Astute performances from future leaders: Volume of Our Voices puts humanity in the spotlight

On the wall behind my computer hangs a bulletin board that's layered with colorful flotsam and jetsam from the past few decades, including postcards from around the globe, a Scottish pound note, my Japanese I.D. card, a Zippy gem, photos of friends and sundry ticket stubs from concerts by The Who, The Stones, the Pretenders and Nada Surf.

In amongst this visual cacophony are buttons I've collected over the years, with slogans ranging from "ERA Yes" and "Iggy Pop Fan Club" to "Question Authority" and a cow thinking "No Nukes," along with a row of badges from SF AIDS Walks.

At the center of it all is a large, faded button that reads "Feminism Is Humanism."

Of everything tacked to my vertical scrapbook, this particular specimen holds the most meaning for me, perhaps because it's the first political anything I ever acquired, launching a lifetime of buttons, bumper stickers, activism and awareness.

I got it in 1978 when my dear friend Daphne and I went to our first N.O.W. rally, held on the Stanford campus across the street from our high school. I remember the intriguing phrase — "Feminism Is Humanism" — standing out from all the other buttons, T-shirts and signs, knowing that it captured my particular philosophy more accurately than anything else.

As readers here learned last year when I wrote about the Brattleboro Women's Film Festival, I'm not your average feminist. I'm the kind who thinks our collective might becomes far more abundant, effective and lasting when attained through more inclusive means, particularly when those means fit under the aegis of art.

Though it's often felt like swimming upstream, I still believe feminism is humanism and that we serve the greater good by welcoming everyone to the discussion, with no labels, monikers or categories that might risk dissuading potential supporters from becoming involved.

During this, the final weekend of Women's History Month, a group of diverse and multitalented students and faculty members at World Learning's SIT Graduate School in Brattleboro are sharing a stage in precisely that type of event.

On Friday and Saturday night, more than two dozen performers will express their views through song, movement and spoken word, in "Volume of Our Voices," an evening of creative expression on the topics of gender, identity and sexuality, benefiting the Women's Crisis Center in Brattleboro.

Original monologues, poems, dances, music and even martial arts will illustrate stories that are personal, if not intimate, yet universal in relevance to the larger human experience and the common societal messages that can misrepresent, misinform, isolate and stereotype different factions of society.

In speaking with a few of the students participating — all of whom are working toward master's degrees in SIT's renowned international education program — I was impressed by the breadth of their experiences and the unique challenges each will voice in their respective performances.

Jon Woods, an organization management candidate, will be exploring issues of race, belonging and disenfranchisement through poetry, song and the martial art known as Capoeira, a muscular type of competitive dance that originated in Angola and found larger cultural roots in Brazil centuries ago within the slave community.

Naming his piece, "If I Had Wings I Could Fly," after a line from the song "Regulate" by rappers Warren G. and Nate Dogg, Woods takes us on his journey from anguish to understanding with remarkable perspicuity and grace.

"The poem itself goes from despair, hopelessness and rage to being lost and then trying to find guidance as a black man," he explained. "It touches on the issue that in black culture there's a disconnection between parenthood and the next generation, a prevalence of no role models existing and having to look at historical references and not necessarily in your household, whether it's a book or music that you respond to."

Though Woods' personal and intellectual path has been paved by the work of legends such as Malcolm X, Martin Luther King and civil rights activist and scholar, W.E.B. Du Bois, he also absorbed profound life lessons much closer to home.

"I learned a lot from my father and his struggle in the corporate world," reflected Woods. "Being a black manager he had to deal with a lot of conflict, internal mainly, and the struggle to assimilate but also be himself."

"When I wrote my poem, I was having a really bad day," he confided. "I'm the only black man at SIT and that's fine because I'm used to white schools but sometimes I just want to talk to someone I can connect with on that.

"The way that Capoeira is incorporated is a release of energy; if you're angry sometimes the tension just needs to be released. It's a martial art that's powerful but you play it against yourself."

For Cole Kovac, who is working toward a master of art in teaching, an equally formidable frustration with society emerges in his monologue titled, "Pushing Boundaries: One Man's Reality," which challenges the widely accepted pejorative term that often pigeonholes people like him as having a "gender identity disorder."

As a person born female but who identifies male, Kovac investigates his own perspective from several compelling angles.

"The first part of the monologue is about the medical world's view of transgendered people," he explains. "The second half is about my story and feelings and struggles and why I'm on stage."

When I asked him about this latter question, he replied, "At this point I'm the only transgendered person on campus and I felt like my voice needed to be heard, especially since the performance isn't geared only towards women. And SIT is a very supportive community — it's a good place to be."

