a most divine evening.
our (newest) friends at the Chalk Repertory (doesn’t the word Rep make you think of Penelope Keith as a young Thing in some Restoration Comedy-esque in the outskirts of Manchester? Oh, just us then) were performing Oscar Wilde’s Lady Windermere’s Fan in the gardens at the Clark Library.
the play was delightful – pleasurable to the ear, pleasing to the eye and full of those Wildean Witticisms that make the lady behind one turn to her husband and repeat them (a tiny bit too) loudly.
No, we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
(Sits down at C table)
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the
stars? Upon my word, you are very romantic to-night,
Too romantic! You must be in love. Who is the girl?
The woman I love is not free, or thinks she isn’t.
(Glances instinctively at LORD WINDERMERE while he
Ah, what a fascinating Puritan you are, Lady Windermere!
The adjective was unnecessary, Lord Darlington.
I couldn’t help it. I can resist everything except
You have the modern affectation of weakness.
the Chalk Rep makes clever use of surprising spaces – like the Grecian statue infused anteroom for Lord Darlington’s personal chambers *shivers*. alas the Library itself was not used in the Performance (we were all outside on blankets and seats and wandering between sets from Act to Act which was delightful and felt very Modern, as william would say)
but we could peek behind the blinds (or use an earlier photograph from the last time we were at the Clark).
such a lovely evening.
only in Los Angeles could one have an evening approximating a drawing room comedy under the stars (In england one would need to carry a Macintosh Square).
Mr. Beebe had lost every one, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon had lost the game.
It was of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed downwards towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious. They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.
in the end it Always reminds us of Miss Bartlett and the naughty novelist Eleanor Lavish.
which makes life odd in L.A – but different, certainly.
are you having a divine (no pun intended – or perhaps we Did) Sunday?
what news from your part of the world?