Dramaturgies of Interweaving [1 ed.] 1032034211, 9781032034218

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
List of Figures
List of Contributors
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Part I Sketching designs for unique encounters
Chapter 1 The Tjunta Trail: Cross-cultural dramaturgy in Australian place-making
Chapter 2 Diagrammatic dramaturgies: Navigations between theory, disfiguration and movement
Part II Interlacing archival threads
Chapter 3 No(h) to Trio A: Interweaving dramaturgies for a performative exhibition of Yvonne Rainer’s work
Chapter 4 Performance community in an age of reenactment: Takao Kawaguchi’s About Kazuo Ohno and the conversation with ghosts
Part III Unraveling productions
Chapter 5 Speaking Black: Tonya Pinkins’s Mother Courage
Chapter 6 Catalyst and conduit: A call for the bicultural dramaturge
Interlude
A Durus Arabij/Arabic Lessons
B Arabic Lessons: Stämme/שורשים/جذور
C Heiliger Franz/St. Francis: Notes from a playwright’s perspective
Part IV Entangling diverse audiences
Chapter 7 Encountering a “theater of (inter-)singularity”: Transformations and rejections of shifting institutional dramaturgies in contemporary German theater
Chapter 8 Yael Ronen: Devising dramaturgy for an interwoven world
Part V Unfolding alternatives
Chapter 9 Alternative dramaturgies informed by a Deaf and disability perspective
Chapter 10 Dramaturgies of in-betweenness: Iranian theater and performance art since the 1970s
Part VI Tailoring textual material
Chapter 11 Learning with broken words: Directing Plastic Rose by Shogo Ota with collaborative dramaturgy
Chapter 12 The emergence of co-dramaturgy: Arthur Miller, Satyajit Ray and Thomas Ostermeier encounter Ibsen
Coda : Performers and time:
Index

Citation preview

Dramaturgies of Interweaving

Dramaturgies of Interweaving explores present-day dramaturgies that interweave performance cultures in the fields of theater, performance, dance and other arts. Merging strategies of audience engagement originating in different cultures, dramaturgies of interweaving are creative methods of theater and art-making that seek to address audiences across cultures, making them uniquely suitable for shaping people’s experiences of our entangled world. Presenting in-depth case studies from across the globe, spanning Australia, China, Germany, India, Iran, Japan, Singapore, Taiwan, Vietnam, the US and the UK, this book investigates how dramaturgies of interweaving are conceived, applied and received today. Featuring critical analyses by scholars—as well as workshop reports and artworks by renowned artists—this book examines dramaturgies of interweaving from multiple locations and perspectives, thus revealing their distinct complexities and immense potential. Ideal for scholars, students and practitioners of theater, performance, dramaturgy and devising, Dramaturgies of Interweaving opens up an innovative perspective on today’s breathtaking plurality of dramaturgical practices of interweaving in theater, performance, dance and other arts, such as curation and landscape design. Erika Fischer-Lichte is Director of the International Research Center “Interweaving Performance Cultures” at Freie Universität Berlin. Christel Weiler serves as Senior Adviser at the International Research Center “Interweaving Performance Cultures” at Freie Universität Berlin. Torsten Jost is a researcher at the International Research Center “Interweaving Performance Cultures” at Freie Universität Berlin.

Routledge Advances in Theatre & Performance Studies

Modernizing Costume Design, 1820–1920 Annie Holt The Teaching of Kathakali in Australia Mirroring the Master Arjun Raina Practices of Relations in Task-Dance and the Event-Score A Critique of Performance Josefine Wikström The Problems of Viewing Performance Epistemology and Other Minds Michael Y. Bennett Dramaturgies of Interweaving Engaging Audiences in an Entangled World Edited by Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler, and Torsten Jost Shakespeare and Celebrity Cultures Jennifer Holl Actor Training in Anglophone Countries Past, Present and Future Peter Zazzali Hellenic Common Greek Drama and Cultural Cosmopolitanism in the Neoliberal Era Philip Zapkin Surviving Theatre The Living Archive of Spectatorship Marco Pustianaz Jerzy Grotowski and Ludwik Flaszen Five Encounters with the Sages Juliusz Tyszka For more information about this series, please visit​:ttps​://ww​​w​.rou​​tledg​​e​.com​​/ Rout​​ledge​​-Adva​​nces-​​in​-Th​​eatre​-​-Per​​forma​​nce​-S​​tudie​​s​/​boo​​k​-ser​​ies​/R​​ATPS

Dramaturgies of Interweaving Engaging Audiences in an Entangled World

Edited by Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler, and Torsten Jost

First published 2022 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2022 selection and editorial matter, Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 9781032034218 (hbk) ISBN: 9781032034232 (pbk) ISBN: 9781003187233 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India

Contents

List of figures List of contributors Acknowledgments



viii ix xv

Introduction Dramaturgies of interweaving: Engaging audiences in an entangled world 1 ERIKA FISCHER-LICHTE, CHRISTEL WEILER AND TORSTEN JOST

PART I

Sketching designs for unique encounters 1

The Tjunta Trail: Cross-cultural dramaturgy in Australian place-making

27 29

PAUL CARTER

2

Diagrammatic dramaturgies: Navigations between theory, disfiguration and movement

47

ANDREJ MIRČEV

PART II

Interlacing archival threads 3

No(h) to Trio A: Interweaving dramaturgies for a performative exhibition of Yvonne Rainer’s work

61 63

NANAKO NAKAJIMA

4

Performance community in an age of reenactment: Takao Kawaguchi’s About Kazuo Ohno and the conversation with ghosts PETER ECKERSALL

80

vi Contents PART III

Unraveling productions

95

5

97

Speaking Black: Tonya Pinkins’s Mother Courage HANA WORTHEN

6

Catalyst and conduit: A call for the bicultural dramaturge

114

CATHERINE DIAMOND

INTERLUDE

133

A Durus Arabij/Arabic Lessons

135

MICHAEL ROES

B Arabic Lessons: Stämme/‫جذور‬/‫ שורשים‬

138

AMOS ELKANA

C Heiliger Franz/St. Francis: Notes from a playwright’s perspective

148

CLAUDIUS LÜNSTEDT

PART IV

Entangling diverse audiences 7

Encountering a “theater of (inter-)singularity”: Transformations and rejections of shifting institutional dramaturgies in contemporary German theater

155

157

PETER M. BOENISCH

8

Yael Ronen: Devising dramaturgy for an interwoven world

176

S. E. WILMER

PART V

Unfolding alternatives 9

Alternative dramaturgies informed by a Deaf and disability perspective

197 199

KAITE O’REILLY

10 Dramaturgies of in-betweenness: Iranian theater and performance art since the 1970s NARGES HASHEMPOUR

216

Contents  vii PART VI

Tailoring textual material

235

11 Learning with broken words: Directing Plastic Rose by Shogo Ota with collaborative dramaturgy

237

PETER LICHTENFELS

12 The emergence of co-dramaturgy: Arthur Miller, Satyajit Ray and Thomas Ostermeier encounter Ibsen

250

KAMALUDDIN NILU



Coda Performers and time: The five stages of waiting

267

DAVID MOSS

Index

281

Figures

2.1 Choreo_Drift project by Cristina Caprioli, Tanz im August, Berlin, 2014. Source: photo by Andrej Mirčev. 2.2 Choreo_Drift project by Cristina Caprioli, Tensta Konsthall, Stockholm, 2014. Source: photo by Andrej Mirčev. 3.1 Performative reconstruction of The Mind Is a Muscle and Chair/Pillow, Kyoto Art Theater, Shunjuza. Source: photo by Kai Maetani. 3.2 Trio A: Facing performed by Misako Terada and Koji Takabayashi. Source: photo by Kai Maetani. 9.1 From the monologue “A Short History of Fear.” Sophie Stone (on screen) and Stephanie Esther Fan. Source: photo by William A.S. Tan. 9.2 From the monologue “What Not to Say to Someone Who Is Depressed.” Left to right: Ramesh Meyyappan, Peter Sau, Lee Lee Lim, Grace Lee Khoo and Sara Beer. Source: photo by William A.S. Tan. 9.3 Visual language, spoken text and integrated audio description. From the monologue “A Short History of Fear.” Sophie Stone (on screen) and Stephanie Esther Fan. Source: photo by Kaite O’Reilly. 10.1 KA MOUNTAIN AND GUARDenia TERRACE: A Story about a Family and Some People Changing, Haft Tan Mountain, Shiraz, Iran, 1972. Directed by Robert Wilson, Andrew de Groat, Cynthia Lubar, James Neu, Ann Wilson, Mel Andringa, S. K. Dunn and others. Texts by Robert Wilson, Andrew de Groat, Jessie Dunn Gilbert, Kikuo Saito, Cynthia Lubar, Susan Sheehy and Ann Wilson. Source: photo by Bahman Djalali. 10.2 U-Turn (2010). Source: photo by Soroosh Milanizadeh. 10.3 Woyzeck (2013). Source: photo by Reza Mousavi.

51 54 67 73 205

205 209

219 223 226

Contributors

Peter M. Boenisch, born in Munich, Germany, is Professor of Dramaturgy at Aarhus Universitet, Denmark. His main research areas are theater direction, dramaturgy and institutional contexts of theater-making, with a particular focus on German- and Dutch-speaking countries. He has published on the theory and practice of contemporary theater direction in Directing Scenes and Senses: The Thinking of Regie (2015), the book The Theatre of Thomas Ostermeier (Routledge, 2016), which he coauthored with the German theater director, as well as the edited projects Littlewood, Strehler, Planchon in the series Great European Stage Directors (2018), the 30th-anniversary new edition of David Bradby and David Williams’s Directors’ Theatre (2020) and The Schaubühne Berlin under Thomas Ostermeier: Reinventing Realism (2021). Funded by the Aarhus University Foundation, Boenisch has now embarked on the research project “Reconfiguring Dramaturgy for a Global Culture: Changing Practices in 21st Century European Theatre” (2020–2023). Its aim is to scope comparative case studies of how theater institutions, mainly in the subsidized public theater sector, reorient themselves in response to challenges such as globalization and digitalization, but also migration and new political populisms. Paul Carter is a writer and artist. His recent publications include Absolute Rhythm: Works for Minor Radio (Performance Research Publications, 2020), Amplifications: Poetic Migration, Auditory Memory (2019) and Decolonising Governance: Archipelagic Thinking (Routledge, 2018). His design studio, Material Thinking, recently completed “Pipes” and “Transplantations,” two major public art commissions in Melbourne. He is Professor of Design (Urbanism), School of Architecture and Urban Design, RMIT University. Catherine Diamond is a professor of theater and environmental literature at Soochow University, Taipei, Taiwan. She is the director/playwright of the Kinnari Ecological Theatre Project in Southeast Asia and the author of Communities of Imagination: Contemporary Southeast Asian Theatres (2012). Peter Eckersall teaches in the Ph.D. program in Theatre and Performance at the Graduate Center, City University of New York, and is a Professorial Fellow at the University of Melbourne. His recent publications include

x Contributors Machine Made Silence: The Art of Kris Verdonck (2020, coedited with K. van Baarle), The Routledge Companion to Theatre and Politics (Routledge, 2019, co-edited with H. Grehan), New Media Dramaturgy: Performance, Media and New-Materialism (2017, coauthored with H. Grehan and E. Scheer) and Performativity and Event in 1960s Japan: City, Body, Memory (2013). He was cofounder/dramaturge of Not Yet It’s Difficult. His recent dramaturgy includes Everything Starts from a Dot (Sachiyo Takahashi, LaMama) and Phantom Sun/Northern Drift (Alexis Destoop, Beursschouwburg, Riga Biennial). Amos Elkana was born in Boston in 1967 and grew up in Jerusalem. He studied jazz guitar at Berklee College of Music and composition at the New England Conservatory of Music. He then went on to Bard College, where he earned an MFA in electronic music and sound. Over the years, Elkana has received numerous awards for his compositions, among them the 2011 Israeli Prime Minister’s Prize for Music Composition and the 2012 Rozenblum Prize for excellence in the arts. Elkana composes concert music for orchestras, ensembles and individual performers as well as for dance, theater and film. His works have been performed and recorded by ensembles and musicians from all over the world, including the Berlin Symphony Orchestra, the Warsaw Philharmonic Orchestra and the clarinetist Richard Stoltzman. Elkana is also an active performer. He regularly participates in concerts and performances of improvised music, where he plays the electric guitar and does computer processing. His website is www​.amoselkana​.com. Erika Fischer-Lichte studied Theatre Studies, Slavic Languages and Literatures, German Philology, Philosophy and Psychology at Freie Universität Berlin and Hamburg University. From 1973 to 1996 she was a professor of modern German Literature, Comparative Literature and Theatre Studies at the universities of Frankfurt am Main, Bayreuth and Mainz. In 1996 she joined the faculty of the Theatre and Performance Studies Department at Freie Universität Berlin and is currently the director of the International Research Center “Interweaving Performance Cultures,” also at Freie Universität Berlin. Between 1995 and 1999 she served as president of the International Federation for Theatre Research. She is a member of the Academia Europaea, the Academy of Sciences, Göttingen, the Berlin-Brandenburg Academy of Sciences, the National Academy of Sciences Leopoldina in Halle and of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. She has held visiting professorships in China, India, Japan, Russia, Norway and the United States. Her research interests and recent or forthcoming publications focus on the interweaving of performance cultures in the context of historical and contemporary forms of globalization, transformative aesthetics, performances of ancient Greek tragedies since 1800 worldwide and performance-related concepts in non-European languages. Narges Hashempour is a scholar, actress, director, writer, curator and dramaturge. She has been involved in various international theater projects and festivals since 1991, including Wolf Children (Tehran 2019), A Look at the

Contributors  xi World (dir. Meriam Boosselmi; Berlin, Heidelberg and Tunis 2017), SALONe TEHERANi: Privates und öffentliches Leben im Iran (Dresden 2011), Ich Und… (Berlin 2008), Songs for Her (Stuttgart and Mühlheim 2006), Scheherazade im Flughafen (Stuttgart and Pforzheim 2005), Unwritten Whisper (Tehran 2003 and Berlin 2005), The House of Bernarda Alba (dir. Roberto Ciulli, Tehran, Mühlheim, Berlin, Stockholm, Stuttgart, Lièges 2001) and Nameless Maria (Tehran and Mühlheim 2000). She is the recipient of several prizes, including the 2019 Special Jury Prize for Best Director from the 37th Fadjr International Theater Festival in Tehran, the 2001 Gordana Kosanović Prize for Outstanding Acting awarded by the Theater a. d. Ruhr in Mühlheim and numerous academic and artistic grants and fellowships, such as the Erasmus Research Fellowship for her dissertation titled “Traditional and Modern: Iranian Theatre Culture and Gender Performance” at Freie Universität Berlin (2009–2012), a grant from the International Research Training Group InterArt Studies (2012) and a DAAD (2007) as well as an Akademie Schloss Solitude Fellowship (2005–2006). She has also been an associated member at the “IZ Geschlechterforschung” at Freie Universität Berlin (2011), a member of the International Research Training Group InterArt Studies (2007) and a member of Iran Theatre House (1999). Torsten Jost received his Ph.D. in theater studies from Freie Universität Berlin. Currently, he is a faculty member of the Institute for Theatre Studies at Freie Universität Berlin and a researcher at the International Research Center “Interweaving Performance Cultures.” His Ph.D. thesis “Gertrude Stein: Nervousness and the Theatre” was published in German in 2018. Kamaluddin Nilu is a theater director and researcher affiliated with the Centre for Ibsen Studies, University of Oslo, where he was a member of the Ibsen Between Cultures project. He has been the Chair Professor of the Theatre Department at Hyderabad University, India, Associate Professor of Dramatic Arts at the University of Chittagong and Artistic Director of the Centre for Asian Theatre (CAT) in Dhaka. Kamaluddin has been a member of the jury for the International Ibsen Prize and a board member of the International Ibsen Committee. He has been a Research Fellow of the International Research Center “Interweaving Performance Cultures,” Freie Universität Berlin, and a fellow of the Indian Council for Cultural Relations (ICCR). He has published several research articles on intercultural approaches in theater practice. His transcultural adaptation NativePeer, based on Ibsen’s Peer Gynt, has been translated into Hindi, Urdu and Bangla. His directorial work ranges from classical to modern and contemporary plays, produced in different countries. He uses dramatic texts within a contemporary sociopolitical frame, and his artistic processes are about varying degrees of transformation. Peter Lichtenfels is Emeritus Professor of Theatre and Dramatic Art at the University of California, Davis. For many years he worked as a theater director in the UK and, more recently, in the US, Canada, Japan and China. As Artistic

xii Contributors Director of the Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh, he specialized in developing new dramatic writing, and as Executive Director at the Leicester Haymarket, he set up one of the UK’s leading international theaters. His most recent academic works include Shakespeare and Realism: On the Politics of Style (2018, coedited with J. Miller) and Sentient Performativities of Embodiment: Thinking Alongside the Human (2016, coedited with L. Hunter and E. Krimmer). Claudius Lünstedt teaches playwriting at Universität der Künste Berlin, where he was a visiting professor in 2014 and 2019. Born in Munich and educated at the Academy of Music and Theatre in Leipzig, he has published two dozen plays with Verlag der Autoren, Frankfurt am Main. Productions of his plays have been staged in Vienna, Berlin, Nuremberg and Dresden, among others, and he has held residencies in Paris, Tehran and Kyoto. He has won numerous awards for his plays, most recently the Golden Mask Award from Russia for his libretto Heiliger Franz. He also translates plays from French into German and works as a consultant for the International Forum of New Cinema at the Berlin Film Festival (Berlinale). Andrej Mirčev is a performance studies scholar, dramaturge and visual artist. He received his Ph.D. from Freie Universität Berlin. From 2017 to 2018 he was a fellow at the International Research Center “Interweaving Performance Cultures” in Berlin. His research focuses are spatial theory, archives, intermediality, critical theory and performance. His latest publications include Left Performance Histories (2018, coeditor) and Red People: Everything Divided (2019, coauthor). He is guest professor at the University of Arts and Design in Karlsruhe and associate lecturer at the Department of Stage Design, University of Arts Berlin and the Institute for Applied Theatre Studies in Gießen. David Moss, born in New York, has lived in Berlin since 1991. Drumming and singing shaped his life: first, his father’s drums, Bertoia sound sculptures and duos with the dancer Steve Paxton; later, singing in the Berlin Philharmonic, Lincoln Center, Carnegie Hall and at the Salzburg Festival. He has interpreted works by Johann Strauss, Bach and Coltrane as well as Luciano Berio, Carla Bley, Uri Caine and Helmut Oehring. In 2018, he received the German Music Authors’ Award for experimental voice and performed in Olga Neuwirth’s opera Lost Highway and in Frank Zappa’s Yellow Shark at the Venice Biennale. In 2019, he performed as a soloist in Xenakis’ AÏS in the Elbphilharmonie Hamburg, and in 2019–2020, in Heiner Goebbels’s Surrogate Cities in Taipei, Seattle, Bogota and Porto. Moss has received the Guggenheim and the DAAD Artist-in-Berlin scholarships and currently heads the Institute for Living Voice. He continues to present his own solo vocal programs internationally and to dream up physical and performative projects. Nanako Nakajima 中島那奈子 is a scholar, a pioneer of dance dramaturgy and a certified traditional Japanese dance master, Kannae Fujima. She is a Valeska Gert Visiting Professor (2019–2020) at Freie Universität Berlin. Her dramaturgy includes Luciana Achugar’s Exhausting Love at Danspace Project

Contributors  xiii (New York Dance and Performance Awards, a.k.a. the Bessies, 2006–2007), Koosil-ja’s mech[a]OUTPUT, Osamu Jareo’s Theater Thikwa plus Junkan Project, Ong Keng Sen’s OPEN WITH THE PUNK SPIRIT! Dance Archive Box, Dance Archive Boxes @TPAM2016 and Mengfan Wang’s WHEN MY CUE COMES, CALL ME, AND I WILL ANSWER at Wuzhen Theatre Festival, China, 2019. Nanako received the 2017 Special Commendation of Elliott Hayes Award for Outstanding Achievement in Dramaturgy from the Literary Managers and Dramaturgs of the Americas. Her most recent publications in English include The Aging Body in Dance: A Cross-Cultural Perspective (Routledge, 2017, coedited with G. Brandstetter), Anohni—My Truth, James Elaine, Peter Hujar, Kazuo Ohno (2017) and “The Outside of Butoh is the Inside of the Body: Ko Murobushi and the Process of Self-mummification,” TDR: The Drama Review 63, no. 3, T243 (Fall 2019): 74–93. Nanako has served as an issue editor for Performance Research 24, no. 2, “On Ageing (& Beyond)” (2019, coedited with R. Gough), and published her Japanese books including Oi to Odori (Aging and Dancing) (2019, coedited with K. Toyama). Her recently launched website is www​.dancedramaturgy.org. Kaite O’Reilly is a multi-award-winning poet, playwright and dramaturge, who writes for radio, screen and live performance. Her prizes include the Peggy Ramsay Award, the Manchester Theatre Award, the Theatre-Wales Award and the Ted Hughes Award for New Work in Poetry for Persians (National Theatre Wales). She was honored in 2017–2018 by the International Eliot Hayes Award for Outstanding Achievement in Dramaturgy for her work between Deaf and hearing cultures. She has received a Hawthornden Fellowship, four Unlimited commissions and two Creative Wales Major Awards from Arts Council Wales, the latter leading to The Beauty Parade, a performance at Wales Millennium Centre in March 2020, featuring spoken, sung, projected and visual languages, codirected with long-term collaborator Phillip Zarrilli. She is known for her pioneering work in disability culture and the aesthetics of access; her publications include The ‘d’ Monologues and Atypical Plays for Atypical Actors. Her first feature film goes into production with Mad as Birds Films in 2021. Her website is www​.kaiteoreilly​.com. Michael Roes was born in 1960 and is a novelist, poet, anthropologist and filmmaker with a focus on exchanges with foreign cultures. He studied philosophy, anthropology and psychology at Freie Universität Berlin and holds a diploma in psychology (1985) and a Ph.D. in philosophy (1991). He completed his Ph.D. thesis, a study on the sacrifice of sons (“Jizchak: Versuch über das Sohnesopfer,” 1991), in Berlin, and has conducted anthropological field research in Israel and the Palestinian territories (1987, 1991), Yemen (1993– 1994) and the US (on Native Americans in New York State 1996–1997). He was a Fellow at the Institute for Advanced Studies in Budapest (1994– 1995) and has held a guest professorship at the Central European University, Budapest (2004; 2005–2006). He has drawn inspiration from a diverse range of cultures in his work, including Native American culture, featured in the novel

xiv Contributors Der Coup der Berdache; contemporary China in Die Fünf Farben Schwarz; and the Islamic world in Leeres Viertel, Weg nach Timimoun, Nah Inverness and Geschichte der Freundschaft. Christel Weiler joined the faculty of the Theater and Performance Studies Department at Freie Universität Berlin in 1996, together with Erika FischerLichte. From 2008 to 2017, she held the position of Program Director at the International Research Center “Interweaving Performance Cultures,” where she now serves as Senior Adviser. Her research interests focus on interweaving performance cultures, specifically with regard to performance analysis, acting and aesthetics. S. E. Wilmer is Professor Emeritus of Drama at Trinity College Dublin and was recently a Research Fellow at the International Research Center “Interweaving Performance Cultures” at Freie Universität Berlin. Formerly Head of the School of Drama, Film and Music at Trinity College Dublin, he has been a Visiting Professor at Stanford University and the University of California at Berkeley and served as editor-in-chief of the Nordic Theatre Studies journal. In addition to writing plays, he has written and edited more than 20 books including Theatre, Society and the Nation (2002) and Interrogating Antigone in Postmodern Philosophy and Criticism (2010). His most recent books are Performing Statelessness in Europe (2018) and Deleuze, Guattari and the Art of Multiplicity (2020). He is currently coediting (with Yana Meerzon) the Handbook on Theatre and Migration, which is due to be published in 2022. Hana Worthen is an Associate Professor of Theatre and Performance Studies at Barnard College, Columbia University in New York; she also serves as an Associate Director of Barnard’s Center for Translation Studies. Her publications include Humanism, Drama, Performance: Unwriting Theatre (2020), Playing Nordic: The Women of Niskavuori, Agri/Culture, and Imagining Finland on the Third Reich Stage (2007), the coedited anthology Finland’s Holocaust: Silences of History (2013) and scholarly articles appearing in major professional journals such as Contemporary Theatre Review, TDR: The Drama Review, Modern Drama, Theatre Journal, Theatre Topics and East European Jewish Affairs. Her current scholarship takes up the intersections between theater/performance humanism and critical posthumanism, human/animal rights and interspecies ethics, and transmedia and multimedia performance/ theater.

Acknowledgments

We would like to thank the German Federal Ministry of Education and Research (BMBF) as well as the Freie Universität Berlin for supporting the International Research Center “Interweaving Performance Cultures.” Without their backing, this book could not have been completed. Our special thanks go to all the contributors to this book: we are deeply grateful for their inspiring research, for their enthusiasm to engage in stimulating discussions and for their reliability throughout the process of this book’s creation. Furthermore, we wish to thank the artists Michael Roes, Amos Elkana, Claudius Lünstedt, and David Moss: we are deeply grateful for their permission to print their works and delighted to present them in this book’s Interlude and Coda—not least thanks to the book designer Anna Bakalovic, who helped us in preparing their contributions for print. Moreover, we would like to thank Claudia Daseking, the Center’s financial and operations manager, for her tireless assistance. Thanks also go to the Center’s student assistants Naomi Boyce, Antonija Cvitic, Christina Handke, and Clara Molau for their diligent editorial (and also translation) work. They facilitated the process of preparing the book’s manuscript significantly. Last and certainly not least we wish to thank Saskya Iris Jain, Omid Soltani, and Milos Kosic not only for their excellent proofreading but also for their unfaltering support and advice. Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler, and Torsten Jost Berlin Fall 2020

Introduction Dramaturgies of interweaving: Engaging audiences in an entangled world Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost

Since the beginning of the new millennium, an astonishing number of books on dramaturgy has been published.1 Reading the introductions and forewords to these books often leaves the reader with the impression that, before the new millennium, dramaturgy was mainly concerned with dramatic texts and the ways and means of how to stage them, and that with today’s new, post-textual practices of doing theater, the very concept of dramaturgy will have to undergo a redefinition.2 This line of argument is rather misleading, not least because, strictly speaking, dramaturgies of previous centuries never dealt exclusively with texts.3 Moreover, this argument confuses the practice(s) with the concept of dramaturgy. In this volume, we proceed from the basic assumption that 1. the practice of dramaturgy can generally be defined as different methods for opening up specific possibilities for spectators, visitors, participants, etc. to relate to the “texture” of performative proceedings they are invited to perceive and to engage with; and 2. the concept of dramaturgy has been used with surprising consistence—ever since Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (1729–1781) developed it in the mideighteenth century—to signal, announce, describe, organize and theorize practices and processes of innovation (and sometimes even of radical transformation) in the existing method(s) of relating the audiences to whatever performative situation they are invited to perceive or engage with—first, of course, in the context of European theater, but later also in different intra- and transcultural contexts. “Dramaturgy” is derived from the Greek term δραματουργία (dramaturgia). The first evidence of its usage is found in Geographica (Book I, Chapter II, section 27) by the Greek philosopher Strabo (63 BCE–26 CE), where it refers to the cause or structure of Euripides’s Phaeton. Although Aristotle did not use the term, his explanations on the structure of dramatic works and on the effects of tragedies on spectators can be read and understood as dramaturgy avant la lettre. He defined the aim of tragedy as arousing in the spectator έλεος (eleos) and ϕοβος (phobos), pity and fear, which would lead to κᾰ́θᾰρσῐς (katharsis), a purification of the affects. In fact, catharsis is a concept borrowed from medicine and thus implies a

2  Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost process of healing. The dramaturgical practices Aristotle describes in his Poetics refer to the dramatic characters as well as to the structure of tragedy, which, in his view, would be able to bring about the desired effect. As is the case with many performance-related concepts, there is no “equivalent” for the original Greek concept in other languages, since modern translations of the terms, such as the German Dramaturgie, mean something rather different. However, that is not to say that there are no concepts that are related to projected audience responses or to dramaturgical devices, such as the structure of the performance, that would lead to such responses. The Korean term imyeon, for instance, literally means “inside” or “inner meaning.” As a concept related to pansori, it references the layers of meaning within a performance as a very special relationship between the performers and the spectators: “The performer and the audience together unfold ‘inner meaning’ through a focused, nuanced understanding of voice/sound and how it behaves within the dramaturgical aesthetics of a performance.”4 The Japanese concept of jo-ha-kyū might serve as another example here. It indicates structural units of a play or program as well as different tempi. In Zeami’s (1363–1443) writings on nō theater, jo refers to the introduction, ha to the development and kyū to the resolution. With reference to a day’s nō program, he calls the first and second play jo, the third, fourth and fifth, taken together as a unit, ha and the final piece kyū. Jo plays are relatively slow and simple and of a congratulatory nature. […] Ha plays, the centerpieces of a program, “break” the jo mood, have a leisurely tempo […] and have plots and staging more complex than those of jo plays. […] Kyū plays […] are climatic, having a quicker tempo, powerful moves and lively dancing. Zeami insisted on there being no more than one kyū play.5 These two examples may suffice to demonstrate that dramaturgical reflections and related concepts have been guiding the theories and practices of performance in different cultures. Magda Romanska provides an instructive overview regarding the importance of dramaturgy in a whole range of performance cultures.6 In their introduction to New Dramaturgy: International Perspectives on Theory and Practice (2014), Katalin Trencsényi and Bernadette Cochrane argue that contemporary practices of doing theater “share three characteristics: they are post-mimetic, they embrace interculturalism and they are process-conscious.”7 None of these characteristics are entirely new. In fact, they all have rather long histories, and they do not apply to all performances across the world but mostly to certain kinds of performances in specific cultures. In the context of this book, which was conceived at the International Research Center for Advanced Studies on “Interweaving Performance Cultures” at Freie Universität Berlin, the second characteristic seems the most interesting: embracing interculturalism.8

Introduction  3 This book sets out to critically investigate present-day dramaturgies that are the results of or aim at interweaving different intra- or intercultural performance cultures. This means that it explores a particular practice that we will call dramaturgies of interweaving. Dramaturgies of interweaving can be broadly defined as methods of involving/relating audiences to events that merge—in hitherto unprecedented ways—devices and strategies developed in different intra- and intercultural contexts. Of course, not all practices and processes of interweaving performance cultures necessarily bring forth new dramaturgies, i.e. new methods of relating audiences to performative events. Yet often they do, and this book is dedicated precisely to those cases: it aims to explore critically—from various perspectives and on the basis of case studies from around the world—how and with what goals, problems and results dramaturgies of interweaving are developed today. As a matter of fact, in all performance cultures—which, of course, seldom align with the borders of modern nation-states—the ways and means in and by which bodies, objects and/or spaces are prepared for an audience are strongly influenced or even determined by traditional dramaturgical models and established dramaturgical conventions, which are themselves often the result of historical processes of interweaving between performance cultures. Stories are told differently in Japanese kabuki, in Chinese xiqu or in German Regietheater. Audiences are expected to respond differently to contemporary Yorùbá theater, to kathakali in India or to US hip-hop theater. Aesthetic experience is not only conceived differently but also induced by different means in the contexts of traditional European opera and Korean pansori. Current practices of developing artistic performances differ greatly between a state-funded theater system, as it exists in Germany, and a privately financed theater system, as is prevalent in the United States. But what happens when performers, educated and trained in different performance cultures, collaborate? When audiences become more diverse and, therefore, their expectations, habits of perception and appreciation less familiar and predictable? What happens when well-established dramaturgical forms of (re)presentation are no longer understood or perhaps even considered offensive because the composition of the audience has changed? The chapters in this book seek to provide a diversity of answers to these questions, by exploring examples of contemporary dramaturgies of interweaving from around the globe. In order for readers to be better able to assess the changes and innovations brought about by today’s abundance of dramaturgies of interweaving, it seems helpful to first provide an overview of their history.