Conflict transformation major Rachel Unkovic possesses a similar wealth of wisdom, particularly having learned in her studies that peace-building is more productive than conflict management or resolution.

"It's the idea that conflict never goes away and that it can open the door to dialogue and new ideas," she asserted. "It can be changed from violence into something more productive."

In "Magic Mirror," which includes inventive vignettes such as "Sleeping Beau," Unkovic and classmates Scarlett Shaffer and Victoria Der use shadow puppets to retell classic fairy tales. "We explore old stories that we're all told growing up and the impact those messages have on kids. We're looking at the idea of gender roles and roles that you're forced to take."

That the show is a benefit for one of the region's most crucial social service organizations — providing shelter along with emotional, legal and crisis support for survivors of abuse — is all the more reason to come out and support these visionary young people who are working hard to create a future that is informed by expansive, global perspectives and a reverence for the power of the human spirit.

The Women's Crisis Center views these issues through a similarly humanistic lens, as evidenced in their thanks to SIT for donating proceeds from the show to their cause: "It takes a dynamic, unified force to address the war waged on the bodies of women and children every day in this community and all over the world. Women still live with the daily reality of physical and sexual violence, still live with the systems which protect them imperfectly, at best, and sometimes not at all. We both honor and rely on our allies in ending men's violence against women and children."

The unified force behind "Volume of Our Voices" exemplifies this inclusive approach to solving the global scourge of discrimination, disrespect and brutality. As Woods' commanding poem implores, "Let your voice be heard, preach the word, because no matter your gender or race, the struggle always continues."

Or, as Kovac puts it, with equal sagacity, "Our identities are always evolving."

Postcard from California: Absence makes the art more cherished

As I write, I'm sitting in the café of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art amid a sea of mod wood tables surrounded by a bold exhibit of large-format, close-up photos depicting brightly colored plates of plastic bits and pieces, monochromatic meals comprised of saturated, bright blue, orange or green combs, curlers, gears, spoons and other small objects. When I brought my kids here a few days ago, my daughter said it was "weird art" and that she liked it.

I remember her saying the exact same thing while gazing up at Andy Warhol's huge, high-contrast, vividly hued portraits at the Brattleboro Museum and Art Center's exhibit four years ago. Likewise, her brother thought Spheris Gallery's show of Donald Saaf and Julia Zanes' fanciful paintings in Bellows Falls a while back was "totally cool" and he's made the same assessment in front of a few über-hip west coast walls throughout this vacation.

This morning, when we stopped in at a high-end gallery up the street — one of San Francisco's top purveyors of contemporary art where years ago I was co-director — they said the paintings, which were all minimalist squares of glossy enamel, were boring and that they liked Vermont art more. I have to admit, I agree, though I'm surprised by my somewhat blasé reaction to the breadth of wild art here because usually when I come out I'm a hopeless culture vulture.

Here in this crowded, costly cultural oasis, where we've seen a number of off-the-grid exhibits during a fun and fulfilling visit to the Bay Area from where we moved to Vermont seven years ago, I've actually found the art scene more irksome than iconic. I thought I'd be a veritable sponge, soaking up every ounce of S.F.'s world-class art exhibits, illustrious literary heritage and renowned music scene but in the three years since our last visit, something in me has changed. To put it simply, it's because of this column.

When I first approached Randal Smathers, the Rutland Herald's fearless editor, with the idea of writing a regular spotlight on Southern Vermont arts and culture, part of me was unsure as to whether there really was enough going on to merit a weekly column. Oh, me of little faith, my worries couldn't have been more unfounded, for there is so very much happening in the lower Green Mountains that I quickly learned it was far more a question of what not to write about than finding something good to cover.

In the nearly two years since the Sover Scene was born, I've become well-versed in the oodles of galleries, museums, literary centers, music venues, playhouses, move theaters, dance events, book stores, CD shops and sundry cultural festivals, forums, summits and sanctuaries that thrive in the region.

I remember that, prior to our big move out east, some of my friends and associates here were worried that I'd be culturally isolated with not enough intellectual stimulation to feed my thirsty, artsy soul. Heck, I wondered too, fretting that perhaps all the fascinating online arts organizations that had inspired me to explore Vermont as a potential home would prove to be little more than empty ethereal promises of a culturally rich existence.

Yet within, oh, all of 20 hours after rolling into Vermont, those fears were duly allayed, for on our first drive around Bellows Falls we ended up in a gallery on Canal Street watching a Nigerian dancer perform to live traditional drumming. I recall looking down at my kids' upturned faces, their mouths and eyes open wide at the beautiful, bead-festooned man shaping the air with elegant arms and pounding the floor with strong, sinewy legs to a pulsing djembe accompaniment. I remember thinking, "They aren't going to miss out on anything."

