Benched Week 62: unrehearsed

“Well, this seems fitting,” I said to John Blair, Esquire, as he posed for a picture in front of a bench.  At least, that’s who he purported to be.  As I sat down next to him, he inquired as to the reason for my comment.

Silly man that I am, I began to explain my Benched saga.  He interrupted with a slightly off-topic comment about having skipped church because he was tired of the preaching of the rector.  Then it dawned on me.  I had been talking to him as if he was just a guy rather than a guy pretending to be a guy who lived two hundred years ago.

One should expect such things in Colonial Williamsburg.

I got into the flow of the make-believe.  I asked questions about his church and its attitude towards those who miss services.  (Slackers were only obligated to attend once a month.)  I posed another about other denominations.  (He confessed that he didn’t know the word.)



It was a performance, and I was a part of it.

Which made me think of jazz.



Williamsburg, with its starkly beautiful houses, would not normally be a place one contemplates jazz.  In fact, it wasn’t until later the next day, as I found another bench in the late afternoon sun, that it came like an Aha! moment.




The improvisational nature of that dialogue was very much like the session I scribed last week – one that may have contained my favorite moment of scribing ever.  In it, a jazz quintet invited a member of the audience to come up and tell a personal story.  While he talked, they adlibbed a jazz score to accompany it.  Meanwhile, I attempted capture it all visually.

It was incredible.  Call it in-the-moment magic – an impromptu harmony of spontaneous word, music and drawing.  No one knew where we were headed, but who cared – the journey was exhilarating.  I’ve never been more buoyantly happy with a marker in my hand.  (I can’t show you that part, but here’s what I drew when they first came out and played.)

Art that is unrehearsed, that plays with the boundary between performer and audience, that blends with music and storytelling -- this is my new-found north star.  I’m not sure what the next step is, but I’m keeping that star in my sight.

Walking later down a back street in the historic district, I saw John again, this time presumably coming back from his break.  As we passed, I said, “I enjoyed our conversation earlier.”

“As did I, sir,” he replied with a nod and touch of his hat.

Well-played, my extemporaneous friend.  Well-played.