Last week, I was one of many in an expectant mob outside the East Village’s Connelly Theater. It was obvious to any passerby that there was something highly anticipated happening in the humble jewel-box space (it was built in the 1860s as a choir hall for an orphanage, and still looks the part). A man on a Citi Bike stopped to ask what we were waiting for. “‘Kate,’ …” a woman in line behind me whispered, “you haven’t heard about her one-woman show?” 

A man stamped my hand with an “A” and ushered me inside. The lobby had been retro-fitted into a museum — glass cases behind velvet ropes displayed Kate Berlant’s childhood notebook and signature black outfit; a white wall featured larger-than-life photos of her in various poses; and on a bench under a spotlight, startlingly still, was the comedian herself, donning black shades and a sign around her neck that read, “IGNORE ME.”