That was just the beginning of my edification on the diverse creative happenings that take place in Vermont on a regular basis, from international film festivals and pivotal fine art retrospectives to premier performances starring eminent actors and informative lectures by distinguished political experts.

During this trip out west, I've not only been reminded that Vermonters are in no way deprived of top-notch creative and intellectual resources, but have also come to appreciate one crucial element of the cultural experience that makes every exhibit and performance far more powerful and pleasant: access.

Take my trip here, to one of the most popular destinations for Bay Area art lovers, for example. Though I drove only a few miles from where I'm staying at a friend's house near Golden Gate Park, it took me 40 minutes to get here and 20 minutes to find parking, which, like the museum entrance fee itself, cost $12. So with an hour of gasoline and another 20 minutes looking for parking at the other end, just getting to the museum door and back is a two-hour, $30-plus venture. Then there's the $2.50 cups of coffee here in the café, but don't get me started.

Though the exhibits themselves are exquisitely curated and displayed, the epic black marble lobby seems more like a cavernous corporate atrium than a museum and I was not surprised when, upon entering, my son asked, "Where's the art?" Good question. After scaling three flights of a dramatic central staircase that's floodlit by a massive round skylight, we finally found the art, but, having been spoiled by the less ostentatious yet equally high-caliber venues back home, such as the Southern Vermont Arts Center, the Bennington Museum and BMAC, the trek seemed absurd.

The show we finally found was interesting, however, and the kids liked it. "America By Car," an expansive series of Lee Friedlander's black-and-white photographs, documents a trip throughout the United States with multi-faceted images that use car mirrors and windows to reframe various corners of the country in inventive, thought-provoking ways.

Afterward, we headed over to the Exploratorium, a hands-on science and discovery museum replete with inventors' lab and "Tactile Dome," but, again, the congested streets, parking hassle and steep entrance fee sure took the sheen off the experience for me and, once inside, I noticed that the kids seemed far less engaged than when we go Norwich's Montshire Museum. With its enlightening, interactive exhibits on nature, astronomy, science and the environment and a great educational program, not to mention the outdoor water sculpture garden, hiking trails and groovy fog machine (which, admittedly, would be redundant in S.F.), the Montshire is everything a parent could want for their kids and easy access to boot.

We're headed back to Vermont tomorrow and — though it's been a great trip with lots of family visits, fun with old friends, running on beaches and panning for gold in the foothills, not to mention a terrific jaunt southward to Disneyland — we're all looking forward to coming home.

Thanks to their culture-vulture mom, the kids have seen some great art and have been wonderful gallery-goers throughout, but their quota is definitely full. Yesterday, I wanted to show them around the Stanford campus and after parking the car near a grove of trees, I mentioned the wonderful nearby museum. Almost simultaneously, they both wailed, "No more museums, Mom!" before bolting from the car to run, climb and swing from the trees.

They're homesick for Vermont and, as of a few minutes ago, after discovering two photos I'd initially overlooked up in the Friedlander exhibit, I am too. One depicts a corner in Bellows Falls, the other a porch in Putney and the sigh I let out upon seeing both confirms what I've suspected through this entire trip. I left my heart in Southern Vermont.

Independent radio cultivates community

Today's column is dedicated to the memory of
Bill "The Human" Sheridan  
July 24, 1957 - August 19, 2007

Thomas Carlyle said, "The Hero can be Poet, Prophet, King, Priest or what you will, according to the kind of world he finds himself born into." To this illustrious list I would add "DJ" and Charles David Herrold was one of them.

Having been raised by a farmer — whose use of the term "broadcasting" (as in seeds) seemed an ideal way to describe the transmission of audio entertainment to the masses in 1909 — Herrold is credited with being the first person to propagate regular musical broadcasts on the airwaves. For that reason alone, he's a full-fledged hero in my book, as are the visionaries before him — Edison, Tesla, Marconi, etc. — whose inventions allowed Herrold to become an avid Victrola-wielding disc jockey.

Another hero of mine was one of independent radio's most staunch supporters who, in his words, "always felt that the radio provided an intimacy that one simply doesn't get from television" and whose dulcet tones as a delightfully engaging DJ anointed the airwaves for far too short a time: Bill Sheridan, lifelong champion of radio, astute social commentator and a dear friend who recently and very unexpectedly passed away.

Bill personified the philosophy upon which so many independent radio stations seem to be founded. He was sagacious, inquisitive, informative and forward-thinking, with a sharp wit, an understated savvy and a respectful, gentle delivery — not to mention a steadfast love for music that was informed by both a veneration of vintage sounds and a zeal for trailblazing genres.

