THE DIVINE MS. MONK

MEREDITH MONK

Who dips into heavy culture on Monday night? That’s supposed to be “recovery night,” the time to put on the heavy socks, p.j.’s and veg out in front of television. 

But this Monday night was different. Meredith Monk was performing on the University of Rochester campus. It was the rare opportunity to see a legend in action, a woman who has been awarded nearly every accolade possible in the sphere of arts and culture. President Barack Obama presented her with the 2015 National Medal of Arts. 

It’s hard to describe Meredith Monk, even more difficult to describe what she does. First, the physical facts. The woman is 77 years old! She probably isn’t much more than 5 ft. tall and maybe she weighs a bit more than 100 pounds. For last night’s performance, her long brown hair was parted in the middle and plaited into two long braids that hung over her chest nearly to her waist. She looks like a young girl from the cast of some midwestern movie, one filmed in black and white and set in the hard-knock, no-nonsense days of “Little House on the Prairie.” 

She and her stage sisters were dressed totally in white, the kind of clothes with asymmetrical hemlines, off kilter buttons and wide legged trousers, the kind of clothes that looks vaguely homemade but you know comes from small expensive boutiques selling “pieces” with designer labels. And they wore black boots. 

Ms. Monk is a pioneer in what is now labeled “extended vocal technique” and “interdisciplinary performance.” She and the ensemble “sing” — no words but a series of tics and what sounds a little like vocal exercises. (In one piece, they vocalize kitten meowing sounds.) The singers often harmonize; clearly each one is musically talented. A piano is on stage and one of the ensemble goes to the bench and tinkles ethereal fingerings once or twice but mostly the singing is a cappella.  (The hour long piece they performed is titled “Cellular Songs.”)

As they sing, the company of women move around the stage in a minuet, weaving in and and away from one another, sometimes stamping the floor with booted feet to mark a tempo. One member does a stunning dance solo, lying balanced across a stool.

As we left the theater, I was asked “Well? Did you like it?”

It was a question I could not answer. I don’t think “like” has much to do with great art.

In that auditorium, for an hour, nobody breathed. There were no sounds from the audience — no rustling, crackling candy wrappers, scrapping seats, coughing. All eyes were on that stage. Those women held the attention of that audience as completely as if they were conjurers and had cast spells on every observer. We didn’t know what we were hearing or seeing but we knew it was extraordinary and we were grateful to be among the lucky observers.