents used as both their living and creative space. These spaces also functioned as a back stage area since walking through a black curtain in a doorway left you on stage.
The black box theatre took up the majority of the building. It contained most of what used to be the restaurant and bookstore. Assorted chairs and old church pews made up the seating. A pair of sofas sat as a boundary between the stage and the rest of the room. Just inside the fortress of sofas, a row of footlights lined the stage and cast light upon it. The sofas, I soon found, served as seating as well as a boundary. Audience members could sit there and watch the actors as if they were looking into someone else’s living room.
More people filed in to look at the art and attend the plays. It got crowded so after making several rounds of the place, viewing all the paintings and other items which were placed as tributes to Barbara, I finally took a seat in one of the pews and waited for the plays to start. Janice, her mom, and her aunt were sitting in the row in front of me. Music was playing and an actress was already on stage, getting into character. She was wearing what looked like pajamas and swinging a large swathe of fabric, perhaps a blanket or a sheet. She sat in the back corner of the stage, on a couch that was part of the set. She alternately sat very still and then moved as if agitated, waving the fabric in front of her or behind her or over her head.
After about 30 minutes, the first play was about to begin. It was called “Visionary.” Some appropriate music played as Ernie turned the house lights down and the footlights illuminated the actress on stage. She performed what was essentially a one-man show. Her character was in a dialogue with a psychiatrist (off stage) in a mental institution where she was detained after committing a crime. We only hear her portion of the dialogue. The actress gave an intense performance, luring the audience into the world of her character. In the dark, it didn’t matter that we were sitting in this makeshift space on mismatched cushions in a building with an unpleasant smell and that may very well have been unsafe.
The other two plays that I saw featured other actors and actresses whom also lived there at the KGPA. The performances were all good. I enjoyed them. But what struck me most was how much I learned from hearing Barbara’s words. She said so much through these characters who were in situations ranging from the mundane to the bizarre. And what she said, it seemed to explain everything. And nothing. Why did Barbara take her own life? I still don’t know. But I do know a few things. She felt deeply and expressed herself every way she knew how. She was greatly loved, and yet it did not prevent her from seeing the darkness. It did not protect her from the knowledge of it. It did not soothe her distress at the unfathomable sadness that people cause each other. And it did not help her reconcile the incongruity of modern life; a culture of war and of art; of spiritual pursuits and of mindless diversion; of social obligation and of freedom; and of kindness and peace and of evil.
At certain points I could hear the responses to the lines spoken. I could hear laughter and also crying from around me. I thought about Janice in front of me, and how hard it must be for her to hear what Barb was saying, even though she wanted more than anything to hear it all.
When the third play ended, Ernie turned on the lights and invited everyone to stick around and hear a band play or to go get beer at the gas station next door, or to just hang out in the yard. I wandered, eyes moist, outside. I’d gotten hot sitting in the theatre, and now I stood by a tree breathing in the night air. People were gathered around a table, or standing in groups. I was by myself, making figures in the dirt with the toe of my shoe, and tears were beginning to run down my face. A few people I’d been introduced to waved as they left, saying it was nice meeting me. I did my best to respond in kind and not appear all choked up even though I was. I tried looking up at the stars, keeping my eyes open wide so they could benefit from the breeze. Soon Janice appeared, chatting with another friend. I didn't want to disturb her; I just wanted to say a quick good night, but when she passed me she said, “Wait, I’ll be right back.” After walking some friends out to their cars and speaking with a few other people in the yard, she returned to ask me what I thought of the plays. I said I found them stirring. I was still crying, but smiling at the same time. Janice said that it had been intense for her, very emotional. There were a lot of things, moments in the plays, that struck a chord. I told her that I hadn’t known that Barb was a writer as well as an actress and painter. She said that Barb wrote prolifically and that even though she didn’t finish a lot of works meant for public performance, it was as natural to her as swimming to a fish. She just did everything creative. She also said that she had all of Barb’s journals on a shelf in her house and that even though she hadn't looked at them all yet, she knows that one day she will read every word.
“I wish I could’ve known her,” I said quietly. “Yeah, well,” Janice said, her voice rising slightly, “I just wanted to say to her, ‘Fuck, Barb. Why’d you go and do something like that?’ Now it’s too late; no one else will ever have that chance to know her.” She was quiet for a few moments then she said, “I’m glad you came though, and got something out of it. Barb touched pretty much everyone she met.” I agreed. “Plus, there will always be those connections…” I said, trailing off in my inarticulateness. “Yes, exactly,” Janice said, understanding anyway.
Janice made another trip out to the cars, to escort some other friends, and I followed. I bid her good night and as I drove home, I thought about connections and how it seemed new ones had been made. Stronger ones. Even though she was gone, Barbara was still helping these connections form.
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