Bill's passion for soaking up and disseminating pivotal information began at a young age, and radio played a central role. In a letter he wrote just a few months ago, he expounded on his formative years as a radio fan.

"My boyhood home in Hollywood was just a few blocks away from the KHJ broadcast studios on Melrose Avenue. If you had been standing outside the studio on a Wednesday afternoon at about 3:10 p.m. on a school day in 1966 or 1967, you most likely would have seen little Billy Sheridan pull up and hop off his Schwinn stingray bicycle long enough to run in and grab a copy of the Top 30 at the receptionist's counter. Then I would peddle home and spend the afternoon memorizing the list."

Years later Bill became a DJ at a small station on Catalina Island, spinning gems by R&B gods like James Brown, Otis Redding, Van Morrison and Stevie Wonder, with new-wave faves such as Tom Tom Club and The Motels thrown in. I was tickled to hear him say on the air one night, "This one's for our good friend Annie in Vermont, who listens online."

Bill's unwavering commitment to exposing his listeners to high-caliber tunes and informative dispatches that encouraged civic participation was representative of everything I cherish about small, community radio and here in Southern Vermont we're lucky enough to have a handful of top-notch, hands-on stations that similarly enrich our lives both musically and socially, every day.

Brattleboro's WTSA, owned by Bill Corbeil, is one of a very few privately run stations in the state and it offers that same refreshing brand of self-governing, community-minded broadcasting. Corbeil's professional philosophy is grounded in innovation and involvement, with neighborhood pride and experiential roots that go plenty deep.

"I was born and raised in Brattleboro," he said during a recent conversation, "and after high school I interned at WTSA and got the radio bug. Then after college I worked at WIZN for 10 years and when I returned down here, WTSA became available for purchase."

Armed with new programming ideas — including adult contemporary music as well as local and national news, sports and weather — along with a fervent focus on giving back to his hometown, he bought WTSA 96.7 FM and 1450 AM, and began putting his own enthusiastic imprint on the station.

"We have a full-time news team because we really saw a need for community reporting," Corbeil said. "Nine times out of 10, we're breaking stories before the newspapers can, so we have a huge commitment to local news. Not many stations that aren't all news talk have local coverage."

WTSA also provides an unbiased forum wherein elected officials can discuss pertinent political topics. "Bernie Sanders, Leahy, the governor, they all have a direct line to our studios and they use it because they know we're the voice of Windham County."

On the entertainment side, WTSA plays a broad range of rock, from Barenaked Ladies, Keane and No Doubt to Prince, The Police and Smash Mouth, according to the tastes of each particular DJ.

"We choose our own music," asserted Corbeil. "There's no corporation that comes in here and dictates the playlist as you'll find in the Clear Channels or Sagas of the world. It's a dream for me. I've worked for Clear Channel and some of the larger groups and have had the benefit of seeing the pros and cons of both."

While music and local news are core programming for WTSA, Corbeil is just as dedicated to investing in the betterment of his community through various charitable and incentive programs. To that end, WTSA sponsors Project Feed the Thousands as well as a Student of the Month, a Community Person of the Month and a bulletin board that lists events benefiting the community on every front from blood drives and youth programs to computer classes and art walks.

"In independent radio you can be so much more flexible," he attests. "If there's a local charity event, everything is at my discretion and that really benefits the community. There's a real neat local weave of this basket here. We all see each other at Little League games and in the grocery store and we have personal relationships with listeners."

Those connective threads will soon be weaving WTSA with a bit of its own past, as the station is poised to be moving from its current Western Avenue site back to Putney Road where it was originally located. Corbeil is thrilled about the new digs.

"We're building a whole new facility next to the Marina Restaurant," he enthused, "with a beautiful view of the Marina which has become such a hub of activity. Engineers are installing all new technology equipment this week and we're increasing our work space to four studios."

Corbeil said they'll start broadcasting from the new location next month and are planning a grand opening in the spring.

"Our programming will maintain the adult contemporary musical format and we'll also be enhancing news and sports coverage on AM."

Clearly, even amidst the station's expansion, Corbeil is maintaining his original vision for WTSA, including his own multitasking role.

"It's a small market station," he reflected, "so we all wear many hats. I'm a DJ, too."

My old pal Bill would heartily applaud WTSA for continuing to cultivate an independent radio station that plays great music, encourages civic participation and which provides a regular forum for local politicians — particularly Bernie Sanders, who was one of his heroes.

And Bill Sheridan was one of mine.

Note: No Sover next week as I'll be on the left coast for a three-day, R&B-filled memorial celebration of his life.