A short history of dramaturgies of interweaving Dramaturgies of interweaving are by no means an invention of the new millennium. They were common long before the concept of dramaturgy as we use it today was defined by Alexander G. Baumgarten and Gotthold E. Lessing in the eighteenth century. Many cultures have a long history of adapting practices from other performance cultures in order to transform the way audiences relate to performative events: in Japan during the Nara period (646–784), for example, the

4  Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost elegant court dance bugaku and the didactic Buddhist dance gigaku came into being, following the models of Chinese and Korean dance and music performances. Masters from these countries were invited to the imperial court at Nara to teach their art to Japanese youths. Vice versa, Japanese students traveled to the courts of Silla and Tang in order to be taught there by Korean and Chinese masters. Such practices of interweaving performance cultures did not always result in the emergence of new dramaturgies. Yet new dramaturgical developments within performance cultures were often sparked by encounters with another one that provided a fresh impetus for change. This is not the place to retell this history at great length. Nevertheless, a brief sketch of the history of dramaturgies of interweaving might be helpful in assessing the achievements of the contemporary examples that are explored in this volume. The history of European theater is replete with examples of dramaturgies being interwoven. In the early seventeenth century, English, Dutch and Italian acting companies traveled all over the continent, presenting and exchanging their plays, acting styles, techniques and lazzi. In France, Molière created a new form of comic theater by combining traditional French farce with elements of the commedia dell’arte: while he adapted complete Italian scenarios (as in L’Étourdi and Le Dépit amoureux, both 1659) on the one hand, he systematically expanded the scope of certain “types” such as Sganarelle or Scapin on the other, and continuously used related techniques up to Le Malade imaginaire (1672). Jean Racine, celebrated for bringing classical French theater to its zenith, took recourse to Greek tragic theater. He studied Greek tragedies in the original and used them productively for creating a new—known today as “classical”—dramaturgy with his tragedies La Thébaïde (1664), Iphigénie (1674) and Phèdre (1677). We could call this a “productive reception”9 or just a process of dramaturgical interweaving avant la lettre, because in all of these examples the interweaving of performance cultures went hand in hand with the creation of hitherto unprecedented possibilities for spectators to relate to the proceedings they were invited to perceive. This kind of a “productive reception” entered a new stage in Europe when Johann Wolfgang von Goethe proclaimed the beginning of the era of Weltliteratur (world literature) as a prerequisite for Welttheater (world theater). His agenda for his Weimar Theater was to confront its spectators with performances of plays from other cultures––with Weltliteratur. Homi K. Bhabha explains Goethe’s concept as follows: Weltliteratur is as much about the necessity of working with “foreignness” of language and culture as it is about understanding “foreign relations” in an age in which the sovereignty of the “nation” is in a phase of transition, insipience, or displacement. The essay (on Weltliteratur) reflects on international and intranational relations by emphasizing the priority of interculturality, cultural translation and performance.10 The interwoven repertoire of Goethe’s theater in Weimar comprised plays by Shakespeare, Calderón, Corneille, Racine, Molière, Voltaire, Gozzi and Goldoni: their “foreignness” was moderated not only by translating them into German but

Introduction  5 also by adapting them to the scenic conventions of the Weimar stage and partly even to the moral norms of the Weimar audience. Goethe’s practice of adaptation, however, was not meant to eliminate “foreignness” completely, as it was essential to his innovative approach to dramaturgy. It was only meant to cautiously and indeed strategically tone it down, so that his Weimar audience would not run out of his theater in shock but would instead learn to relate to and even to appreciate the theater’s new dramaturgy. In a letter to Caroline von Wolzogen, Goethe explained his dramaturgy of interweaving with reference to his production of Romeo and Juliet: My motto was to distill all that is interesting [in the play] and make it harmonious, because Shakespeare, in accordance with his genius, his times and his audience, was allowed to—and in fact had to—stage a disharmonious ruckus in order to meet the prevalent standards of theater-making.11 This way, Goethe developed a multilayered dramaturgy of interweaving by a) incorporating plays from other cultures into the interwoven repertoire of his Weimar Theater and b) by carefully transferring and adapting them to his stage. In a letter to Georg Friedrich Sartorius, he writes the following about his production of Calderón’s The Constant Prince: “This time we staged a play written almost 200 years ago in a completely different part of the world for a completely differently educated people with such freshness, as if it just came hot out of the oven.”12 While in the previous examples—such as Molière’s invention of a new comic theater—the new dramaturgies developed through practices of interweaving aimed at meeting and pleasing the expectations and tastes of the dominant social class attending the theater, Goethe intentionally challenged his bourgeois audience. His small, provincial Weimar Theater was meant to contribute to the Bildung of its spectators by acquainting them systematically with the—in his view—most important plays of other cultures. In other words, the Weimar Theater was meant to transform the spectators, albeit without risking alienating and, thus, losing them. The Weimar Theater was to act as a kind of “trading center” for the Bildungs-goods of other nations and, this way, to fulfill similar purposes to the ones Goethe ascribed quite generally to translations: I brought in these two strange figures (Cellini and Diderot) so that we may become aware of the most alien within the sphere of our fatherland. If you read them in the original, they appear so different and force us to enter utterly alien realms in order to even somewhat enjoy and apply them; translations, however, go in our favor, for they bring the most far-away goods to us as in a trade fair.13 Through the process of spectating, the spectators were to acquire Bildung. It was meant to allow the audience “to develop the total of … [their] sensual and intellectual powers in the highest possible harmony,”14 as Schiller, who worked as dramaturge at the Weimar Theater, wrote in his On the Aesthetic Education of Man (1795). This aim required—beyond the inclusion of adapted plays from

6  Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost other cultures—an anti-mimetic dramaturgy of detachment. Goethe insisted that all the elements of a performance should fit together: So the diverse elements involved in creating this new performance are as follows: 1) stage design, 2) recitation and declamation, 3) physical movement, 4) the effect of the costumes, 5) music […] All this will be concluded with 6) a tableau.15 Goethe identified the “musical” and the “painterly” as the overall principles of a production that characterize its dramaturgy. This means that Goethe emphasized the importance of elements in his dramaturgy that have little to do with the dramatic text. In line with this, he declares in his Rules for Actors, “§35 To begin with, the actor should keep in mind that he is not to merely imitate nature but also to imagine it in its ideal form so that, through his acting, he may reconcile truth with beauty.”16 In other words, neither the dramatic text nor the acting ideal of being “true to nature” per se determined the dramaturgy of the performance. Rather, it was realized as a particular relationship between all elements involved in the performance, so that together they formed an aesthetic whole—an autonomous work of art. This way, the interwoven and anti-mimetic dramaturgy of the Weimar Theater strove to enable the spectators to adopt an attitude of serene detachment and aesthetic pleasure, thus contributing to their Bildung. Goethe believed that, under the given circumstances, this would be possible only with performances of European plays, although he was determined to also include Weltliteratur. He had read the Indian play Sakuntala by Kalidasa, translated by Georg Foster in 1791, and was deeply impressed by it. As he confessed, reading it had “the greatest impact on his whole life.”17 He expressed his admiration in the famous distich: Wouldst thou the young year’s blossoms and the fruits of its decline/ And all by which the soul is charmed, enraptured, feasted, fed,/ Wouldst thou the earth and heaven itself in one sole name combine?/ I name thee, O Sakuntala! and all at once is said.18 Goethe’s enthusiasm for the play left its imprint on his own dramatic writing, for example with his “Prelude in the Theater” in Faust. However, he was hesitant to adapt the play for his Weimar stage and to incorporate it into its interwoven repertoire. With deep regret he stated that “our sentiments, customs and mentality differ so greatly from those of this eastern nation that only few among us […] will understand such a significant work.”19 In spite of Goethe’s program of Weltliteratur/Welttheater, and to his own dismay, its realization on the Weimar stage was restricted to European theater traditions.20 This changed at the beginning of the twentieth century. In Europe, Edward Gordon Craig, Vsevolod Meyerhold, Alexander Tairov and Antonin Artaud justified their ideas of a non-literary, non-psychological, non-mimetic dramaturgy—i.e.

Introduction  7 a re-theatricalized theater—by taking recourse to Japanese, Chinese and Balinese theater forms. William Butler Yeats and Bertolt Brecht developed new dramaturgies of interweaving by taking recourse to Japanese theater forms. Max Reinhardt introduced new spatial dramaturgies of interweaving by transferring to his theater devices from Japanese kabuki, such as the revolving stage (in his 1905 production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream) and the hanamachi (in his 1910 pantomime Sumurun). In 1910, Meyerhold hired Japanese acrobats to teach his actors a new art of gesture and movement. He continuously refers to Japanese and Chinese theater in his writings from 1912–1913 onward, taking them as models for a new dramaturgy that would openly display the art of theater as based on conventions. This way, the spectators should be prevented from empathizing and from responding to the stage proceedings as if they were a copy of social reality. In 1914, Tairov opened his new Kammertheater with a production of Sakuntala, using costumes and gestures adapted from a few Indian theater forms he had read about. What Goethe had regarded as an obstacle impeding the play’s performability—its “foreignness”—was Tairov’s reason for staging it. Jacques Copeau asked Suzanne Bing to rehearse the nō-play Kantan (1924) with the students of the acting school at the Théâtre du Vieux-Colombier in order to develop a new acting style. In contrast to the preceding naturalistic dramaturgies, these new dramaturgies of interweaving did not demand—nor indeed allowed—empathy on the side of the spectators. Rather, they challenged the spectators to develop new ways or even “methods” of perceiving and responding—different, however, in each case. During the historical avant-garde, the discussion on new dramaturgies drew its most important arguments from examples of non-European, mostly various Asian theater forms, which were known from reports as well as from the rare guest tours of Japanese and Chinese theater artists: between 1900 and 1902, Kawakami Otojirō and his troupe, starring his wife Sadayakkō, performed in London, Paris, Berlin, St. Petersburg and other places. The Japanese dancer Hanako visited Berlin, Paris and London between 1907 and 1908. The kabuki troupe of Ichikawa Sadanji II gave guest performances in Russia in 1928, and Tsutsui Tokujirō’s troupe toured Western Europe in 1930–1931. The famous jingju star Mei Lanfang visited Moscow in 1935. These guest tours left their imprint on the developments of new dramaturgies in Europe. In the fall of 1930, Tsutsui’s troupe gave guest performances in Berlin. In his review, the critic Herbert Ihering compares Brecht’s theater to Tsutsui’s: [B]ut we ourselves see the attempts on the German stage in a different light when we see them against the backdrop of the great presentation and the great achievements of Japanese theatre. We recognize what many of our experiments, such as Brecht’s attempts, are aiming at. Not the individual disintegration of the art of the stage but the creation of a fundamental style, a fundamental position, a form, a tradition.21 In fact, after the guest performances of the Japanese troupe, Brecht—for his Berlin production of Mann ist Mann (Man is Man) on 26 February 1931—adapted two

8  Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost dramaturgical devices that he had come to appreciate thanks to the performance of Tsutsui’s troupe: first, he used different masks in order to characterize different emotional or developmental states of a dramatic character. Second, the change from one state to another was performed by hiding behind a cloth—in Brecht’s case, behind a tabletop. In his note titled Über die japanische Schauspieltechnik (On the Japanese Technique of Acting), which Brecht jotted down after Tsutsui’s guest performance, he writes, The attempt shall be made to probe certain elements of a foreign art of acting for their applicability. This attempt will be made within the very specific context of our own theater, wherein our own art of acting is not able to tackle its tasks (new tasks). These are tasks assigned to the art of acting by epic drama. The abovementioned foreign technique has been tackling similar tasks for a long time—similar, not the same. In other words, a certain technique is to be detached and transported away from its highly essential conditions and subjected to fundamentally different conditions […]. The Japanese art of acting of course can be meaningful to us only to the extent that it informs our problems.22 In a way, Brecht understood the particular style of acting of Tsutsui’s troupe23 as a kind of Verfremdungseffekt (effect of estrangement). The actor has to demonstrate something to the spectators and, no matter how he acts, he is never allowed to give up the attitude of someone who is merely and dispassionately providing information. This is the condition under which the V-effect—the effect of estrangement— can occur: “The estrangement of a process or a character initially only means to take away what is obvious, familiar, reasonable about a process or a character and thus create a sense of wonder and curiosity.”24 The dramaturgy of the V-effect required a new kind of acting as well as a new way of dealing with space, lighting, costumes and props, specifically in order to stimulate a new kind of perception by the spectators. The new dramaturgical devices demanded a spectator who—“smoking a cigarette,” as Brecht famously envisioned—would lean back in their seat impassively to critically reflect on what they are perceiving. All these European directors made ample use of devices taken from Japanese, Chinese, Balinese and other, mostly various Asian theater forms, specifically in order to develop new methods of addressing and engaging their spectators. They all developed their own dramaturgies of interweaving––yet in other ways and to other ends than what happened in the last decades of the twentieth century, as will be explained later. This approach was, in fact, a two-way street, and comparable discussions and transformations were carried out by Japanese and Chinese theater artists at around the same time. Once Japan opened its doors to the West in 1868, dramatic literature from Europe was introduced and, shortly thereafter, a new form of theater called shinpa (literally, new style) emerged. The advocates of shinpa were dissatisfied with traditional Japanese theater forms such as nō and kabuki, deeming

Introduction  9 them unsuited for conveying stage realism and portraying current events. As theater scholar Liu Siyuan explains, shinpa was characterized by a hybrid acting style, […] through extensive borrowing of kabuki conventions to form its own stylized movement, speech, singing, dancing, and female impersonation. […] Furthermore, their adaptations of European plays were mostly melodramas, with Victorien Sardou […] at the top of the list.25 The most successful—and experimental—pioneer of shinpa was unquestionably Kawakami Otojirō (1864–1911). In 1903, after various foreign tours with his wife, the famous actress Kawakami Sadayakkō (1871–1946), he developed shinpa’s interwoven dramaturgy even further: He had a leading lady in his wife Sadayakko, while shimpa’s leading players of female roles were still male. He also created an unfamiliar atmosphere in the auditorium. He avoided using the hanamichi walkway, still a standard feature of theatre architecture, and his scenery, and especially lighting with its revolutionary use of coloured gels, suggested more a foreign theatre experience than a Japanese one. He called this seigeki (“correct theatre” [...]).26 Thus, seigeki’s interwoven dramaturgy opened up totally new possibilities for audiences to relate to the stage proceedings. Kawakami’s first seigeki production was a free adaptation of Shakespeare’s Othello in 1903, set in Japan and its new colony Taiwan: “A huge success, it was followed later in the year by the trial scene of The Merchant of Venice and Hamlet.”27 Two Japanese intellectuals who had studied European drama at university were not impressed by Kawakami’s theatrical experiments and soon developed a new style of spoken theater—shingeki (literally, new theater). In 1906, Tsubouchi Shōyō (1859–1935), a professor at Tokyo’s prestigious Waseda University, founded the Bungei Kyōkai (Literary Society) for spreading Western drama, followed by an acting school in 1909, in which the study of Shakespeare and Ibsen played a major role. The other pioneer was Osanai Kaoru (1881–1928), who was a student at Tokyo’s Imperial University at the time. Both were highly educated, and their activities in the theatre signaled that shingeki would be the thinking person’s theatre […] where audiences went to learn, to be made to think, and to watch—through translated drama—foreign characters interacting on a personal level in ways not at all common yet in Japanese society.28 Osanai founded the Jiyō Gekijō (Free Stage), together with the famous kabuki actor Ichikawa Sadanji II, following the models of André Antoine’s Théâtre Libre and Otto Brahm’s Freie Bühne. It opened on 27 November 1909 in a theater called the Yurakuza, modeled on Reinhardt’s Kammerspiele in Berlin. The opening performance was Ibsen’s John Gabriel Borkman. This was the beginning of

10  Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost a long-standing Ibsen reception in Japan. Shortly thereafter, in November 1911, Tsubouchi presented A Doll’s House in his theater. The production was very successful, mainly because of the actress Matsui Sumako (1886–1919), who had received her training at Tsubouchi’s school and who practiced an uncompromising psychological-realistic acting style. The shingeki movement disapproved of shinpa’s interwoven approach, deeming it too focused on entertainment and the brilliance of individual actors, among other things. Instead, it “pursued a canonical path of Western theatre through faithful translations, realistic performance, and director-centric (as opposed to performer-centric) production conventions.” Eventually, shingeki went on to “claim the sole mantle of modern Japanese theatre.”29 Shinpa and shingeki had a considerable influence on Chinese students and political refugees living in Japan. Hence, a similar development soon began in China. In 1906, three Chinese art students, Li Shutong (1880–1942), Zeng Xiaogu (1873–1936) and Huang Ernan (1883–1971), founded the Chunliu She (Spring Willow Society) in Tokyo, which aimed to introduce spoken theater—later called huaju—to China. Because shinpa “happened to be the more mature form in 1906, when the Spring Willow Society was formed […], this hybrid genre was far more influential for the Chinese students.”30 The Spring Willow Society’s initial success in Tokyo was due to their adaptations of La Dame aux Camélias by Alexandre Dumas fils (11 February 1907),31 Harriet Beecher-Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin (1 June 1907)32 and Victorien Sardou’s La Tosca (1909),33 all of which featured interwoven dramaturgies. In the decade after 1907, numerous theater artists in Shanghai—such as Wang Zhongsheng, Lu Jingruo, Ren Tianzhi and Zheng Zhengqiu—were inspired by the Spring Willow Society’s success in Tokyo and worked hard to introduce spoken theater to China. They contributed to the emergence of a rather short-lived theater form called wenmingxi, which was known simply as xinju (new drama)34 in contrast to the indigenous jiuju (old drama) and which combined elements of Western spoken theater and opera, Japanese shinpa and traditional Chinese theater forms. Of all of these, Zheng Zhengqiu (1888–1935) was commercially the most successful.35 Having worked as a jingju critic, Zheng was well familiar with the Chinese audiences’ preferences. For his most successful wenmingxi production, An Evil Family (1914), he wrote the play himself: An Evil Family was one of the most popular plays of wenmingxi’s commercial boom […]. Several reasons contributed to its success: […] the play’s focus on domestic melodrama, a topic familiar to the Shanghai theatre audience; its reliance on a meandering narrative structure with twists and turns similar to traditional theatre and popular novels; and a serialization format that spread the production over five cliff-hanger-filled nights and ensured returning spectatorship.36 In the early 1920s, wenmingxi experienced a crisis. A new generation of theater practitioners became convinced of “the incompatibility between

Introduction  11 modern spoken theatre and wenmingxi’s hybridity, especially its adoption of jingju conventions, all-male casting, scenarios and improvisation, and commercial theatre.”37 The members of the May Fourth Movement (1919) took Ibsen’s plays as a model—A Doll’s House and An Enemy of the People acquired special significance. Hu Shi, who translated A Doll’s House, wrote of Ibsen, “Ibsen describes the actual relationships within domestic life, and thereby shocks the audience into realizing how dark and rotten the foundations of domestic life really are. He inspires those caught in domesticity to revolution and renovation. This is Ibsenism.”38 Whereas the interwoven dramaturgy of wenmingxi aimed at entertaining Chinese audiences in hitherto unprecedented ways, performances of Ibsen’s plays based on a dramaturgy of psychological realism and under Chinese social conditions were supposed to render the spectators conscious of their atrocious social and political circumstances and to encourage their revolutionary spirit. The interculturalism of the European as well as of the Japanese and Chinese avant-garde was in most cases not interested in theater forms of “the Other” per se but in breaking with their own traditions and in designing new dramaturgies— through interweaving—that would mirror the completely changed political, social and cultural conditions. They appropriated particular elements—or even complete dramaturgies—of other theater traditions in order to use them for their own aims and purposes. As Brecht said with respect to the Japanese kabuki devices that he transferred to his stage, “their Japanese-ness […] is irrelevant in this context.”39 The situation in Africa and on the Indian subcontinent during the first half of the twentieth century was different as a result of colonialism. Although traditional local performance genres continued and partly did not change much, English—and in Africa also French and Portuguese—theater forms were imposed as models. Yet, in both cases, new dramaturgies of interweaving, which had been developed approximately from the beginning of the twentieth century onward, served as weapons against colonialism. In Bombay, Indians attended the English theater from 1821 onward. Melodramas, so popular among British audiences, were similarly well received by the Indian public. Drawing on this theatrical form, a new form of Indian theater came into being in the second half of the nineteenth century––the so-called Parsi theater, founded and principally performed by Parsis, which toured towns in northern India until 1940. Its performances, too, featured a dramaturgy of interweaving: the proscenium arch and painted backdrop were borrowed from English theater, as were the fantastical sound effects, storm and battle scenes, explosions and all the necessary machinery, the front curtain, tableaux and choral singing at the beginning and close of the performance. The dance sections originated in Indian dance traditions and the songs were mostly directly lifted from different regional musical traditions. The themes of the plays were taken from Parsi romances as well as Hindu legends and mythology. Such a dramaturgy of interweaving was realized as a kind of resistance against the colonizers.40 While Parsi theater addressed the middle class, the Progressive Writers’ Association of India (PWA) as well as the Indian People’s Theatre Association (IPTA) developed an

12  Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost openly anti-colonial theater for farmers and workers in the 1930s and 1940s by taking recourse to different traditional folk performance genres.41 In African countries, including Kenya, Nigeria and Ghana, for example, schools run by missionaries and colonial authorities promoted European theater of the nineteenth century as the prime model and pitted it against traditional performance forms. This nevertheless led to a surge in interwoven dramaturgies. Beginning in the 1920s, for instance, the so-called concert party was established in many towns in West Africa. It combined an eclectic array of cultural influences: “Performers appropriated material from American movies, Latin gramophone records, African American spirituals, Ghanaian asafo, and ‘highlife’ songs. They wore minstrel makeup inspired by Al Jolson and played a trickster similar to the famous Ananse character of Ghanaian storytelling.”42 The concert party dealt with themes of contemporary life and its problems43 and eventually began to serve as an effective instrument of the anti-colonial movement.44 In Nigeria, a Yorùbá traveling theater emerged alongside the concert parties, touring the rural areas. It grew out of the cantata and choral work of the Christian Church during the 1930s and 1940s. The performances were in Yorùbá, the acting was set to traditional music, and the dance forms as well as acting style drew heavily on movements in traditional ceremonies and forms of traditional comic theater.45 As different as the situation in India and many African countries was, the newly developed dramaturgies of interweaving in both cases eventually also served the purpose to undermine and even actively fight colonialism. It is not the place here to rehearse the history of the diverse dramaturgies of so-called “intercultural theater” performances after World War II and particularly since the 1980s when their number increased sharply in many parts of the world. This history is closely related to the history of international theater festivals that mushroomed at approximately the same time all over the world. At the Frankfurt edition of the German international festival Theater der Welt (Theater of the World) in 1985, for instance, Peter Brook’s Mahabharata, Robert Wilson’s Knee Plays (choreographed by Hanayagi Suzushi) and Suzuki Tadashi’s Three Sisters, Trojan Women and Clytemnestra were presented––the first in a huge empty train depot, the latter four at the Frankfurt Schauspielhaus. The Knee Plays by Wilson/Hanayagi featured as the festival’s opening performance. It makes sense at this point to distinguish between the dramaturgies of the individual productions and the overall dramaturgy of the festival. The latter was “supposed to prove the necessity of theater in the new media age”: “The value of theater art lies in its liveliness and immediacy.”46 It therefore followed a unified principle, namely to demonstrate the “topicality of contemporary theater and its effect in the field of the artistic innovation of forms.”47 As a result, artists were chosen with their productions if their “work [had] long been marked by a will to be conceptual and to bring this to fruition.”48 The productions by Brook, Wilson/ Hanayagi and Suzuki were invited according to the same criteria as those by Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker, Jan Fabre or the New York Squat Theater, which

Introduction  13 at an individual level followed completely different dramaturgical and aesthetic principles. What Brook’s and Suzuki’s productions––the products of decade-long experimentations—had in common was that they used a text from another culture as a means to demonstrate the effectiveness of the dramaturgies and, in particular, of the acting styles they had developed. In the case of Brook, this text was an Indian epic and a religious text, and in Suzuki’s case, Greek tragedies and a Chekhov play, i.e. texts that were part of a Western canon, which, however, had been part of shingeki’s repertoire for quite some time. In both cases, the performances followed dramaturgies that allowed the spectators to attribute the different elements to the cultures of their “origin” and to appreciate—or not—their particular combination. The Western critics and audiences were deeply impressed by these productions. Suzuki also won much acclaim in Japan. Brook, however, was heavily attacked by Indian critics and scholars for having appropriated the Indian epic and—as a member of the former colonizer’s nation—for failing to see that he was simply not authorized to use it for his own purposes. It was not primarily the dramaturgy of the performance that was judged harshly, i.e. whether or not it appealed to the spectators, but the very fact that Brook had appropriated a text outside of his cultural heritage without being authorized to do so.49 In the postcolonial context—rather different from the historical avant-garde—this triggered a debate that was focused on cultural ownership and appropriation. By the 2017 edition of Theater der Welt in Hamburg, the situation had changed completely. The festival’s very existence was meant as a manifesto against a zeitgeist that spreads fear and erects walls. It opened with a speech by the African philosopher Achille Mbembe, titled “Negative Messianism and the Ethics of the Consequences.”50 Hamburg’s harbor provided the main performance space—“a place of early colonial and current globalization, a place of transit and transition, of hope, fleeing and migration.”51 The festival center was erected on the Baakenhöft peninsula. The festival was inaugurated with a performance of Children of Gods by the Samoan director Lemi Ponifasio at the old Kakao-Speicher, a huge, empty cocoa warehouse. It was conceived for this very space. The ship MS Stubnitz, at anchor at Baakenhöft, served as another performance space. The peninsula’s shore provided the site for the Brazilian artist Christiane Jatahy’s installation Moving People, featuring a crane with a container suspended from it that contained people—immigrants and travelers coming to Hamburg for different reasons. They told their stories inside the container. Another performance consisted of a boat trip on the rivers Alster and Elbe to meet people working at the harbor. In total, there were over 16 locations all over the city where festival events took place. The productions hailed from all five continents and more than 20 countries. The festival’s dramaturgy followed the motto “think global, act local.” The 44 productions of the main program all realized a dramaturgy of their own, adding up to an impressive diversity of dramaturgies—quite often dramaturgies of interweaving. Fascinatingly, the festival’s overarching dramaturgy did not encourage visitors to attribute the individual performances’ dramaturgies to particular

14  Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost cultures or nations, as had still been the case with the 1985 Frankfurt edition, but only to particular productions and individual artists/performance collectives. By showcasing such a breathtaking multitude of dramaturgies of interweaving, the festival demonstrated that the development of dramaturgies through practices of interweaving performance cultures had advanced—in this environment of the new millennium’s fast-tracked globalization—to a widespread artistic practice of theater/performance making that can no longer be ignored. By dispelling the belief that interwoven dramaturgies are created only by some experimental or “avant-garde” star directors with tremendous cultural and financial capital, the festival created awareness for the fact that such dramaturgies have been and continue to be created all over the world, contributing not to a homogenization but to a pluralization of theater aesthetics, which can react to political and social conflicts and problems, both on a global and a local scale. This brief historical overview allows us to draw certain conclusions: it demonstrates that, over the last two millennia, dramaturgies of interweaving resulted from very different kinds of encounters between (performance) cultures, and that they served different aesthetic, cultural, social and political purposes and aims. What connects these diverse examples is the shared goal and labor of performance-makers to develop—through practices of interweaving—hitherto unprecedented ways of meaningfully relating spectators (or visitors, participants, etc.) to events. That is to say, dramaturgies of interweaving are by no means a “new” phenomenon or a “Western” invention: they were—and still are—developed all over the world whenever and wherever performance-makers had or have the chance to encounter or learn about culturally different styles, methods, protocols and procedures of addressing and involving audiences. This does not mean, however, that all artists mentioned in this short history knew about and consciously applied the concept of dramaturgy. This was indeed not the case. Goethe, Schiller and possibly a few more—though certainly not all—protagonists of the historical avant-garde movements in Europe can serve as examples here. Yet, in order to allow and facilitate transcultural research, we deliberately use the term as a heuristic tool for all our examples from different periods and cultures. This is possible, we would argue, because of the concept’s definitional “openness,” which has permitted artists and theorists since the eighteenth century to apply it to the most dissimilar instances of altering prevailing methods of audience involvement. In fact, dramaturgy’s definitional openness seems to be the reason not only for its survival since the eighteenth century but also for its transcultural boom in the new millennium. In the past decades, the concept of dramaturgy has been picked up by performance-related discourses in many languages—a translational process of “discursive interweaving” that will surely transform it lastingly. But in order for this to happen, much more inter-lingual and inter-epistemic research needs to be done in the future to learn more about the ways in which it has been and is being theorized in languages such as Chinese, Japanese, Arabic, Maori, Korean or Hindi.52 Furthermore, the concept is used today to describe and explore practices in most diverse (intra)cultural contexts, such as in dance venues, in movie theaters, on

Introduction  15 cruise ships, in theme parks, in shopping malls and even in urban design. In short, we nowadays suspect dramaturgies to be at work at all sites where something is carefully and thoroughly prepared for presentation to an audience, where audience expectations are premeditated and where reactions of visitors are carefully observed and modes of presentation (re)adjusted accordingly.53

Case studies from an entangled world From the perspective of the International Research Center “Interweaving Performance Cultures” it is exactly the multitude and diversity of dramaturgies of interweaving, as it became visible during the Theater der Welt festival in 2017, that is of interest and demands more research. Where are dramaturgies of interweaving developed today? Why? And how exactly are elements from different performance cultures interwoven? Who is allowed to participate? Who is not? What skills and expertise are contemporary dramaturges required to have? How do dramaturgies of interweaving critically reflect our increasingly entangled world, including its drive toward “contraction, containment and enclosure?”54 What problems and conflicts arise in the—necessarily collaborative—labor of their creation? How are audiences reacting? The Research Fellows of the International Research Center at Freie Universität Berlin, who have contributed to this volume, tackle these and many related questions. Presenting case studies from around the globe—spanning Australia, China, Germany, India, Iran, Japan, Singapore, Taiwan, Vietnam, the United States and the United Kingdom—they introduce a wealth of terms in order to pinpoint specific characteristics of contemporary dramaturgies of interweaving. The book presents their contributions in six parts, each consisting of two chapters and exploring a particular feature or dimension of dramaturgies of interweaving. Part One of the book, “Sketching designs for unique encounters,” features chapters authored by Paul Carter and Andrej Mirčev. Both writers explore the role that practices of drawing and sketching—of lines, figures and diagrams—can play in dramaturgies aiming at reforming the ways in which people at home in different cultures encounter and perceive each other. Carter explains how the process of designing an Indigenous cultural interpretation trail in Western Australia was used as an opportunity to translate Noongar senses of place into the language of landscape design and, thus, became a catalyst for new conversations between Indigenous and non-Indigenous communities. As a result of these conversations, a fourfold sense of place emerged, which he describes as a spiritual dramaturgy. Through this graphic storytelling in landscape—Carter writes about the trail— a primary experience of encounter and a respect for environmental agency are revived. Mirčev reflects on the Choreo_Drift project, which between 2014 and 2015 staged several reenactments of academic talks originally presented in 2012 at the international Weaving Politics symposium in Stockholm, Sweden. Choreo_ Drift’s reenactments aimed at overcoming the previous event’s division between academic and artistic/choreographic contributions, not only at the level of discursive reflection but also in terms of intertwining elements of theory, movement,

16  Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost performance and audience participation. In an effort to create “contact zones” between theoretical, discursive and dancing bodies, Choreo_Drift’s main strategy was a diagrammatic dramaturgy, Mirčev explains, a “graphic thinking tool” that aimed at uncovering potentials for new aesthetic constellations and alternative ways of moving together. “The role of the dramaturge,” Mirčev concludes, is to “diagrammatically generate the move/translation from concepts to concrete and lived/danced experiences.” In Part Two, “Interlacing archival threads,” Nanako Nakajima and Peter Eckersall introduce case studies from contemporary Japan’s diverse performance culture. Their shared focus on Japan, however, is not the reason for presenting their contributions together. Rather, it is the fact that both scholars investigate contemporary dramaturgies working with archival material. In her contribution, Nakajima recounts her work as curatorial director of a “performative exhibition” on the oeuvre of the postmodern choreographer, dancer and filmmaker Yvonne Rainer (b. 1934), which took place at the Kyoto Art Theater Shunjuza, a famous traditional kabuki theater, in 2017. In her effort to revive archival material related to Rainer’s work, specifically her dramaturgy of aging, Nakajima dramaturgically used the historical force of the Shunjuza theater itself, which embodies multiple dramaturgical histories, not least the “dramaturgy of aging in Japanese traditional theater.” In his contribution, Eckersall investigates the unsettling effects of the dramaturgy of hauntology via which the contemporary choreographer and performance-maker Takao Kawaguchi (b. 1962) drew “the radical past into the present” in his piece About Kazuo Ohno: Reliving the Butoh Diva’s Masterpieces (2013). Starting from the observation that some responses to Kawaguchi’s dramaturgical work for About Kazuo Ohno indicate a sense of unease about the role that remediation and remaking have come to play in the production and reception of live work, Eckersall demonstrates that recent thinking around theories of new media dramaturgy and theatrical reenactment offers the opportunity to reconsider future possibilities for the development of radical art forms such as butoh, which emerged in the countercultural politics of the 1960s and have grown internationally as aesthetically challenging art forms. Part Three, provocatively titled “Unraveling productions,” comprises chapters authored by Hana Worthen and Catherine Diamond that critically examine productions from the United States, China, Taiwan and Vietnam in which theoretically welcome efforts of producing culturally interwoven performances resulted in fundamental conflicts, demonstrating clearly what is at stake in the ongoing debate on dramaturgies of interweaving. In her contribution, Worthen dissects the larger public debate over the 2015 production of Bertolt Brecht’s Mother Courage and Her Children directed by Brian Kulick. The debate was initiated by the actress Tonya Pinkins, who realized, during the production’s rehearsals, that its aim to resettle Brecht’s chronicle of the Thirty Years’ War as the war in the Congo resulted in ethically compromised portrayals of the African continent and of Blackness itself. Worthen shows that Pinkins’s critique of Kulick’s production animated an affirmative dramaturgy, which she specifies as a mode of discursive reflection on a theatrical

Introduction  17 work that, in this particular case, opened up “a materialist, Black feminist critique of white, masculine theater practices unresponsive to historically, socially and aesthetically conditioned racial and gendered professional injustices in the United States.” In her contribution, Diamond stresses the importance of bilingual, bicultural dramaturges for intercultural collaborations, whose role she describes as “curators and facilitators” who help negotiate between cultural values. To make her point, Diamond scrutinizes three collaborations between American directors and Asian theater troupes: The Joy Luck Club from 1993, a joint project of the Shanghai People’s Art Theatre and the Long Wharf Theatre in Connecticut; Orlando from 2009, a collaboration between Robert Wilson and Taiwanese jingju performer Wei Hai-min; and A Midsummer Night’s Dream from 2000, a joint project of the Central Dramatic Company of Vietnam and the Artists Repertory Theatre of Oregon. Diamond demonstrates that struggles for control broke out in all three productions when the artists began “collaborating.” She argues that, in all cases, the lack of a bilingual, bicultural dramaturge left a vacuum in which feelings were hurt unnecessarily. Part Four, “Entangling diverse audiences,” presents articles by Peter M. Boenisch and S. E. Wilmer, both observing—from very different angles— significant dramaturgical developments in Germany. In his contribution, Boenisch explores three recent attempts to (re)invent the locally rooted German city theater as an agent of global change and transcultural interweaving: Berlin’s Maxim Gorki Theater, the Munich Kammerspiele and the theater of Altenburg in Thuringia. Introducing the concept of institutional dramaturgies, which he defines as “the institutional conditions for making as well as encountering performance” that “shape symbolic, aesthetic and affective significations, practices and narratives,” Boenisch argues that these theaters’ attempts at (re)positioning themselves enact a “mondialisation” or “worldforming” of the institutional sphere that counters (above all, affectively) prevalent local cultural and psychological experiences of globalization. In his contribution, Wilmer focuses on the productions of the Israeli director Yael Ronen (b. 1976), who lives and works in Germany, and who, as Wilmer explains, has developed a challenging dramaturgy of cultural diversity over the last ten years, which mixes therapy with ethnography and aims at creating a humorous form of dissensus. Discussing numerous Ronen productions, including Third Generation: Work in Progress (2009), Common Ground (2014) and The Situation (2016), Wilmer argues that all of them create “problems of identification for the audience” and thus manifest the provocative and indefinite effects of “dissensus,” as described by the French philosopher Jacques Rancière. Part Five, titled “Unfolding alternatives,” includes contributions by Kaite O’Reilly and Narges Hashempour. Much of the work of the playwright, dramaturge and theater-maker O’Reilly explores issues of how Deaf and disability cultures operate with or in opposition to “mainstream” hearing or “dominant” cultural paradigms. In her contribution to this volume, she introduces her own

