Review of Edgar Martins exhibit from NYC trip

The woman stands alone on the beach, her head obscured by a cluster of balloons. She peers into the ocean, now a deep black infinity masked by night’s darkness. Ten steps further and she may fall off the edge into obscurity, but she remains motionless, trapped somewhere between fantasy and reality by photographer Edgar Martins.
The photograph, untitled, is part of the series “The Accidental Theorist,” currently on display at the Betty Cuningham Gallery in Chelsea through Jan. 13. The exhibition, also including prints from his series “Dystopia,” is Martins first in the U.S. — and what a grand entrance he makes.
The gallery’s first room contains five framed prints from Martins’ series “Dystopia:” Photographs taken immediately following the forest fires that engulfed Portugal in 2005. Martins, born in Portugal, used long-exposures so that the smoke from the fire’s aftermath fills the frame. At first glance, it appears to be fog, but upon closer inspection a subtle, unnatural pattern emerges— the smoke is opaque in areas, and transparent in others. Martins is playing with viewers’ assumptions; the disruption of the natural landscape by the unnatural appearance of the smoke creates tension and heightens the emotion.
The gallery’s second room contains the series “The Accidental Theorist.” Fourteen prints, mounted on aluminum and affixed to 3-inch thick wood substrate, jut out from the stark white walls. The beach photographs are 60-second exposures using only ambient light. The subjects vary: Beach umbrellas, a volleyball net, cabanas and in some, just the sand. Moonlight renders the landscapes delicate and artifical and the viewer wanders into a surreal world. Where the black horizon and the stark landscape meet, it is as if space and time are about to collapse into one.
The 30-something artist is a rarity amongst his contemporaries, most of whom are entrenched in the digital age. Employing a large format camera and no digital manipulation, Martins achieves remarkably surreal images that force the viewer to question how they are accomplished with traditional means. If you go see this exhibit (and you should), the eerily beautiful images will likely haunt your memory for days.

Review of "The Drowsy Chaperone" from NYC trip

The Broadway production of “The Drowsy Chaperone” is best analogized to cotton candy; the high-energy song and dance numbers, lavish sets and 20s costumes send the audience into an intense, smile-laden sugar high, but also like the fast-dissolving circus treat, the show, touted as “a musical within a comedy,” only titillates the taste buds for its 105 minute runtime and the songs are ultimately forgettable.

Currently showing at the New York Marriott Marquis Theatre, “The Drowsy Chaperone”, based on the book by Bob Martin and Don McKellar, is a play within a play narrated by a nameless character referred to simply as “Man in Chair” (a role typically filled by Mr. Martin himself, but played by swing actor Jay Douglas at the Jan. 2 performance). Man in Chair is the perfect postmodern creation — he makes abundant self-referential quips about theater and beats would-be detractors to the punch by criticizing the play’s flaws before they occur.

The narrative of the play within the play is an intentionally cookie-cutter plot akin to a Shakespearean comedy, replete with “mix-ups, mayhem” and of course a finale that involves several “gay weddings” (which Man in Chair clarifies “meant something different back then.”)
First-time director Casey Nicholaw does a fine job organizing the large ensemble cast and the audience is never left confused. Douglas plays Man in Chair with the appropriate amount of sarcasm and near perfect comic-timing that keeps the audience with him until the very end. But it is Sutton Foster, as bride-to-be Janet Van De Graaff, who is the obvious standout performer in the ensemble.

Foster’s rendition of “Show Off,” a song with a fairly formulaic tune and rather unremarkable lyrics, is surprisingly enjoyable; her impressive voice, immense stage presence and irresistible charisma elevate the otherwise bland song into an entertaining romp. While the audience is likely to forget exactly how the song goes, they’re sure to remember Foster’s performance, basking in the glow of camera flashes.

In the end, “The Drowsy Chaperone” is pure, unabashed escapism. And frankly, sometimes the sugary sweet simplicity and pleasure of cotton candy is the only thing that truly hits the spot.