Online: www.wtsa.net

Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

Ghostly household hijinks: Ethereal happenings abound in haunted Vermont

For the sake of full disclosure, I'd better get this on the table right up front: I'm a believer — in ghosts, that is. Not that I've ever seen any, you understand. Rather, I implicitly trust the good sense and rational recall of friends and relatives who say they've had up close and personal encounters of the weird kind.

With family rooted entirely in the UK — a place some would say has a corner on the market of all things blood-curdling — my childhood was generously peppered with chilling tales of one sort or another.

The first I ever heard came from my Dad, who grew up around the corner from Borley Rectory, considered by many to be England's most haunted location, with phantom nuns, horse-carriages and ill-fated lovers having been seen on the estate for more than a century. Though my Dad was only sure he'd heard the sounds of hooves when riding past on his bicycle, most of his schoolmates had sworn they'd witnessed all of its oddities.

While England is seemingly crawling with apparitions, its namesake is as well, for this area is steeped in oft-documented yet inexplicable mysteries. As someone who has never witnessed paranormal activity and who finds the notion both appealing and horrifying, it always astounds me that even those who have experienced it many times over can be remarkably matter of fact about it.

Friends who live in a nearby 220-year-old farmhouse are a case in point. They often awoke to find a man sitting motionless at the end of the bed, who then evaporates while turning towards them. Once they heard sounds of pots and pans crashing in the kitchen as if someone were preparing a 10-course meal, but, upon investigation, every wok and stockpot was still in its place and no one was there. And a door in the guest room has been known to open and close of its own accord.

Though they seem wholly unflustered by these creepy events, I'm fairly certain I'd be running to the nearest Realtor declaring it's time to sell and find a shiny new condo in a high-rise somewhere.

This flagrant cowardice is what kept me from heading over to Manchester's pre-eminently elegant—and allegedly haunted — resort hotel, the Equinox, to interview General Manager Courtney Lowe in person, as any self-respecting writer would. I'd heard about various preternatural incidents that have taken place at the Equinox since its founding in 1769 and, well, uh, my schedule was a little tight, so I ended up having to talk to him by phone, drat it.

According to Lowe, the hotel's housekeepers, in particular, are made aware of a presence that seems to enjoy interfering with their work in mischievous ways.

"There's a suite with floor-to-ceiling curtains which get tied up in a knot," he explained. "The housekeepers will untie them, go out of room and come back a few minutes later to find them tied again."

Lowe attests that there's a long list of peculiar goings-on, including vacuum cleaners turning on by themselves as well as ephemeral characters seen by guests. "Years ago, a corporate meeting planner looked out on the landing outside his door when he heard a noise and saw a ghostly looking figure standing there."

According to Lowe, because the hotel has been in existence for so long there are decades of testimony by employees and guests who couldn't have known each other, but whose observations have been identical, including accounts of otherworldly children running up and down one particular hallway.

I've also read about beds that have just been made up will be discovered moments later having been stripped of their linens and that a long-locked, uninhabited room has sometimes been found to have a tower of furnishings and other objects piled up in the center of the floor.

One of the most eloquent and encyclopedic resources for such compelling nuggets from this region's rich history of hauntings is Vermont native, Joe Citro, author of seven books on the countless intriguing, if not patently sepulchral, occurrences that have been taking place in New England for centuries.

Each of his publications — including "Ghosts, Ghouls and Unsolved Mysteries," "Passing Strange: True Tales of New England Hauntings and Horrors" and "Green Mountains, Dark Tales" — offer a comprehensive selection of informative narratives documenting everything from big-band music emanating from a nonexistent Victrola to smells of cooking wafting through an old office building whose kitchen had long since been removed.

My favorite Citro collection is "The Vermont Ghost Guide," 100 pages of local legends in a handy pocket-sized format and perfect for keeping in one's glove box — if one has the courage to actually stop at the sites of his mesmerizing tales, that is. Citro's unofficial designation as the state's resident oddity historian is well-earned, for he has been recording and recounting these compelling reports for two decades and it all started with an eerie story told by his dad.

"My father was likely to tell stories about local events," Citro said. "And my earliest experience was when he told me about the Bowman House in Cuttingsville."

The Bowman House is said to be haunted by Mrs. Bowman, whose untimely death followed the demise of both her children. Mr. Bowman's profound sorrow is manifest today in the form of a massive mausoleum he built across from the family home, replete with a life-size statue of himself grieving, hat and wreath in hand.

"That's the first story that captured my attention," Citro said. "My father knew a lot of local lore and then I would get the real scoop."

The Vermont Guide has enough real scoops to keep readers busy for many a Hallows' Eve, with descriptions that are frightening and fascinating, and alter our view of many a landmark.

