Word: shows
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...season's shows in Manhattan, one that was unaccountably ignored by critics is Xavier Corbero's at the BlumHelman Warehouse (through June 11). At 53, Corbero, a Catalan who lives in Barcelona, is one of the best though most idiosyncratic sculptors in Europe; his show, "The Catalan Opening," contains work of such metaphorical richness, variety and wit that one would need to be an aesthetic pruneface not to enjoy...
...just Catalan in name. It prolongs the spirit of older Barcelonan artists and architects, a sense of material fantasy that still saturates the place and gives Corbero's work its sardonic, free-associating air and its obsessively fine craftsmanship. There are delicious Miroesque touches in this show, like the comb jauntily set on the queen's head, grooved with the bars of the Catalan shield, or the wacky little pyramid that balances on the needle peak of a pawn called Miss Capicua, 1987-88. Other details resurrect the images of heraldic encounter, the dungeons and dragons that lie within...
Corbero's work looks fairly orthodox, nevertheless, beside that of the young Scotsman David Mach, 32, showing at the Barbara Toll gallery (also through June 11). There is one object on view. It fills most of the gallery. It is called A Million Miles Away and is made from some 28,000 magazines -- surplus copies of House Beautiful, Esquire, Town & Country and the like -- spilling in a torrent from a fireplace, across the floor and through a wall and another fireplace. Embedded in them are a bathtub, a stuffed zebra and what must be the world's largest outboard motor...
...KwaMashu, Umlazi and other sprawling, neglected settlements separated from the prosperity of white South Africa. Honed into a humming, exuberant whole by Playwright-Director Mbongeni Ngema, they have turned convention on its head with a triumphant spirit and rollicking rhythm that transcend politics. In its ninth month, the show is a sold-out hit, readying spin-offs for Tokyo, London and Kingston...
...performance, the kids jump up to argue with the assistant director, Mali Hlatshwayo, in rapid-fire Zulu. He thumps his chest. "Emotion," explains one of the cast. At the stage door, starstruck American youngsters gather for autographs, but the kids of Sarafina! don't preen like the show horses of your average chorus line. The girls are mostly hefty. The boys tend toward skinny. Plain faces, remarkably ordinary. Bopping and hopping onstage, they maintain a wary reserve off-hours. Their English is lilting, halting, and political questions are turned aside for fear of reprisals back home. Five minutes before curtain...