Saturday,
two weeks ago, I found myself in Albany, to see, for the last time, the minor
league hockey team I grew up with. After 24 years they finally folded, taking
with them one of the predominant pastimes of my child and adult life. It was an
emotional day, full of vivid memories and odd outbursts of emotion.
I
was there with a friend, and as we walked downtown, she noted the odd shape of
The Egg, which I explained was a performing arts center. I looked at it, got
lost for a moment, then told her that when I was in high school, my best friend
saw Spalding Gray perform a monologue there. At the time, I had no idea who
Spalding Gray was, and thus, I had skipped the show.
Gray’s
art is difficult to define or describe: it’s a blend of public speaking and
performance art, “Autobiographical Monologues” – a brainy and seamless mix of
history and personal anecdote that gets viewers engaged, entertained, and
leaves them better informed about the world. Much of his art had to do not just
with his words, but with how he delivered them – a particular brand of neurosis
that is impossible to transcribe to the page.
Given
that the performances are largely him sitting at table speaking, they’re not
the easiest thing to transcribe to film either, but a genius auteur found a way
to capture his mannerisms on film in a way that was, like Gray’s performances,
both engaging and entertaining. Many years ago I had read the manuscript of his most famous monologue, “Swimming to
Cambodia,” and was largely unimpressed. Years later, I saw the film Swimming to Cambodia and Gray instantly
became a hero of mine.
Yet,
before I could ever see him perform, he jumped off the Staten Island Ferry,
ending his life.
Reflecting
in front of the venue where I could have seen him in life, I told my friend,
“Never getting to see Spalding Gray will forever be one of the great regrets in
my life.”
