The crowd watches the performance of Harold Pinter’s The Dumb Waiter at the Sanctuary of Hope. — Photos by Justin Horne and Kevin Armento

There is something oddly appropriate and satisfying about the residents of the Sanctuary of Hope maintaining the status of “church” for their art colony, and retaining the religious marquee (from its earlier days as an actual church) that sits above the door as you walk in. “The Witnessing”, their latest show (cabaret, really), which entertained a healthy audience Saturday night in the Sanctuary’s modest-sized Ridgewood digs, was anything but a church service. One might be fooled by the projections of religious iconography on the walls, the authentic pews, or the collection of an offering by means of that familiar little pouch-on-a-stick, but no, this is a night of artistic expression, inebriation, and (there is no better word for it) commune.

	Pinter in Ridgewood. Seriously. Click for more.

The first hint of what is in store for you is impossible to miss, and it is the presence of two gorgeous (and surprisingly living) peacocks above you, perched unbelievably on a large tree branch and upside-down church pew, suspended from the ceiling (their names, I quickly learn, are Tinkerbell and Aeschylus… a pairing representative of the spirit of the Sanctuary itself?). AK Thompson supplies loud, pulsing music that fills the room, as the audience crowds around a projected live video feed coming from the Sanctuary’s basement, where two of the artists-in-residence, we learn, have been lured and locked in. There is a microphone and speaker with which you can send messages to the hostages below, and this serves as a sort of prologue to the night’s events.

The performances that follow reminded me, at their best, of those famed Dalí demonstrations of the thirties, and at their basest, of the backyard skits we put on in childhood. Almost anyone who is likely to be drawn to an evening billed as “a double trinity: the mitosis of three becomes six” (or indeed almost anyone who is drawn to live in the Greater Bushwick region to begin with) will take joy, as I did, in the spirit of the thing. Three artists sit perched up high at one end of the room, rhythmically beckoning to the mingling crowd below. Slowly, one by one, each audience member answers the call, crosses the room, and turns around to join in the beckoning. Eventually, a crowd forms at the foot of these performers, and the next piece is ready to begin.

What resembles a large white coffin (called a “mobile living pod”) is rolled into the room. A silent dancer emerges, her hair specked with snowflakes, wearing only a flowing, white skirt. She sets the tone with a delicate dance, and lures one of the artists sitting above (Ryan Brown) to come join her. He does, and we the audience crowd around them, watching as she strips him bare (wig and all), has him kneel gently to the ground, and, after they have each enjoyed a sip from a large pitcher of milk, douses him with what’s left. After this act of purification (or is it a rite of passage?) comes the celebration of unity, for which all the audience is invited to take a homemade noisemaker (so lovingly crafted!), kneel together in a circle, and make that timeless note of oneness. What does it all mean? What are these artists trying to communicate to their gathered flock? Like those peacocks perched above (and like those childhood skits), I don’t know that extrapolating meaning is the point.

Following this interactive piece of spiritual art, we migrate to the other side of the room for a more traditional performance, a haphazard production of Pinter’s The Dumb Waiter (co-starring, and loosely steered by Andy Janbek). The actors have difficulty maintaining the audience’s attention for this portion of the evening, but when you put this strictly-observable kind of art last (after everything else has been participatory), I suppose that is to be expected. It was while trying to stay focused (and for much of it, straining to hear at all), that my companions and I noted the lack of direction in the evening’s festivities, which would have helped immensely in stringing together some sense of cohesiveness.

But this is nitpicking, and in all candor I must admit there is something alternately refreshing and nostalgic about the lack of order in “The Witnessing” (the abundant supply of anyone’s intoxication du jour helps too). As we were smilingly encouraged to participate, to make noise, to interact, and indeed, to make art of our own, I could not help but reflect fondly that this was a night presented by Bushwick artists for Bushwick artists. It was a celebration of everything that it means (or whatever it means) to express one’s art. And while it reminded me in turns of summer camp, unbridled bohemia, and at times, downright playtime, it reminded me mostly of why people move to New York in the first place. Peacocks-in-residence? A mobile living pod? An impromptu performance of Pinter? This, if you allow it, is church for an artist. And so maybe leaving the marquee in place is the one thing here without irony at all.

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