18  Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost work on “alternative dramaturgies informed by a Deaf and disability perspective.” Focusing in particular on her 2018 script And Suddenly I Disappear: The Singapore/UK ‘d’ Monologues, she elucidates how the script’s form, content, modes of representation and, particularly, its staging were enhanced and complicated by the interweaving of diverse cultural heritages between the UK and Singapore with its multiracial, quadrilingual blending of Malay, Chinese, Indian and English cultures and religions. Hashempour’s contribution focuses on Iran’s complex performance culture, its history as well as its more recent alternative developments. In the first part, Hashempour investigates the history of the famous Iranian Shiraz Arts Festival (1967–1977), challenging the dominant narrative that celebrates this festival as an “experimental movement” in Iranian theater history. In the second part, Hashempour explores three different performances from Tehran staged in the 2010s, comparing their dramaturgies of in-betweenness with dramaturgical models developed in the context of the Shiraz Arts Festival, and describing them as part of a new and much more challenging “experimental movement” in Iranian theater. The book’s sixth and final part, titled “Tailoring textual material,” includes two chapters exploring dramaturgical processes of adapting (and staging) dramatic texts—in Germany, India and the United States—that were originally written in other languages and with different performance traditions in mind. With his contribution, Peter Lichtenfels seeks to demonstrate the fruitfulness of a language-conscious dramaturgy that attends to “connotative fields of words, their etymologies, the interplay of various interlanguage grammars and the use of timbre, pitch, resonance, stress and other elements in the ways that people use language to touch others.” Lichtenfels explains his own experiences while directing works by the Japanese writer/director Shogo Ota (b. 1939), specifically Ota’s play Plastic Rose, which Lichtenfels directed numerous times—together with Ota in 1994 and for the Edinburgh Festival Fringe in 2014. Lichtenfels summarizes his experiences as follows: “Working on Ota’s Plastic Rose gave me the opportunity to learn culturally different ways to give space to an audience and to place the self in a different way.” In his essay, Kamaluddin Nilu compares the dramaturgies of three iconic productions of Henrik Ibsen’s play An Enemy of the People, the first directed by Arthur Miller (1950), the second by Satyajit Ray (1990) and the third by Thomas Ostermeier (2012). Kamaluddin shows that, for each production, Ibsen’s text passed through a transcultural prism that transformed the playscript into performances resonating with the political concerns of audiences in their respective countries and eras. While Miller’s and Ray’s adaptations offered commentaries on political crises in the United States and India, respectively, Ostermeier and his dramaturge, Florian Borchmeyer, accomplished something different, Kamaluddin argues: their production’s co-dramaturgy engendered a spatiotemporal enclave for an encounter both between the performers and the audience and among the audience members themselves so as to set in motion actual political actions. In the middle of the book, an Interlude splits the six parts in two. It features artworks—accompanied by short workshop reports—by three internationally

Introduction  19 renowned artists: “‫ جذور‬/ Stämme,” a poem from Durus Arabij / Arabic Lessons, a cycle of poems by the German novelis t Michael Roes; “Stämme / ‫ שורשים‬/ ‫جذور‬,” a musical score by the Israeli composer Amos Elkana, who set Roes’s cycle of poems to music; and a short excerpt from Heiliger Franz (St. Francis), a libretto by the German playwright Claudius Lünstedt. Presenting artworks and short introductory essays to these works by two writers and one musician, the Interlude introduces music and musical theater to the debate and thus explores fields of practice that are often neglected in recent discussions on dramaturgy. An Interlude signifies taking a break, performing an intermezzo, pausing. Fascinatingly, all three artists contributing to our Interlude write about the moment that precedes the making of art (of texts, scores and performances)—a moment before all possible dramaturgical considerations. The contributions thus circle around the genesis moment of a piece of art, which precedes the making of dramaturgical concepts but already indicates a direction toward spectators, listeners, readers—in short, a future audience. The novelist Roes learns a foreign language, Arabic, and transforms his process into poetic language while at the same time somehow alienating his native language. The composer Elkana reads or, more correctly, first hears the poems, and this process intuitively opens a door to an imagined sound, to the possibility of writing a score. The playwright Lünstedt, cooperating with the composer Sergej Newski, tries to understand a musical score that does not yet exist while having to write the accompanying words for the libretto. All contributions contain either implicit or obvious hints at an envisioned audience: Elkana conceived his composition as a gift to his father, and his later decision to present the poem in three languages—German, Hebrew and Arabic—reveals a specific political stimulus with regard to multilingual listeners. Lünstedt expressed his surprise about a monk’s response to his libretto on St. Francis: he found it baffling that, among all his listeners, a pious man would respond so positively. Taken together, the contributions to the Interlude highlight—poetically and aesthetically—that there are diverse and subtle interweaving processes to be discovered when we consider the perspective of artists. The book’s Coda presents a work of art as well. The US vocal artist David Moss has contributed a text exclusively to Dramaturgies of Interweaving, titled “Performers and time: The five stages of waiting.” It is a piece about Moss’s heightened state of attention and self-awareness whenever he is waiting to start performing and to be on stage where he will be in control of his material, his voice and his relation to his listeners. Waiting is an oft-neglected part of every performance’s dramaturgy, affecting both performers and spectators. For Moss, it means constantly relating to his future present and his future audience, which will be listening and co-producing. His contribution allows readers to comprehend this very special state of being. Moss, in many ways, is the epitome of a composer, dramaturge, performer, singer and musician, all at the same time. Through his composition, readers can participate in his joyful anticipation of an encounter with an audience.

20  Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost For us, the editors of this book, Moss’s unique contribution resonates with the feeling of “waiting” for future dramaturgies of interweaving.

Notes 1 See, for instance, Luckhurst 2006; Eckersall, Beddie and Monaghan 2011; Pewny, Callens and Coppens 2014; Trencsényi and Cochrane 2014; Eckersall, Grehan and Scheer 2017; Kelly 2020; Meerzon and Pewny 2020; Deutsch-Schreiner 2016, Lehmann 2014, Roeder and Zehelein 2011, Umathum and Deck 2020. 2 Yana Meerzon and Katharina Pewny, for example, explain, The word dramaturgy most commonly refers to the composition of the play, its plot structure, themes, characters, and its aesthetic framework. In this framework, the work of a dramaturg implies providing critical reflection about the play’s composition, mostly in the dramaturg’s functions as a researcher (production dramaturgy) or as a consultant, an outside eye, or an observer who helps a theatre company develop a new performance text and its actions through rehearsals. Recent developments in performance practices and scholarship have shaken these binary definitions of dramaturgy. (Yana Meerzon and Katharina Pewny, eds. Dramaturgy of Migration: Staging Multilingual Encounters in Contemporary Theatre (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2020), 1) 3 The idea that dramaturgies of previous centuries concerned themselves primarily with texts is a misunderstanding that results from the regrettable lack of historical sources. Still, evidence that we do have—e.g. Lessing’s, Goethe’s or Schiller’s writings (publications, letters, notes, etc.)—suggests that dramaturgies of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in Europe did in fact consider and address many non-literary elements of theater-making. Examples here would be institutional politics and ethics, actor training, theater architecture, even public relations work, etc. In short, the modern understanding and practice of dramaturgy in Europe was never as exclusively “text-centric” as some recent publications on this topic would have us believe. In his article accompanying the first complete English translation of Lessing’s Hamburg Dramaturgy, Michael Chemers therefore argues that Lessing’s dramaturgy “provides investigations of acting theory and technique, gesture, the illusion of authenticity on stage, the effect of performers on specific audiences (and, significantly, vice versa), and many other factors.” He aptly concludes, “Lessing seeks to engage with the total process of creating theater.” Michael M. Chemers, “The Legacy of the Hamburg Dramaturgy,” in The Hamburg Dramaturgy by G.E. Lessing: A New and Complete Annotated English Translation, trans. Wendy Arons and Sara Figal, ed. Natalya Baldyga (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2018), 24. 4 Tara McAllister-Viel, “Imyeon,” in The Routledge Companion to Performance-Related Concepts in Non-European Languages, ed. Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost and Astrid Schenka (London and New York, NY: Routledge, forthcoming). 5 Andreas Regelsberger, “Jo-ha-kyū,” in The Routledge Companion to PerformanceRelated Concepts in Non-European Languages, ed. Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost and Astrid Schenka (London and New York, NY: Routledge, forthcoming). 6 Magda Romanska, ed., The Routledge Companion to Dramaturgy (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2015). 7 Katalin Trencsényi and Bernadette Cochran, eds. New Dramaturgy: International Perspectives on Theory and Practice (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), xii. 8 The notion of “interweaving performance cultures” was introduced by Erika FischerLichte, not least to critique the concept of “intercultural theater/performance.” Cf. Erika Fischer-Lichte, “Introduction: Interweaving Performance Cultures—Rethinking ‘Intercultural Theatre’: Toward an Experience and Theory of Performance beyond

Introduction  21 Postcolonialism,” in Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures: Beyond Postcolonialism, ed. Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost and Saskya Iris Jain (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2014), 9–10. 9 See Gunter Grimm, Rezeptionsgeschichte: Grundlegung einer Theorie (Munich: Fink, 1977). 10 Homi K. Bhabha, “Epilogue: Global Pathways,” in The Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures: Beyond Postcolonialism, ed. Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost and Saskya Iris Jain (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2014), 263. 11 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, “28 January 1812,” in Goethe: Mann des Theaters, ed. Walter Hinck (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982), 19, trans. Saskya I. Jain. 12 Goethe, “4 February 1811,” ibid., 14. 13 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, “7 September 1821,” in Goethes Werke: Weimarer Ausgabe, vol. 35, Tag- und Jahreshefte (1891) (Weimar: Hermann Böhlau, 1887– 1919), 741, trans. Saskya I. Jain. 14 Friedrich Schiller, “Second Letter,” in On the Aesthetic Education of Man, trans. Reginald Snell (Mineola, NY: Dover, 2004), 27. 15 Goethe, Goethes Werke, vol. 40, Theater und Schauspielkunst (1901), 108, trans. Saskya I. Jain. 16 Ibid., 153. 17 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, in Sämtliche Werke, vol. 11, Tag- und Jahreshefte (1821) (Zürich: Artemis, 1977), 205, trans. Saskya I. Jain. 18 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1792), trans. E. B. Eastwick, quoted in Amanda Culp, “Shakuntala’s Storytellers: Translation and Performance in the Age of World Literature (1789–1912),” Theatre Journal 70, no. 2 (June 2018): 138. Willst du die Blüthen des frühen, die Früchte des späteren Jahres,/ Willst du was reizt und entzückt, willst du was sättigt und nährt,/ Willst du den Himmel, die Erde mit Einem Namen begreifen;/ Nenn’ ich Sakontala dich, und so ist alles gesagt (Goethe, Goethes Werke, vol. 4, Gedichte (1891), 122) 19 Goethe, Sämtliche Werke, vol. 11, Tag- und Jahreshefte, 937. 20 Bhabha explains, It is true, of course, that Weltliteratur has its limits. Goethe’s cosmopolitanism has been critiqued for being Eurocentric and profoundly ill-informed about classical Indian poetry […]. His “pseudo-Persian” poetry, like his Pindaric odes and Roman elegies, has been seen as ingenious imitations rather than deep identification with the aesthetic forms of foreignness. (Bhabha, “Epilogue: Global Pathways,” 262) 21 Herbert Ihering, Von Reinhardt bis Brecht: Vier Jahrzehnte Theater und Film, vol. 3, 1930–1932 (Berlin: Aufbau, 1961), 96, trans. Saskya I. Jain. 22 Bertolt-Brecht-Archiv: Bestandsverzeichnis des literarischen Nachlasses, ed. Herta Ramthun, 4 vols (Berlin (GDR): 1969–1973), 158/44, trans. Saskya I. Jain. 23 Tsutsui Tokujirō (1881–1953), head of the visiting Japanese troupe—not a professional kabuki troupe—of the Grand Theatre of Tokyo […], was an actor of the Western-influenced and realistically oriented shinpa (new school) and specialized in kengeki (sword drama). In France, […] artists and critics […] deplored the Japanese troupe’s […] use of naturalistic sceneries and décors that clashed with the admirable acting of the actors. (Min Tian, “Authenticity and Usability, or ‘Welding the Unweldable’: Meyerhold’s Refraction of Japanese Theatre,” Asian Theatre Journal 33, no. 2 (2016): 320–21)

22  Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost 24 Bertolt Brecht, “Über experimentelles Theater” (1939), in Texte zur Theorie des Theaters, ed. Klaus Lazarowicz and Chistopher Balme (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1991), 639, trans. Saskya I. Jain. 25 Siyuan Liu, Performing Hybridity in Colonial-Modern China (New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 39. 26 Brian Powell, “Birth of Modern Theatre: Shimpa and Shingeki,” in A History of Japanese Theatre, ed. Jonah Salz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 206. 27 Ibid. 28 Ibid., 207. 29 Liu, Performing Hybridity, 39–40. However, the Literary Society’s first shingeki productions also followed a dramaturgy of interweaving, as Liu Siyuan explains: For its first two performances in 1906, the Literary Society offered mixed programs that included the court scene from The Merchant of Venice, an act of a kabuki play “with sets by western-style painters and with the dialogue in the manner of the Nara Era,” a scene from Tsubouchi’s new historical kabuki play A Paulownia Leaf (Kiri hitoha), and an operatic play titled Eternal Darkness (Tokoyami). The productions also received assistance from kabuki and shinpa actors […]. It was not until its third production in November 1907, […] that the Literary Society staged its first full-length production, the epoch-making Hamlet using Tsubouchi’s literal translation, relatively realistic performance, and a mixed-gender cast. (Ibid., 41) 30 Ibid., 40. 31 “Judging from contemporary reports and existing production shots, the scene used realistic costume and set, together with shinpa style of female impersonation.” Ibid., 43. 32 This production, titled Black Slave’s Cry to Heaven, also worked with a dramaturgy of interweaving: To start with, this production added singing and dancing, which constituted a major part of the second act […], one of the major advantages of this approach lay in its entertainment value, especially to a Chinese audience accustomed to such conventions in indigenous theatre. The five-act script written by Zheng Xiaogu has been hailed as following a Western dramatic structure […]. At the same time, Zeng’s dramaturgy demonstrated closer affinity to shinpa’s […] tendency that largely prioritized target audience reception over fidelity to source text and culture. (Ibid., 49) 33 This Tokyo adaptation of La Tosca was titled Relei (Hot Tears). See ibid., 55. 34 By the late 1910s, […] the term wenmingxi (civilized drama) was heaped on xinju largely to mock its commercialism and theatrical hybridity, which was typified by scripts mixed with scenarios and improvisation, speech mixed with singing, female impersonation mixed with performance by actresses, and so on. (Ibid., 7–8) 35

All of a sudden, after the valiant but ultimately ineffectual efforts of Wang Zhongsheng, Ren Tianzhi, and Lu Jingruo to bring spoken theatre to Shanghai’s mainstream theatre, Zheng finally led wenmingxi to popular recognition, attracting several thousand actors in dozens of companies at its peak, and affording the Spring Willow and other existing companies commercial viabilities in Shanghai.

Introduction  23 […] This peak era, which afforded a very public ideological, literary, translative, and performance-oriented hybridization on Shanghai’s wenmingxi stages, started with the smashing success of An Evil Family by Zheng’s New People Society (Xinmin She). (Ibid., 71) 36 Ibid., 73. 37 Ibid., 176. 38 Hu Shi, “Yibushengzhuyi,” Xin qingnian 4, no. 6 (1918): 502, quoted in Bernd Eberstein, Das chinesische Theater im 20. Jahrhundert (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1983), 72. Our translation. 39 Bertolt-Brecht-Archiv, 158/44. 40 See Vasudha Dalmia, Poetics, Plays, and Performances: The Politics of Modern Indian Theatre (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2006). 41 See Rustom Bharucha, Rehearsals of Revolution: The Political Theater of Bengal (Calcutta: Seagull, 1983). 42 Catherine Cole, Ghana’s Concert Party Theatre (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2001), 1. 43 While shows were initially predominantly in English, they gradually shifted to Ghanaian languages. Audiences from 1900 to 1930 were generally coastal Africans with some degree of formal Western-style education. But after 1930, concert parties became increasingly accessible to inland working classes and rural populations, with affordable prices and convenient local venues. (Ibid., 1) 44 In the years between 1930 and 1960, Catherine Cole explains, the “concert parties made a dramatic transition from serving as British imperial propaganda honoring ‘Empire Day’ to promoting Ghanaian cultural nationalism and the political career of Ghana’s first prime minister and president, Kwame Nkrumah.” Ibid., 3. 45 See Biodun Jeyifo, The Yoruba Popular Travelling Theatre of Nigeria (Lagos: Department of Culture, Federal Ministry of Social Development of Youth, Sports and Culture, 1984). 46 Thomas Petz, “Vorwort,” Theater der Welt 1985 program book (Mainz: Lang, 1985), n.p. Our translation. See “Theater der Welt Archiv,” ITI – Germany, accessed 2 November 2020, www​.i​​ti​-ge​​rmany​​.de​/f​​ilead​​min​/P​​DF​/Td​​W​/The​​ater_​​der​_W​​elt​_1​​985​_ w​​eb​.pd​​f. 47 Ibid. 48 Ibid. 49 See Rustom Bharucha, “Peter Brook’s Mahabharata: A View from India,” Economic and Political Weekly 23, no. 32 (1988): 1642–47. 50 See Achille Mbembe, “Negativer Messianismus und die Ethik der Konsequenzen,” Theater Heute, no. 7 (July 2017): 32–37. 51 Theater der Welt 2017 program book (Hamburg: Langebartels & Jürgens 2017), 9. See “Theater der Welt Archiv,” ITI—Germany, accessed 2 November 2020, www​.i​​ti​ge​​rmany​​.de​/f​​ilead​​min​/P​​DF​/Td​​W​/Pro​​gramm​​buch_​​TdW20​​17​.pd​​f. 52 See, for example, Romanska, Routledge Companion to Dramaturgy. 53 As we have seen, this tradition already began in the eighteenth century, when Lessing, Goethe and Schiller applied the concept of dramaturgy not just to individual theater productions but to institutions—such as the theaters of Hamburg or Weimar—and the purposeful arrangement of their programs and repertoires. 54 Achille Mbembe, “An Ethics of Consequences,” opening speech at Theater der Welt 2017, 25 May 2017, Hamburg, Germany, www​.youtube​.com​/watch​? v​=K8mSvf9FPCg.

24  Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost

Bibliography Bhabha, Homi K. “Epilogue: Global Pathways.” In The Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures: Beyond Postcolonialism, edited by Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost, and Saskya Iris Jain, 259–75. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2014. Bharucha, Rustom. “Peter Brook’s Mahabharata: A View from India.” Economic and Political Weekly 23, no. 32 (1988): 1642–47. ———. Rehearsals of Revolution: The Political Theater of Bengal. Calcutta: Seagull, 1983. Brecht, Bertolt. Arbeitsjournal 1, 1938 bis 1942 [Work Journal 1, 1938 to 1942]. Edited by Werner Hecht. Frankfurt: Büchergilde Gutenburg, 1974. —–—. Gesammelte Werke in 20 Büchern [Collected Works in 20 Books], 15–16, Schriften zum Theater [Writings on Theater]. Frankfurt: Surhkamp, 1967. ———. “Über experimentelles Theater” [“On Experimental Theater”] (1939). In Texte zur Theorie des Theaters [Texts on Theater Theory], edited by Klaus Lazarowicz and Chistopher Balme, 637–42. Stuttgart: Reclam, 1991. Chemers, Michael M. “The Legacy of the Hamburg Dramaturgy.” In The Hamburg Dramaturgy by G.E. Lessing: A New and Complete Annotated English Translation. Translated by Wendy Arons and Sara Figal, edited by Natalya Baldyga, 23–30. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2018. Cole, Catherine. Ghana’s Concert Party Theatre. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2001. Culp, Amanda. “Shakuntala’s Storytellers: Translation and Performance in the Age of World Literature (1789–1912).” Theatre Journal 70, no. 2 (2018): 133–52. Dalmia, Vasudha. Poetics, Plays, and Performances: The Politics of Modern Indian Theatre. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2006. Deutsch-Schreiner, Evelyn. Theaterdramaturgien von der Aufklärung bis zur Gegenwart [Theater Dramaturgies from the Enlightenment to the Present]. Vienna: Böhlau, 2016. Dolby, William. A History of Chinese Drama. London: Paul Elek, 1976. Eberstein, Bernd. Das chinesische Theater im 20. Jahrhundert [The Chinese Theater in the 20th Century]. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1983. Eckersall, Peter, Helena Grehan, and Edward Scheer, eds. New Media Dramaturgy: Performance, Media and New-Materialism. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017. Eckersall, Peter, Melanie Beddie, and Paul Monaghan. Dramaturgies: New Theatres for the 21st Century. Melbourne, VIC: Carl Nilsson-Polias for the Dramaturgies Project, 2011. Fischer-Lichte, Erika. “Introduction: Interweaving Performance Cultures — Rethinking ‘Intercultural Theatre’: Toward an Experience and Theory of Performance beyond Postcolonialism.” In Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures: Beyond Postcolonialism, edited by Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost, and Saskya Iris Jain, 1–24. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2014. Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von. Goethes Werke: Weimarer Ausgabe [Goethe’s Works: Weimar Edition]. Weimar: Hermann Böhlau, 1887–1919. ———. Sämtliche Werke [Complete Works], vol. 11, Tag- und Jahreshefte [Daily and Annual Journals] (1821). Zürich: Artemis, 1977. Grimm, Gunter. Rezeptionsgeschichte: Grundlegung einer Theorie [History of Reception: Foundation of a Theory]. Munich: Fink, 1977.

Introduction  25 Hinck, Walter. Goethe: Mann des Theaters [Goethe: Man of the Theater]. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982. Ihering, Herbert. Von Reinhardt bis Brecht: Vier Jahrzehnte Theater und Film [From Reinhardt to Brecht: Four Decades of Theater and Film], vol. 3, 1930–1932. Berlin: Aufbau, 1961. Jeyifo, Biodun. The Yoruba Popular Travelling Theatre of Nigeria. Lagos: Department of Culture, Federal Ministry of Social Development of Youth, Sports and Culture, 1984. Kelly, Philippa, ed. Diversity, Inclusion, and Representation in Contemporary Dramaturgy: Case Studies from the Field. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2020. Lehmann, Stephanie. Die Dramaturgie der Globalisierung: Tendenzen im deutschsprachigen Theater der Gegenwart [The Dramaturgy of Globalization: Trends in German-Language Theater of the Present]. Marburg: Schüren, 2014. Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim. “Hamburgische Dramaturgie” [“Hamburg Dramaturgy”]. In Werke [Works], vol. 4, edited by Herbert G. Göpfert, 229–720. Munich: Hanser. Liu, Siyuan. Performing Hybridity in Colonial-Modern China. New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Luckhurst, Mary. Dramaturgy: A Revolution in Theatre. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Mackerras, Colin P., ed. Chinese Theater from Its Origins to the Present Day. Honolulu, HI: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1983. Mbembe, Achille. “An Ethics of Consequences.” Opening speech at Theater der Welt 2017, 25 May, Hamburg, Germany. www​.youtube​.com​/watch​?v​=K8mSvf9FPCg. ———. “Negativer Messianismus und die Ethik der Konsequenzen” [“Negative Messianism and the Ethics of the Consequences”]. Theater Heute 7 (July 2017): 32–37. McAllister-Viel, Tara. “Imyeon.” In The Routledge Companion to Performance-Related Concepts in Non-European Languages, edited by Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost, and Astrid Schenka. London and New York, NY: Routledge, forthcoming. Meerzon, Yana, and Katharina Pewny, eds. Dramaturgy of Migration: Staging Multilingual Encounters in Contemporary Theatre. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2020. Petz, Thomas. “Vorwort” [“Foreword”]. Theater der Welt 1985 program book. Mainz: Lang, 1985. Pewny, Katharina, Johan Callens, and Jeroen Coppens, eds. Dramaturgies in the New Millennium: Relationality, Performativity and Potentiality. Tübingen: Narr, 2014. Powell, Brian. “Birth of Modern Theatre: Shimpa and Shingeki.” In A History of Japanese Theatre, edited by Jonah Salz, 200–25. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016. Regelsberger, Andreas. “Jo-ha-kyū.” In The Routledge Companion to PerformanceRelated Concepts in Non-European Languages, edited by Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost, and Astrid Schenka. London and New York, NY: Routledge, forthcoming. Reinhardt, Max. Schriften: Briefe, Reden, Aufsätze, Interviews, Gespräche, Auszüge aus Regiebüchern [Writings: Letters, Speeches, Essays, Interviews, Conversations, Excerpts from Director’s Books], edited by Hugo Fetting. Berlin: Henschel, 1974. Rimer, J. Thomas. Toward a Modern Japanese Theatre: Kishida Kunio. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1974. Roeder, Anke, and Klaus Zehelein, eds. Die Kunst der Dramaturgie: Theorie—Praxis— Ausbildung [The Art of Dramaturgy: Theory – Practice – Training]. Leipzig: Henschel, 2011. Romanska, Magda, ed. The Routledge Companion to Dramaturgy. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2015.

26  Erika Fischer-Lichte, Christel Weiler and Torsten Jost Schiller, Friedrich. On the Aesthetic Education of Man. Translated by Reginald Snell. Mineola, NY: Dover, 2004. Schulte-Sasse, Jochen, ed. Lessing, Mendelssohn, Nicolai. Briefwechsel über das Trauerspiel [Lessing, Mendelssohn, Nicolai: Correspondence about Bourgeois Tragedy]. Munich: Winkler, 1972. Theater der Welt 2017 program book. Hamburg: Langebartels & Jürgens, 2017. Tian, Min. “Authenticity and Usability, or ‘Welding the Unweldable’: Meyerhold’s Refraction of Japanese Theatre.” Asian Theatre Journal 33, no. 2 (2016): 310–46. Trencsényi, Katalin, and Bernadette Cochran, eds. New Dramaturgy: International Perspectives on Theory and Practice. London: Bloomsbury, 2014. Umathum, Sandra, and Jan Deck, eds. Postdramaturgien [Post-dramaturgies]. Berlin: Neofelis, 2020. Zarrilli, Phillip B., Bruce McConachie, Gary Jay Williams, and Carol Fisher Sorgenfrei. Theatre Histories: An Introduction. Edited by Gary Jay Williams. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2006.

PART I

Sketching designs for unique encounters

1

The Tjunta Trail Cross-cultural dramaturgy in Australian place-making Paul Carter

In early 2015, I was invited to prepare a cultural interpretation strategy for a 99-hectare site outside Perth (Western Australia), called Scarborough Beach. Using a creative research method successfully applied elsewhere, my object was to identify leading place-making stories relevant to the past formation of the coastal environment and to define the aspects of them that could and should inform the redevelopment project’s design and program. The term “stories” was defined broadly and, in particular, accorded equal significance to colonial historical narratives, current scientific characterizations of the environment, and traditional Indigenous “creation myths” that account for the present appearance of the country in terms of the actions of spirit ancestors. Focusing on the visual and rhetorical metaphors used to make sense of the place, the strategy was intended to identify creative convergences across cultures and discourses, and to collect these as practical place-making themes that designers and artists could interpret. For this reason, I referred to the strategy as a “creative template.” The Metropolitan Redevelopment Authority, the government agency responsible for delivering the Scarborough project, had committed itself to reversing the long-term neglect of Aboriginal culture in government-sponsored place-making, but they confronted the problem of translating traditional understandings of place––based on the idea that “places are made after their stories”––into the language of planning. Equally, the Aboriginal partners in the project, the Whadjuk people of the Nyungar nation of southwestern Australia, sought a way to ensure that the generative power of their place-making stories was authentically embedded in the conceptualization and realization of the project. In this context, novel in an Australian setting, the creative template acted as a cross-cultural translator.1 Planned place-making of this kind is rarely embraced as a “real-world laboratory” for cross-cultural reconciliation. There was little precedent for what we set out to do; diverse local community expectations, multiple state and municipal stakeholders and a bicultural consultative process whose agenda was region-wide Noongar empowerment meant that the relationship between understandings communicated through traditional ecological knowledge as well as myths about the formation of the land and sea in ancestral times and the twists and turns of the multiplicity of dialogues brokered through the period of the project was always going to be creative. There was an additional story thread to consider: Four residents of Scarborough,

30  Paul Carter including three children, had recently been lost in the Malaysia Airlines Flight 17 disaster, and the Western Australian planning minister had asked the Metropolitan Redevelopment Agency, responsible for delivering the project, to introduce into the re-landscaped foreshore and its new facilities an appropriate memorial.2 Growing from the trust the bereaved parents showed me––hereafter referred to simply as “the Family” out of respect for their privacy––and from the matter-offact tutelage offered me by the Whadjuk Working Group––the body delegated by the Noongar community to work in partnership with the WA government to ensure “authentic cultural content” informed public space design––“Scarborough Edge: A Creative Template for the Scarborough Redevelopment Area” was, then, a kind of listening and healing document; registering the interweaving of environmental and psychic energies,3 it mapped their emergent forms and deformations; partly a history of the site, it was partly a landscape of conversations.4 In an earlier essay, I touched on the Tjunta Trail, a Nyungar interpretative strategy for the newly redeveloped Scarborough Beach landscape.5 Now I want to return to this. To forestall the concern that this implies a return to previously published material––and a concomitant lack of originality––an appropriate hermeneutical frame helps. We may be familiar with the fourfold schema Dante proposes for the interpretation of sacred tales;6 similarly, Australian Aboriginal peoples associate understanding with repetition, initiation into the deeper symbolic meanings being gradual and painful.7 The outer story of the Tjunta Trail, available in online, local Aboriginal heri­ tage literature and summarized in “Scarborough Edge,” concerns the journey of the Charnok people, “a tall spirit man [Waugul] and a tall spirit woman [Junda or Tjunta].”8 In the outer story, Scarborough (more precisely, the escarpment behind Scarborough Beach) is one ‘episode’ in Tjunta’s journey. Tjunta was a collector of spirit children. She walked northward across the Swan River, whose serpentine reaches Waugul (the rainbow serpent) had made, and left her footprint in the form of the cliffs at Blackwall Reach, or Jenalup, a name that can be rendered in English as “The Place Where Feet Make a Track.” Point Walter, nearby, is a sandbar that extends over one kilometer into the river and is said to be her white flowing hair.9 Collecting spirit children, she continued north where Waugul was creating lakes. Coming to the area known as Joondalup, a name variously translated as “Place of Long Flowing White Hair” or “Place of White Sand,” she “realised [that] what she was doing was wrong and had to place the spirit children back.” Alternatively, “[s]he remembered the spirit man collecting the children and eating them. She had to stop him so she headed south where she last saw him.”10 In any case, in her new journey, wherever she scattered the children they turned into rocks, until, reaching Kartakitch (Wave Rock), nearly 350 kilometers east of Perth, she jumped from it into the sky, “her hair forming the Milky Way and the spirit children forming the stars”––“She knew she could never return to the land as her punishment.” However, If you go to Lake Joondalup during a full moon, it is said that you can see her long white hair reflecting from the stars above. So this place is called

The Tjunta Trail  31 Joondalup (place of the long white hair). The lake is often referred to as the water that glistens.11 Already, the outer story of Tjunta, collated here from publicly available sources, invites inner or non-literal interpretations. Writing of the making of the Swan River, Lake Joondalup and of regional hydrology generally, Ken Macintyre comments, At a deeper level Waugal mythology was indeed the metaphor which emphasized the proto-scientific mysteries of the rivers, water sources and landscape. It also explained through the mythological track of the Waugal how water moved throughout the Swan Coastal Plain as a system of underground streams interlinking wetlands to the rivers and ocean. This knowledge was an essential component of Aboriginal survival.12 Similarly, Tjunta seems to have been responsible for the creation of the landscape. Referring to her scattering of spirit children, Noongar Elder Noel Nannup considers that it demonstrates that “the strongest spirit down in the South West is feminine: She left this feminine spirit wherever she went, all through the South West.”13 But this might be controversial: when, in 1996, Aboriginal artists Miv Egan, Sandra Hill and Jenny Dawson created their 25-meter mosaic Charnock Woman at Victoria Gardens in East Perth, they showed “four magpie totems in flight symbolis[ing] the spirit people who turned into magpies to attack the evil Charnock woman who used her long hair to trap children.” In their version of the story, Tjunta is flung into the sky (where she forms the Milky Way) during the battle.14 Evidently, adapting Dante’s schema, this is a story susceptible to allegorical interpretation (of the kind Macintyre applies), to moral teaching (the wages of wickedness) and to spiritual exegesis (the soul’s journey in the afterlife).15 In the earlier essay, already mentioned, I described how the Tjunta Trail at Scarborough came about. The Whadjuk Working Group had invited Nyungar Elder Neville Collard to work with me through the creative template reference document and toward a conceptualization of the place that would foreground Noongar sea and land knowledge, combining stories of surrounding place creation coming down from Nyitting (or ancestral time) with traditional ecological knowledge. We had spoken extensively about the children lost in the Flight 17 disaster: I had shown him many sketches made by the children, which the parents had shared with me. The Tjunta spirit story had also been recommended in the creative template. However, nothing could quite prepare us for Mr. Collard’s response, a short story called “Tjunta, the Spirit Woman”: In the Nyungar dreamtime, there was a Nyungar woman named Tjunta; she was the carer and minder for Nyungar coolungarra [children] and saw that no harm came to them. There were also evil spirits Bulyet, Woodatji and Mumarri who Nyungar had to look out for.16