Tranquil Windsor, for instance, is the site of one of the most astounding phenomena I've ever come across. In 1955, a family was forced to move out of its home when water began mysteriously filling cupboards, closets and chairs throughout the house. It even rained inside at one point and a bowl of grapes filled up with water while being carried from one room to the next. Professionals in every field were consulted, from plumbers to parapsychologists, but the puzzle was never solved and within a month it was over. The family's name? Waterman.

The stories are riveting and diverse: In Bellows Falls, the spirits of native Abenakis are said to roam along the riverbanks on which a paper mill now sits, with legs submerged in the floorboards; phantom canoes have been seen floating across the water at Sumner's Falls in Hartland; Shaftsbury Cemetery is graced by the specter of one Gardner Barton who lingers near the family tombstones; and at Wilmington's White House Inn, the ghost of Clara Brown, wife of the inn's builder, is said to speak to guests who share her name. These are but a few examples of hundreds of unearthly happenings that color Vermont's cultural history.

Along with a Citro-guided terrifying tour of Vermont, you can take in a bit of spine-chilling outdoor theater written by the author himself as well. The Haunted Forest takes place on the grounds of the Catamount Family Center in Wilmington this Friday and Saturday and, from the sounds of it, your ghoulish goblet will runneth over.

As for my own fear of foreboding, I joked with my beau that maybe we ought to actually stay at the Equinox sometime so I can do some serious journalistic research along the lines of popular TV shows like "Most Haunted" or "Ghost Hunters," wherein authorities and amateurs alike prowl around bedecked with infrared cameras, motion sensors and electromagnetic field detectors. Since the Equinox is so beautiful and its ethereal events more curious than creepy, gosh, I might just do it. Next year.

Online: www.thehauntedforest.org

www9.addr.com/~jacitro

www.equinoxresort.com

Annie:  annieguyoncommunications.com

Frailty of the human condition in one act: Oldcastle Theatre takes on the nature of memory

The most satiating theatrical experiences are those that take up residence in one's psyche for days after a performance, whether the aftertaste is joy, melancholy or simply an intriguingly fresh perspective on an old theme.

Take this week, for instance. Last Saturday, I attended the Royal Shakespeare Company's production of "The Seagull," one of Chekhov's four major plays, at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. Days later, I'm still immersed in deep thought about the story, with its ensemble of troubled characters woven together by taut threads of torment, resentment, jealousy and unrequited love.

Its grip was reinforced by the scenes Chekhov had us witness and all they imply about what must have gone before them in the evolution of the tale. Nearly every script's narrative arc has as its foundation the characters' collective history, or back story, which gradually becomes evident as the play unfolds. Our assessment of each individual on the stage shifts and expands as each line is delivered until we've pieced together a picture of the past, which renders the present plausible and ripe.

So when I spoke with Eric Peterson, director at the Oldcastle Theatre in Bennington, about its production of Lee Blessing's "A Body of Water," which begins tomorrow night, I was a little taken aback.

"There is no 'Ah-ha!' moment when everything falls in to line," he said of Blessing's one-act, five-scene psychological drama. "There are more questions than answers and I always love plays like that."

Running through Oct. 7, "A Body of Water" is bound to ensnare our thoughts because it is — by its very premise — completely void of back story and yet brimming with possible scenarios via our own inexorable speculation and Blessing's clean, almost poetic dialogue.

A man, Moss, and woman, Avis, wake up in an unfamiliar mountain home surrounded by water. They know the identity of neither themselves nor the other. At first, their bewilderment engenders a modicum of levity as they try to ascertain the nature of their relationship and location.

"The first scene is farcical," Peterson explains. "It starts out like a comedy but then becomes a psychological mystery."

This darkening arrives in the form of a young woman named Wren, who supplies them with an explanation of their circumstances that is wrenching and ominous. Their only contact with the outside world, she eventually proffers two entirely different versions of who they are and why there are there, her own ostensible role in their lives also shifting and infusing the dynamic with further anguish and confusion. She is at once caretaker and tormenter, and it's possible that she is also their daughter, but, then again, perhaps not.

"A Body of Water" is a disquieting, thought-provoking meditation on the profound might of memory and the staggeringly crucial role it plays in our sense of self and our cognizance of reality. As Moss and Avis are yanked from one emotional chessboard to another, even down to the careers they may or may not have had, a sinister veil of existential panic settles like a disorienting dust over the proceedings.

The excruciatingly tenuous explanations that Wren offers them serves to dangle their own capacity to trust where it is perpetually out of reach, recalibrating the magnitude of human fragility and reminding us of our own vulnerability in any relationship. The cruelty Wren wields as she continues to force Moss and Avis to revise their views of themselves and each other several times over makes their plight that much more discomfiting and untenable.

