Tom Lynch

The pig is out of the pen.

The Samba Hour of Collaboraction's Carnaval party brims in the lobby of the Congress Theater, open bar flowing, as live Brazilian guitar strums from the stairway. It's a benefit for the theater company's new production, "Guinea Pig Solo," a postwar veteran story of redemption and submission into the real world. Interpretive dancers cup candles and move on tables near the entrance, while a large screen atop the west wall projects images from the play--and from the party. Upstairs, free body painting. The VIP section offers a glance through a thin cloth-covered area where models and artists prepare for the night by having nontoxic paint temporarily tattooed on their torsos, faces and hands. Artistic Director Anthony Moseley is escorted down the sweeping steps by the evening's first body-painted artist, to significant cheers. He grabs a mic. "I want to thank you all for coming," he says, "and I welcome you to Carnaval!" The crowed erupts in appreciation. He thanks the night's sponsors, the giant number of participating artists, and the Congress. This is a night of celebration. This is Carnaval.

The party resumes as Congress opens up its theater for the party's spew; the rooms get more and more crowded. The palpable expectancy in the air seems planted by Collaboraction producers--they want you to be on your toes. Suddenly, it happens. An artist appears at the top of the steps, book-ended by two assistants, painted from the waist up, on stilts. She carefully descends the steps to exploding applause and howls. The DJ begins and dancing ensues. Some rush up and reach as high as they can to grab the hand of the stilted attraction, if only for a modest, five-second dance. The stilts hit the dancefloor and everyone gathers as she moves impressively, if not cautiously, to the beats.

Moseley appears again. He needs to M.C. the fashion show--the body-paint fashion show. The models strut down the lobby steps to boisterous music and welcoming ovation, each donning different colors and designs. One is in black and red. Another brushed with yellow. A male has painted his entire face and head and looks like a glossed skeleton.

The actual theater floor at the Congress has been cleared, a giant ring of tires form a stage, and people gather around it while others escape to the balcony for a better view. It's the demolition derby. Custom-built mini-mobiles, all lavish in bright color, pull into the circle, driven by the artists. Ready, set, smash. It looks like Tonka Trucks driven by giants.

(2005-02-22)

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(2005-01-18)

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