32  Paul Carter In this story, there is a happy family that lives on the boodja (land) not far from the Derbarl Yerriga (Swan River). One day, however, the parents go hunting, leaving their three children at the camp; on their return, they find the children have disappeared. They fear one of the bad spirits has taken them; a search is organized but no trace of the children is found. So, that night, a corobori (dance) was held: The Nyungar Maarman [men] and Yorgas [women] danced up the good spirit of the coolungs [children], Tjunta, to help them find the coolungs. After this, they knew that Tjunta had found the children, and they were safe: She tied them to her long white hair and put them into the Milky Way. Now the three [moe] children can be seen shining and twinkling at Kedalak [night] in the Miki Mikang [moonlight].17 At a meeting with the bereaved parents, held in their community gallery space a few blocks back from Scarborough Beach on 8 February 2017, Mr. Collard presented this story, with the suggestion that it serve as a memorial to the lost children woven into the larger story of “Tjunta, the Spirit Woman.” It was a moving moment; the gesture was gratefully received. As a result, Mr. Collard invited me to translate the story into a public artwork. With the endorsement of the Whadjuk Working Group, I showed that the Tjunta story could be broken up into five episodes. I suggested that each of these episodes could be symbolically represented in a ground pattern. Distributed along the newly constructed north–south promenade overlooking the surf beach, these five ground designs would form the Tjunta Trail. The outer story of this collaboration concerns the invention of a graphic language able to convey the mise-en-scène of each frame of the narrative: in contrast with the well-known visual iconographies of central Australian peoples,18 the Nyungar people of southwestern Western Australia have no rock painting, sand drawing or body ornamentation traditions.19 In non-Indigenous contexts, the graphic systems used by Arrernte, Pintupi, Walpiri, Pitjantjatjara and other central Australian peoples have come to represent Aboriginal art generally, and their components (concentric circles, parallel lines, horseshoe shapes and more or less stylized animal tracks) are interpreted non-specifically as referring to tjukurpa (or Dreamtime) stories––of the kind represented by the creation journey of Waugul. Mr. Collard foregrounded Nyungar words and concepts in his story because he wanted to educate non-Nyungar communities about the wisdom handed down from his elders; however, here the situation was reversed and, as cross-cultural collaborators, we faced the challenge of inventing a new graphic tradition to represent old beliefs! The negotiations and navigations that ensued deserve an article of their own, but in the present context, a discussion of the poetics (and politics) of graphic adaptation and the unexpectedly important role our graphic design experiments played in bringing out the multilayered significance of the Tjunta myths remains part of the outer story. The inner story lies elsewhere, in the anagogical horizons opened up through the human gesture represented by Mr. Collard’s story gift. Generally, dramaturgy is understood performatively rather than symbolically; as an adaptation

The Tjunta Trail  33 of a story to the ‘public stage’ of the redeveloped Scarborough promenade, our hybrid line-and-circle ground diagrams had a dramaturgical function. Translating a narrative into a sequence of patterns that invited peripatetic interpretation–– that is, walking about or around––they mediated between theatrical set design and landscape design. Further, one can be confident that when the public has the chance to perform/walk these designs, with the assistance of a mobile app voice commentary, the kinesthetically mediated encounter with the story will provoke dramaturgical reflection: A new self-consciousness of the relationship between the ‘inside’ meaning of the story, enacted in walking between its ‘episodes,’ and the ‘outside’ of the coastal environment that provides the setting, and creative analog, of the Charnock Woman story. Here, though, it is the spiritual dramaturgy concealed inside the outer gesture that is of interest: the discovery that (as in the Dantean universe) different levels of meaning are nested inside one another; that the selfsame choreographies of sense-making operate across different scales; and that inner spaces and outer spaces, radiating from the middle ground of everyday social exchange, could not be securely differentiated from each other, and serve, in fact, to produce a movement toward the other that can be compared to the scene described at the end of “Tjunta, the Spirit Woman”––the Nyungar believed that the spirits of the dead went to a place named Koortandal (heartland of the deceased), which lies across the sea from Fremantle. There they are welcomed home by their spirit family. Koortandal can be seen from Scarborough; visiting the Family, I could stand on their balcony and see it. The Nyungar have another belief: Someday, the Wirin (spirits) of the Noitj coolungs (deceased children) return home in the form of white spirits to be reunited with their family. So When the Wadjulla [white people] came, the Nyungar believed them to be the spirit of their dearly departed Coolungs and welcomed the Wadjulla with open arms to our country. Many Nyungar in the Kura-Kura [past] recognized Wadjulla people as the returned spirit of a deceased relative and adopted them as Moort [family].20 A ‘spiritual dramaturgy’ is described here: an inner or soul journey is mapped onto the local coastal seascape. More importantly, a spiritual energy is being choreographed that is not represented at any one scale but that permeates all living movement. In a traditional setting, the coexistence of literal, allegorical, moral and anagogical meanings was the cause of the performance’s legitimacy; it secured the aesthetic validity of the design. Describing a ceremony performed by Arrernte men at the cave of the Ulamba ancestor in the West MacDonnells (Central Australia)––an event he witnessed in the 1930s––the distinguished anthropologist and ethnolinguist T. G. H. Strehlow remarked that it was the dramatic representation of one of the many memorable events in the myth centering on the person of the ancestor: The actors wear a traditional

34  Paul Carter ceremonial pattern in conformity with the scene of the dramatized incident; for the Ulamba chief is stated to have worn a different decorative pattern at each of the many places which he visited on his travels.21 The assimilation of sacred ceremony to secular theater no doubt overcompensates for the ignorance of Strehlow’s readership, but it communicates the fact that the adopted pattern language operated simultaneously as choreography, geography––and eschatology. For, as the humanist anthropologist and writer W. E. H. Stanner remarks, the ordering of the universe established through these placemaking stories and their regular reenactment is not only a “narrative to things that once happened”; it is “a kind of charter of things that still happen; and a kind of logos or principle of order transcending everything significant for Aboriginal man [sic].”22 Obviously, in translating the Tjunta story into a ground design consistent with the creative template, we navigated a very different cultural environment, which lacked shared symbolic languages, shared spiritual values and even shared historical and operational senses of place. In this sense, the journey of the Tjunta Spirit Woman was what we had to find in ourselves; our own turning toward stories would be the first reeducation that the project afforded. To illustrate this, let me recall the conversation that unfolded after the presentation of the Tjunta story to the Family. Moved by Mr. Collard’s words and the gift gesture, the parents decided to share with us a story that the mother had written, and drawn, after the plane crash. In her graphic story, the state of Everyland is attacked by a Serpent or Snake that opens an underground crack in the earth and emerges from this crevasse to destroy the world. As an armed warrior queen, she (the writer) strives to defend Everyland, but the force of the Snake is too great. In the sequel, the children’s spirits are turned into stars. Everyone was struck by the similarities between the Tjunta story and the Everyland story. Their elements and their sequence easily fit Vladimir Propp’s formalist account of the fairytale. If “the archetypes are the imperishable elements of the unconscious, but they change their shape continually,”23 the transformation of the lost children into stars found in both stories speaks to “a fundamental need for synthesis in the psyche.”24 The importance of such convergences, though, was not so much psychological as dramaturgical. I had shown the parents the first sketches we had made for the Tjunta Trail. These included depictions of the lost children as stars in the Milky Way; in the Everyland story, their afterlife as stars was drawn in the same way. The cruciform symbol used to symbolize the star was derived from one of the children’s drawings in which three black dancers had been depicted. Presented in this circumstance, the story and the graphic symbols were almost physical gestures or expressions: the haptic was tied to the deictic; what was being named was also being pointed out. Mr. Collard said the three children’s spirits would be seen in the night sky as Orion’s Belt. People looking at the stars painted on the ground would make this connection. Noting how, in the earlier episodes, the three children stars were differently configured, I said that we could read their journey across constellations as the imaginal mutations of a dance

The Tjunta Trail  35 figure originally drawn by the daughter of the Family; now, her transformed hand is visible in the night sky. However, in storytelling, one story leads to another: to explain one story is to tell another. And, as stories are by their nature polysemous, there is no end to the stories that can be related in an effort to understand the deeper meanings. In this sense, a story is a ‘relation’ in a dramaturgical sense; it creates a relationship with whomever listens and invites them to find their own story in what is related–– one good journey deserves another. I was conscious that the characterization of the Snake in Everyland was controversial: as Mr. Collard pointed out during the meeting, the Snake that in Nyungar ancestral time “opens an underground crack in the Earth” is Waakal. He is not destructive; opening the land, he not only “created the fresh waterways such as the bilya/beelier [river], pinjar [swamps, lakes] and ngamma [waterhole],” but “dominates the earth and the sky and makes the koondarnangor [thunder], babanginy [lightning] and boroong [rain].”25 Noongar people say, Waakal gave us our knowledge about Nyungar and our relationships, responsibilities and obligations to one another. The Creator gave us our katitjin [knowledge] about the animals, plants, bush medicines, trees, rivers, waterholes, hills, gullies, the stars, moon, sun, rocks and seasons, and their interconnectedness in the web of life.26 Mr. Collard shared my disquiet; he felt that the Everyland Snake must be a case of mistaken identity. There is also an uncomfortable resemblance between it and Revelation’s “old serpent, called the Devil” (Revelation 12:9).27 We contrasted the snake in Genesis with its Aesculapian counterpart. Then I remembered a story from my own birthplace in England: nearby, below the Berkshire Downs, is a natural chalk hillock called the Dragon’s Hill. The late Bronze Age hill figure immediately above it, known as the Uffington White Horse, may represent a dragon; but, in any case, our story, like the story in Revelation, concentrated on the dragon’s defeat at the hands of Saint George. In a tenth-century charter, the hill is called Eccles Beorh, or “Church Barrow,” a name that suggests the Christianization of an older legend (the dragon almost invariably guards a treasure hoard).28 Saint George’s victory over the dragon was a local instance of the Olympian triumph over the chthonic Titans.29 The White Horse/Dragon was, I suggested, like Waakal: demonized or infantilized by Christian authorities anxious to colonize its domains but afraid of its creative powers, an interpretation supported by the local belief that the grassless chalk patches and trails on the Dragon’s Hill are where the dragon’s blood was spilled.30 Perhaps the negative traits of Tjunta can be similarly explained. In another, less Manichean reading, she would be a Kali figure.31 The summary provided here and the reference notes are not intended to support a comparative ethnographic or folkloric speculation. They are simply the minimal contextualization for a discussion of relational dramaturgy. Instead of commenting on my dragon story and its interpretation, Mr. Collard opened up a new line

36  Paul Carter of inquiry. He asked where White Horse Hill and the associated Dragon’s Hill were located in relation to Cheddar Gorge, a limestone gorge in the Mendip Hills in the county of Somerset. He explained that Collard’s English ancestors had mainly come to Western Australia from that part of the English West Country. He was curious to find out whether our ancestors were neighbors.32 Brought up in the Christian faith, Mr. Collard had an interesting anecdote: “Was I aware that the once-popular hymn ‘Rock of Ages’ had been composed in Cheddar Gorge? Was I aware of the story behind it?” And he related the story that the hymn’s author, Augustus Toplady, had sheltered in the gorge of Burrington Combe during a storm (“Rock of Ages, cleft for me/Let me hide myself in thee!”), and seeing the rain streaming down the rock face, had thought of Christ’s suffering on the cross (“Let the Water and the Blood/From thy riven Side which flow’d/Be of sin the double cure”).33 Whatever the historical basis of this story, its wide belief suggests that even Christians responded to its animism. Stories that interpret split rocks or discolored cliffs as the physical injury or suffering of ancestral beings occur throughout Aboriginal Australia.34 The point of the story was clear: a conception of spirit embodied in environmental dramaturgy––of the relationship between outer space and inner space––was not an exclusively Nyungar possession; it simply required a reorientation to story. In this reorientation, the story is not simply related (told); it implies a relation (the manifestation of energeia). The nature of this relation corresponds to what Paul Ricoeur calls “the ‘tensional’ character of metaphorical truth.”35 Building on a distinction “between two senses of the verb ‘to be,’ the relational and the existential,” he finds in “the impossibility of the literal interpretation” of ‘is’ concealed an ‘is not.’36 Or, “Being-as means being and not being.”37 I mentioned the role the development of the Tjunta Trail graphics had in the interpretation of the story. To represent Tjunta, it was necessary to devise a graph that would symbolize her presence and power. I proposed an undulating line that could be multiplied to form a set of parallel wave edges. The impact of this graphic logic on the character of Tjunta is remarkable. In the story, she is anthropomorphized; she walks, leaps, flies. In the visual representation, however, she appears instead as an elemental icon of energy. The parallel wavy lines represent her white flowing hair, but they also imitate the track left by “the spirit man collecting the children and eating them.” It is noticeable that, in Mr. Collard’s rendering of the story, this male figure is absent; responsibility for the theft of the children is attri­ buted to the “evil spirits Bulyet, Woodatji and Mumarri.” However, in graphic logic, he comes back: in the is/is not character of the waving line, Waugul’s trace is detected, an intuition in line with the statement reported by Daisy Bates.38 Besides this primary kinship discovered between seeming opposites, the repetition of the same graphic motif (in different variations) enabled us to visualize Tjunta the Spirit Woman’s protean transformations: inside the sand spit at Point Walter, periodically covered and uncovered by the flowing tides, inside the flowing river of the Milky Way moved the same elemental dance figure––Tjunta, who, in this graphic expression, could be recognized as a dramaturgical principle, as a kind of environmental algorithm binding together the different manifestations of

The Tjunta Trail  37 Creation into a single narrative. I suggested that the Snake in Everyland was susceptible to a similar interpretation: the verbal story of the destroyer was inconsistent with the mother’s cartoon representation of the Snake as a powerful elemental deity. Noting that, in the story, the Serpent emerges before the fatal plane crash (nowhere explicitly mentioned) and destroys the whole of Everyland, and not simply the children, I suggested that the Snake of the story was not personally malevolent but represented an archetypal telluric power whose destructiveness was a byproduct of following its own ineluctable path. It was an allegory of danger, of the perilousness of modern existence in a world of irrational violence. I should say that these metaphorical identifications occur spontaneously; they are primary recognitions that arise when the participants turn to story. As already emphasized, these identifications are greatly multiplied when the narrative elements are represented graphically. Writing about Walpiri sand painting, Nancy Munn highlights two features: “the number of different classes of things that can be conveyed in graphic form while maintaining a relatively small repertory of elements” and the “dependent character of the graphic signs […] the fact that they are interlocked with more articulate mediums of communication.” In fact, “in the telling of a story, the graphic channel of communication establishes a kind of visual punctuation of the total narrative meaning.”39 But, obviously, it also does something more, translating actions into a graphic language that integrates spiritual and environmental dramaturgy, as a direct relationship is asserted between the form of places and the passage of the spirit body. Further, contrary to the view expressed by older anthropologists such as Strehlow,40 the extreme simplicity and stylization of the motifs, while it may inhibit the emergence of a personal style, encourages metaphorical interpretation. We operated outside a traditional sandpainting culture; however, having had privileged access to drawings done by the Family’s deceased children, I could see, in the Everyland drawings of the crested serpent, an unmistakable reminiscence of the ‘dragons’ or ‘snakes’ that her son had drawn, and which I mentioned in the creative template. As I noted in my personal project journal, some of [her son’s depictions] bear an uncanny resemblance to Waugal, as he is described by Noongar people. Other drawings are reminiscent of the Chinese New Year Dragon. These drawings have remarkable energy and successfully convey a powerful creative force.41 Hence, a storyline may connect the most intimate interior of family history to the widest exterior of the landscape. The connection is not mediated––a matter of analogical construction––but immediate (or relational); it gives sense to what has happened rather than inventing a connection. After Mr. Collard presented his story with its information that, as Bates puts it, “the early white settlers were supposed to be the returned spirits of dead natives,” the mother of the lost children recalled a shooting star that blazed over their Scarborough balcony on the first occasion that they were able to talk about the children. This was not a literal illustration of the Nyungar’s revenant belief; in

38  Paul Carter the context of our storytelling, it was a spontaneous metaphorical metamorphosis of the matter. Koorannup, the land of the dead, or, locally, Wadjemup, Rottnest Island, lies in the ocean south of Scarborough, along the axis of the shooting star’s dying fall. Synthesizing the Tjunta story of the children in the Milky Way, and the story of the spirit returning from the sea, her poignant reminiscence has a mythopoetic power. Inscribed into the sense of place, it had the power of spiritual dramaturgy. As indicated, there is more to the story than meets the eye in the Tjunta Trail’s design: the five episodes translated into ground patterns along the promenade are dependent on the story for their interpretation; and, in return, the interpretation of the story is interlocked with the graphs, whose formal continuity throughout the episodes alters the symbolic meanings ascribed to each episode, its agents and actions. However, the dependence of the graphics does not mean that they are without inner or hidden meanings: just as the Tjunta story was open to the kind of four-level interpretation Dante proposed in Il Convivio––an ‘onion ring’ concept of interpretation also found in traditional Aboriginal cultures––so, too, the graphs we devised underwent an evolution reflective of their polysemous potential. In a now-famous instance of cross-culturally negotiated storytelling, the production of the Honey Ant Dreaming mural at Papunya in 1971 involved three revisions. According to art teacher Geoffrey Bardon, the first version inadvertently included signs that referred to secret men’s business, whose communication was, or should have been, restricted. The second version replaced these secret/ sacred graphs with Western (non-Indigenous), cartoon-style symbols. In response to Bardon’s request that the mural should not contain ‘whitefella’ signs, a third version was painted over the earlier designs. In this, a hybrid set of icons was devised that communicated the outer meaning of the story, whilst avoiding any allusion to restricted information.42 In a small way, the design for the Tjunta Trail also went through three stages. In the first, I devised signs that belonged to the ‘family’ of icons found generically through central Australian sand and rock art but were carefully different in design, execution and composition;43 in the second, Nyungar artist Richard Walley and Neville Collard produced a simplified version, heavily reliant on literally applied symbols derived from the central desert; in the third, a hybrid graphic language emerged, one that preserved the inner logic (or through-line) of the waving hair serpentine and the distinctive star icons, whilst retaining the conventional graphs of the second version.44 The phrase “spiritual dramaturgy” has been invoked as a way of indicating the relational manifold within which the Tjunta story is woven. The story gives sense to the senseless data of experience––the given ordering and disordering of the universe––by finding a metaphor (the story) that translates between different levels. As Siegfried Zielinski has remarked, “Metaphors are constructed to ennoble the physical with the aid of the spiritual or to visualize the spiritual, make it profane and concrete (objectify it) by a comparison with the physical.”45 In the Tjunta story and the further stories it generates, cosmic phenomena (the stars) obey the same rules of birth, death and rebirth suffered in human life. The outer space of

The Tjunta Trail  39 the Tjunta Trail is an environment whose physical form and arrangement are the traces of ancestral journeys and actions; the inner space of the Tjunta Trail is a space of mourning, a dimensionless abyss only comparable to the untraversable height between heaven and earth. Through the medium of the story, a route––vertical as well as horizontal––through the labyrinth begins to take shape. It is important to emphasize that the primary influence on this process is social affect: a sense of encounter produced by the recognition in all parties of their complexly entangled but often repressed shared histories. Spiritual dramaturgy exercised here is not a remnant affection for the supernatural; it is the discovery of exchangeable poetic grammars that allow different colonial histories and geographies to be integrated. The epiphanic ambition of the Tjunta Trail exists in the ‘showing forth’ of relations hitherto gone missing. But walking the trail is never their representation; it is an ‘is/is not’ gesture that also preserves the secret. In other words, a kind of walking is scored into the surface: to (t)read the five episodes of the Tjunta Interpretation Trail involves also acknowledging what is held back or hidden from comprehension. Instead of the meditational walking that Western environmental artists practice, a dramaturgy of hesitation is fostered here. Drawn to designs whose meaning is enigmatic, the public searches for the protocols governing access. The negotiation encouraged here is comparable to the evaluation of metaphor that occurs in cross-cultural exchange: emphasis is on the ethics of translation or, preliminary to that, the right to approach. In Nyungar culture and country, this courtesy is perhaps common sense: When Noongar people visit a river or water body, we throw a handful of sand into the water. We use language to let the Waugul know of our presence. Noongar people see the condition of the rivers and waterways as directly related to the wellbeing of the Waugul. It is part of our caring for country and the cultural landscape to ensure the Waugul is not disturbed.46 In particular, you must not drink from the gnamma hole without first asking permission from the spirits of the country. This should be done by speaking in the Noongar language, before throwing a stone or some sand into the water. If the water is clear then you can proceed. It is necessary to identify oneself in front of the gnamma hole, stating who you are and to which group and family you belong.47 In this context, the story of the Tjunta Trail was not only the translation of an encounter with a bereaved Scarborough family or the discovery of comparable totemic landscapes; it was an off-site ritual or pilgrimage. When Mr. Collard invited me to go with him to a place southwest of Perth, between the headwaters of the Serpentine River and the curiously named Monadnock Hills, to visit a gnamma or waterhole that his father had told him about, whose location had, until recently, been unknown, the educative purpose was focused entirely on the

40  Paul Carter approach. Although rain was threatening, we set out on foot from the car park, tramping through open jarrah forest with a rich understory flora of banksia species and ti trees and a fertile humus soil thinning to moss overlays of exposed granite shoulders. The bush was wet against our legs––Mr. Collard thought that the exceptionally heavy rain of the previous days was Waakal weeping for joy because he and I and the government agency responsible for the redevelopment of Scarborough Beach had broken through to a new respect for his spirit. I followed him at a discreet distance, as I did not want to embarrass him if he had difficulty in locating the waterhole. But even though this was only his third or fourth visit, he walked pretty much straight to it. Catching our breath, we paused on the granite slope, slowly coming to our senses. The gaze, in particular, was respectful, averted to begin with, as if awaiting a sign to attend, to mark and orient the body. We were, in fact, in an archaeological ‘site’ that stretched many meters in all directions, and whose engineering was focused on channeling all surface water into pools dug out and walled at the base of the granite rocks. There were long narrow diagonal grooves gouged out of the flat sloped surfaces, deeper craters made by fire and water and other deep cuts following lines of natural fissure. There was also an unexplained stone alignment. The adjacent quandong trees were grown from seeds sown when Nyungar people used to visit this place. With the accelerated awareness that we stood at the heart of an intentional gathering of elements (an environmental dramaturgy), there was also a draining away of time, as if the epiphanic dimension of reality was close to unveiling. Mr. Collard found an ax head in the creek bed and remarked, as we were leaving, that he always had the impression he was being watched there: nothing should be taken from the site––and, on the other hand, nothing should be brought to the site beyond an attitude of respect. In inviting me on to his country, Mr. Collard assumed the role of bidier or birdiyia: as “a man of certain importance or influence” in his community and beyond, he elected himself my “guide, director, or adviser.”48 The word bidier is derived from bidi, meaning a ‘path’ but also a human ‘sinew’ or ‘vein.’49 The comparison of a walking path to a human tendon, ligament or vein or even bone marrow, is widespread in Australian Aboriginal cultures,50 but equally common is its association with the gerund ‘tracking,’ often with the additional sense of ‘tracing’ or ‘drawing out.’51 To walk, to imprint the ground, to leave an impression––and also, therefore, a track that can be followed––redefines a discipline of kinesthetic meditation as a diplomatic technique; it socializes an apparently solitary activity, relating passage not simply to the trajectories, desire lines or habits of other members of the public but to the tracks of the ancestors, in whose footsteps we walk. To be cradled in this way is not to gain protection from the violence of the inexplicable––the brutality of invasion and land theft, or the theft beyond reason of three children’s lives––but it is to have a direction. To walk in the track of the ancestors is not to predict or explain the events of history; however, it is to assert that embodiment is agency and that movement can be a narrative making sense. In The Poetics of Manhood, Michael Herzfeld states that Cretan mountain communities conflate how a story is told with what actually happened: the concepts

The Tjunta Trail  41 “exciting event” and “story” are both covered by the term “istoria.”52 Similarly, in Tjukurpa or Nyitting stories, the shape of the landscape and what happened are indistinguishable. This has important implications for what happens in the here and now. Fred Myers argues that, when the Pintupi distinguish between tjukurpa “and narratives which are mularrpa (true, real or actual),” there is not a logical distinction between the two; rather, “the Dreaming is the foundation of the visible world, whereas occurrences which are mularrpa take place in the present day and are witnessable.”53 Inside the random footsteps of the present, inside the wardarn bidi (footpath along the sea) of the Tjunta Trail, there is an older ground pattern; we may not intend to, but we cannot avoid a choice between the forgetfulness of trespass and the mindfulness of walking in the steps of those who have gone before. Illustrating the principles of spiritual dramaturgy, these resonances and consolations lie in full view but strangely hidden. Walking out, we notice the effects of recent wildfire; many of the jarrah trunks are charcoal black. Yet the red-tailed black cockatoos have been there––a lightning-pale ground litter of foliage shows they have been at work.54 Back in the four-wheel drive, we pause on the way out to sample bush tucker. Neville gives me some berries to eat. I try them but they are incredibly bitter and I spit them out. He laughs; “I should have told you,” he said, “you have to get your thumb under the rind and peel it back. It’s the inside that is sweet.”

Notes 1 The role of the creative template in urban redevelopment is discussed in Paul Carter, Places Made after Their Stories: Design and the Art of Choreotopography (Crawley: University of Western Australia Publishing, 2015), 327–55. As a novel form of cultural mapping, the employment of the creative template approach in the design and programing of Yagan Square (Perth, Western Australia, 2014–2018) and Scarborough Beach (Perth, Western Australia, 2016–2018) is further discussed in Paul Carter, “Shadowing Passage: Cultural Memory as Movement Form,” in Artistic Approaches to Cultural Mapping: Activating Imaginaries and Means of Knowing, ed. Nancy Duxbury, W. F. Garrett-Petts and Alys Longley (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2018), 46–62. For further information about the Scarborough redevelopment project, see the article “Scarborough Beach Redevelopment Opens,” World Landscape Architect, 8 May 2018, www​.w​​orldl​​andsc​​apear​​chite​​ct​.co​​m​/sca​​rboro​​ugh​-b​​each-​​redev​​elopm​​ent​-o​​pens/​#​. W​-9P45MzZBw. 2 For information on the public record, see “Malaysia Airlines MH17: Remains of Maslin Family Brought Home to Grieving Parents,” ABC News, 19 October 2014, www​.a​​bc​. ne​​t​.au/​​news/​​2014-​​10​-19​​/rema​​ins​-o​​f​-mas​​lin​-f​​amily​​-mh17​​-vict​​ims​-b​​rough​​t​-hom​​e​/582​​ 5246. 3 Perhaps the Aristotelian sense of energeia––a continuous state of self-actualization in which becoming and being fuse––implies the perfect tense, a state of activity already complete. See Matthew S. Wood, “Aristotle and the Question of Metaphor” (Ph.D. diss., University of Ottawa, 2015), 193. 4 The creative template was delivered through my design studio, Material Thinking, North Melbourne, Victoria. The document can also be viewed by application to the Metropolitan Redevelopment Authority, Forrest Place, Perth, WA. See “Scarborough Edge: A Creative Template for the Scarborough Redevelopment Area,” Metropolitan

42  Paul Carter Redevelopment Authority, 24 August 2015, https​:/​/cd​​n​.mra​​.wa​.g​​ov​.au​​/prod​​uctio​​n​/doc​​ ument​​s​-med​​ia​/do​​cumen​​ts​/sc​​arbor​​ough/​​file/​​scarb​​oroug​​​h​-cre​​ative​​-temp​​late. 5 See Carter, “Shadowing Passage.” 6 Dante’s schema differentiates between literal, allegorical, moral and anagogical readings of the poetic text (or cultural story). Significantly, the discovery of the concealed sense (allegorical), the ethical import (moral) and the spiritual, “beyond the senses” meaning (anagogical) are in the hands of “teachers.” See Trattato Secondo, I, “Il Convivio,” in Tutte le opere di Dante Alighieri, ed. Edward Moore (Oxford: Stamperia dell’Università, 1963), 252. 7 See, for example, W. E. H. Stanner, “Aborigines and Australian Society (1972),” in The Dreaming & Other Essays (Melbourne: Black Inc. Agenda, 2009), 251–59. 8 “Joondalup, Mooro Boodjar: Indigenous Culture within Mooro Country,” City of Joondalup, accessed 7 November 2019, www​.j​​oonda​​lup​.w​​a​.gov​​.au​/F​​iles/​​ Joond​​alup_​​Mooro​​_Bood​​jar​_B​​rochu​​re​.pd​​f. Note that Waugul is spelled in many different ways. 9 Hughes-Hallett, Debra, Indigenous History of the Swan and Canning Rivers, 2010, 1–95, 24, 37. https​:/​/pa​​rks​.d​​paw​.w​​a​.gov​​.au​/s​​ites/​​defau​​lt​/fi​​les​/d​​ownlo​​ads​/p​​arks/​​Indig​​ enous​​%20hi​​story​​%20of​​%20th​​e​%20S​​wan​%2​​0​and%​​20Can​​ning%​​20riv​​ers​.p​​df. 10 “Joondalup, Mooro Boodjar,” City of Joondalup. As Bates argues, “in the Victoria Plains district the female woggal was the totem of the families here, and there is a legend that shows her healing one of her human totem kin, and keeping the hostile male woggal from harming him.” Daisy Bates, The Native Tribes of Western Australia (Canberra: National Library of Australia, 1985), 219–20. This story displays Tjunta as a preserver/destroyer figure. It appears that a proper recognition of the shamanic powers exercised by women in Noongar culture is only just beginning. In 2018, a major public artwork celebrating (Fanny) Balbuk was installed at Yagan Square, Perth. Balbuk was, according to Bates (Native Tribes, 145–46), “certainly yogga biderr [a strong or powerful woman],” but even among the present Nyungar community, her campaign against the loss of her country has not won her the respect she surely deserves. Kingsley Palmer’s otherwise well-informed Noongar People, Noongar Land: The Resilience of Aboriginal Culture in the South West of Western Australia (Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, 2016) makes no mention of Tjunta, although offering plentiful information about Wagarl (195–97). Likewise, Sandra Harben, Rosemary van den Berg and Len Collard, Nidja Beeliar Boodjar Noonookurt Nyininy: A Nyungar Interpretive History of the Use of Boodjar (Country) in the Vicinity of Murdoch University (Perth: Murdoch University, 2004). Note that, as indicated here, the term normalized as Waugul is spelt in a variety of ways. 11 “Joondalup, Mooro Boodjar,” City of Joondalup. 12 Ken Macintyre, “Aborigines and the Cottesloe Coast,” paper presented at Fish Habitat Protection Area Seminar, sponsored by Coastcare, May 2004, www​.c​​ottes​​loe​.w​​a​.gov​​. au​/p​​rofil​​es​/co​​ttesl​​oe​/as​​sets/​​clien​​tdata​​/docu​​ments​​/page​​conte​​nt​/in​​digen​​ous​_c​​ultur​​e​_in_​​ cotte​​sloe/​​abori​​gines​​_and_​​the​_c​​ottes​​loe​_c​​oast.​​pdf. 13 Noongar Elder Noel Nannup, in discussion with Serge DeSilva-Ranasinghe, “From the Dreaming to Modernity: The Story of the Noongar People of Western Australia,” Department of Planning, Lands and Heritage, Government of Western Australia, 22 March 2016, www​.d​​aa​.wa​​.gov.​​au​/ab​​out​-t​​he​-de​​partm​​ent​/n​​ews​/f​​rom​-t​​he​-dr​​eamin​​g​-to-​​ moder​​nity/​. 14 www​.e​​xperi​​encep​​erth.​​com​/p​​age​/p​​ublic​​-art-​​walks​​-pert​​h. 15 See note 6. 16 Noongar Elder Neville Collard, “Tjunta, the Spirit Woman,” quoted by permission, 19 January 2017. Palmer also notes, [s]ites are also variously associated with other named spirit beings, including mumari and wutarji, and other supernatural creatures, like the jimba and jar-

The Tjunta Trail  43 nak. Unnamed spirits of deceased and unknown forebears of the claimants are believed to reside at many former camping places. (Palmer, Noongar People, 193) 17 Collard, “Tjunta.” 18 See, for example, Geoffrey Bardon and James Bardon, Papunya: A Place Made After the Story (Carlton: Miegunyah, 2004), 111; Nancy D. Munn, Walbiri Iconography: Graphic Representation and Cultural Symbolism in a Central Australian Society (Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1986), Chapters 4, 5 and 6. 19 This statement seems scarcely credible (for references to ochre and paperbark used in paintings, see Palmer, Noongar People, 187); it rests on the statements of Noongar people themselves. In many other Indigenous cultures that have suffered similar cultural erasure under colonization, white descriptions exist of traditional graphic practices. This appears not to be the case in Noongar country. In this context, the existence of the Kybra petroglyphs in the Scott River Region are particularly important. See Robert G. Gunn et al., “The Petroglyphs of the Kybra Aboriginal Site, South-Western Western Australia,” Journal of the Royal Society of Western Australia 94, no. 4 (December 2011): 557–81. 20 Collard, “Tjunta.” This belief is also recorded by Bates in Native Tribes, 223. 21 T. G. H. Strehlow, Aranda Traditions (Carlton: Melbourne University Press, 1947), 5. 22 Stanner, The Dreaming, 58. 23 C. G. Jung, quoted in Jane Catherine O’Connor, The Cultural Significance of the Child Star (New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2008), 113. 24 Ibid. 25 The storyteller quoted here, Tom Bennell (R.I.P.), entrusted his stories to Mr. Collard, his blood relative. See www​.noongarculture​.org​.au​/spirituality/. 26 Harben, van den Berg and Collard, Nidja Beeliar Boodjar Noonookurt, 57. 27 There is, of course, an even closer––one might almost say diabolical––resemblance between the serpent/dragon of the Apocalypse that “cast out of his mouth water as a flood” (Revelation 12:15) and the beneficent Waakal. 28 David Nash Ford, “Dragon Hill: Archaeological or Natural,” Royal Berkshire History, accessed 24 March 2020, www​.b​​erksh​​irehi​​story​​.com/​​archa​​eolog​​y​/dra​​gon​_h​​ill​.h​​tml. 29 Jane Harrison, Themis: A Study of the Social Origins of Greek Religion (London: Merlin, 1963), Chapter 10 and especially the section entitled “The Olympians Reject Snake-Form,” 451. 30 See M. Aurora Lestón Mayo, “Tracing the Dragon: A Study of the Origin and Evolution of the Dragon Myth in the History and Literature of the British Isles” (Ph.D. diss., Universidade de Santiago de Compostela, 2014), 24, 182. Bates provides information about woggal (Native Tribes, 219–21). Even so sympathetic a student of Nyungar culture as G. F. Moore characterizes Waugāl as an “evil spirit.” Peter Bindon and Ross Chadwick, A Nyoongar Wordlist from the South-West of Western Australia (Perth: Western Australian Museum, 1992), 175. 31 See note 6. Bates notes that woggal “watches over food and other laws, and punishes those who transgress them. The presiding woggal of the Bunbury district was blind, ‘but he could work evil just the same’” (Native Tribes, 219). In this sense, Waugal is another preserver/destroyer, his destructive powers unleashed in the cause of preserving the good. 32 Cheddar Gorge is approximately 110 kilometers southwest of White Horse Hill. 33 The story is usually described as a local legend. 34 For many illustrated examples, see Charles Mountford, Nomads of the Australian Desert (Melbourne: Rigby, 1976). 35 Paul Ricoeur, The Rule of Metaphor: The Creation of Meaning in Language, trans. Robert Czerny with Kathleen McLaughlin and John Costello, SJ (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2003), 302.