Though they are obviously intelligent, educated people, Moss and Avis' inherent affability juxtaposed against Wren's obtuse malice renders the equation dangerously imbalanced. Avis' candor in trying to describe the situation — saying that her memory "went jogging and never came back" — only underscores the disparity of psychological wherewithal between the couple and their keeper.

One can't help but consider the terror of neurological disorders like amnesia or Alzheimer's anew when encountering the scenario that Blessing constructs. "A Body of Water" quickly dispenses with any misguided notion that ignorance is bliss, for it is not the lack of information that's frightening, but the idea that any one person could have the authority to assign identity and meaning to another.

That one's total sense of security could hinge on another human being's potential ethics, stability and foibles is a sobering concept and these weighty notions comprise one of the many layers in the psychological strata of Blessing's work.

The distorted scrim through which Moss and Avis attempt to piece together their place in the world brings to mind a 1962 surrealist film called "Exterminating Angel" by Spanish director Luis Buñuel in which the collective reason and rationality of a group of people slowly crumbles under the weight of perceived abandonment.

Guests at a dinner party are rendered helpless when the servants depart and, believing they've been trapped in the room, core fears and impulses take over. Their grasp on reality slowly evaporates, driving some to survivalist measures, others to violence and even suicide.

While the path from lightness to darkness in "A Body of Water" has a dash of Eugene Ionesco meets David Lynch to it, the unconventional plotline, with its intrinsic absence of character development, also recalls Samuel Beckett's rejection of traditional theatrical canons and his signature distillation of human traits and emotions.

We encounter a middle-aged couple and — because of the socio-cultural decoding expertise with which most of us assume we've been duly inculcated — our impulse is to presume basic truths about these people based on their demeanor, their eloquence and their appearance. With the methodical pacing and steady meting out of further clues, we are forced to discard the template against which we typically measure our experience of people because here it has been dismantled wholesale.

Sartre's "No Exit" comes to mind as well, with its confinement of three people in a room for the duration of the play and the declaration that "l'enfer, c'est les autres" or "the underworld [Hell], it is the others." They excavate and examine one another's faults, fears and transgressions, but ultimately their own thoughts are what truly hold them captive.

Blessing's choice to denude Moss and Avis of any personal history or identity and to go through the discovery process together seems to have, at its most elemental source, at least some avowal of French philosopher Jacques Derrida's convictions about the self and the other.

According to Derrida, the concept of the self is interdependent with the concept of the other. He believed that the metaphysical works of numerous philosophers before him validated his theory that these concepts are implicitly defined by opposition and cannot be articulated separately.

Peterson echoes the theme. "It's about identity," he affirms. "If I don't know who you are, can I know who I am?"

As to whether "A Body of Water" will linger like Chekhov in the minds of its audiences, with the Oldcastle Theatre's all-Equity company taking on a consummate writer like Blessing — who is renowned for compelling works such as "Chesapeake" and "A Walk In the Woods" — I think it's a given, and so does Peterson.

"The thing I like about this play is that people will be talking about it for days," he attests. "They'll disagree and nobody will be wrong."

Online: oldcastletheatreco.org

The creative courage of hospice: When art, aging and death make beautiful music together

Who knew Vermont had its own private army? It's not your average force but it's a mighty one, which summons a brand of fearlessness most of us assume we do not possess, conquering terrain the typical citizen dare not tread upon and looking death calmly in the face on a regular basis. It's called hospice, a brave brigade of folks who take time out of their lives to help make the experience of dying a peaceful, private and enriching process for patients, caregivers and loved ones.

And, like so many aspects of Vermont culture, hospice isn't one-dimensional, for its participants wear many hats, often integrating personal talents and passions into the remarkably generous, soulful work they do with families experiencing an imminent loss.

Filmmaker Camilla Rockwell, who is based in Burlington, is one of these intrepid artists, a visionary woman who has not only surmounted the trepidation so many of us have around the issue of death by becoming a hospice volunteer but who has also utilized her creative acumen to illuminate and celebrate what is a universal and ever-timely topic.

A 14-year veteran at Florentine Films, the production company of documentary guru Ken Burns, Rockwell set out on her own 10 years ago and her latest film, "Holding Our Own: Embracing The End of Life," looks at aging and dying through a bold yet compassionate lens, with a focus on how art can enhance the journey.

The film explores the remarkably reverent, meticulous portraits of the dying that renowned local fiber artist Deidre Scherer creates and the positively divine intonations of Hallowell, a Windham County choral group that devotes most of its musical artistry to hospice, following both artist and singers from bedside to bereavement.

