The New York Times’ review of The Brothers Size bumps up against the porous border between objective journalism and subjective interpretation. 

The original lede read:

“At the start of Tarell Alvin McCraney’s dreamy production of “The Brothers Size,” one character ceremoniously pours out a basin of SALT to form a bright white circle on the floor of the Shed’s Griffin Theater.”

But then The Times affixed this correction:

“It was sand that was poured in a circle at the beginning of the performance, not salt.”

From a purely journalistic perspective, sand is the factual choice. But because the production itself never specifies that the material is sand, doesn’t this correction imply an objectivity that minimizes our subjective interpretations? 

If the production wanted us to know for sure that it’s sand, then we would’ve been told as much. 

But we’re not.

Plus, there’s one line in the play that seems to speak most directly to this staging decision — during the all-important climax, no less — when it’s mentioned that a cop pours white powder onto black asphalt.

Even if the script states that it’s sand, no gospel transcends that of audience interpretation. 

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Speaking of McCraney, I subscribe to the theory that, if a new work by a major American theater-maker premieres anywhere else, a production should be staged in the theater capitol of these United States, no matter what.

Another way to phrase this idea:

These artists have established their greatness to such a degree that a sufficient amount of audiences should want to see their latest, regardless of quality.

Such as:

• McCraney’s We Are Gathered
• Branden Jacobs-Jenkins’ Girls
• Dave Malloy’s Moby Dick
• Dave Malloy and Lucy Kirkwood’s The Witches (post-Giant could be quite something)
• Taylor Mac and Jason Robert Brown’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
• Taylor Mac’s Joy and Pandemic
• Will Eno’s The Plot
• Anne Washburn’s Shipwreck
• Samuel Hunter’s A Great Wilderness (unless Williamstown is considered a suburb of NYC?)
• (cancel me) David Mamet