I first learned about the the work of Paul Cadmus (1904-1999) when I was researching the photographer George Platt Lynes for a theatre piece called mindlynes. That work eventually lead to my play III about the 15-year relationship between Lynes, Glenway Wescott and Monroe Wheeler. Cadmus traveled in their circle as a friend and artistic contemporary. He even painted a picture called Conversation Piece, a portrait of the three men outside of their New Jersey home, Stone-blossom.

I never forgot Cadmus' work, his paintings in particular, as he found a way to create images that captured the beauty of the human body and juxtaposed it against the often times garish reality of the human condition.

Revolution. For me, this word typically conjures images of governments being overthrown, oppressive forces being countered by more equitable practices, or even violent acts that somehow lead to peace. The word also automatically makes me think of moments from early American history: images of red coats, tattered soldiers’ uniforms, Valley Forge, Washington crossing the Delaware, Betsy Ross, the flag with thirteen white stars in a circle, Independence Hall in Philadelphia. Proud symbols. Symbols that have become part of a national history, what some people might also call a mythology. Regardless of how I might feel about the word "revolution," it's often used to describe moments that feel distanced from me, moments that I can’t literally connect to.

During a recent morning writing session, I stumbled upon the relationship between the words "revolution" and "evolution" in my own personal life.

The next entry of Serial Play. How do Gary, Alex, and Lori know each other, and why isn't Jennifer in on the fun?