A week from today, on Thursday, April 5, there will be a screening and discussion of the film at 8 p.m. at the Latchis Theater in Brattleboro, benefiting Brattleboro Hospice Services and featuring a live performance by Hallowell, which is itself an entirely transformative experience you don't want to miss.

When I asked Rockwell how she came to make a film about hospice work, she said "I just wanted to face aging and dying and all my anxieties around it, so I decided that, rather than running away from it, I'd just dive in and focus on it."

So she embarked on a hospice volunteer training program and, after learning of Scherer and Hallowell and how they augment the dying process with their visual and aural artistry, decided to make a documentary about this unusual fusion of life's most profound experience with creative expression.

"Just being able to work with Deidre and Hallowell made me feel more committed," Rockwell said. "I was thrilled about how they bring art and music into hospice services."

Scherer, a consummate craftswoman whose work deftly straddles the line between fine art and fabric mastery, is to sewing what Chuck Close is to painting. Her vibrant, exquisitely complex figures have been shown in fine art, science and craft museums around the world and, without question, merit scholarly appreciation from each discipline.

As the depth and detail of her work suggests, Scherer's path to the elderly took shape early on.

"I remember as a kid looking with wonder at my great-grandfather, who was in his 90s", she said. "Later, it became evident in my art that there was a pull there and I wanted to be open to my biases and fears, as well as a celebration, of aging."

Add to that influence the fact that her father - who is now 92 - was a diorama painter for New York's American Museum of Natural History and it's obvious that Scherer's very DNA is coded with artistic prowess, making this merging of skill and sentiment a perfect amalgam.

Already deeply honored by the invitation to sketch her often frail models, having Rockwell document this close relationship with her subjects has great meaning for Scherer, as does the overall collaborative process of working with fellow artists like Hallowell.

"It's about taking two art forms and using them for a similar purpose, to witness and be present during this amazing transition" she affirms, adding "I listen with my pencil."

The musical element spoke to Rockwell as well, so much so that she's now a member of one of the many sister hospice choirs that exist in Vermont, devoting her voice to making death more tranquil and positive.

Rockwell also had a personal impetus in becoming a part of hospice and sees it as a family philosophy. "When my father died, hospice came in and it made it much easier", she said. "My sister was also a hospice nurse and now my mother, who's 82, is a hospice volunteer."

Susan Parris, executive director of Brattleboro Hospice Services for the past 11 years, also came to hospice work through personal experience.

"It made a huge difference for my family," she attests. "I'd always had a huge curiosity about death and, after going on that journey with my father, I signed up for the volunteer training."

Brattleboro Hospice Services serves approximately 80 families a year with hospice care and more than 700 individuals with counseling. Founded in 1979, it offers everything from companionship to the dying and respite for loved ones, to loans of hospital beds and transportation to appointments.

The volunteer training at Brattleboro Hospice Services is, according to Parris, the most comprehensive in the country and presents various options to volunteers, including walking patients' dogs, cooking meals, emotional support for loved ones and end-of-life vigils.

Having been a beneficiary of hospice services when my mother passed way, I've experienced the tremendous strength and encouragement these folks bring to the families they serve.

I recall one very difficult night when I called the hospice at 3 a.m., out of concern for my mother's comfort. The on-call volunteer appeared 20 minutes later, bleary eyed but perceptibly sensitive to what we were enduring.

After increasing Mum's pain medication, she stood with her arms around us and said quietly "What you're doing for your mother - allowing her to be here, in her own living room, surrounded by her family - is the greatest gift you can give her … and you're doing a wonderful job."

It was exactly what we needed: Someone who'd done this before to basically pat us on the head and assure us that we were doing right by our mother.

I'd never experienced that potency of unconditional support and tenderness before. The only thing possibly missing from that life-changing experience was the caring creativity of someone like Scherer or the emotive tones of hospice singers such as Hallowell.

Kathy Leo, Hallowell's artistic director, describes the meaning of their work. "For us, it is a great honor to be invited into the intimate space of one's passing, of a family's well of grief and to be able to sing songs of healing and grace into this space."

Hallowell's richly layered original compositions, American shape-note songs, international harmonies and traditional hymns create a soothing environment for families, often instigating a release of emotion that may otherwise remain bottled up.

One of Hallowell's original songs, named after the choir, poignantly articulates the message they seek to impart:

I thought when someone died,
the spirit flew over furthest field.
Now I see death will leave behind
a scrap of light, a broken smile,
the remnants by which
I might be healed.

Rockwell captures her motivation with equal eloquence. "Our culture does not talk about death well and that is what this film is all about."