44  Paul Carter 36 Ibid., 292–93. 37 Ibid., 362. Ricoeur’s argument is subtle but clear: In poetic thinking, as opposed to speculative thought, the copula “as” retains a dynamic sense. It defines Being as a movement towards (as an act of relating). Being, construed like this, necessarily “signifies things in act,” a generative region where Being and Becoming the other constantly fuse. Ibid. 364–65, 370–71. 38 See note 10. 39 Munn, Walbiri Iconography, 69. 40 See T. G. H. Strehlow, Songs of Central Australia (Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1971), 704. 41 Paul Carter, “Scarborough Project Journal,” 2016. In possession of author. 42 Bardon and Bardon, Papunya, 12–19. See also the discussion in Paul Carter, Dark Writing: Geography, Performance, Design (Honolulu, HI: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2008), 103–39. 43 Although, curiously, the half horseshoe and half emu track motifs I “invented” turned out to have been anticipated in the Kybra petroglyphs. 44 Another essay would be needed to explain the role these conventionalized graphics play in contemporary Nyungar cultural production. In this case, my concern not to appropriate the “hieroglyphs” or “archetypes” of the Papunya Tula painting movement and their prototypes in traditional central Australian sand drawing practice was overruled by an artistic community where (in the absence of a local drawing tradition) these icons already circulated freely. 45 Siegfried Zielinski, “Towards a Dramaturgy of Differences,” V2_, accessed 14 November 2019, www​.v​​2​.nl/​​archi​​ve​/ar​​ticle​​s​/tow​​ards-​​a​-dra​​matur​​gy​-of​​-diff​​erenc​​es. 46 “Spirituality,” Kaartdijin Noongar–Noongar Knowledge, accessed 14 November 2019, www​.noongarculture​.org​.au​/spirituality/. 47 Palmer, Noongar People, 119. 48 George F. Moore, A Descriptive Vocabulary of the Language in Common Use amongst the Aborigines of Western Australia (London: WM. S. Orr & Co., 1842), 10. 49 Ibid. For further discussion, see Paul Carter, “The Black Swan of Trespass: Dramaturgies of Public Space,” in Movements of Interweaving: Dance and Corporeality in Times of Travel and Migration, ed. Gabriele Brandstetter, Gerko Egert and Holger Hartung (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2019), 216–36. 50 M. Moorhouse translated [ranko] as “a path, track, road, marrow of bone.” A Vocabulary, and Outlines of the Grammatical Structure of the Murray River Language, Spoken by the Natives of South Australia, from Wellington on the Murray, as Far as the Rufus (Adelaide: Andrew Murray, 1846), 53. 51 See Carter, Dark Writing, 160. 52 Michael Herzfeld, The Poetics of Manhood: Contest and Identity in a Cretan Mountain Village (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985), 207. 53 Fred Myers, quoted in Kim Fleet, “‘Nganampalampa—Definitely All Ours’: The Contestation and Appropriation of Uluru (Ayers Rock) by Tourists and Aborigines” (Ph.D. diss., University of St Andrews, 1999), 70, note 15. 54 In the middle of the sea, between the mainland and Koorannup, or the home of the dead, there is a karrak (black cockatoo, with red tail), whose nest is built on the road under the sea which the natives must take. The cockatoo sits on its nest and waits for the spirit of the dead man. When the spirit approaches the vicinity of the nest, he dives underneath it and comes up on the Koorannup side of the nest and thus gets to his final home. Sometimes he does not dive deep enough, and then the cockatoo catches him and eats him. (Bates, Native Tribes, 223)

The Tjunta Trail  45

Bibliography ABC News. “Malaysia Airlines MH17: Remains of Maslin Family Brought Home to Grieving Parents.” 19 October 2014. www​.a​​bc​.ne​​t​.au/​​news/​​2014-​​10​-19​​/rema​​ins​-o​​f​mas​​lin​-f​​amily​​-mh17​​-vict​​ims​-b​​rough​​t​-hom​​e​/582​​5246. Bardon, Geoffrey, and James Bardon. Papunya: A Place Made after the Story. Carlton: Miegunyah, 2004. Bates, Daisy. The Native Tribes of Western Australia. Canberra, ACT: National Library of Australia, 1985. Bindon, Peter, and Ross Chadwick. A Nyoongar Wordlist from the South-West of Western Australia. Perth, WA: Western Australian Museum, 1992. Carter, Paul. Dark Writing: Geography, Performance, Design. Honolulu, HI: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2008. ––––––. Places Made after Their Stories: Design and the Art of Choreotopography. Crawley, WA: University of Western Australia Publishing, 2015. ––––––. “Shadowing Passage: Cultural Memory as Movement Form.” In Artistic Approaches to Cultural Mapping: Activating Imaginaries and Means of Knowing, edited by Nancy Duxbury, W. F. Garrett-Petts, and Alys Longley, 46–62. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2018. ––––––. “The Black Swan of Trespass: Dramaturgies of Public Space.” In Movements of Interweaving: Dance and Corporeality in Times of Travel and Migration, edited by Gabriele Brandstetter, Gerko Egert, and Holger Hartung, 216–36. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2019. City of Joondalup. “Joondalup, Mooro Boodjar: Indigenous Culture within Mooro Country.” Accessed 7 November 2019. www​.j​​oonda​​lup​.w​​a​.gov​​.au​/F​​iles/​​Joond​​alup_​​ Mooro​​_Bood​​jar​_B​​rochu​​re​.pd​​f. DeSilva-Ranasinghe, Serge. “From the Dreaming to Modernity: The Story of the Noongar People of Western Australia.” Department of Planning, Lands and Heritage, Government of Western Australia. 22 March 2016. www​.d​​aa​.wa​​.gov.​​au​/ab​​out​-t​​he​de​​partm​​ent​/n​​ews​/f​​rom​-t​​he​-dr​​eamin​​g​-to-​​moder​​nity/​. East Perth Redevelopment Authority. Claisbrook Village. Accessed 24 March 2020. https​:/​/cd​​n​.mra​​.wa​.g​​ov​.au​​/prod​​uctio​​n​/doc​​ument​​s​-med​​ia​/do​​cumen​​ts​/ce​​ntral​​-pert​​h​/ cla​​isebr​​ook​-v​​illag​​e​/fil​​e​​/pub​​lic​-a​​rt​-br​​ochur​​e​.pdf​. Fleet, Kim.“‘Nganampalampa – Definitely All Ours’: The Contestation and Appropriation of Uluru (Ayers Rock) by Tourists and Aborigines.” Ph.D. diss., University of St Andrews, 1999. Ford, David Nash. “Dragon Hill: Archaeological or Natural?” Royal Berkshire History. Accessed 24 March 2020. www​.b​​erksh​​irehi​​story​​.com/​​archa​​eolog​​y​/dra​​gon​_h​​ill​.h​​tml. Gunn, Robert, Joe Dortch, Cliff Ogleby, and Andrew Thorn. “The Petroglyphs of the Kybra Aboriginal Site, South-Western Western Australia.” Journal of the Royal Society of Western Australia 94, no. 4 (December 2011): 557–81. Harben, Sandra, Rosemary van den Berg, and Len Collard. Nidja Beeliar Boodjar Noonookurt Nyininy: A Nyungar Interpretive History of the Use of Boodjar (Country) in the Vicinity of Murdoch University. Perth, WA: Murdoch University, 2004. Harrison, Jane. Themis: A Study of the Social Origins of Greek Religion. London: Merlin, 1963. Herzfeld, Michael. The Poetics of Manhood: Contest and Identity in a Cretan Mountain Village. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985. www​.noongarculture​.org​.au​/ spirituality/.

46  Paul Carter Hughes-Hallett, Debra. Indigenous History of the Swan and Canning Rivers, 2010, 1–95. https​:/​/pa​​rks​.d​​paw​.w​​a​.gov​​.au​/s​​ites/​​defau​​lt​/fi​​les​/d​​ownlo​​ads​/p​​arks/​​Indig​​enous​​%20 hi​​story​​%20of​​%20th​​e​%20S​​wan​%2​​0​and%​​20Can​​ning%​​20riv​​ers​.p​​df. Kaartdijin Noongar–Noongar Knowledge. “Spirituality.” Accessed 14 November 2019. www​.noongarculture​.org​.au​/spirituality/. Lestón Mayo, M. Aurora. “Tracing the Dragon: A Study of the Origin and Evolution of the Dragon Myth in the History and Literature of the British Isles.” Ph.D. diss., Universidade de Santiago de Compostela, 2014. Macintyre, Ken. “Aborigines and the Cottesloe Coast.” Paper presented at Fish Habitat Protection Area Seminar, sponsored by Coastcare, May 2004. www​.c​​ottes​​loe​.w​​a​.gov​​. au​/p​​rofil​​es​/co​​ttesl​​oe​/as​​sets/​​clien​​tdata​​/docu​​ments​​/page​​conte​​nt​/in​​digen​​ous​_c​​ultur​​e​_in_​​ cotte​​sloe/​​abori​​gines​​_and_​​the​_c​​ottes​​loe​_c​​oast.​​pdf. Metropolitan Redevelopment Authority. “Scarborough Edge: A Creative Template for the Scarborough Redevelopment Area.” 24 August 2015. https​:/​/cd​​n​.mra​​.wa​.g​​ov​.au​​/prod​​ uctio​​n​/doc​​ument​​s​-med​​ia​/do​​cumen​​ts​/sc​​arbor​​ough/​​file/​​scarb​​oroug​​​h​-cre​​ative​​-temp​​late. Moore, Edward, ed. Le Opere di Dante Alighieri. Oxford: Stamperia dell’Università, 1963. Moore, George F. A Descriptive Vocabulary of the Language in Common Use amongst the Aborigines of Western Australia. London: WM. S. Orr & Co., 1842. Moorhouse, M. A Vocabulary, and Outlines of the Grammatical Structure of the Murray River Language, Spoken by the Natives of South Australia, from Wellington on the Murray, as Far as the Rufus. Adelaide, SA: Andrew Murray, 1846. Mountford, Charles. Nomads of the Australian Desert. Melbourne, VIC: Rigby, 1976. Munn, Nancy D. Walbiri Iconography: Graphic Representation and Cultural Symbolism in a Central Australian Society. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1986. O’Connor, Jane Catherine. The Cultural Significance of the Child Star. New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2008. Palmer, Kingsley. Noongar People, Noongar Land: The Resilience of Aboriginal Culture in the South West of Western Australia. Canberra, ACT: Aboriginal Studies Press, 2016. Ricoeur, Paul. The Rule of Metaphor: The Creation of Meaning in Language. Translated by Robert Czerny with Kathleen McLaughlin and John Costello, SJ. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2003. Stanner, W. E. H. “Aborigines and Australian Society (1972).” In The Dreaming and Other Essays, 246–65. Melbourne, VIC: Black Inc. Agenda, 2009. Strehlow, T. G. H. Aranda Traditions. Carlton, VIC: Melbourne University Press, 1947. ––––––. Songs of Central Australia. Sydney, NSW: Angus and Robertson, 1971. Walley, Joe. “Indigenous Creation Story.” Mandurah Community Museum. n.d. www​. m​​andur​​ah​.wa​​.gov.​​au/-/​​media​​/File​​s​/CoM​​/Faci​​litie​​s​/Mus​​eum​/I​​ndige​​nous-​​Creat​​ion​S​​tory.​​pdf​?l​​a​=en​&hash=​​5CBD7​​C594A​​807D8​​9C4B4​​1B90B​​09DE1​​3C9D5​​3DCB1​. Wood, Matthew S. “Aristotle and the Question of Metaphor.” Ph.D. diss., University of Ottawa, 2015. World Landscape Architect. “Scarborough Beach Redevelopment Opens.” 8 May 2018. www​.w​​orldl​​andsc​​apear​​chite​​ct​.co​​m​/sca​​rboro​​ugh​-b​​each-​​redev​​elopm​​ent​-o​​pens/​#​. W​-9P45MzZBw. Zielinski, Siegfried. “Towards a Dramaturgy of Differences.” V2_. Accessed 14 November 2019. www​.v​​2​.nl/​​archi​​ve​/ar​​ticle​​s​/tow​​ards-​​a​-dra​​matur​​gy​-of​​-diff​​erenc​​es.

2

Diagrammatic dramaturgies Navigations between theory, disfiguration and movement Andrej Mirčev

Initiated by Swedish-Italian choreographer Cristina Caprioli, the Choreo_Drift project (2014–2015) grew out of the Weaving Politics symposium (Stockholm, 12–14 December 2012), which was conceived as “an international interdisciplinary symposium on Choreography, Human Rights and Violence.”1 Focusing on the idea of choreography as a practice of politics, the symposium tried to articulate the ethical and critical consequences of the relationship between choreography and politics. In doing so, it proceeded from a specific notion of choreography, one that insists on its potential to produce “difference within the kinesthesia of civil society.”2 Within that frame, the concern of the symposium was to address several issues: the concept of speaking versus writing; the notion of response, non-response, voice and trace; and the notion of the human. In reference to different cultural and historical contexts, as well as the perplexing contemporary moment, the symposium thus navigated between theoretical, discursive insights and a series of practice-based events in the form of performances and participatory installations. Conceived as a project that continues along a discursive trajectory similar to the one outlined within the Weaving Politics symposium, Choreo_Drift has insisted “on not leaving” and embarked on a “series of repetitions and dislocations,” the outcome of which would expose the choreographic emergence of a temporary common ground, gathered around a gesture of “reciprocal investment.”3 More precisely, the idea was to repeat lectures4 and talks that had been part of the previous project but, this time, in a different micro-political, economic and cultural setting.5 Also, while the Weaving Politics symposium had a clearer division between the lectures and the performance/practice-based events, Choreo_Drift aimed at targeting precisely this division, not only at the level of discursive reflection but also in terms of intertwining elements of theory, interaction, performance and audience participation. Hence, the new format has been described as follows: Clusters of scholars and artists are invited to repeat their contributions to the symposium in a number of different locations and various circumstances, and by the exposure of multiplicity of response to further challenge their trajectory. […] Each event performs a number of lectures, round tables and general

48  Andrej Mirčev discussions, all merged into a series of interactive choreography, curated according to a targeted field and hosting addressee.6 In the context of the present volume, the idea and notion of ‘interweaving’ provide a point of intersection at which the Weaving Politics symposium/Choreo_Drift event can be reflected within the frame of (performance and cultural) theories generated at the International Research Center “Interweaving Performance Cultures” in Berlin. Although neither of the two projects (the Weaving symposium and Choreo_Drift) focused primarily on the problem of intercultural performances and cultural differences, these issues were strongly present in many lectures and talks.7 With this chapter, my aim is to point out the possible connection between the research conducted at the Center in Berlin and the dramaturgical structures that I have developed in collaboration with Caprioli. The thesis––which I will outline further on––claims that, when applied to (dance) dramaturgy and the specific case of the Choreo_Drift project, the concept of interweaving creates an analytical frame for reconsidering and reorienting the theory/practice dichotomy as well as for critically reflecting colonial hegemonies of Western and Eurocentric culture and theory. Together with the concept of diagrammatic dramaturgies, this chapter will hopefully set in motion a discourse that offers a nuanced perspective on liminal entanglements of different performance cultures. In her twofold critique directed against the concept of intercultural theater/ performance as a heuristic tool for inquiring into the fusion of Western and nonWestern performance traditions and a problematic unlinking of aesthetics, politics and ethics in postcolonial theory, theater scholar and director of the Interweaving Performance Cultures research center Erika Fischer-Lichte argues against binary categorizations: Here, the aesthetic, the political, and the ethical are inextricably linked to each other. Any theory dealing with performance has to keep this in mind. The term “intercultural theatre,” as it was used up to now, ignores this connection, just as performance theoreticians informed by postcolonial theory frequently fail to acknowledge and investigate the utopian and transformative potential of aesthetic experiences.8 Instead of the term intercultural, Fischer-Lichte opts for the metaphor ‘interweaving,’ claiming (with Hegel) that “the advantage of metaphors is that they challenge boundaries and creatively ‘scatter’ your thoughts, leading to new and unforeseen insights.”9 Analytically and methodically, the metaphor of interweaving enables the researcher to think against/beyond binary categorizations and oppositions in order to locate cultural differences in processes of exchange and in their interconnectedness. Fischer-Lichte writes, On the other hand, a process of interweaving does not necessarily result in the production of a whole. In it, mistakes, errors, failures, and even small

Diagrammatic dramaturgies  49 disasters might occur when unintended knots appear in the cloth, when threads unravel or flow apart, when the proportion of the dyes is off, or the cloth woven becomes stained. The process of weaving is not necessarily smooth and straightforward.10 In light of this reflection, the present chapter focuses on a dramaturgical strategy that also aimed at re-thinking a set of binaries such as theory/practice, self/other, mind/body, writing/speaking and presence/absence, and tried to test it within an expanded field of choreography. Situated between an academic symposium and a participatory choreographic event, the format highlighted the “liminal”11 dimension of the project, which generated space for a dynamic “interweaving of exchange” and “differentiation of experience.”12 Invited by Caprioli to take part in the project and contribute to its shaping from a dramaturgical (and partly also curatorial13) perspective, I have been intrigued by the possibility of experimenting with a diagrammatic dramaturgy in which the labor of interweaving becomes a crucial strategy. With a professional background in theater science and philosophy, and having worked for the last decade as a visual artist and dance dramaturge, I approached the project as an opportunity to investigate the possibilities of bringing theoretical speculation and artistic practice into embodied dialogue. The decision to embark on a diagrammatic journey through different discourses, formats, thematic levels and sensorial modes of expression motivated the decision to challenge “traditional modes of both lectures and choreography, establishing a framework in which a ‘multiple sensory field of exchange’” would take place.14

Diagrammatic methodologies In an attempt to resolve a series of conceptual dilemmas concerning the thematic and formal framing of the project, Caprioli and I embarked on an intense e-mail exchange, which would later be published as a booklet with the title Correspond_Dance.15 Conceived as a text that retraces the dramaturgical workin-progress, Correspond_Dance charted the lines and discursive movements of Choreo_Drift. In other words, it displayed the process of accumulating ideas, references, thematic horizons, concerns, questions, dilemmas, etc. From a graphic point of view, the choice to outline the text of our e-mail correspondence in different colors resulted in a form of writing that has emphasized the idea of text as a work of weaving and layering. On the other hand, by displacing it from the usual graphic mode of black letters on a white surface, the text itself became elevated in its iconic16 dimension. The strategy to make visible the process of exchange between the choreographer/director (Caprioli) and the dramaturge (me) articulated the desire to engage in a process of responding and dialogue. In her latest publication, which examines the notion of diagrammatic epistemologies, the German philosopher Sybille Krämer explicitly mentions the relation between choreography and the diagrammatic. She asks:

50  Andrej Mirčev Can it also be said that dance, which emerges out of choreography, or a concert that performs a script––regardless of its aesthetic plenitude––has an immanent diagrammatic dimension that is activated precisely in the moment when the schematics of choreography and script are brought into relation with the singular performance and thus results in aesthetic experience that originates in expertise?17 Asking the same question in the context of Choreo_Drift, it could be asserted that the “immanent diagrammatic” dimension of the project became visible in the struggle to displace binaries and create contact zones between theoretical/discursive and dancing bodies. With the underlying idea that every artistic action (in this case, choreography) brings forth not only an aesthetic sensation but develops, translates and redistributes a specific knowledge (theoretical, cultural, somatic or philosophical), the project consistently aimed at targeting precisely the point at which action and reflection interweave, translate and interfere with each other. Demonstrating that diagrams produce an “epistemic surplus value,”18 Krämer argues further how they mark a point of intersection between notion/idea and visual perception. More so, since almost every diagrammatic operation comes into being through the mix of words and images, which are put in relation to each other, it might be plausible to claim that engaging in a diagrammatic activity implies a “displacement of the opposition between text and image.”19 On a more ontological level, as a form of inscription that embodies and brings forth constellations, diagrams can be used to visualize the spatialization of time and the metamorphosis of time/space, thus contributing to a dynamic reorganizing of both artistic and epistemic strategies. In other words, since diagrammatic operations at the same time point something out and initiate a movement, they might be considered a “graphic thinking tool,”20 which not only configures a set of relations but shows an immanent potential for transfiguration and creation of new aesthetic constellations. One of the first challenges of Choreo_Drift was the question of how to stage and perform the lectures that had happened within the Weaving Politics symposium and relate them to the lectures delivered in the present moment of Choreo_Drift. For the first event,21 the decision was made to show the lectures (by Gabriele Brandstetter, Marcia Sá Cavalcante Schuback and Boyan Manchev) as a video recording (of the lecture) that the audience could watch on flat screens hanging from the ceiling. This decision to display the archive material and relate it to the physical presence of the lecturers who were delivering the same lectures resulted in a mixed temporality in which the past seemed to haunt the present. On the other hand, as the audience was free to move around while the lectures were being delivered and could listen to the recorded materials instead of the live talk, the archival installation operated as a tool for sensorial and corporeal22 activation. In her talk titled “Fabric of Movement: Writing, Interweaving,” the German dance and theater studies scholar Gabriele Brandstetter analyzed the intricate relationship between choreography, notation and writing. One of the examples via which she delivered her thesis was the choreographic installation conceived by

Diagrammatic dramaturgies  51 William Forsythe in Human Writes.23 Committed to an “archaeological search in the palimpsest of weaving politics,”24 Brandstetter addressed the possibility of ‘resistance writing’: The resistance of writing and dancing does not, however, only mean the friction of the materiality of movement, but also the aesthetic and political dimension of a movement out of resistance: writing-dancing as resistance! Contemporary artists from various cultures stage the inscribing motion of the body as a gesture of protest, as an act of resistance against political violence.25 Arguing with Jean-Luc Nancy and Roland Barthes that writing/dancing comes into being as a process of transcription and translation that reveals discontinuities, contradictions and constant displacements of the writing/dancing body, Brandstetter pointed out the concept of “dysgraphia: exscription,” which foregrounded the act of writing/dancing in its potentiality of “un-writing” (as suggested by the Human Writes installation). Since the practice and materiality of writing was one important aspect of the project, the decision was reached not only to deliver a theoretical framing by producing reflections on writing but to engage the audience in writing together with dancers onstage. Thus, between the lectures, the audience had the opportunity to ‘re-write’26 lectures in white chalk on black surfaces (Figure 2.1).

Figure 2.1  Choreo_Drift project by Cristina Caprioli, Tanz im August, Berlin, 2014. Source: photo by Andrej Mirčev.

52  Andrej Mirčev This functioned as a space for a collective performance of (un)writing. Similar to the display of the archive recordings, the dramaturgical strategy deployed here aimed at blending together theoretical reflection and audience participation/action. However, the action of writing did not exhaust itself only in the act of scriptural repetition of the lectures but accumulated traces and responses from the audience. In that sense, it turned into a medium of communication and feedback between the lectures, the dancers and the audience. By exposing a space of contingency, it also accentuated a dramaturgical concern for uncalculated events and processes. The metaphor of weaving signifies, in this constellation, not only a point of convergence between writing and choreography but also the moment when the breaking down of binaries is accomplished through the action of writing. In the catalog, Caprioli observes: Weaving: the making of interconnected grids of symptoms, gestures, trajectories and potentialities by which meaning/texture exposes itself/is exposed––whilst remaining concealed. The commitment to time-consuming repetition of difference and recognition of interference via the narrowness of limit, for as long as it takes. Weaving as writing, by re-writing, by the detours of linguisticality––which is what choreography is made of and produces. Patterns that break into other patterns, stretch the fabric of things, rip up a hole, tie some knots, shred a gap and embroider a nest of inconveniences. For as long as it takes. Weaving in the literal sense of actual making of cloth/ texture, whereby, whether forced or self-induced, alternative meaning might emerge.27 Generating a space in which there would be neither a clear separation between the lecturer/dancer and audience nor between theoretical discourse and performance, Choreo_Drift set in motion a process of interweaving that resulted in staging a temporary, heterogeneous collective. If one agrees with the thesis that “to see and understand a diagram implies a perception in the mode of us,”28 implying that diagrams transcend the individual and implore a certain kind of sociality––which in turn testifies to the normative ordering of knowledge––could it be plausible to think of diagrammatic operations as countertactics against the hegemony of reified knowledge? Can they be a strategy to generate states and stages of fluid and heterogeneous commons in which power will be redistributed horizontally and equally instead of vertically and in a linear fashion? Can diagrams be invested to mobilize in solidarity against the exclusion of others?

Dis-figuring (the) lines of colonialism In searching for a common denominator that would relate the concept of choreography, the metaphor of weaving and a diagrammatic model of dramaturgy to one another, we might zero in on the practice, materiality and medium of the line. All three cases have at their cores the drawing of lines and a certain mode of

Diagrammatic dramaturgies  53 producing and performing inscriptions/notations. While with regard to diagrammatic operations and weaving the utilization of lines is somehow evident, the same could not be asserted for the medium of choreography. However, if we take a close look at the composite Greek word for choreography (χορεία + Γραφή), we will notice that the second part of the word (graphe) suggests that at the core of choreographic practice is a notion of writing, both in terms of tracing and producing lines. In other words, the dancing body emerges through a kinesthesis of interwoven lines and as a result of (e)motions. In a publication on comparative anthropology and the history of the line, British anthropologist Tim Ingold has shown that before we start thinking of a history of writing, we should consider a wider aspect of the history of notation: “My contention, then, is that any history of writing must be part of a more comprehensive history of notation.”29 The idea, practice, mediality and materiality of lines (as a part of every system of notation) and, more so, the transformation of all of these aspects in relation to the surface, reflect the transformation of not only the relation between writing and speaking but also the transformation of how we perceive and navigate30 (in) the world. Applying the notion of lines on the discourse on colonialism, Ingold further observes: Colonialism, then, is not the imposition of linearity upon a non-linear world, but the imposition of one kind of line on another. It proceeds first by converting the paths along which life is lived into boundaries in which it is contained, and then by joining up these now enclosed communities, each confined to one spot, into vertically integrated assemblies.31 If we agree with Ingold that the straight line can be seen as the metaphor of a colonial ordering of the world, would it be plausible to ask what a postcolonial line might look like? In his text on postcolonial modernity and the notion of double critique, Moroccan theater studies scholar Khalid Amine conceived an argument that challenges both the Western hegemony and the “Arabo-Islamic essentialist ‘-isms’ which lurk in our discursive structures.”32 While his argument also implies and calls for a deconstruction of binaries33 and Eurocentric hierarchies, the figure he applies is that of a “radical rupture” and “palimpsests of interweaving and persistent acts of writing under erasure.”34 Thus, instead of a straight line that orders, classifies and separates, a postcolonial line would consist of interwoven threads assembled in the form of a palimpsest structure, in which there are no clear-cut divisions but rather a network of overlapping inscriptions and traces of/ as difference. If the first Choreo_Drift event in Berlin embodied a more or less readable and layered scripture, for the version performed at the Tensta Konsthall in Stockholm (7 December 2014) Caprioli decided to “trans_mediate”35 the lectures (this time by André Lepecki and Irit Rogoff), developing collective assemblages of lines that went beyond readability and exposed the disfiguration of scripture. A special tool designed to exercise a writing method with the whole body enabled the accumulation of traces that transformed writing into a territory of affective lines. The

54  Andrej Mirčev

Figure 2.2  Choreo_Drift project by Cristina Caprioli, Tensta Konsthall, Stockholm, 2014. Source: photo by Andrej Mirčev.

tool consists of a long stick that has a pencil attached at its upper end. It is fastened around the body, with two wheels on the lower part, which enable the tool to be moved as the body is moving. One could perhaps think of a sewing machine for writing. Lines are generated with every movement and in the act of engendering a line, the contingent score of the choreography is being acted out (Figure 2.2). The lines produced with the writing tool (in the form of a continuous line without ruptures) again resembled the act of weaving and can be explained by drawing a parallel to a thesis on the taxonomy of lines from Ingold’s book. Introducing a difference between two major classes of lines (the first being the “thread” and the second being the “trace”), Ingold makes the claim that there is a substantial link between writing and weaving: The common derivation, noted above, of the words “text” and “textile” from texere, “to weave,” points to the significance of this relation. How was it that writing, which generally involves the inscription of traces upon a surface, came to be modelled on weaving, which involves the manipulation of threads? How did the thread of the weaver become the trace of the writer?36 Since one of the intentions of Choreo_Drift has been to displace the dualism of theory/ practice and reflection/action, the choreography of dis-figuring and un-writing (theoretical/discursive texts) tried to target the corporeality of Eurocentric theory, which in its obsession with concepts and ideas sometimes obfuscates the living, sensing

Diagrammatic dramaturgies  55 and moving body. Radicalizing performatively and choreographically the scene of writing, what seemed to emerge was a “cartographic impulse,”37 which, if we follow Krämer, is another word for a diagrammatic model of visualizing, transforming and reorganizing experience. The spatial metaphor of mapping applied here should also emphasize the effort of the project to choreographically reflect the Anglocentric38 hegemony of knowledge. The act of un-writing academic texts thus transformed, transcribed and translated the theoretical discourse into a myriad of interwoven lines/ graphic traces, whose presence echoed the presence of the moving bodies. At the same time, it initiated a haptic, affective and kinetic response to theory. A scene in which this intention to move an academic lecture into an ‘unknown’ (from the ‘Western’ point of view) language was the talk by Brazilian scholar André Lepecki entitled “From (Choreo)policed Circulation to (Choreo)political Intensification: Dance as Critique of Freedom (or: the Task of the Dancer).”39 Departing from Hannah Arendt’s observation that we have come to the point where we do not yet know how to move politically,40 Lepecki argues (with Arendt) that the aim and sense/task of politics is freedom. This idea he further applies as the philosophical frame to interpret the work of Cuban artist/activist Tania Bruguera, who, in her performance works, often questions the unjust redistribution of power and the consequences/symptoms of colonialism. While Lepecki delivered his talk, a parallel action took place: the text had been translated into a script written on the wall. For most of the audience, however, the script was not readable, as it was conceived in Arabic. This scene of writing was further complicated by the fact that the Arabic scribe (Egyptian choreographer Adham Hafez) stood on the back of the dancer who was moving, which intensified the disfiguration of the writing, resulting in a texture that was only partly legible. Following here the argument proposed by Indian theater and performance studies scholar Rustom Bharucha, I would argue that this aspect of Choreo_Drift was an attempt to inaugurate “aesthetic concepts and social imaginaries outside EuroAmerican academia.”41 The result of this experiment was a corporeal diagram/transcription of Lepecki’s lecture transferred into a different medium and language. Analyzing modalities and main concerns within the tradition of post-continental philosophy, philosopher John Mullarkey has dedicated a chapter to the problem of ‘thinking in diagrams.’ Since diagrams operate as “a temporary movement in between,” he observes that they should be “seen as moving forms.”42 Stressing that diagrams are haptic rather than optical and tactile rather than visual forces, Mullarkey identifies their potentiality to transform, reorganize and intertwine the relation between subject and object. In that way, a diagrammatic model of thinking is oriented towards the virtual, favoring the state of becoming instead of the actual situation. In light of these reflections, I would like to conclude with a few speculations on something I have tried to identify here as ‘diagrammatic dramaturgy.’ Drawing a parallel to the ability of diagrams to mediate between different media, concepts and elements of performance, it could be said that dramaturgy performs a somewhat similar function by mediating the idea of the director/choreographer to the audience. Being someone who has to be able to oscillate “between immersion and observation,”43 the dramaturge operates on unstable ground rather than from

56  Andrej Mirčev a fixed and stable position. A diagrammatic methodology, so far, seems to be a productive tool for dramaturgical practices concerned with conceiving and organizing connections of theatrical or choreographic performance with politics–– especially if those performances aim to critically intervene in the cultural (and discursive) hegemony of the Euro-American world. Embodying the role of someone whose “knowledge is mobilized to serve and question a process,”44 the activity of a dramaturge again comes into proximity with that of a diagrammatic operation. In other words, the dramaturge thinks and embodies the future diagram/scheme of the performance and, in doing so, draws the trajectory of an unstable journey into the materiality of performance. Reflecting diagrams as a technique of existence, the Canadian philosopher Brian Massumi writes: “The diagram in this sense is a constructivist technique of existence. It is a technique of bringing to new existence. A technique of becoming. Becomingconcrete.”45 In terms of temporality, Massumi argues that diagrammatic operations carry out potentialities and, in doing so, can be understood as a medium through which abstract ideas are turned into concrete, living experiences. If one agrees with Massumi that “architecture is a diagrammatic art of lived abstraction,”46 the same could perhaps be assumed for the relation between diagrams and choreography. The role of the dramaturge is precisely to diagrammatically generate the move/translation from concepts to concrete and lived/danced experiences. Dramaturgical navigation between the different thematic, contextual, formal and discursive levels of Choreo_Drift brought me to the conclusion that the dramaturge becomes an ally47 to the choreographer precisely in the act of diagrammatic (dis)ordering of various threads and traces. Talking about the role of the dramaturge in the contemporary, post-dramatic landscape, Flemish dramaturge Marianne Van Kerkhoven observed that the task is to [learn] to handle complexity. It is feeding the ongoing conversation on the work, it is taking care of the reflexive potential as well as of the poetic force of the creation. Dramaturgy is building bridges, it is being responsible for the whole, dramaturgy is above all a constant movement. Inside and outside.48 As an act of drifting rather than remaining in a still position, the dramaturgical engagement in Choreo_Drift unfolded along a rhizomatic pathway of intertwining lines that kept the body in motion and affective participation. In this movement of being together and against the reified knowledge of bad binarism, the choreography generated a diagrammatic territory, where borders were porous and people were interwoven in imagining the unknown and unseen.

