Near the end of the third out of five in a series of increasingly inventive, if not outright original, shorts that comprise Love/Stories (or But You Will Get Used To It) — Itamar Moses‘ newest creation, currently at The Flea Theater‘s intimate Downstairs space — featured actor Michael Micalizzi, playing himself, candidly proclaims to fellow actor Laurel Holland, also playing herself, “In case you couldn’t tell, I’m not very articulate…it’s kind of my thing.” Micalizzi speaks for the assorted souls that populate Moses’ work, characters who more often than not find themselves stammering through half-baked explorations of love. Love/Stories thus intimately, and often quite creatively, captures that uniquely human frustration that inevitably arises in cognitive process — the process of self-expression and by extension, the process of making art.

Moses’ five pieces, strung together with stage directions from a seemingly autobiographical narrator known only as “Reader” (John Russo), feature a cast of characters (played with aplomb by Micalizzi and Felipe Bonilla, accompanied by svelte beauties Holland and Maren Langdon) acutely aware of each other, but not themselves.

Jumping jauntily, if not maladroitly, from an audition to an office to an apartment to an interview program to a cafe and all the meta-world in between, from the seemingly unsuspecting naturalistic to the brusque Brechtian, Love/Stories chronicles romance at various points in relationships, from the before very first spark to long after the bitter end, with particular regard to the correlation between love and self-expression. Thankfully, four out of the five pieces not only recognize but thrive upon the integral relationship between love and art, which is at the crux of the evening. And, while the fifth piece, a satire of the American office eerily similar to the popular NBC show, isn’t quite on par, its running order position (second) renders it not merely acceptable but quite entertaining.

The evening is, at best, enlightening for some, but certainly enjoyable for all. As a playwright, I found Moses’ in-depth dramatic analysis (one scene, entitled “Authorial Intent,” is performed twice; the second time around, both characters recite their objectives and actions in lieu of their “normal lines”) as well as his remarkably earnest insight into his cognitive process of artistic synthesis, as articulated by the Reader, absolutely scintillating — although I acknowledge how some particulars could alternatively be seen as inaccessibly confusing; Moses does walk a fine line, after all. However: Michelle Tattenbaum’s adept direction, which fully utilizes the seemingly overcomplicated set that is, perhaps, a bit ambitious for the size of the space, manages to keep everything and everyone in line — plus, by highlighting and capitalizing on the continuous flow of rich humor in the piece, she makes the existential experimentalism go down easier and the drama shine.

For all the directorial triumphs (Tattenbaum embraces Moses’ complex, if at times, convoluted, vision and runs with it) and the adequate performances (although the big ideas are there, the little ones often aren’t), the evening ultimately belongs to Moses. Happily, he is fully cognizant that his protagonists are unmistakable mouthpieces for himself. Taking a meta-theatrical play-within-a-play-type approach, very similar to that of Passing Strange, Moses not only lectures but also demonstrates concretely the omnipresent distance between the actors and the audience, the playwright and the play, the artist and the art—and feeds on the dissonance that inevitably results. This approach ultimately makes for a more affecting work of art.

At the end of the evening, the piece seems to feel — admittedly oddly at first — universal. After some thought, though, the conclusion seems almost logical: as the Reader’s convolutedly assembled — and thus, beautifully human — monologue so artfully demonstrates, self-expression (“art”) comes from feelings, which are derived from love in any of its forms, or the lack thereof. Moses thankfully reminds us of our roots.