If you can sustain your interest in what you’re doing and what you are experiencing, you’re an extremely fortunate person. Life gets busy and demands become great, and you sort of get tired, and indifferent. And you kind of lose your capacity for astonishment — and that’s a great loss, because the world is a very astonishing place.
What I feel fortunate about is that I’m still astonished, that things still amaze me. And I think that’s the great benefit of being in the arts, where the possibility for learning and surprise never disappear, where you basically admit and savour that you never truly know it all. We seek out surprise as creators, curators, and audience members. This is what great art and vibrant performance can do well. Connect us to the astonishing. Connect us to ourselves. Give voice to that inner child of astonishment and surprise. Be present. Give a cattle prod zap reminder that shakes us out of the mundane. A kind of surprise that is not just wide eyed wonder, but also a physical earthquake or performance avalanche that shakes you to your core, struck sideways with the ice cold creative-water-jolt of the real and vibrant. A joyous staged piercing that questions and twists, leaving you without the language to define or predict the minutia of the structure. The state. The moment.
“Humans are incurably curious.”
But sometimes we need to be reminded.