Notes 1 “Weaving Politics,” CCAP, accessed 9 October 2019, http://ccap​.se​/archive​/weaving​politics. 2 André Lepecki, “From (Choreo)policed Circulation to (Choreo)political Intensification: Dance as Critique of Freedom (or: The Task of the Dancer),” in Choreo_Drift, ed. Cristina

Diagrammatic dramaturgies  57 Caprioli (Stockholm: CCAP, 2014), 14; subsequently published as “Choreopolice and Choreopolitics: or, the Task of the Dancer,” TDR: The Drama Review 57, no. 4 (Winter 2013): 13–27. 3 Lepecki, “(Choreo)policed Circulation,” 30. 4 The list of speakers included Mark Franko, Gabriele Brandstetter, Rudi Laermans, Marcia Sá Cavalcante Schuback, Peggy Phelan, Julia Kristeva, Felicia McCarren, Susanne Franco, Mattias Gardell, Irit Rogoff, Boyan Manchev, André Lepecki, Kendall Thomas, Irina Sandomirskaja and Diamanda Galás. 5 Looking back, I would like to emphasize the fact that the Choreo_Drift project happened a few months before the first big wave of migrants and refugees arrived in the EU from across the Mediterranean Sea in the fall of 2015. One of the images that Caprioli used as a background projection depicts a drifting ship in a misty atmosphere. Not too much time passed before the image stopped being a mere metaphor for an uncertain journey but became the dangerous reality for many people escaping the horrors of war and poverty. 6 Cristina Caprioli, “Choreo_Drift: Summary,” in Caprioli, Choreo_Drift, 30. 7 One such lecture was delivered by Swedish scholar of religion and activist Mattias Gardell, entitled “Beyond Victims and Terrorist: Ship to Gaza/Freedom Flotilla and the Choreography of Life and Death” (lecture, Weaving Politics symposium, Stockholm, 13 December 2014). 8 Erika Fischer-Lichte, “Introduction: Interweaving Performance Cultures––Rethinking ‘Intercultural Theatre’: Toward an Experience and Theory of Performance beyond Postcolonialism,” in The Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures, ed. Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost and Saskya Iris Jain (New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2014), 10. 9 Ibid., 11. 10 Ibid. 11 In her argument, Fischer-Lichte particularly emphasizes the liminal dimension of the concept of “interweaving performance cultures”: Here, moving within and between cultures is celebrated as a state of in-betweenness that will change spaces, disciplines, and the subject as well as her/his body in a way that exceeds what is currently imaginable. […] By seeing aesthetic experience as liminal experience, we lay the foundation for the possibility of spectators undergoing certain transformations while participating in such performances. (Ibid., 12) 12 Caprioli, “Choreo_Drift: Summary,” 31. 13 With the advent of performance and live art in the 1960s and 1970s, the idea and practice of curatorship has been faced with a conceptual challenge that reaches beyond the usual mode of exhibiting objects and artifacts. On the other hand, as the role and position of the dramaturge rose to prominence in the 1980s––particularly with the collaboration between Pina Bausch and the dramaturge Raimund Hoghe––and continued to gain visibility in the following decades thanks to the works of Marianne Van Kerkhoven, it became clear that, in regard to live art, the curatorial role overlaps with the role of the dramaturge. The point of convergence in both cases is the potentiality of the dramaturge/curator to assist the artist and the artistic team to reach complex conceptual decisions and reflect the social and political implications of their (artistic) work. 14 Caprioli, “Choreo_Drift: Summary,” 30. 15 Ibid. 16 On the different epistemic strategies and possibilities to re-think and re-articulate the relation between image and text, see Sybille Krämer, Eva Cancik-Kirschbaum and Rainer Totzke, eds. Schriftbildlichkeit: Wahrnehmbarkeit, Materialität und Operativität von Notationen (Berlin: Akademie, 2012).

58  Andrej Mirčev 17 Sybille Krämer, Figuration, Anschauung, Erkenntnis: Grundlinien einer Diagrammatologie (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2016), 78, my translation. 18 Ibid., 40. 19 Ibid., 61. 20 Ibid., 85. 21 The first time Choreo_Drift was presented to an audience was for the opening event of the Tanz im August Festival in Berlin on 15 August 2014. The event at the Sophiensaele lasted for several hours. 22 Arranged in such a way that the audience had to lie down on the ground and look up at the screens, the installation with the archive recordings explicitly rendered visible the difference in repetition. At the same time, such a spatial organization in which one had to be horizontal and look up displaced the body from the usual, frontal (and ex cathedra) mode of receiving academic lectures. 23 The performance is about re-writing individual sentences from the Declaration of Human Rights. Dancers and non-dancers/audience members move around desks, “writing tables.” The rule governing the writing action is that “no line or letter” is to be created directly. Writing “must be accompanied by a physical limitation, a resistance.” Thus every gesture, every learned movement is broken down and beset with hindrances. Smooth, unobstructed writing––the mastery of movement and thus the performance of writing––is distorted and disfigured. These limiting acts, which the audience participates in as co-writers, are so far from any school of familiar writing/ dancing that they become an extreme challenge to movement coordination. (Gabriele Brandstetter, “Fabric of Movement: Writing, Interweaving,” lecture, Tanz im August Festival, Berlin, 15 August 2014) 24 Ibid. 25 Ibid. 26 The lectures were printed out and distributed among the audience so that they were able to and encouraged to re-write the lectures and not only listen to them. 27 Christina Caprioli, “CC Notes July 2012,” in Caprioli, Choreo_Drift, 19. 28 Krämer, Figuration, Anschauung, Erkenntnis, 81. 29 Tim Ingold, Lines: A Brief History (New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2007), 10. 30 The end of writing, I believe, was heralded by a radical change in the perception of the surface, from something akin to a landscape that one moves through, to something more like a screen that one looks at, and upon which are projected images from another world. (Ibid., 25–26) 31 Ibid., 2–3. 32 Khalid Amine, “Postcolonial Modernity: Theatre in Morocco and the Interweaving Loop,” in The Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures, ed. Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost and Saskya Iris Jain (New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2014), 30. 33 For Ingold, the straight line, as an icon of modernity, is connected to the binary logic of modern thought and sociopolitical organization with its sharp division between the I and the Other, between our culture and the foreign one: The relentlessly dichotomizing dialectic of modern thought has, at one time or another, associated straightness with mind as against matter, with rational thought as against sensory perception, with intellect as against intuition, with science as against traditional knowledge, with male as against female, with civilization as against primitiveness, and––on the most general level––with culture as against nature. (Ingold, Lines, 152)

Diagrammatic dramaturgies  59 34 Amine, “Postcolonial Modernity,” 30. 35 Lectures are trans_mediated, speeches delivered anew, bodies, patterns and circumstances are displaced and subjects rearranged. Participants and audiences are invited to re-perform proposed moves and speeches, whilst intertwining with hosting discoursivity [sic]. Main intention of the event is to operate in terms of sociality, criticality and poetics, so that a common trans_choreography may be poetically perceived and critically articulated. (Caprioli, “Choreo_Drift 2015,” in Caprioli, Choreo_Drift, 35) 36 Ingold, Lines, 65. 37 Krämer, Figuration, Anschauung, Erkenntnis, 87, my translation. 38 Moments that testified to the need to re-think the dominance of the English language within the academic context and perform a critique of the linguistic hegemony of the West occurred when lecturers were asked to deliver parts of their speech in their native language. Although such an act is not enough to break with the Anglocentrism of academic discourse, it directs attention to this fact. 39 The lecture was later published as “Choreopolice and Choreopolitics: or, the Task of the Dancer,” TDR: The Drama Review 57, no. 4 (Winter 2013): 13–27. 40 For Caprioli, the political aspect of the event is developed out of two perspectives, which were dramaturgically identified as ‘politicizing movement’ and ‘explicit political narratives.’ She writes: The event addresses political narratives as to detect and investigate the choreographic orders of power, territories, peoples and gestures that outline the conditions of our lives. In turn, it promotes transgress of language and territory as the means of production of a different political common. (Caprioli, “Choreo_Drift 2015,” 37) 41 Rustom Bharucha, “Hauntings of the Intercultural: Enigmas and Lessons on the Borders of Failure,” in The Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures, ed. Erika FischerLichte, Torsten Jost and Saskya Iris Jain (New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2014), 194. 42 John Mullarkey, Post-Continental Philosophy: An Outline (London and New York, NY: Continuum, 2006), 157. 43 Pil Hansen, “Introduction,” in Dance Dramaturgy: Modes of Agency, Awareness and Engagement, ed. Pil Hansen and Darcey Callison (London: Palgrave, 2015), 8. 44 Ibid., 10–11. 45 Brian Massumi, Semblance and Event: Activist Philosophy and the Occurrent Arts (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2011), 100–101. 46 Ibid., 102. 47 How this relationship between the choreographer and the dramaturge changed over the last few decades is at the core of the text “Reinforcement for the Choreographer: The Dance Dramaturg as Ally,” by Dutch theater studies scholar Liesbeth Wildschut. See Contemporary Choreography: A Critical Reader, ed. Jo Butterworth and Liesbeth Wildschut (New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2009), 383–98. 48 Marianne Van Kerkhoven, “European Dramaturgy in the 21st Century: A Constant Movement,” Performance Research 14, no. 3 (September 2009): 11.

Bibliography Amine, Khalid. “Postcolonial Modernity: Theatre in Morocco and the Interweaving Loop.” In The Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures, edited by Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost, and Saskya Iris Jain, 25–41. New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2014.

60  Andrej Mirčev Bharucha, Rustom. “Hauntings of the Intercultural: Enigmas and Lessons on the Borders of Failure.” In The Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures, edited by Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost, and Saskya Iris Jain, 179–200. New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2014. Brandstetter, Gabriele. “Fabric of Movement: Writing, Interweaving.” Lecture delivered at the Tanz im August festival, Berlin, 15 August 2014. Caprioli, Cristina, ed. Choreo_Drift. Stockholm: CCAP, 2014. CCAP. “Weaving Politics.” Accessed 9 October 2019. http://ccap​.se​/archive​/weaving​politics. Fischer-Lichte, Erika. “Introduction: Interweaving Performance Cultures––Rethinking ‘Intercultural Theatre’: Toward an Experience and Theory of Performance beyond Postcolonialism.” In The Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures, edited by Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost, and Saskya Iris Jain, 1–21. New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2014. Hansen, Pil. “Introduction.” In Dance Dramaturgy: Modes of Agency, Awareness and Engagement, edited by Pil Hansen and Darcey Callison. London: Palgrave, 2015. Ingold, Tim. Lines: A Brief History. New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2007. Krämer, Sybille. Figuration, Anschauung, Erkenntnis: Grundlinien einer Diagrammatologie [Figuration, Perception, Understanding: Outlines of a Diagrammatology]. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2016. Krämer, Sybille, Eva Cancik-Kirschbaum, and Rainer Totzke, eds. Schriftbildlichkeit: Wahrnehmbarkeit, Materialität und Operativität von Notationen [Text-Image-ness: Perceptibility, Materiality Operationality of Notations]. Berlin: Akademie, 2012. Lepecki, André. “Choreopolice and Choreopolitics: Or, the Task of the Dancer.” TDR: The Drama Review 57, no. 4 (Winter 2013): 13–27. Massumi, Brian. Semblance and Event: Activist Philosophy and the Occurrent Arts. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2011. Mullarkey, John. Post-Continental Philosophy: An Outline. London and New York, NY: Continuum, 2006. Van Kerkhoven, Marianne. “European Dramaturgy in the 21st Century: A Constant Movement.” Performance Research 14, no. 3 (September 2009): 7–11. Wildschut, Liesbeth. “Reinforcement for the Choreographer: The Dance Dramaturg as Ally.” In Contemporary Choreography: A Critical Reader, edited by Jo Butterworth and Liesbeth Wildschut, 383–98. New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2009.

PART II

Interlacing archival threads

3

No(h) to Trio A Interweaving dramaturgies for a performative exhibition of Yvonne Rainer’s work Nanako Nakajima

In 2017, I organized a performative exhibition on the work of the postmodern choreographer, dancer and filmmaker Yvonne Rainer (b. 1934) in Kyoto, Japan. Featuring archival materials to recreate Rainer’s remarkable oeuvre, this exhibition—which was part of my research project on “Dance Dramaturgy on Aging”1— took place at the Kyoto Art Theater Shunjuza from 11–15 October 2017. The Shunjuza usually hosts traditional Japanese performing arts and is not a black-box theater of modern construction. Instead, it features the mechanisms and remnants of the pre-modern performing arts.2 This chapter explores how different dramaturgies—as related to questions of aging and ways of presenting dance in the museum—were interwoven in this exhibition to go beyond the problematic effects of exhibiting dance in a museum’s “white-cube.”3 In order to overturn the current Euro-American trend of the “dancing museum,” which was initiated by Boris Charmatz, further systematized by artist Tino Sehgal and institutionalized by the Tate Modern and MoMA, my exhibition revived the archival objects of Rainer’s postmodern dance through the dramaturgical use of the historical force of a famous traditional Kabuki theater, the Shunjuza, which embodies multiple dramaturgical histories and, therefore, has the power to bring pasts into the present.

Yvonne Rainer and questions of aging Unlike the majority of postmodern dancers, American dance artist Yvonne Rainer is willing to return to her past and allows her past to return to her.4 Accordingly, her life story and questions related to aging are intertwined in her multi-disciplinary works in both dance and film. Most of them additionally deal with spectatorship in dance.5 She has always been concerned with forms of spectatorship that pay critical attention to feminist problems and processes of subject constitution. In her own words, she has from the beginning aimed at the “narcissism and disguised sexual exhibitionism of most dancing.”6 Her self-reflexive attention to the process of being seen/looked at resulted in Trio A, her seminal work. Since her return to dance-making in 2000, she has continued to infuse content from her earlier works into her recent ones, such as the topic of aging.

64  Nanako Nakajima Her comeback piece, After Many a Summer Dies the Swan, which was commissioned by former star ballet dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov, who launched the White Oak Dance Project to produce new repertoires for his aging body, serves as the perfect example here. In this piece, the title of which derives from Aldous Huxley’s eponymous novel on longevity, Baryshnikov himself and Rainer’s dancers performed together. Rainer herself passed a microphone from one dancer to another, who made statements such as: On aging: Why must the culture pound out these incessant promises of infinite self-improvement while so many of us are looking for ways to reckon with our inevitable decline? I look good, I know. I can’t see. I can’t hear. But I look good.7 Of course, comments such as this one and others could be seen as reflections on Baryshnikov’s and her own aging process. Unlike her Judson colleague Trisha Brown, Rainer was previously not interested in managing her own dance company, but she started working with her regular dancers again in 2000.8 Douglas Crimp points out the characteristics of Rainer’s casting and her dancers (known as the ‘Raindears’) Pat Catterson, Sally Silvers, Patricia Hoffbauer and Emily Coates.9 These are four middle-aged women, about ten years apart in age, who have been involved in Rainer’s new pieces since 2000. While the first three are choreographers in a postmodern sense, Emily Coates is a dancer, previously a member of the New York City Ballet. Crimp writes that “[t]heir differences in age, physical bearing, and dance training have been essential to the work Rainer has made with them.”10 Rainer’s recent pieces such as AG Indexical with a Little Help from H.M. (2006), Spiraling Down (2008–2011) and Assisted Living: Good Sports 2 (2008–2011) radically juxtapose these dancers to explore forms of gracefulness in their differently aged bodies. Rainer herself has criticized the invisibility of older dancers and advocates the recognition of their own unique grace. During an interview regarding her return to dance, Rainer confessed that she wanted to show natural aging onstage through an energetic and dynamic 60-year-old female dancer, which is a taboo in classical dance. Despite her age and limited agility, Rainer says that Pat is as energetic as younger dancers.11 However, in the actual piece, the highly trained ballet dancer and the youngest in the team, Emily Coates, has been dramaturgically highlighted by the rest of the Raindears, who comment on her gestures and support her body during the performance. In 2010, Rainer made another version of her seminal dance piece Trio A and named it Trio A: Geriatric with Talking. This is a solo performance in which she talks and comments on her own movement. In this piece, she tells the audience what is happening moment by moment. She dances while she says, for example, “This move is supposed to be a slow rise of the leg, not a battement, but why can’t I get my leg up any higher than this anymore? Oh, just do it and get it over with.”12 To her surprise, according to Rainer, the audience, who are likely familiar with

No(h) to Trio A  65 her 1966 recorded version of Trio A, laughs at everything she says. Rainer was certain that Trio A would be recognizable, still bearing the imprints of uninflected flow and refusal to look at the audience (which I persisted in maintaining even as I spoke, thus creating another impetus to the general hilarity). What it lacked were the bodily extensions and sheer physical power of the 1966 version––age 32––which has been documented only in photos.13 On the contrary, however, Trio A: Geriatric with Talking is not something to laugh at but a beautiful, self-meditative and self-retrospective dance by the author who created this work. On the one hand, dancer and dance are inseparable in that a dancer’s beauty comes from the unity of the mover and the movement. Dance is the simultaneous presentation and representation of the body. On the other hand, although dancers are getting older, dance works (the choreographies) stay the same. While Rainer’s body ages and cannot do the same movements, the concept of her Trio A has not changed but has been transmitted to other dancers. Rainer has not changed any choreographic sequence of her Trio A, even though she is the author of this dance work. Regarding this geriatric version, Rainer writes, I would like you to think of this version of Trio A not as evidence of deterioration and decline, but as a new form of avant-garde dance. The aging body is a thing unto itself and need not be judged as inadequate or inferior if it can no longer jump through hoops.14 The aching and aging body is dancing Trio A still. The question is whether the spectators are able to see the dance the way Rainer wants them to see it.

Archives in the auditorium and objects onstage: The Mind Is a Muscle Our performative exhibition was the first attempt in Kyoto to open a traditional Kabuki theater to the public as an exhibition space for six hours a day and five days a week, including the main stage and a flower path. In fact, it was only the second time in the Shunjuza’s 16-year history that all visitors were allowed to walk on the flower path.15 Even though the house is usually open for matinee and evening performances, I opened the Shunjuza from 12:00 to 18:00 for five days to present the performative exhibition within the theater. This decision created a chaotic situation for the staff members. They eventually had to visit the fire department to receive permission for our unique use of the Shunjuza theater. In addition, I hired four additional part-time guards to be on duty during the exhibition’s opening hours. Archival materials such as Rainer’s scores and photos were digitally delivered from the Getty Research Institute (GRI) in the US and were exhibited inside and

66  Nanako Nakajima outside of the Shunjuza theater. The GRI has collected all of Rainer’s documents in its Yvonne Rainer Collection and has archived parts of them in digital format, thus making the loan possible. Our research funding was not sufficient for the original archival materials to be delivered via international courier. In addition, official loan agreements require years of preparation between institutions, which was unrealistic for this project. Consequently, the Getty offered a digital loan agreement, making it possible to present its image data in Kyoto. Although I needed permission from Rainer and all her photographers, there was no need for high-priced transportation costs and insurance fees. This was the only way to realize the archival exhibition given our circumstances. From the Yvonne Rainer Collection in the Getty, I selected photos, posters, Rainer’s own memos, dance scores, choreographic and spatial plans and magazine articles with the focus on two early pieces, which were performed in Kyoto as part of the exhibition: Trio A and Chair/Pillow. These delivered archival materials from the Getty were exhibited in the theater foyer and inside the theater. Initially, I planned to exhibit them inside the proscenium arch; however, I found that these archival materials became props once they were placed on stage with a performance going on. Therefore, I decided to hang them from the ceiling in the auditorium. There they would function as visual textbooks for seated viewers when they watched the dancers’ performance on stage through these materials. While the audience watched the performance presentation of Trio A and Chair/ Pillow on the stage area, they were able to compare original dance scores and posters hanging in front of them with what was actualized on stage. This mirrors the behavioral pattern of spectators when dealing with scripts and subtitles during performances of classic Noh, Bunraku and Kabuki. Together with these materials, the following were also exhibited: Rainer’s artistic statements such as “An Analysis of Trio A” (1966), “Program of Continuous Project-Altered Daily” (1970)—from which Chair/Pillow originated—“No Manifesto” (1965), “A Manifesto Reconsidered” (2008)16 and documentation of the earlier reconstruction of Rainer and Grand Unions’ Grand Union Dreams in Tokyo by members of Yotsuya Art Studium. In contrast to the exhibited archival materials in the audience area, main stage and flower path, we reconstructed props from Rainer’s early piece The Mind Is a Muscle (1968), in which Trio A was originally performed as The Mind Is a Muscle, Part 1. At the beginning of our process in 2017, I asked Rainer to reconstruct this piece. Because this was unfortunately not possible, I instead used some of the props to create a multiplex Trio A framework using black-and-white photographs, diagrams, descriptive notes, articles and books. I placed five mattresses, one black dumbbell, a block-set of steps used in a section of Stairs, an up-and-down wooden lattice, a fluorescent light and one trapeze on the main stage. People were able to sit on this trapeze, and another up-and-down trapeze was hung above the flower path. Originally, each prop was used for each section; however, I assembled them all together. While the original length of The Mind Is a Muscle is one hour and 45 minutes,17 I reprogramed the cue sheet as a one-hour loop, involving lighting, the sounds of a galloping horse, a wooden lattice descending and ascending, and a projection of Rainer’s five early films on the back screen.

No(h) to Trio A  67

Figure 3.1  Performative reconstruction of The Mind Is a Muscle and Chair/Pillow, Kyoto Art Theater, Shunjuza. Source: photo by Kai Maetani.

In addition, I created an extra performance space in the auditorium. Because Rainer originally created Chair/Pillow with students as an “audience piece”18 and because it is not technically demanding, I held open applications for potential Chair/Pillow participants and presented it in the audience area of the Shunjuza theater. My stage manager removed the four front rows of the auditorium to create a performance space for Chair/Pillow. In addition, except during the actual dance, chairs and pillows were placed throughout the exhibition as display objects. However, later during the workshop period, we found that the space was not big enough for all 16 workshop participants. Instead of removing eight participants, the other eight participants presented the piece a second time in the foyer next to the entrance after the first performance in the auditorium. In the end, all the participants who wanted to perform the piece did so. The chairs and pillows were also placed in the audience area and in the theater foyer (see Figure 3.1).

Teaching and showing In terms of working on the different dramaturgical contexts, I followed Rainer’s multi-disciplinary strategy by presenting different approaches to her archives. Under the title of “performative exhibition” and following the structure of The Mind Is a Muscle, I constructed three phases for the five-day program: an open workshop with two showings of Rainer’s two pieces, a film screening and lectures.

68  Nanako Nakajima This approach was inspired by Rainer’s own technique of reworking previous materials with a new format in order to juxtapose them radically with each other. Moreover, each phase of the performative exhibition emphasized a different type of art form—namely dance, film and visual arts. Rainer often plays with the boundaries between teaching, rehearsal and performance. For example, in 1968, Rainer started the format of combining performance and teaching on site. This became a piece known as Performance Demonstration, which in turn led to the open-ended and participatory nature of Continuous Project-Altered Daily (1969–1970) and The Grand Union (1970). Art Curator Catherine Wood writes that “[t]he former visibly incorporated rehearsal and process into performance and fed into the creation of the latter, a collective whose activities were generated through improvisation and structured by shifts in leadership between Rainer and fellow members.”19 When dance work is openended and not fixed, the rehearsal becomes a part of the work, and ordinary life enters the dance work. This approach echoes Rainer’s concept of creating multiple versions of Trio A. For this performative exhibition of Yvonne Rainer’s work, I asked Rainer to come to Kyoto to teach Trio A and to perform her Trio A: Geriatric with Talking. Unfortunately, she was not able to come; instead, she suggested that one of her dancers, Emmanuèle (Manou) Phuon, do a five-day workshop on her early choreographies, Trio A and Chair/Pillow. Phuon is an authorized transmitter, having danced Trio A since 2000 and being a member of Rainer’s unofficial company, the Raindears. There are only six transmitters who are allowed to transmit Trio A, one of whom is Phuon.20 The selection of pieces for our workshop was a major discussion. Many of her early pieces, such as Three Satie Spoons and Satie for Two, were either not available or required more than five days to teach. Furthermore, the dancers needed translators during the workshop and showings to communicate with Phuon. Many of my requests were turned down because of budget limitations. Once two pieces were fixed, I programed a daily schedule for the five days of the performative exhibition, including an open workshop at the Shunjuza. I was criticized for showing the ‘fake’ teaching workshop by including the audience in the Shunjuza––‘fake’ because teaching and practicing during a rehearsal are not supposed to be seen by the spectators. In the democratic spirit of Judson, however, I decided to open up the rehearsal process to the spectators who were eligible participants. I placed the entire process within the framework of the public exhibition, including Phuon as a coach teaching the dancers. While this preparatory process is meant to be hidden behind the curtain in the context of modern illusionistic theater and classical ballet, this process is often exposed in traditional Japanese theater, experimental Euro-American theater and performance art. The idea was that the dancers would embody Rainer’s pieces while the audience would participate as living objects: observers would be allowed to step onto the flower path and the main stage. In addition, they were going to be allowed to wander around the auditorium as museum visitors during the workshop and other programs. However, the Shunjuza theater is built for mass audiences entering and

No(h) to Trio A  69 exiting before and after shows and not for the flaneur. The passages between the seats are too narrow to walk freely, and the many doors of the auditorium distract visitors. While the Shunjuza staff requested that I provide exact directions on the floor map, I only provided the floor map, thus refusing to direct the visitors’ walk inside the exhibition.

Trio A on the proscenium stage During the exhibition, the question of where to place the audience for Trio A resulted in a dramaturgical discussion. The Judson concert had neither proper stage seating nor tickets for the audience. According to Catherine Wood, Rainer spent six months in 1965 working on Trio A.21 In 1966, Trio A as The Mind Is a Muscle, Part 1 was presented first at Judson Church. Then in 1968, this expanded version moved to the Anderson Theater, which had a seated auditorium with a proscenium arch. Through this spatial transition, from “floor based and single plane”22 to picture view, Rainer made a major change in terms of spectatorship. In the presentation of The Mind Is a Muscle at the Anderson Theater, Rainer created a “gestural tableau on a proscenium stage that specifically created a picture view.”23 In addition, she created a formal theater situation with a proscenium arch in the foreground, creating a physical division between audience and performers, thus ensuring “the visibility of the social contract that requires a division of roles in such a space.”24 Because of this historical change and the video documentation of Trio A by a fixed camera in 1978, Trio A is rarely presented in a flat space surrounded by the audience. In this regard, Phuon and I had conflicting opinions in terms of how to present Trio A at the Shunjuza theater. While I planned the audience area to be all over the theater, including the stage area, Phuon insisted that the spatial division between audience and performers should be maintained because dancers in Trio A must neither look at the audience nor allow their eyes to meet. Phuon told me that Rainer did not prefer the audience-surrounding situation.25 Archiving dance is creating a new art form. Reconstructing dance can be different from the original, authentic form because there are various factors and conditions in each ephemeral dance performance. Because of the historical, physical and mental differences inherent to our dancers and theater tradition, our performance was different from what it was supposed to be in the American context. At the same time, Trio A has been canonized since the 1970s as a masterpiece of American postmodern dance. Christel Stalpaert explains the reenactment of Mary Wigman’s solos by Fabian Barba: Barba does not conceal the difference with his own corporeal, endlessly transformative archive. In contrast to being trapped “within a static circle of clichéd reproduction and representation,” he illuminated “how easily the formerly fashionable and glorious becomes antiquated, [and] how easily the formerly comfortable (as in the representational codes previously discussed) becomes strange.”26 Stalpaert also refers to the Deleuzian term of “continuous modulation in perceptive representation.” Unlike photography, modulation “does not stop

70  Nanako Nakajima when equilibrium is reached, and constantly modifies the mould, constitutes a variable, continuous, temporal mould.”27 This idea of continuous modulation in reenacting dance echoes Rainer’s idea of various versions of Trio A and Continuous Project-Altered Daily and Annually. If we keep dancing, the process of aging is actually the continuous modulating and updating of our living, dancing bodies. In the process of transmitting and historicizing Trio A for generations, the piece has appeared as part of a classic repertoire—but with various versions. After much discussion, I decided, for this Noh version, to present Trio A as a theater piece onstage, leaving the audience in the audience area. However, right after the Trio A showing, I switched the audience–performer positions in the Shunjuza for the following performance of Chair/Pillow. The audience comes up the stage, looking at the performers dancing Chair/Pillow in the audience area.

