The 118 made an intimate space for an intimate show - the last of the evening, perhaps the last here in this incarnation. For those of us who used and grew in this space, emotions were already heightened.
We were warned to bring tissues, primed to open our hearts as well as our minds. Ravi is seated, armed with his guitar, his warm smile and kind eyes inviting us to make an emotional investment before he has sung a note.
We’re given slips of paper and there’s a box of pens on the bar. It’s a reminder. Hey_____, I just wanted to call and say…, it says. We are encouraged to write down what comes up as the show begins its slow unfolding, peeling away layers like an artichoke to expose its rich and tender fleshed heart.
Essentially a biographical journey through word and song, we are given glimpses into Ravi’s family - their history, their talents, their sacrifices and struggles. Intermittently he calls out to receive feedback and slowly we open up about the people we love. There is weeping - the tissues were needed - but the feeling is one of release rather than despair. People are holding the people they came with, speaking their truth to a room full of strangers.
The gift Ravi gives in his work is that of holding space, creating an atmosphere of safety by being so authentically vulnerable that we can’t help but take a leap of faith and join him. There’s a purity to it, a naive innocence that could be cheesy were it not so real. It’s a kind of magic that goes beyond mere words or songs, though these too are excellently executed - soothing, melodious and honest. It’s the type of show that leaves you with a feeling of community that spreads, like ripples in a pool, to change the world with art, one person at a time.
by Rosheen FitzGerald
