Review: The Essentialisn’t, Eisa Davis’s Ritual Cleansing of the Theater

Eisa Davis opens her world premiere show at HERE, The Essentialisn’t, by submerging herself in a tank of water like an escape artist. She bobs in this upright glass coffin for several minutes, her head just above water, singing over the looped audio of a Mende funeral song. Reminiscent of both Marina Abramović and David Blaine, it’s a blunt metaphor for the boxes we tick on the census, claustrophobic spaces that can never contain our multitudes. Davis clearly finds this kind of taxonomy stifling—but can she find some form of slippery liberation in the water?

A variation on that question undergirds this solo-ish show, which is more ritual than play. Davis, a playwright (Bulrusher), actor (Passing Strange), and co-composer with Lin-Manuel Miranda of the Warriors concept album, specifically asks: Can you be Black and not perform?

This isn’t just about the rich legacy of Black entertainers in America, but the everyday performance of being a minority—the code-switching and nerve-coddling that naturally springs from the suspicion that every move you make will be used as evidence to support a sweeping conclusion about your race.

Her two collaborators, Jamella Cross and Princess Jacob (here dubbed the “Sovereigns”), stir beneath blankets made of Black women’s wigs. They help her dry off and adorn her in a dress similarly made of hair (James Gibbel fabricated the imaginative costumes, couture ala Wigs and Plus).

“No no no no,” she sings as she takes her position behind a keyboard, and for most musicals in an off-Broadway theater, this answer would be the end of the story. The question wouldn’t even be raised. Yet we suspect Davis has more to say on the subject (there are 80 more minutes in the show, after all) so we lean in to listen.

As a composer, Davis has a pleasant, almost hypnotic style that paints a smooth finish on the thorniest subjects. Never insistent, but consistently intriguing, she invites us to reconsider conventional notions of Blackness that have become entrenched in the minds of both racists and self-described anti-racists.

On the trope of the “magical negro,” she sweetly sings, “No one knows me / ‘Cause I’m magical—not free / I can wear my chains with glee.” She chases the song “Black Girl Bullet” (“And if you can’t sing / Then you ain’t Black, girl”) by giving her audience permission to sing “And I am Telling You I’m Not Going,” poorly. No gospel choir, the HERE audience gamely joins in this cacophonous cry of liberation.

The performance has an accompanying art installation, with influential books dangling from the ceiling and a ballot box into which viewers can add words that best capture the essence of Black women. Davis reads them all halfway through the show: “extraordinary,” “late,” “angry,” “divine,” “strong,” “DEI hire.” The positive labels exist side-by-side with the negative ones, a lineup of oversimplification.

The most joyous part of the show is when Davis returns to the tank. She’s no longer an escape artist treading water, but a catechumen diving gleefully into her baptism. Legs dangling from the side of the glass, she seems to be having more fun than a vacationer in Bora Bora.

Davis, who also directs, uses design to smartly enhance the visual intimacy of a piece already feels quite cozy in its small corner set (Peter Born is the scenic consultant). Skye Mahaffie’s expansive video design envelops the stage in a warm embrace, while Cha See’s lighting casts everything in a mellow glow.

She sends us out singing with a recessional question: “Will you love me / every morning /  will you love me / each and every morning?” It’s a much-needed call for the audience to consider the people in our lives on their own terms, not as accessories to our own mythmaking, but as complex and dynamic beings with the potential to surprise us and themselves—each and every morning.