Aging reconsidered: No(h) to Trio A In 1966, Rainer herself, David Gordon and Steve Paxton performed Trio A as The Mind Is a Muscle, Part 1. Trio A looks easy to dance; however, it is well known that its nuance and technical demands are much higher than they seem. In fact, Rainer says, Trio A was the dance I referred to when I said I was a postmodern dance evangelist. It was quite difficult—it had a great deal of nuance and technical demands—and I wanted to teach it to the world.28 As Rainer herself says, much of the choreography of Trio A is more private than abstract, coming from her own bodily characteristics including her squint-eyes and right-footedness. Phuon also suggested beforehand that I find professional dancers for Trio A. Therefore, I asked my colleagues in Kyoto for recommendations of good dancers for Trio A. I was not looking for the perfection of specific techniques but the individual presence and intelligence of dancers’ bodies with diverse dance backgrounds and of different ages. This idea reflects Rainer’s commentary on Trio A: Geriatric with Talking, in which she “admit[s] the aging body of the dancer into this fully recognized and respected universe.”29 Consequently, I found six professional dancers: Kan Katsura in Butoh, Juri Nishioka in contemporary, Megumi Kamimura in conceptual and contemporary, Misako Terada in contemporary with a high level of ballet skills, Bove Taro in contemporary improvisation with Noh aesthetics and the Noh performer Koji Takabayashi. These three men and three women are each about ten years apart in age, with Nishioka in her twenties, Taro in his thirties, Kamimura in her forties, Terada in her fifties, Katsura in his seventies, and Takabayashi in his eighties. My casting made use of Rainer’s recent dramaturgy with her Raindears. The biggest problem in presenting Trio A occurred before the rehearsal started. Koji Takabayashi is a Noh performer at the Kyoto Kita School who, because of his age, had recently retired from performing main roles as shite 仕手 onstage. He

No(h) to Trio A  71 had already performed the most difficult repertoires of Noh, including Obasute 伯母捨, which is Zeami’s piece based on the legend of old mothers being abandoned by sons on mountaintops and left to die there. In terms of the history of Noh, his background was unique. While his Kyoto Kita School had a 500-year tradition, inheriting the Horiike family of royal Noh performers, his own family struggled to work in Noh communities. His family experienced a 20-year expulsion from the main Kita Noh School by the then-head of the school, Roppeita Kita XIV (1874–1971) as a result of his father Ginji Takabayashi’s discord with other members. This was power politics among Noh performers in the Kita School because Ginji Takabayashi was critical of the radical modernizing policy of Roppeita Kita XIV, who created new pieces in collaboration with Zenmaro Toki and Minoru Kita, who later became the fifteenth head of the Kita school in 1971. When they started creating new Noh repertoires based on Christianity, such as Shito Paulos (Apostle Paulus) and Fukkatsu (Resurrection), Ginji Takabayashi opposed their policy and left the school, because Ginji believed that Noh should follow the religion of Okina, the sacred old man.30 The Takabayashi family received a letter in Showa 31 (1956) from a secretary-general of the Kita School, saying his family was struck off the list of the school. According to Takabayashi, this was not the notice of expulsion.31 However, during that period, Takabayashi and his family practiced Noh exclusively by themselves, not with other Noh performers and musicians.32 On the day I first met Takabayashi, he was in a cotton kimono and classic Geta shoes, not habitual everyday clothing for contemporary Japanese people. He reminded me of my previous Noh master, who wears a kimono every day as a statement. Later I found out that Takabayashi’s dress code was the teaching of his father, the Noh master Ginji, who gave him intensive training in Noh. Ginji gave him a kimono with Geta shoes when he graduated from high school. By doing so, his father Ginji was telling him to devote his life to Noh and to continue his training and practice religious austerity. Since then, Takabayashi has obeyed the teachings of his father by following the Noh dress code for 50 years.33 No to Trio A: Our first problem was with Takabayashi’s footwear used for dancing Trio A. Although sneakers are a trademark of Trio A in American postmodern dance, Takabayashi wanted to wear tabi socks because Noh performers always wear them, even when performing outside. Takabayashi considered the tabi socks to be a part of his body and to match his way of moving. Conversely, Phuon told me to explain how important it is to wear sneakers in Trio A. (It is actually not practical for dancers to wear sneakers in this piece because they prevent the feet from sliding on the floor, and this does affect the way one moves. Nevertheless, wearing sneakers is thought to be important for this piece.) Phuon said that if Takabayashi knew of this importance and still decided to wear tabi, he could do so. After I told Takabayashi this, he decided to wear sneakers; still, he showed up at the first rehearsals in a kimono and wore one until the end of the Trio A performances. Phuon did not comment on Takabayashi’s kimono.34 On the other hand, his participation in a kimono added another historical element of Japanese theater to Trio A. When Phuon first met Takabayashi on the

72  Nanako Nakajima second day of rehearsals in Kyoto, she greeted him but was shocked. She immediately requested me to remove him because she had already occupied herself with teaching the other dancers in the limited time allowed and because Takabayashi was not able to dance Trio A. On that day, Phuon did not work with him in the rehearsals, and Takabayashi only stayed to watch.35 He did try to participate, standing all the time while watching the other dancers, neither sitting in his seat nor leaving the room. In addition, Takabayashi was surprised to see how demanding the choreography of Trio A was. I was sitting between the two and did not know what to do. Eventually, Takabayashi courageously started asking Phuon and her translators how to dance Trio A. After the first day of rehearsals, we had a long discussion in order to find a solution that would not exclude Takabayashi from Trio A. Phuon was in the difficult position of teaching the work of Rainer, her boss; she was responsible for the quality of the piece, with no right to change anything. Nevertheless, she began to understand my perspective over the course of the evening and promised to ask Yvonne Rainer for a solution. I also talked to Takabayashi on the phone in the evening and requested that he come back to the rehearsal studio again even if the situation might be the same. Takabayashi sounded calm, telling me that he was willing to come back because he liked watching the other dancers’ practice. Later, I found out that he felt completely confused on that day regarding his acceptance of the offer to participate in this project. The next day, after Phuon had talked with Yvonne Rainer, she came up with a few possibilities to include Takabayashi in Trio A, which made me more than happy. Takabayashi played the role of facing one dancer’s gaze in the format of Trio A: Facing. In this format, dancers performing Trio A are surrounded by another dancer, and they all follow each other’s gazes, which never reach the audience. After they had all tried this together, Takabayashi was assigned to face Terada, the beautiful contemporary ballerina (see Figure 3.2). After that rehearsal, I saw Takabayashi jumping for joy at this decision, as if he were a small child.36 To my surprise, this casting of Trio A: Facing added a new layer to the dramaturgy. In Noh theater, when shite performs as the protagonist, there are always koken 後見in the back—guardians sitting next to the koken pole. Koken literally means a person who is ‘back-seeing.’ He or she has no costume, waits at the back of the Noh theater, watches, supplies props and costumes and supports the shite’s performance. If the shite happens to be sick during the performance, the koken substitutes for the role to finish the performance until the end. Unlike in other traditional Japanese arts, the koken in Noh is more than a stage manager and prompter, thus the relationship between shite and koken is frequently similar to a teacher–student or father–son relationship, and koken is more experienced when performing shite. The part of Trio A: Facing created tension between Terada and Takabayashi. This was mostly the case for Terada, who performed the sequences of Trio A superbly. Terada preceded Takabayashi, but sometimes Takabayashi seemed to be protecting her by the act of looking at her. On the other hand, as an old man, he looked seduced by her young agility and beauty, similar to some Noh pieces, such

No(h) to Trio A  73

Figure 3.2  Trio A: Facing performed by Misako Terada and Koji Takabayashi. Source: photo by Kai Maetani.

as The Deadweight of Love 恋重荷 and The Damask Drum 綾鼓. This part of Trio A epitomized a new dramaturgical layer in terms of guardian spectatorship, with the 30-year difference in age between the contemporary dancer and the Noh performer. In the beginning, Takabayashi was involved only as a dancer in this performative exhibition. However, later, he also played the vital role of an active observer: Noh to Trio A. Dancing the epitome of American postmodern dance through the eyes of Japanese Noh theater, Noh to Trio A served as the reason for why and how we performed this piece at this moment in time and for the audience at the traditional theater in Kyoto.37 Regarding spectatorship in the context of art and performance, Jacques Rancière introduces an influential idea from his previous project titled The Ignorant Schoolmaster. In this book, referring to the French teacher Jacotot and his Flemish students, Rancière questions the roles of teacher and student in terms of equality in knowledge distribution and individual liberation. For their emancipation, the knowledge distribution is done by “the act of an intelligence obeying only itself even while the will obeys another will.”38 Regarding the issue of spectatorship in theater, which oscillates between the two poles of distanced investigation and vital participation, he also adopts an equal relationship and distribution of knowledge. If spectators are emancipated and are obliged to use their own intelligence, they realize their capacity and learn what teachers do not know. He writes that “[w]hat is required is a theater without spectators, where those in

74  Nanako Nakajima attendance learn from as opposed to being seduced by images; where they become active participants as opposed to passive voyeurs.”39 To create active participants in theater, the spectators need to be emancipated by the art of distanced investigation and vital participation. For this performative exhibition in Kyoto, I initially asked Yvonne Rainer to perform Trio A: Geriatric with Talking. Because she was not able to come to Kyoto, she instead agreed to screen her Trio A: Geriatric Version, filmed by David Michalek in 2017. Without prior notice, this piece became the additional screening component of the performative exhibition. In this silent video, Rainer, aged 82, dances Trio A while staggering at times. From time to time, she is supported by her dancer Pat Catterson, for example when she loses her balance while standing on one leg. After Rainer skips a few sequences and turns, she forgets her choreography and asks Pat to teach her. There is a discrepancy between what is really done and what is supposed to be done in this version of Trio A; therefore, ironically, one can clearly see the historical 50-year trajectory of Trio A. The audience at the Shunjuza in Kyoto received this Trio A: Geriatric Version very positively. The media studies scholar Takeshi Kadobayashi said that this video gave him the impression that this is not a typical work because the author herself was extracted from her own work, thereby making this piece even more touching.40 The audience saw more than what was visible by noticing the difference between the direction Rainer wished to go and her actual moves. Her overflowing intensity transcended her actual, aging body. In various dance and film works, Rainer deals with spectatorship and aims to alter the relationship between performer and audience. In our Trio A: Facing with Misako Terada and Koji Takabayashi, one can see a younger ballet dancer doing Trio A through the eyes of an 82-year-old Noh performer. He sees what he cannot do himself, but he feels more than what he can see. In Trio A: Geriatric Version, where Rainer decrees and solicits new modes of attention, the audience sees what is not visible if the audience follows Noh aesthetics. This is dance by an aging body, which requires the audience to be mature and emancipated. The aging body is not only a characteristic of the performer but also of the audience. The spectators are not in a passive mode but transform themselves into an active role. Rancière claims that the emancipation of the spectators is found in the power of associating and dissociating what one sees with what one has seen and experienced.41 To feel what is not yet perceptible in dance, the audience also needs to be aging in the sense of being emancipated from prejudice and aesthetics. A figure of inspiration to the French anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss,42 Zeami of the Noh has written about the views from afar in relation to ‘backseeing.’ ‘Back-seeing in mind’ 目前心後 is what performers should remember regarding the overall effect created by an understanding of dance: Fix your eyes [on what is] in front [of you,] but put your mind [on what is] behind [the physical appearance of the character]. […] When he [the performer] does not experience his stage figure “from behind,” he does not discern what is customary to the physical expression [of the character portrayed].43

No(h) to Trio A  75 Zeami writes that Noh performers attain the spectator’s view and should not trust what their physical eyes see as stage appearance. Instead, they should use their minds and see themselves from behind. For Zeami, this viewpoint of the objective view is analogous to that of the spectator. Having considered Zeami’s text as practice theory, however, the spectator here can be interpreted as the informed guardian spectator, who sees from the back and even performs onstage the role of a koken. While Takabayashi’s participation in Trio A resembles that of the koken in Noh, his performance as a guardian spectator interweaves the contemporary critical discourse on spectators and Zeami’s ancient practice theory. In this sense, the actual dramaturgy of aging in Trio A was empowered by the participation of the Noh performer Takabayashi with aging Noh aesthetics. His participatory, guardian spectatorship contributed to making Yvonne Rainer’s Trio A in Kyoto emancipated in Rancière’s sense. At the Shunjuza theater, its force operated to bring the past into the present. This theater space revealed that the full concentration of the audience is a modern fantasy, thereby providing multilayered modes of distraction in the auditorium separated by the flower path. Distraction is another form of attention, which is now remodulated in dance exhibitions by museum visitors with smartphones. The audience never remains quiet in the magical hut of the Shunjuza, where the phantoms of the past appear, doubling with our living bodies. Like Koji Takabayashi, the son of Ginji Takabayashi of Noh, all the performers are supposed to belong to successive generations of performers. The Shunjuza illuminates this generational, continuous loop of the performing arts in Japan. And all the performers become historicized and aged, juxtaposed with generations of their ancestors. By the use of global and local input, the participating performers and the performing audience at the Shunjuza, the dramaturgy of aging in American postmodern dance was empowered by the dramaturgy of aging in Japanese traditional theater. Following Rancière, every dancer is the spectator of the same story, and every spectator is already a dancer in their own story: from No to Trio A to Noh to Trio A.44

Notes 1 This research was conducted in 2017 in the context of the joint research project of Kyoto University of Art and Design (now the Kyoto University of the Arts) and the Interdisciplinary Research Center for Performing Art in Kyoto, Japan. 2 For a discussion on Raimund Hoghe at the Shunjuza theater, see Nanako Nakajima, “Throwing the Aging Body into the Fight: Raimund Hoghe’s An Evening with Judy in Kyoto,” in Movements of Interweaving: Dance and Corporeality in Times of Travel and Migration, ed. Gabriele Brandstetter, Gerko Egert and Holger Hartung (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2018), 109–29. 3 Claire Bishop discusses the pros and cons of this recent immigration of dance into white cubes: while choreographers gain accessibility and a diverse range of audiences without selling expensive tickets and integrate the work in terms of the context of its choreography by relocating the piece, only certain lineages of dance like the Judson Dance Theater and the Cunningham Dance Company are embraced by museums, full concentration from the audience becomes a fantasy, and museums eventually flatten

76  Nanako Nakajima and homogenize our experience of dance, which Bishop calls the Tino Sehgal effect. Claire Bishop, “The Perils and Possibilities of Dance in the Museum: Tate, MoMA, and Whitney,” Dance Research Journal 46, no. 3 (December 2014): 72–73. Bishop further analyzes this migration of dance from the black box into white cubes as the retemporalization of performance from event time to exhibition time. Referring to the black box theater, which was ideologically established by Jerzy Grotowski and Peter Brook as a counter-action to cinema and television, she describes technology’s reshaping of our sensorium in the form of dance exhibitions in conjunction with the birth of the smartphone. Claire Bishop, “Black Box, White Cube, Gray Zone: Dance Exhibitions and Audience Attention,” TDR/The Drama Review 62, no. 2 (Summer 2018) (T238): 22–42. 4 Peggy Phelan describes Rainer’s work as such in her introductory essay “Yvonne Rainer: From Dance to Film,” in A Woman Who…: Essays, Interviews, Scripts: Yvonne Rainer (Baltimore, MD and London: PAJ Books of the Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999), 14. 5 Regarding the spectatorship in Rainer’s works from a filmic perspective, see Carrie Lambert-Betty’s comprehensive research, Being Watched: Yvonne Rainer and the 1960s (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2008). 6 Yvonne Rainer program note for The Mind Is a Muscle (1968) in Yvonne Rainer, Work 1961–73 (Halifax: The Press of the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design, 1974), 71. 7 Quoted in Douglas Crimp, “Pedagogical Vaudevillian,” in Yvonne Rainer: Raum Körper Sprache/Space Body Language, ed. Yilmaz Dziewior and Barbara Engelbach (Cologne: Walther König, 2012), 251–52. 8 For example, Rainer also writes that “[n]ever having wanted the complications of maintaining a stable dance company, by the age of 40 I had quit the field entirely to concentrate on making experimental narrative films.” Yvonne Rainer, “The Aching Body in Dance,” in The Aging Body in Dance: A Cross-Cultural Perspective, ed. Nanako Nakajima and Gabriele Brandstetter (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2017), 32. 9 Depending on the project, she works with more dancers, including Emmanuèle Phuon. 10 Crimp, “Pedagogical Vaudevillian,” 253. 11 Yvonne Rainer says, “You can tell the age difference, even though Pat is just as dynamic as the others, and it is her presence that we are missing now.” Jessie Emkic, “Yvonne Rainer,” Ballettanz, no. 7 (2008): 19, my translation. 12 Yvonne Rainer, “The Aching Body in Dance,” in The Aging Body in Dance: A CrossCultural Perspective, ed. Nanako Nakajima and Gabriele Brandstetter (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2017), 33. 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid., 34. 15 The Kyoto Art Theater Shunjuza was established in 2001 and is the first theater in Japan entirely run by a university. The flower path runs through the middle of the audience seating area, and red lanterns with theater emblems hang in the audience area. In the performative exhibition, most of the audience hesitate to step on the flower path. 16 “No Manifesto” reads as follows: “No to spectacle. No to virtuosity. No to transformations and magic and make-believe.” “A Manifesto Reconsidered” corresponds to “No Manifesto” as follows: “Avoid if at all possible. Acceptable in limited quantity. Magic is out; the other two are sometimes tolerable.” 17 “The Mind Is a Muscle by those seven people in April 1968 in a situation that lasted for approximately one hour and 45 minutes.” Catherine Wood, Yvonne Rainer: The Mind Is a Muscle (London: Afterall, 2007), 2. 18 For an evening of Connecticut Composite (1969) including “Audience piece,” Rainer worked with eighty students in five separate performing areas in one building. Rainer, Work 1961–73, 125–28.

No(h) to Trio A  77 19 Wood, Yvonne Rainer, 4. 20 Verified in personal communication with Emmanuèle Phuon, 7 October 2020. 21 Ibid., 90. 22 Ibid., 23. 23 Ibid., 23. 24 Ibid., 62. Wood also explains that in the Anderson Theater, a huge mirrored piece of Mylar was placed at the back, indicating the performer–audience’s two-way reflectiveness. Ibid., 34. 25 Phuon also explained that in the MoMA retrospective in 2018, the audience was placed on two sides of the rectangular performance space only to accommodate more people, and nobody was allowed onstage (personal communication, 7 October 2020). 26 Christel Stalpaert, “Reenacting Modernity: Fabian Barba’s A Mary Wigman Dance Evening (2009),” Dance Research Journal 43, no. 1 (Summer 2011): 94. 27 Ibid., 95. 28 Yvonne Rainer, interview by Nicholas Zurbrugg, in Art, Performance, Media: 31 Interviews, ed. Nicholas Zurbrugg (Minneapolis, MN and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2004), 299. 29 Rainer, The Aching Body, 34. Regarding Trio A, Sally Banes explains, “the possibility is proposed that dance is neither perfection of technique nor of expression but quite something else—the presentation of objects in themselves.” Sally Banes, “Yvonne Rainer: The Aesthetics of Denial,” in Terpsichore in Sneakers: Post-Modern Dance, 2nd edition (Hannover, NH: University Press of New England, 1987), 49. Banes also writes that “[s]he does not prize technique, beauty, of formal design. Thus her idea of what dance’s medium might be is not physical technique plus beauty, but the unvarnished materiality and intelligence of the body.” Sally Banes, “An Open Field: Yvonne Rainer as Dance Theorist,” in Yvonne Rainer: Radical Juxtapositions 1961–2002 (Philadelphia, PA: The University of the Arts, 2003), 35. 30 Akira Omote, Nohgaku Kenkyu Kougiroku (Tokyo: Kasama shoin, 2010), 288. 31 Koji Takabayashi, Zengen shu, vol. 2, Chapter 3 (December 2016), 7. Essay collection edited by Koji Takabayashi himself. 32 Noh performers perform Noh only with members of their own schools because the scripts, scores and movements are different in every school. 33 Ibid., 23. 34 Takabayashi mentioned this in our conversation. Koji Takabayashi, “Dialogue with Koji Takabayashi,” interview by Nanako Nakajima, Yvonne Rainer Performative Exhibition Website, 2 February 2018, www​.nanakonakajima​.com​/rainer/​?p​=254. 35 In our 2020 correspondence, Phuon stated that she invited Takabayashi to join the rehearsal on that day, but he said he preferred to watch first. 36 Phuon later indicated that this decision to include Takabayashi in Trio A: Facing was her own. Takabayashi’s interpretation was so beautiful, poignant and natural that she immediately wrote to Rainer to describe it and asked her permission to do it. When Rainer saw the video, though it looked under-rehearsed, she thought it was one of the best Trio A: Facing she had ever seen. Phuon stated that she agreed with her, for this version of Trio A: Facing was highly charged with meaning, contradictions and tensions (personal communication, October 7, 2020). 37 Koji Takabayashi also mentions his seeing ability in the same conversation. See ibid. 38 Jacques Rancière, The Ignorant Schoolmaster: Five Lessons in Intellectual Emancipation, trans. Kristin Ross (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1991), 11. 39 Jacques Rancière, The Emancipated Spectator, trans. Gregory Elliot (London and New York, NY: Verso, 2009), 4. 40 See Takeshi Kadobayashi, 『Yvonne Rainer Trio A (老いぼれバージョン) 』 レビュー, Yvonne Rainer Performative Exhibition Website, 8 April 2018, www​. nanakonakajima​.com​/rainer/​?p​=16. 41 Rancière, The Emancipated Spectator, 17.

78  Nanako Nakajima 42 Claude Lévi-Strauss explains that the title of his book published in 1983 is inspired by his reading of Zeami’s riken no ken in his article “The End of the West’s Cultural Supremacy” in Anthropology Confronts the Problems of the Modern World, trans. Jane Marie Todd (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 2013), 31. 43 Zeami, “Kakyō: A Mirror of the Flower. Part One,” trans. Mark J. Nearman, in Monumenta Nipponica 37, no. 3 (Autumn 1982): 372. 44 Rancière, The Emancipated Spectator, 17.

Bibliography Banes, Sally. “An Open Field: Yvonne Rainer as Dance Theorist.” In Yvonne Rainer: Radical Juxtapositions 1961–2002, edited by Sid Sachs, 21–39. Philadelphia, PA: University of the Arts, 2003. ––––––. “Yvonne Rainer: The Aesthetics of Denial.” In Terpsichore in Sneakers: PostModern Dance, 2nd edition, 41–54. Hannover, NH: University Press of New England, 1987. Bishop Claire. “Black Box, White Cube, Gray Zone: Dance Exhibitions and Audience Attention.” TDR:/The Drama Review 62, no. 2 (Summer 2018) (T238): 22–42. ––––––. “The Perils and Possibilities of Dance in the Museum: Tate, MoMA, and Whitney.” Dance Research Journal 46, no. 3 (December 2014): 63–76. Crimp, Douglas. “Pedagogical Vaudevillian.” In Yvonne Rainer: Raum Körper Sprache/ Space Body Language, edited by Yilmaz Dziewior and Barbara Engelbach, 247–65. Cologne: Walther König, 2012. Emkic, Jessie. “Yvonne Rainer.” Ballettanz, 7 (2008): 16–19. Kadobayashi, Takeshi. 『Yvonne Rainer Trio A（老いぼれバージョン）』レビュー [Yvonne Rainer Trio A: Geriatric Review]. Yvonne Rainer Performative Exhibition, 8 April 2018. www​.nanakonakajima​.com​/rainer/​?p​=16. Lambert-Betty, Carrie. Being Watched: Yvonne Rainer and the 1960s. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2008. Lévi-Strauss, Claude. “The End of the West’s Cultural Supremacy.” In Anthropology Confronts the Problems of the Modern World. Translated by Jane Marie Todd, 1–44. Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 2013. Nakajima, Nanako. “Takabayashi Koji san tono Taiwa” 高林白牛口二さんとの対話 [“Dialogue with Koji Takabayashi”]. Yvonne Rainer Performative Exhibition Website, 2 February 2018. www​.nanakonakajima​.com​/rainer/​?p​=254. ––––––. “Throwing the Aging Body into the Fight: Raimund Hoghe’s An Evening with Judy in Kyoto.” In Movements of Interweaving: Dance and Corporeality in Times of Travel and Migration, edited by Gabriele Brandstetter, Gerko Egert, and Holger Hartung, 109–29. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2018. Omote, Akira. Nohgaku Kenkyu Kougiroku 表章『能楽研究講義録』[Lecture on Noh Research]. Tokyo: Kasama shoin, 2010. Phelan, Peggy. “Yvonne Rainer: From Dance to Film.” In A Woman Who…: Essays, Interviews, Scripts: Yvonne Rainer, 3–17. Baltimore, MD and London: PAJ Books, The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999. Rainer, Yvonne. “The Aching Body in Dance.” In The Aging Body in Dance: A CrossCultural Perspective, edited by Nanako Nakajima and Gabriele Brandstetter, 31–34. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2017.

No(h) to Trio A  79 ––––––. “Interview by Nicholas Zurbrugg.” In Art, Performance, Media: 31 Interviews, edited by Nicholas Zurbrugg, 295–305. Minneapolis, MN and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2004. ––––––. Work 1961–73. Halifax, NS: The Press of the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design, 1974. Rancière, Jacques. The Emancipated Spectator. Translated by Gregory Elliot. London and New York, NY: Verso, 2009. ––––––. The Ignorant Schoolmaster: Five Lessons in Intellectual Emancipation. Translated by Kristin Ross. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1991. Stalpaert, Christel. “Reenacting Modernity: Fabian Barba’s A Mary Wigman Dance Evening (2009).” Dance Research Journal 43, no. 1 (Summer 2011): 90–95. Takabayashi, Koji. Zengen shu 高林白牛口二『涎言集　二』 [Collection of Scribbles], vol. 2. Chapter 3 (December 2016), 7. Wood, Catherine. Yvonne Rainer: The Mind Is a Muscle. London: Afterall, 2007. Zeami. “Kakyō: A Mirror of the Flower. Part One.” Translated by Mark J. Nearman. Monumenta Nipponica 37, no. 3 (Autumn 1982): 343–74.

4

Performance community in an age of reenactment Takao Kawaguchi’s About Kazuo Ohno and the conversation with ghosts Peter Eckersall

This chapter considers how performances that are made by and in the context of radical performance histories might be reinterpreted in light of recent conceptual thinking around theories of new media dramaturgy (NMD) and theatrical reenactment. Radical performance histories are those moments in the history of theatrical production that show concentrations of new ideas and forms, create new collective practices, often avant-garde ones, and are connected to radical political movements. To remediate and reenact these forms poses questions about the way that radical theater is related to its time and place; to reenact alters the relationship between theater and its sociopolitical, cultural and historical contexts in unpredictable ways. New media dramaturgy describes how media and visuality have been remaking live performance.1 The focus on media technologies of presentation, networks and new materialism, which are characteristics of new media, is explored in relation to dramaturgy2 and the way that it constructs meaning and enacts and presents ideas through the medium of performance. Exploring the idea of NMD alongside reenactment studies,3 this chapter considers specifically the development and reception of Takao Kawaguchi’s About Kazuo Ohno: Reliving the Butoh Diva’s Masterpieces (2013). “It suddenly popped into my head,” Kawaguchi writes, “I want to become Kazuo Ohno.”4 Indeed, it is what becoming means that is a central question in this chapter. Kawaguchi was not trained in butoh but rather studied mime and is well known as a contemporary dancer and performance-maker who began his career with the mixed media performance group dumb type. He says that he never saw Ohno perform live and has reconstructed the dances from viewing film and photographic documentation of Ohno’s much-loved butoh performances covering the period from the late 1960s to the 1980s. I am interested to explore how some of the responses to Kawaguchi’s dramaturgical work for About Kazuo Ohno—which involved much research of media documentation—show a sense of unease about the role that remediation and remaking have come to play in the production and reception of live work. While tactics of remediation are well advanced in contemporary performance, there is also a continuing fascination for the ‘live’ as well as the ‘authentic’ presence of liveness.5 This is also in the context of how butoh has become something of

Kawaguchi’s About Kazuo Ohno  81 an international phenomenon. Having drawn from a widely acknowledged influence of German expressionist dance and then explored expressly Japanese cultural interests, butoh is the most international of Japanese performance genres and is practiced in many national and regional contexts.6 My aim is not to revisit past disputes concerning liveness7 but rather to consider—from the perspective of NMD and reenactment—the future possibilities for the development of radical art forms, such as butoh, that emerged in the heady countercultural politics of the 1960s and have grown internationally as aesthetically challenging artforms. While, in this essay, I explore About Kazuo Ohno as a reenactment of butoh, I also aim to highlight how Kawaguchi’s work gives rise to questions about butoh’s interwoven histories, forms and ideas. These questions lead us back to considering how butoh is always fractured and full of breaks, be they temporal, corporeal, aesthetic or political. Making these questions more complicated is the changing nature of communities of artists and spectators of and in contemporary performance and the ways that Kawaguchi’s work sits both inside the histories of these artistic collectives and, at the same time, is resolute in working on its own terms as an artistic statement that is outside of the preexisting conditions and communities of butoh. Dramaturgically, Kawaguchi’s performance, with its cognizance of the aesthetics of remediation and strategies drawing from post-dramatic theater and postmodern dance, is much more contemporary than butoh’s historical commitment to a 1960s avant-garde. Yet it is possible to experience this performance as a butoh performance. Kawaguchi is deeply immersed in the role and gives a brilliant rendition of Ohno’s signature and, in many cases, revered performances. Complicating this, though, is the fact that About Kazuo Ohno is about the past and the work of a deceased performer (Ohno was born in 1906 and died in 2010); we see how remediation and a conscious application of dramaturgy confront butoh’s antirepresentational stance and its rejection of any sense of performance conventions.

Kawaguchi’s conversation with Ohno About Kazuo Ohno is a contemporary dance work that shows iconic sequences reconstructed and reenacted from media documentations of Ohno’s idiosyncratic butoh oeuvre. Kawaguchi reconstructs, in forensic detail, excerpts of four key works: the surrealist film The Portrait of Mr. O (1969, dir. Chiaki Nagano) and the performances Admiring La Argentina (1977), My Mother (1981) and The Dead Sea (1985).8 Especially the last three of these works are characteristic of Ohno’s eclectic and willowy butoh style. Ohno was 72 when he began the series of solo performances that came to define his style of butoh. About Kazuo Ohno has proven to be a work much in demand, and Kawaguchi has shown the work in many places around the world since its first presentations in Tokyo in 2013. The work has enjoyed major critical success and yet, as already mentioned, it also causes consternation. Following a performance of the work at the Japan Society in New York in September 2016, I was struck by how distressed some of my friends were, and I began to wonder why a performance

82  Peter Eckersall that expressly reenacted butoh could cause such visceral responses. It is a fact that butoh has often caused consternation and created a sense of disturbance for spectators, but this particular response seemed to be signaling something different than the sense of discomfort or transgression that is often seen in butoh. The response from these friends (who they are is not important) spoke to existential questions of what butoh was, is and perhaps can be. As many leading practitioners have died and their companies have disbanded, the legacy and future of butoh are often debated and discussed. This situation raises interesting questions about butoh’s connections to the international post-1960s performance community, where it has enjoyed relatively wide popularity and is recognized as a significant and transformative contribution to modern and contemporary dance. Moreover, butoh is connected to a deeply radical corporeal politics, and although it is not a directly didactic or political movement, its reassessment of the body in everyday life is political. As I have argued elsewhere, butoh’s emergence in 1960s Japan drew on ideas of spontaneity and action in ways that were expressive of a wider cultural push for transformation. Its themes and gestures resonated with other art forms such as visual arts, cinema and art happenings. Butoh’s emergence was shaped in and by the interdisciplinary and expressly action-fixated environment of these arts.9 The question of how much these contexts for butoh are part of the story of butoh in the international scene is something to consider. Is Kawaguchi’s very global performance of About Kazuo Ohno using techniques of NMD to defang and de-historicize butoh’s radical past? Or, as I see it, is his performance doing precisely the opposite of this and drawing the radical past into the present through a dramaturgy of hauntology (see later discussion) and re-historicization?

Butoh’s radical artistic communities The first butoh companies included people from underground dance, art and theater who were drawn to the new aesthetic, and many people who follow butoh are also butoh practitioners and/or write critical texts on the performances they see. Like many Japanese performing arts, butoh is sustained by a relatively closeknit and knowledgeable community of practitioners and supporters. The leading figures earn extra income from teaching classes, and the practice of writing critical texts and creative responses to butoh has been a part of butoh from the beginning; luminaries such as the writer Yukio Mishima and the novelist, art critic and translator of French literature Tatsuo Shibusawa (who wrote as Tatsuhiko Shibusawa) wrote important texts on butoh. For butoh practitioners in the 1960s up to 1976, when it closed, Tatsumi Hijikata’s work at the Asbestos Kan (Asbestos Studio) in Tokyo was the main center of butoh’s development. For long periods, Hijikata worked with his followers in the studio, even when, in the 1970s, he himself retreated from performing. His studio was a gathering place for poets, intellectuals and bohemian foreigners; meanwhile, around them, the counterculture and student movement of the day were likewise rebellions expressed directly through the body in violent confrontations.10 Such an idea of embodied expressions of a radical imaginary

Kawaguchi’s About Kazuo Ohno  83 and the conscious interweaving of a theatrical and artistic life with politicized participation in the everyday became the norm for the development of contemporary performance and is, to some extent, still a visible phenomenon. These performative practices were sustained by radical artistic communities, and the lines between thinking and doing and between process and presentation were extremely blurred.11 Hijikata died in 1986 at the age of 58, and some of his disciples established their own companies, including Akaji Maro’s Dairakudakan and Yoko Ashikawa’s Hakutobo; it was mainly via these companies, and the well-known group Sankai Juku, that, during the 1980s, butoh became more widely known in performance scenes internationally. It was also during this time that Ohno’s work—which was sometimes choreographed by Hijikata—was also enjoying serious attention. Along with a busy performance schedule, Ohno held weekly classes in his studio in Yokohama, near Tokyo, aided by his son and fellow butoh performer Yoshito (1938–2020). Whereas butoh in the 1960s was often impenetrable and its discourses were abstract and philosophical, by the 1980s, butoh was more open to participation, offering training camps, workshops and summer festivals. Ohno’s classes were, to a degree, bilingual and accessible to non-Japanese speakers; hence, there is a relatively large group of people who trained with Ohno, and/or knew of his work in some detail. His classes often focused on the imagination and connecting images and memories with physical responses. Somewhat comparable to exercises in sense memory, the classes were more improvised than other butoh styles that tended to focus on established forms and gestures (butoh fu). Ohno’s works toured widely in Europe and North America during this period. Even with butoh’s wider acceptance, in comparison to the performances of Hijikata or other butoh groups who were perceived to be edgier, Ohno’s works and his training processes were known much more widely than other artists and groups (with the possible exception of Sankai Juku). This is a relevant consideration for thinking about the reception of Kawaguchi’s work; it shows how people outside of Japan, many of whom experienced Ohno’s workshops and performances, often express an affinity with Ohno that is very different in sensibility to the situation of reenactment and postmodern dramaturgy in Kawaguchi’s work. There is a confusion, in that spectators seeing About Kazuo Ohno can perhaps see or anticipate an experience connecting to Ohno’s memory and his deeply felt expression of butoh. As already mentioned, Kawaguchi has developed an uncanny way of inhabiting the physicality of Ohno, and his body and face closely match the performances as they are remembered on film. At the same time, Kawaguchi is expressly not a butoh performer, and the idea that one can simply reenact or inhabit the form is unnerving to butoh practitioners. Interestingly, Kawaguchi is not alone in the artistic community in giving attention to and/or drawing inspiration from butoh in the contemporary moment. For example, the dance-performer Trajal Harrell has made two works in response to butoh archives12 that explore alternative histories of butoh and provoke questions about appropriation and racialized bodies. Choreographer and mixed media artist Ka Fai Choy’s piece titled UnBearable Darkness (2018) utilizes the skills

84  Peter Eckersall of blind itako (mediums) from the famed Osore Zan (Mount Dread) in the northern part of Japan. Osore is a place where the spirits of the dead are said to remain in limbo, and the landscape of bare rocks and clouds of sulfur seeping from the ground creates an atmosphere of eeriness. For a fee, a medium will communicate with one’s ancestors, and Choy has employed an itako to contact the spirit of Hijikata. From this encounter—which Choy expressly calls “data”—he is working on a remediated invocation of Hijikata’s spirit. Thus, it seems that in reenacting and responding to the by-now-historical practice of butoh, the form itself is transformed from an expressively avant-garde performance into something more akin to information and reproduction, not to mention something much more dramaturgical in that it shows its conscious use of media and documentation not only as a source for making the work but, in the performance, these historical remnants and data fields are also made visible for the consideration of the spectator.

The performance of About Kazuo Ohno About Kazuo Ohno begins outside of the theater proper, and the first scene is enacted in a theater foyer, or on the street, depending on local conditions. Wearing a motorcycle helmet and rollerblades and surrounded by junk, Kawaguchi arrives without announcement and passes through the standing crowd. He rearranges the space, strips naked and sprays water around. The performance is like an art happening, and it shows how butoh was connected to the performance art scene in the 1960s. This scene is Kawaguchi’s interpretive response to the surrealist film The Portrait of Mr. O (1970) directed by Chiaki Nagano and featuring Ohno (discussed further on). Performer and spectators soon move to the main auditorium or theater space, and a medley of fragments from Ohno’s choreography that mirror and reenact scenes from three of his major solo works are shown. These include sequences taken from the documentation of Admiring La Argentina, one of Ohno’s best-known works, and a work that was directed and choreographed by Hijikata and inspired by Ohno’s muse, the Argentinian-born Spanish dancer Antonia Mercé y Luque (who took the stage name La Argentina).13 The ghostly, karmic “Embryo Dream” sequence is one of several scenes taken from My Mother, a performance that shows cycles of birth, life and death and was choreographed and performed by Ohno. Kawaguchi also performs two sections from The Dead Sea, a work that was choreographed by Hijikata and—in the sensibility of the design, at least, and in the atmosphere that Ohno evokes in the documentation—is perhaps the bleakest of Ohno’s works, closer to Hijikata’s vision of ankoku butô (dark butoh) than the other sequences that Kawaguchi has selected. There is a costume rack on stage, and between each scene, Kawaguchi changes into a replica of the costume worn by Ohno as seen in the media documentation of his performances. Roughly dividing the performance into two halves is a scene in which Kawaguchi puts on white face makeup. There is also a moving remembrance: an uncanny video interlude expressly made for the performance featuring Ohno’s son, Yoshito, who appears manipulating a puppet of his deceased father.

