Midcult Alfresco

The National Park Service—with Wolf Trap Farm Park for the Performing Arts—has undertaken a significant departure from smokeythebearism. We may with some justification—always keeping in mind its merits as a Fest-spielhaus—observe its successes and shortcomings with an eye to the future course of the arts in this country.

Wolf Trap, located just outside Washington where the Virginia countryside begins to roll in anticipation of mountains to the west, is in its second season this year. Those of us who sampled the native charms of her maiden year find her somewhat despoiled by improvements. There is, for example, the question of the social imperative of picnic tables. In the good old days, people spread quilts beside the rugby match and demurely drank lemonade and ate, one supposes, fried chicken. The introduction of picnic tables—though I grant it means the ants have further to go to address one’s lunch—seems an unwarranted intrusion in the name of false convenience.

BE

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Brad Evans

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The National Park Service—with Wolf Trap Farm Park for the Performing Arts—has undertaken a significant departure from smokeythebearism. We may with some justification—always keeping in mind its merits as a Fest-spielhaus—observe its successes and shortcomings with an eye to the future course of the arts in this country.

Wolf Trap, located just outside Washington where the Virginia countryside begins to roll in anticipation of mountains to the west, is in its second season this year. Those of us who sampled the native charms of her maiden year find her somewhat despoiled by improvements. There is, for example, the question of the social imperative of picnic tables. In the good old days, people spread quilts beside the rugby match and demurely drank lemonade and ate, one supposes, fried chicken. The introduction of picnic tables—though I grant it means the ants have further to go to address one’s lunch—seems an unwarranted intrusion in the name of false convenience.