T.K. Lee

In the fall of 1965, nearly two months before his death, the story goes that the American watercolorist Walter Anderson—“Bob” to his family—rowed out to Horn Island, Mississippi, off the coast in the Gulf of Mexico, a day or two ahead of Hurricane Betsy. This island, a spiritual retreat, if you will, and favored artistic subject of his, proves to be his final battleground, in this full-length drama, of a lifelong war with himself and his ideology about what made art, Art. It was here, lore tells us, in September of that year, that Anderson tied himself to a tree baring flesh and spirit to Mother Nature, surrounded by nothing but what ran wild on the island, to stand witness to the brunt force of a hurricane…so that he could paint its raw beauty honestly. Our story picks up right as the clouds begin to darken, with the first wisps of Hurricane Betsy slowly making her approach into the gulf and her way up to the quiet, shallow Mississippi Sound, seducing Bob, who eagerly invites her ashore to spend the last hours of her destructive life, poised on the edge of his own infamously unstable temper and unaware that within the few months left to the year, he himself would be dead. Through the course of one unforgettable evening two very different forces of nature will collide head-on in an experience that will leave him prostrate in awe at the sublime beauty her wrath can wreak on man physically as much as mentally and emotionally. As the worst of Betsy passes, having ravaged the island, Bob is surprised to find he has survived, and even though repentant at the need for her mercy, he swells with pride that her revenge came not to destroy but to divine for him the truth of his own nature, born out of the audacity, he believes, of a man who he had learned to tame everything but himself.

Lucrece wanted a good man for a husband. She found one in Gerald. She wanted one child, a boy. She's had that in Charlie. She wanted a picture-perfect little family, and that's exactly what she’s had. Now, she wants one last thing, a promise Gerald made her on her wedding night — all those years ago — that when the time came, she could get a divorce. The time has come, in her opinion, and come today. Which is why we find Lucrece atop her roof — on an otherwise average, run-of-the-mill Tuesday — having herself a very big day putting her foot all the way down, as she stands ready and willing to show Gerald and Charlie that sometimes the only way to keep a family together is to tear them apart.

SINDICATION is a hard-hitting, thought-provoking, Ionescu-like political play that mars the line between Man and Media. The fourth wall becomes especially dynamic in this dramatic fresh take on the “problem play,” in which it acts as a television screen, flashing across the eager, dumbed-down faces of a seemingly typical American family waiting for dinner, on a Sunday, after church in that same small town we’ve somehow all driven through. Here they sit—three-generations thick still trying to talk to each other by talking about everything else—as wild, upsetting, and absurd accusations are made about the audience—who, at times, unwittingly fills in for “whatever rolls” across the TV exposing a problem with deep roots still prevalent in the American family today. The final scene is a heartbreaking reminder that we are all part of the same story, a story that lives on far longer than we will and as such, we owe it to our own history to make it a better story than the one before.

AN EARNEST WOMAN is a re-imagining of Oscar Wilde, who, during his 1882 Lecture Tour of the United States, invites himself to the home of defrocked Confederate President Jefferson Davis to discuss, of all things, the reasons behind the South’s unsuccessful secession. Jefferson Davis is not impressed; his wife and daughter are too caught up in exchanging gossip and aphorisms, but the Davis’ trusted maid, Hester, is full of opinions. His late night conversation with Hester over whiskey, cigarettes, and the occasional tea cake in the Davis’ kitchen shames Wilde into heading home to use the only weapons he has to fight his newly found hypocrisy of high society: his pen, his paper, and his pithiness.

Macon, a troubled young man, has stolen his father’s car after killing him and is now on the run. In his panicked state of mind, he makes a wrong turn, finds himself beneath a faded billboard sign, with a stalled car engine. Convinced that all hope is lost, Macon decides to turn the gun on himself when he realizes he’s not alone. Hidden by the billboard is a mysterious young woman, at once as familiar as she is foreign, beguiling as she is bewitching, who introduces herself as Yinnie and quickly fashions herself into a makeshift confidante and confessor. Showing no fear in the face of Macon’s unpredictable nature, she stands her ground, which disarms Macon. Seizing her chance, she manages, by hook and by crook, to force him to face the consequences of his actions. Her boldness is a dangerous gamble, but in light of the situation, proves successful and he relents, sinking into an uncomfortably calm détente, in which he allows himself to be lured deeper and deeper into a rambling conversation that leaves not only trying to figure out what his next move is, but also, hers. Loose Hog is a modern throwback to pure southern gothic, told through a compelling and hauntingly beautiful narrative that challenges us to reconsider exactly what it is that makes us good.

Marlo has a problem. She’s stuck to a frying pan. She tried ignoring it, at first. That was a mistake. She did her best to forget about it, next. That didn’t work. So, she turned to her friends who did what they could to help, but they had enough of their own problems and to be perfectly honest, they ran out of ideas pretty quickly. They’ve also run out of patience with Marlo and her frying pan because she doesn’t like anyone looking at it, she can’t stand when people touch it, and she won’t listen when they DO offer ideas. Marlo’s fed up, too. Every day, it’s the same-old thing with the same-old pan and the same-old problem with the same-old friends…if you can call them that. She didn’t ask for their help. Well, ok, she did, but do they help? Well, ok, they do, but all that means is…well…that maybe they really do care. Which means maybe they’re not pretending to care. But, if that’s true, then it means that...maybe she’s been playing this thing all wrong. (Maybe that’s what she needs to hear). Maybe it’s not even about Why she’s got the frying pan or What she does with it. Maybe it’s really not any more complicated than giving herself permission to just let go—of what it is that really scares her the most: Finding out that the problem never was the pan, it was the person holding it.

Nemy and Biddy Kipp aren’t your typical married couple. Marriage was Nemy’s only chance to secure any family money; for Biddy, marriage got her off the farm, and into the city. Yet, there’s hope for them, Nemy believes, through the art of swinging and a perfectly-timed, simple-minded American couple. Roger is a freelance critic, returning yet again to London’s theatre scene; Angelan tags along, his ever-faithful confidante. As fate would have it, Roger’s just posted another review on his blog about Nemy, this one of Nemy's Algernon in The Importance of Being Earnest. Flattered, and driven by nothing but blind faith in his own instinct, Nemy extends an invite to the Smiths for conversation,and, he hopes, a little more. And a little more is exactly what he gets. Before the evening is over, the Kipps will learn a few things about themselves, and even more about the price one pays to find the right kind of company.

WIDDERSHINS tells the story of Vera, a professor at a university in a small, southern town. She’s witty, she often shoots off at the mouth, she’s open-minded, she’s childless by choice. But, a lesson comes in many forms, and when her sister Amelia with her African-American wife Robin change the conditions of a very important favor they have asked of Vera and her husband, Tip, Vera finds herself staring down the barrel of a very different kind of gun, and it’s not her finger that’s on the trigger.