Optimism and Pessimism: Cynthia Hopkins Returns to the Stage as an Alien Mother

Abstract

July 7, 2007. A hot evening in Brooklyn, N.Y. The residential streets pulse with salsa music. A line of people who seem unfamiliar to this area of east Bushwick march from the L-train subway stop towards the Starr Street Space to watch Catch 24, a performance series that features experimental works-in-progress. Inside, the raw, open Space has a cement floor, with a small kitchen area where volunteers sell beer and homemade popcorn in paper bags. Chairs are arranged in three rows on simple risers and on the floor, facing a bare space. According to the program, curated by Andrew Dinwiddie and Jeff Larson, Cynthia Hopkins will perform first.

She begins in the upstage left corner from underneath an old wooden wheelchair, holding a long rope. She wears a pig nose prosthetic, a curly black, cropped wig, a beige 1970’s pantsuit and white scarf (that make her look somewhat like a pilot), and ladylike boots. Her body is propped up on a board above the small-sized wheels so that with her back flat and her legs extended, she can pull the rope with her arms and glide on a diagonal trajectory, towards the audience. She pulls herself headfirst, while singing a song about love and loss. Her sweet voice hangs in the humid air.