We fall apart but we move forward. Mona Pirnot beautifully navigates the ideas of love, loss, and grief in her newest piece: I Love You So Much I Could Die. Directed by Lucas Hnath, the piece offers a new and unique theatrical experience in which the audience acts as an observer in a private world told through a series of computer-spoken text-to-speech monologues and acoustic songs. The creative team invites you to look at the intersection of song and storytelling by introducing an intimate yet almost invasive feel to Mona's private and now very public struggles.
She begins the performance, back to the audience, only moving when the text-to-speech voice stops. As the text comes to a halt, she picks up her guitar, and the concert part of this production begins.
"I was hoping to be anonymous" is a line spoken early on in the show, and her plea is met by the staging of the production, designed by Mimi Lien, featuring only a chair, table, lamp, laptop, and guitar. As Mona enters the stage, house lights are up and she sits facing upstage, never turning around to look at the audience, yet it somehow still feels deeply intimate. We, as an audience, are asked to intrude on her stories, that feel so deeply personal, all the while lacking any facial expressions or direct human emotional expression. This is not to say the show lacks emotional response, on the contrary: as she picks up her guitar to sing we are reminded all too well of the humanity behind the grief and pain that was so intimately showcased. As the show moves forward and the subject darkens, so do the lights, designed by Oona Curley, until we are left almost entirely in the dark with nothing but the soft glow of her laptop illuminating the almost too-large stage.
This show stood out to me for several reasons but mainly, I am deeply interested in ways we can tell stories that don't directly involve straightforward speaking. Becoming non-verbal is a response I have experienced many times over, but it by no means indicates that one has nothing to say, but rather like in Mona's case, she has so much to express. This show showcased a way that we can create art accessibly and move through trauma, while also navigating responses that can feel incredibly stifling. Mona paints what grief and anxiety can look like so beautifully onto a canvas laced with smart and at times dry humor but with a story so poignant you can not help but feel exactly what she wants you to. Her ability to captivate an audience through monologues with an almost monotone voice and songs that are deeply personal to her own experiences prove exactly how powerful new forms of expression can be.
In just 65 minutes Mona's story demands to be met with compassion and consideration, something I found her to excel exceptionally within. While the story is personal to her, you can't help but leave the space thinking about your own experiences with grief and love.
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