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The problem is not that, at any given moment, there are limits.

The problem arises when, over time, those limits never change.

And as they trooped out, what they said to each other was some variation of: "I don't know what that thing was supposed to be, but it sure as hell wasn't a play."An off-night, I am told.

But even so, isn't this the Artistic Director's nightmare?

In other word, the problem of theatre isn't that audiences will only go so far; but that over time, and despite forty years of effort, they still seem unwilling to go anywhere except where they have gone before.

And this, rightly, is recognized by theatres and artists as a paralyzing condition which is bad for all concerned, especially theatres and artists, even if a preponderance of those theatres and artists are—at any given time—quite happy in the mainstream.

You do a risky play (and Eno's play is, inter alia, weird, unpleasant, irritating, aggressive, manipulative and like his Tragedy, a Tragedy, a theatre of absence and withholding rather than presentation and presence); you have a critic who understands and loves the play for what it is; and then your audience comes and hates it for the very thing it is.

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No museum of any size, no of any importance for heaven's sake, would mount a show without a catalog.

Which may be why any discussion of Problem of New Work so often takes the form of bafflement yielding to truculence: "So, is this how it is? For as long as the question is "How can anyone ever get an audience to accept and enjoy new and difficult work?

" the cycle of frustration is necessarily perpetuated—.

I'm old enough to remember when educated Americans could claim, in print and for attribution, that Modernism (by which they actually meant an undifferentiated grab-bag of styles from Picasso to Pollock) was a "fraud," something "a 6 year-old child could do better." Today nobody would dare make that claim.

Nobody, that is, who wasn't prepared to be dismissed as an ignoramus or cultural provocateur (with Tom Wolfe's [1975] leading that particular Pickett's Charge). Wander into any blockbuster modernist exhibit, and you will find little old gray-haired ladies going through the galleries, nattering on about "the flatness of the picture-plane." Once little old gray-haired ladies feel comfortable discussing the flatness of the picture plane, you can't write off Henri Matisse as no better than a 6 year-old.

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