Matsuo Basho once wrote a haiku that (roughly translated) went along the lines of
The morning glory
is another thing that will
never be my friend
Speaking as someone who is difficult to get to know--that isn't my intention, I'm just slow about things--I can interpret the haiku to mean that the morning glory, by its fleeting nature, is not going to be around long enough to get to know the poet. Apply that metaphor elsewhere as you wish; find other interpretations of those 17 syllables. The reverse perspective is true, too: The morning glory is not here long enough for us to get to know it.
What then to make of improv performance? An art form whose basis is that it is made up on the spot and only exists at the moment of creation and then is gone--except for the afterglow in the performers' and audience members' minds. If you were a theatre critic of improv, it might be a bit like reviewing jazz performances or being a sportswriter. I'm in no hurry to attempt that. I would hate to observe, let's say, Harold Night at UCB from some sort of meta perspective--when it is best experienced like sunlight falling on your skin.
So, I want to mention a blog post written by a member of the Harold Team The Shoves on an afternoon just a few hours before their last performance. I'm glad to say that I saw The Shoves once upon a time (and Dillenger); I'm sure sorry I missed that last performance though.
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