Kawaguchi’s About Kazuo Ohno  85 The video was made by the media artist Naoto Iina, who was also the dramaturge on About Kazuo Ohno. Kawaguchi’s reenactment of these works deals with the limitations of the sources of media—something that he turns to his advantage. There is imperfect documentation of the original works that shows only some aspects of the performance. At the same time, the films include closer and more exacting images of the body than one might be able to see in a live performance. The expressly partial recordings of the performances and the varying quality create a fragile sensibility wherein Ohno’s performance is a kind of ghosting or haunting. The films capture well Ohno’s insubstantial figure in which he is almost swallowed by the vast empty landscape of the stage. This atmosphere of death and crisis is heightened by Ohno’s advanced age and his awkward staggering movements. The butoh scholar Jonathan Marshall writes: “The spectacle of the revenant, deceased, or spectral presence that has returned to deform and inhabit the body of the dancer is a central organizing trope of butoh.”14 Kawaguchi’s own enactment is reviving the memory of the dead performer in a way that he himself has called a “heretical act of copying.”15 Ohno and Hijikata are considered to be two of the most important artists in butoh, who were there from the beginning and had a long collaboration. Following from Marshall, there is a sense that we not only see the work of Ohno reenacted in Kawaguchi’s performance but that the atmosphere of butoh itself is haunting the production. This is an aspect of haunting that is both particular to butoh and a part of the spirit of performance. As Marvin Carlson argues, dramatic texts and embodied performances are always distinguished by their relationships to previous texts, literary and non-literary, and are literally and figuratively haunted by the past.16 And in butoh, there is often a sense of ghosting at work that is evident both in the training of performers and in the eschatological edges of butoh performances.17 Hijikata wrote in a text called To My Comrade, written in 1984, that in butoh: “We shake hands with the dead, who send us encouragement from beyond our body.”18 We can see how both butoh and its reenactment become sites for the performance of multiple heresies and transgressions that, in one way or another, revolve around the offense of reviving something ghostly and not altogether welcome. I have already mentioned the close attention to copying Ohno’s movements, costume, makeup and facial expressions in Kawaguchi’s performance. He aims for a direct transmission of Ohno’s corporeality: My approach was to literally copy Ohno’s dance from the video recordings of the premiere performances of his three masterpieces. In copying from video recordings that are themselves copies—or perhaps even copies of copies of copies, I work in direct violation of what the Master meant when he said “if there is the heart, the form will follow.” Despite the fact that Ohno’s inner world (his soul, emotions, heart) is what has been considered essential and integral to his expression of dance, to Ohno’s “dance of soul,” I marginalize such subjectivity to embrace the abject copy. Also rejecting the traditional concept of “kata” or ideal form in Japanese traditional aesthetics, I focus

86  Peter Eckersall instead on the very tangible forms on the video screen, and wear them as if putting an armor or a costume on my body. Putting it in another way, I fit my body into such forms like pouring hot iron into the mold. As heretic, I challenge Kazuo Ohno on the outside, from the outside.19 The idea of being “on the outside, from the outside” is the crucial idea in Kawaguchi’s performance. He puts aside the practice of kata, a term that describes the patterns of movements and physical forms that are adopted by performers in traditional theater (kata is also used in martial arts and other embodied practices connected to Japanese traditions). Instead, Kawaguchi’s body and choreographic training are responding to the medium of film. Dramaturgically, it is something more than a form of documentary or Brechtian distancing, although it has aspects of these approaches within it. It calls to mind Michael Taussig’s book Mimesis and Alterity (1993), in which he shows how a copy of a cultural object or performance is an act of assimilation that also brings forth strangeness and alterity. Thus, to create a performative representation of a prior existence is “a high stakes game” between “embodiment and fragmentation.”20 For Taussig, the act of mimesis deals with capturing an essence and is a struggle for life. It is profoundly paradoxical and disturbing. The effect of watching Kawaguchi working on copying Ohno “on the outside, from the outside,” not as a projection of Ohno’s life force, but with the sense that Kawaguchi’s portrayal is taking over is no less dangerous and uncanny. Alterity is about the state of otherness and in Kawaguchi’s performance mimesis is a matter of making use of the broken links in Ohno’s filmic record. Thinking about mimesis and alterity in relation to the performance asks us to consider how Kawaguchi breaks Ohno’s work into its scattered images. And while Kawaguchi expresses the life of Ohno we are also constantly reminded that Ohno is dead and butoh is a corpse.

Butoh’s uncanny enactment Although some audience members were disturbed by Kawaguchi’s heretical challenge to their idea of butoh, it is also true to say that butoh itself has often played with notions of occupied bodies and appropriation from sources including literature, visual arts and popular culture. In other words, is the disturbance a response to the intertextual and dramaturgical nature of Kawaguchi’s work? Or, in making a dramaturgical conversation with butoh, is Kawaguchi’s performance also acting on the spectator as a corporeal disturbance? Consider, for example, Laura Bleiberg’s review of About Kazuo Ohno in the Los Angeles Times in which she noted how the complexity of layers in the work made for a performance with aspects of “interesting intellectual reverie [although] not entirely satisfying.”21 Although Bleiberg praised the skill and complexity of the performance, she also seems to wonder if it is too intellectual in its layers of references and metatextuality. For Bleiberg, the effect was somewhat lesser than the mesmerizing photographic images of Ohno as a performer that, she mentions, were on display in the foyer for Kawaguchi’s performance. But perhaps this speaks to the sense of how

Kawaguchi’s About Kazuo Ohno  87 one is always looking for something more potent or authentic from the past that might not actually be there, an act of nostalgic or postmodern historification. To suggest that Kawaguchi’s performance can somehow measure up to the auratic memory of Ohno is another form of heresy. In fact, Bleiberg acknowledges that she has also never seen Ohno’s work, so the memory of his wonderment as a performer is a construction. Another possibility is that Kawaguchi’s performance creates its own affective states in which the intellectual layer of the copy derived from media is haunted by the direct sensation of the memory of butoh’s corporeal disturbance. Arguably, butoh has always worked between layers of intellectual abstraction and the superexpressive qualities of the avant-garde. Hijikata famously said that he danced with the spirit of his dead sister inside him.22 And, as the butoh scholar Katja Centonze shows, there was also an understanding of distance and objectivity in this sense of inhabitation. She writes: “A fundamental requisite in Hijikata’s art is the distance between the dancer and his/her body, between the dancer and his/her movements.”23 With this in mind, perhaps Kawaguchi’s performance is closer to the spirit of butoh than we might otherwise think. In its tension between copying and being, it arrives at a thoroughly butoh-like dramaturgical sensibility, one that shows the problem of performing momentarily and simultaneously in the present and in the past. The performer as a corporeal presence who is consciously doing the performance and has precisely constructed the performance text is also an agent of enabling sensations about things and people from history. In other words, in reintroducing the problem of history—expressly Japan’s postwar reconstruction and themes of modernity that are aspects of butoh—Kawaguchi brings a new layer of understanding to the essential notion that butoh is a corporeal enactment of history itself. Moreover, Ohno’s own performances are in fact inhabitations of external figures and cultural sources. As we have seen, his major works give physical expression to his muses, including his mother, La Argentina and even, later in his life, Elvis Presley. Taking this idea further, the dance scholar Nanako Nakajima’s essay on Yoshito Ohno gives much attention to the idea that, for both the father and the son, dance is a form of witness to Christological suffering.24 Nakajima’s argument points to an understanding that externalizes the pain and decay of the body in a way that is comparable to an act of transmutation and Christian communion—in other words, an externalization of suffering as a symbolic performance. While Christian belief is a point of orientation for understanding Ohno’s work, Nakajima shows how his work was also connecting to a Buddhist awareness of suffering and beauty. Religious practices and the use of religious symbols and rituals are often syncretic in Japan and it is not uncommon for people to express belief in multiple faiths. While Ohno was a self-professed Christian, his performances were also seen to touch on elements of the Buddhist awareness of nature and the cycles of life and death. Nakajima reads Ohno’s adoption of the image of the flower—and his actual use of a long-stemmed crepe flower in My Mother, also seen in Kawaguchi’s version—as a reference to the classical aesthetic concept of hana, meaning flower and beauty. Hana is referred to in treatises on noh theater as

88  Peter Eckersall a way of describing the fragile revelation of beauty.25 In the classical arts, hana is a metaphor for something that comes into being and then fades; the focus is on an actor discerning a simplicity or essence in their craft that is elemental. In speaking of the necessity of “becoming a flower,” as Ohno often did in his training, Nakajima shows the artist’s desire to strip away established habits, techniques and vanity,26 in essence, to discover a sense of absence and nothingness in a way that is suggestive of a noh actor’s training and of hana’s melancholy awareness of the passing nature of things. However, while a noh actor externalizes the figure of a ghost to enact a ritual ending to an unresolved crisis, the transitional states of butoh mean that the resolution of the crisis is always forestalled and existential suffering remains. The practice of butoh is in one sense a dramaturgical question of discovering how the body is always in a state of becoming and how one manifests that sensibility corporeally. It is not a question of religious faith but rather one of how these multiple perspectives on life, death and being haunted inform and entertain concepts of beauty and performance in Japan and how this is also true of butoh. Kawaguchi’s reenactment brings another layer to these histories or, if we were to think about butoh’s synchronist, pliable understanding of history, these lines of flight inform butoh’s philosophical sense of being and not being at the same time. In this sense, Kawaguchi’s performance is another cycle of the reenactment of crisis.

About Kazuo Ohno as reenactment In remaking Ohno’s signature works in a way that dramaturgically is between documentation and new creation, Kawaguchi’s work is a form of reenactment. Key among the theorists of reenactment is the performance scholar Rebecca Schneider, who challenges the idea that performance always has a vanishing point and is only ever ephemeral. For Schneider, this is a false consciousness that is “predetermined by our cultural habitation to the logic of the archive.”27 Her work on civil war reenactors in the United States argues for an approach to performance that is “both an act of remaining and a means of re-appearance and reparticipation.”28 In her view, the embodied performance of the reenactor “becomes a kind of archive and host to collective memory.”29 Performance remains, she argues, and is the “repeated act of securing memory.”30 Schneider draws from Jacques Derrida’s essay “Archive Fever” (1995) to remind us that Derrida traces the term “archive” to its roots in classical antiquity where it was connected to questions of who makes knowledge and enacts laws.31 Schneider’s work overlaps with that of fellow performance scholar Diana Taylor, whose argument for the archive as “the repertoire of embodied practices”32 has been influential in understanding how history is open to performative modes of activism. Scholars in performance studies view the archive as something that is both an enactment of history and a performance of memory as well as an open system of cultural knowledge that is something that creates action and is connected to political activism. There is a temporal dimension to performance that is always calling forward to move beyond.

Kawaguchi’s About Kazuo Ohno  89 Also relevant is Marshall’s discussion of butoh in light of Derrida’s theory of hauntology from his book Specters of Marx (1993), characterized in Marshall’s essay as “[the] effects of language and of history that do not manifest full presence, but rather reveal a spectral combination.”33 Marshall argues that the contradictory oscillation between presence and absence in butoh is specifically hauntological and imbued with the experience of cultural modernity; by extension, it is imbued with dystopia.34 To think about Kawaguchi’s performance in terms of reenactment and hauntology is therefore a way to think about questions concerning the history of butoh and its communities of artists, scholars, students and spectators—in other words, its radical artistic community. For one reason, by reenacting butoh’s corporeal radicalism, the performance resists formalism and opens butoh up to new possibilities. For example, although the performance choreography is determined by studying the videos of Ohno’s works, Kawaguchi is free to choose the sections to study and enact, and he juxtaposes scenes that are drawn from different works. A good example is how, in his production notes, Kawaguchi speaks of the gaps that he senses in his attempts to copy Ohno’s performance. While he understands that his task is to mute his own artistic impulses and project onto Ohno’s physicality as closely as possible, there is always something imperfect in the copy that is paradoxical. “The paradox here,” he says, “is that this very gap […] highlights the very distinct characteristics of the copier. Copy is original.”35 The paradox of the copy that Kawaguchi describes also arises in patterns of training and performance that are well established in butoh circles and are also seen in other techniques of transmitting the performing arts in Japan. In a system of copying from the teacher to student (iemoto seido), there is always a fascination for the gap, the moment of departure from an existing form. To learn kata or, somewhat related, the version of training associated with butoh fu, is, on first appearance, to learn a physical vocabulary or sequence of movements. However, the sensitive practitioner soon comes to realize that kata is also fundamentally about connecting to intangible aspects of performance, aspects that embody notions of history, culture and praxis. The distinctive factor of this piece is the lack of the presence of a living teacher. The teacher is the film and the film works as a template that informs but doesn’t overdetermine the choreography of the performance. This point is clearest in the lengthy first sequence of About Kazuo Ohno, the performance response to Nagano’s 1969 art film. The film is enigmatic and has aspects of ritual and discovery as Ohno moves through and interacts with different environments, including a forest, cityscapes, a temple, a network of tunnels, a pumping station and, most of all, ruins. There are several masked protagonists (several versions of Ohno?) that seem to haunt the film, and the flavor of Ohno’s performance changes from one scene to the next in a series of jump cuts. Elements from the film such as the crown of wood and flowers that Ohno wears, the awkward movement, the naive and tactile exploration of the environment, and objects such as a beach ball, flags and creepy toys that one sees in the film are also used by Kawaguchi. To copy the filmic sequences, however, is simply not possible and the tone of Kawaguchi’s performance installation in responding to the excess of

90  Peter Eckersall images is darker in comparison with the surrealist ritual flavor of the source material. This section of About Kazuo Ohno is full of risk. In artistic terms, it teeters on the edge of disintegration, and in physical terms, Kawaguchi throws his body around and risks injury. With its chaotic display of detritus and found objects that entangle Kawaguchi and that he drags into piles of junk and suspends from ladders and wall fittings, it is possible to read this section of the work as an expression of Angelus Novus, a moment in which history crashes forward, as described by Walter Benjamin, and offering yet another perspective on the idea of reenactment, together with a bleak comment on the fragmenting and schizoid nature of modernity itself. If we read this section of the performance as a manifesto for the performance as a whole, then About Kazuo Ohno becomes, in total, a collection of fragments and ruptures—sources that fundamentally energize butoh but are also challenging us to think about butoh as somehow determined by uncanny, broken histories of bodies and images.

Closing comments The discovery of a gap is interesting in relation to the question of politics and community as well. If we read the dramaturgy of the work in terms of copy, reenactment and remediation, do we not see the possibility for About Kazuo Ohno not as a heretical and improper act but as a “repeated act of securing memory”?36 What are the possibilities for the work to encourage an awareness of, about and for re-appearance and re-participation, and what does that mean for a community? Are we able to imagine once more the radical artistic community of butoh and all that that connotes or entails? Or more likely, does the work point to a different kind of community, no longer looking only to the notion of the present-ness or ephemerality or history as the only markers of an authentic act of spectatorship? In other words, a community that is more porous and a product of the complexity of history and culture—a community that is haunted by the awareness of the past. A part of this awareness is that we also need to think about the synthesis of media and performance dramaturgy and how Kawaguchi used the films of Ohno’s performances as sources for his choreography. About Kazuo Ohno shows “the interaction between live forms and mediated experiences [in a way that] reintensifies both media and performance.”37 The remediation and documentary dramaturgy in About Kazuo Ohno, including the structural relationship between performance and film, has political dimensions that expand on butoh’s radical embodied politics of subjectivity. In Kawaguchi’s version of Ohno’s performances, we can see another layer of butoh’s tangle with history. With its focus on montage, edits and re-presentation, About Kazuo Ohno creates a new kind of media—a performance haunted by filmic images that are, in turn, re-presentations from the past, both in respect of the memory of Ohno as a much-lauded historical figure and of the history of butoh. In turn, this revisits the fact that butoh has had a complex relation to the notion of liveness. It grew from idiosyncratic and highly personal choreographic practices developed by Hijikata and Ohno and then further developed by second- and

Kawaguchi’s About Kazuo Ohno  91 third-generation butoh artists: it shows its history and the modern history of Japan in and through the flesh. When Kawaguchi says that he wants to become Kazuo Ohno, his idea is prescient of not only a reenactment but also a remanifestation. He creates a sense of disturbance that is both uncanny and heretical to butoh and yet is also very much a new possibility for butoh’s revenant dissection of the past in the present day.

Notes 1 See Peter Eckersall, Edward Scheer and Helena Grehan, New Media Dramaturgy: Performance, Media and New-Materialism (London and New York, NY: Palgrave, 2017), 26. 2 See Peter Eckersall, “On Dramaturgy to Make Visible,” Performance Research: A Journal of the Performing Arts 23, nos 4–5 (2018): 241–43. 3 See Rebecca Schneider, “Performance Remains,” in Perform, Repeat, Record: Live Art in History, ed. Amelia Jones and Adrian Heathfield (Bristol and Chicago, IL: Intellect, 2012), 137–50. 4 “About Kazuo Ohno,” Takao Kawaguchi, accessed 2 October 2019, www​.k​​awagu​​chita​​kao​. c​​om​/oh​​nokaz​​uo​/in​​dex​_e​​n​.htm​​l. 5 See, for example, Erika Fischer-Lichte, The Transformative Power of Performance: A New Aesthetics, trans. Saskya I. Jain (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2008). 6 See, for example, “New Sites for Butoh,” Part 3 in The Routledge Companion to Butoh Performance, ed. Bruce Baird and Rosemary Candelario (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2018), which contains 11 articles on butoh in places such as Brazil, Germany, the United States, Mexico and Italy. 7 See Philip Auslander, Liveness: Performance in a Mediatized Culture (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 1999). 8 See “About Kazuo Ohno,” Vimeo video, 11:28, posted by Takao Kawaguchi, accessed 10 September 2019, https://vimeo​.com​/101600634. Kawaguchi’s documentation video shows a split screen of the original performance by Ohno alongside Kawaguchi’s copy. The text is “watashi no okaasan taibi no yume” (“my mother: dream of the unborn”). 9 See Peter Eckersall, “Butoh’s Remediation and the Anarchic Transforming Politics of the Body in the 1960s,” in The Routledge Companion to Butoh Performance, ed. Bruce Baird and Rosemary Candelario (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2019), 150–57. 10 See Peter Eckersall, Performativity and Event in 1960s Japan: City, Body, Memory (London and New York, NY: Palgrave, 2013). 11 See Bruce Baird, Hijikata Tatsumi and Butoh: Dancing in a Pool of Gray Grits (London and New York, NY: Palgrave, 2012). 12 See Sara Jansen, “Activating the Archive: On Trajal Harrell’s The Return of La Argentina,” MoMA, accessed 8 October 2019, https://mo.ma/3bUPvK6​. 13 At the time of writing, Kawaguchi’s sequencing of the scenes in About Kazuo Ohno was: Portrait of Mr. O, “Death and Birth” (from Admiring La Argentina), “Embryo’s Dream” (from My Mother), “The March of the Gypsy Baron” (from Dead Sea), “Episode of Creation of Heaven and Earth” (Dead Sea), “Dream of Love” (My Mother), “Makeup” (Kawaguchi applies white face paint), the video interlude featuring Yoshito Ohno with the marionette of his father Kazuo (intermission), “Daily Bread” (from Admiring La Argentina), “Marriage of Heaven and Earth” (from Admiring La Argentina), “Tango Flower” (from Admiring La Argentina), “Tango Bird” (from Admiring La Argentina) and “Chopin” (from My Mother). Takao Kawaguchi, personal communication with the author, 14 March 2019.

92  Peter Eckersall 14 Jonathan W. Marshall, “The World of the Neurology Ward: Hauntology and European Modernism mal tourné in Butoh,” TDR 57, no. 4 (2013): 66. 15 Siobhan Burke, “Review: Becoming Kazuo Ohno, a Bold Copycat Tribute to a Butoh Master,” New York Times, 19 September 2016, www​.n​​ytime​​s​.com​​/2016​​/09​/2​​0​/art​​s​/dan​​ce​/ re​​view-​​becom​​ing​-k​​azuo-​​ohno-​​a​-bol​​d​-cop​​ycat-​​tribu​​te​-to​​-a​-bu​​toh​-m​​aster​​.html​. 16 See Marvin Carlson, The Haunted Stage: The Theatre as Memory Machine (Ann Arbor, MI: The University of Michigan Press, 2003). 17 See Katja Centonze, “Hijikata Tatsumi’s Sabotage of Movement and the Desire to Kill the Ideology of Death,” in Death and Desire in Contemporary Japan: Representing, Practicing, Performing, ed. Andrea De Antoni and Massimo Raveri (Venice: Ca’Foscari University Press, 2017), 203–32. 18 Tatsumi Hijikata, quoted in Sondra Fraleigh and Tamah Nakamura, Hijikata Tatsumi and Ohno Kazuo (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2006), 50. 19 “About Kazuo Ohno,” Takao Kawaguchi. 20 Michael Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity: A Particular History of the Senses (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 1993), 17. 21 Laura Bleiberg, “Review: An Ode to an Avant-garde Japanese Dance Legend, Performed with Body and Soul,” Los Angeles Times, 9 October 2016, www​.l​​atime​​s​. com​​/ente​​rtain​​ment/​​arts/​​la​-et​​-cm​-t​​akao-​​kawag​​uchi-​​revie​​w​-201​​61005​​-snap​​-html​​story​​. html​. 22 See Centonze, “Hijikata Tatsumi’s Sabotage of Movement,” 217. 23 Ibid., 221. 24 See Nanako Nakajima, “Yoshito Ohno’s Figures of Life,” in The Aging Body in Dance: A Cross-Cultural Perspective, ed. Nanako Nakajima and Gabriele Brandstetter (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2017), 164. 25 See Motokiyo Zeami, On the Art of the Nō Drama: The Major Treatises of Zeami, trans. J. Thomas Rimer and Yamazaki Masakazu (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984). 26 Cf. Nakajima, Aging Body in Dance, 167. 27 Schneider, “Performance Remains,” 139. 28 Ibid., 142. 29 Ibid. 30 Ibid., 145. 31 Ibid. 32 Diana Taylor, The Archive and the Repertoire: Performing Cultural Memory in the Americas (Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, 2003), 26. 33 Marshall, “World of Neurology Ward,” 62. 34 See ibid., 64. 35 “About Kazuo Ohno,” Takao Kawaguchi. 36 Schneider, “Performance Remains,” 145. 37 Eckersall, Scheer and Grehan, New Media Dramaturgy, 14.

Bibliography Auslander, Philip. Liveness: Performance in a Mediatized Culture. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 1999. Baird, Bruce. Hijikata Tatsumi and Butoh: Dancing in a Pool of Gray Grits. London and New York, NY: Palgrave, 2012. Baird, Bruce, and Rosemary Candelario, eds. The Routledge Companion to Butoh Performance. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2019.

Kawaguchi’s About Kazuo Ohno  93 Bleiberg, Laura. “An Ode to an Avant-Garde Japanese Dance Legend, Performed with Body and Soul.” Los Angeles Times, 9 October 2016. www​.l​​atime​​s​.com​​/ente​​rtain​​ment/​​ arts/​​la​-et​​-cm​-t​​akao-​​kawag​​uchi-​​revie​​w​-201​​61005​​-snap​​-html​​story​​.html​. Burke, Siobhan. “Review: Becoming Kazuo Ohno, a Bold Copycat Tribute to a Butoh Master.” New York Times, 19 September 2016. www​.n​​ytime​​s​.com​​/2016​​/09​/2​​0​/art​​s​/dan​​ce​/ re​​view-​​becom​​ing​-k​​azuo-​​ohno-​​a​-bol​​d​-cop​​ycat-​​tribu​​te​-to​​-a​-bu​​toh​-m​​aster​​.html​. Carlson, Marvin. The Haunted Stage: The Theatre as Memory Machine. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2003. Centonze, Katja. “Hijikata Tatsumi’s Sabotage of Movement and the Desire to Kill the Ideology of Death.” In Death and Desire in Contemporary Japan: Representing, Practicing, Performing, edited by Andrea De Antoni and Massimo Raveri, 203–32. Venice: Ca’Foscari University Press, 2017. Eckersall, Peter. “Butoh’s Remediation and the Anarchic Transforming Politics of the Body in the 1960s.” In The Routledge Companion to Butoh Performance, edited by Bruce Baird and Rosemary Candelario, 150–57. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2018. ———. “On Dramaturgy to Make Visible.” Performance Research: A Journal of the Performing Arts 23, nos 4–5 (2018): 241–43. ———. Performativity and Event in 1960s Japan: City, Body, Memory. London and New York, NY: Palgrave, 2013. Eckersall, Peter, Edward Scheer, and Helena Grehan. New Media Dramaturgy: Performance, Media and New-Materialism. London and New York, NY: Palgrave, 2016. Fischer-Lichte, Erika. The Transformative Power of Performance: A New Aesthetics. Translated by Saskya I. Jain. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2008. Fraleigh, Sondra, and Tamah Nakamura. Hijikata Tatsumi and Ohno Kazuo. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2006. Jansen, Sara. “Activating the Archive: On Trajal Harrell’s The Return of La Argentina.” MoMA. Accessed 8 October 2019. https://mo.ma/3bUPvK6​. Kawaguchi, Takao. “About Kazuo Ohno.” Vimeo Video, 11:28. Accessed 10 September 2019. https://vimeo​.com​/101600634. Marshall, Jonathan W. “The World of the Neurology Ward: Hauntology and European Modernism mal tourné in Butoh.” TDR 57, no. 4 (2013): 60–85. Nakajima, Nanako. “Yoshito Ohno’s Figures of Life.” In The Aging Body in Dance: A Cross-Cultural Perspective, edited by Nanako Nakajima and Gabriele Brandstetter, 162–74. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2017. Schneider, Rebecca. “Performance Remains.” In Perform, Repeat, Record: Live Art in History, edited by Amelia Jones and Adrian Heathfield, 137–50. Bristol and Chicago, IL: Intellect, 2012. Taussig, Michael. Mimesis and Alterity: A Particular History of the Senses. London and New York, NY, 1993. Taylor, Diana. The Archive and the Repertoire: Performing Cultural Memory in the Americas. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, 2003. Zeami, Motokiyo. On the Art of the Nō Drama: The Major Treatises of Zeami. Translated by J. Thomas Rimer and Yamazaki Masakazu. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984.

PART III

Unraveling productions

5

Speaking Black Tonya Pinkins’s Mother Courage Hana Worthen

“My Mother Courage was left speechless, powerless, history-less and even cart-less.” —Tonya Pinkins1

On 10 December 2015, under the stage direction of Brian Kulick, New York’s Classic Stage Company (CSC) opened its previews of Bertolt Brecht’s Mother Courage and Her Children.2 Resetting the ‘chronicle’ of the Thirty Years’ War as the ongoing warfare in the Congo, the production relied on an African American cast, starring the actress Tonya Pinkins as the eponymous (anti)heroine.3 As the rehearsals proceeded, though, Pinkins realized that, like the production’s take on the Congolese war, the portrayals of the “African continent” and of “Blackness itself” were ethically compromised, represented less as “specific and infinitely diverse” than as “singularly nonspecific” “cultural misappropriation[s].”4 In her words, when her “perspective as a Black woman was dismissed in favor of portraying the Black woman through the filter of the white gaze,” it became unbearable to work in and for the show.5 Performing as contracted, she exited the CSC production on 3 January 2016 and was subsequently replaced by another African American actress, Kecia Lewis. Pinkins used the reasons for her exit as a point of departure to motivate a larger public debate. In an alliance with the 2015 #BlackGirlsMatter and #BlackLivesMatter movements, the actress publicly challenged the institutional and authorial structures of power and their role in sustaining the representational materiality of the theatrical mise-en-scène. Initially publishing an open letter in Playbill giving her artistic differences with Kulick as a cause for her leaving, she animated what I call an affirmative dramaturgy, a mode of discursive reflection on theatrical work, here coordinating the registers of a materialist, Black feminist critique of white, masculine theater practices unresponsive to historically, socially and aesthetically conditioned racial and gendered professional injustices in the United States.6 By affirmative dramaturgy, I have in mind a practice that jibes with Rosi Braidotti’s “affirmative politics,” combining “critique with creativity in the pursuit of alternative visions and projects,”7 particularly projects that resist political,

98  Hana Worthen social or professional marginalization. Braidotti advocates a “posthuman subjectivity” which is “materialist and vitalist, embodied and embedded, firmly located somewhere,”8 always already relational and interdependent; here I ally Braidotti’s “affirmative politics” with Judith Butler’s reanimation of the phrase “human life.” Rather than eclipsing life with an abstract notion of the human, Butler revalues life as surpassing and defining the human: “the human is the name we give to this very negotiation” between human and life, a negotiation “that emerges from being a living creature among creatures and in the midst of forms of living that exceed us.” Declining to position the human within an economy of individualized independence and above other forms of life, Butler grounds life in ecological terms. As she puts it, “to be alive is already to be connected with what is living not only beyond myself, but beyond my humanness, and no self and no human can live without this connection to a biological network of life that exceeds the domain of the human animal.” If life always already arises from an interdependent “network of life,” its livability—“livable life”—depends on the infrastructures organizing its sustainability. Instead of casting social equality in terms of the access of independent individuals or groups to equal rights, Butler understands interdependency, the “dependency on others and on living processes,” as the condition from which “the very capacity for” us, for human agentic creatures, emerges: living “and acting are bound together in such a way that the conditions that make it possible for anyone to live are part of the very object of political reflection and action.” Insofar as power tends “differentially [to] allocate recognizability,” even the cognizability of equality, interdependency enables a consequential intervention in unjust power’s “taken-for-granted operations.” For Butler, it is the assembled and the potentially assembled public “avowing and showing certain forms of interdependency” that opens a “chance of transforming the field of appearance itself.”9 Affirmative dramaturgy affirms the political and ethical charge of interdependent life, aiming to transform the injustice inherent in a specific “field of appearance”: theatrical production. Interweaving life and art, Pinkins’s affirmative dramaturgy addresses who/what speaks for the theatrical production, its design for the bodies on display, and its use of the drama to shape forms of experience. It labors for more just conditions of art-making to sustain a more “livable life” inside and outside the theater, necessarily disrupting the taken-for-granted operations of the theater practice it addresses as a form of power. Pointing to the ways in which the “irreducible and different”10 experiences of life are estranged from their materiality as they are packaged into stage reality, affirmative dramaturgy demands a reorientation of the (neo)liberal-humanist economy sustaining the rationality of theatrical practice, an interdependent rethinking of the power relations between role, performer and representation and between aesthetic, sociopolitical and economic forms of cultural production. In its commitment to “what makes for a livable life,” to change the practices of theater-making, affirmative dramaturgy also calls for a differently inflected, interdependent practice of scholarship, a writing with that interweaves critical

Speaking Black  99 perspectives across difference. Butler connects the ethical dimension of interdependency, “how ought I to live,” to its prior political dimension, “how ought we to live together.”11 In this case, to ‘write with’ means to speak from interdependency, to enact the interplay of the ethical and the political, to seize an interdependent encounter with the African American actress’s experiential arguments and to position myself in the resonant space of representing as living, while necessarily acknowledging that the apparent ontology of race and profession that I—a white, European theater scholar—am not bears upon the meaning of what I am and of what I say. This relational positioning also coordinates with Jill Bennett’s sense of “critical empathy.” Deriving its ramifications from Brecht’s critique of Einfühlung, “crude” identification, Bennett promotes a conjunction of affect and critical awareness [that] may be understood to constitute the basis of an empathy grounded not in affinity (feeling for another insofar as we can imagine being that other) but on a feeling for another that entails an encounter with something irreducible and different, often inaccessible.12 Like acting or directing, as part of an affirmative dramaturgy, writing with summons a “performance that I author” which “does not originate with me, even as I am not thinkable without it,”13 a solidarity shaped with the “irreducible and different, [and] often inaccessible” experiences of life, of which “I am” is always already a part, a part that is never self-enclosed, “never the entirety of life.”14 In this chapter, I summon interweaving as a methodology of interdependence, writing with Pinkins’s critique of the CSC’s Mother Courage and Her Children. First setting Pinkins’s material and resistant affirmative dramaturgy in the context of the New York Times’s reaction to the actress’s protest, I then consider the intersection between the Black actress’s professional and representational precarity and her assertion of the CSC production’s implication in a global and racialized economics. Pinkins was, and felt herself to be, misrepresented and silenced by the production process. I historicize this silencing in relation to the cultural reception of African American stage vocality and Helene Weigel’s voice, considering, too, the dialecticizing pressure that Pinkins’s identification as an African American actress puts on the role of Mother Courage. I finally turn to the director’s invocation of the law of the drama and the actress’s tactical remaking of that invocation as an instrument of performative justice. Throughout, I argue that both Pinkins’s claims and the response to them are political, precisely because they are fashioned by what or who counts as human. In this sense, affirmative dramaturgy’s accent on interdependent life rather than the independent human overcomes the cultural politics of segregation, which, as I demonstrate, still aim to capture the Black actress within a discourse of animality, a dehumanizing trope of affective rhetoric inherently marked by a lack of human agency. I ultimately see affirmative dramaturgy to appeal for a mode of theater in which livable performance pursues sociopolitical and so global justice

100  Hana Worthen through skeptical and processual means situated in the materiality and co-agency of all its co-constituents.

“Am I a dog or a slave to be misled so as to be controlled in my artistic expression?”15 The aesthetic challenge posed by Pinkins’s perception of being “controlled” by the representational practice and politics of the CSC’s Mother Courage motivates the response of the arbiters of theatrical culture, notably Charles Isherwood, whose review, “A ‘Mother Courage’ Deployed to Africa,” appeared in the New York Times three weeks after Pinkins had departed the production.16 Pinkins asks who/what speaks or ought to speak the production, whose voice carries its work. In classically patriarchal terms, Isherwood dismisses this concern, extolling the theatrical practice status quo and so dramatizing the ideological conditions—an overtly liberal-humanist sensibility masking a covert undercurrent of misogyny and racism—precisely called into question by Pinkins’s affirmative dramaturgy. Isherwood’s review tacitly chastises Pinkins for endangering CSC’s “searing production,” taking the specifics of the “traditional artistic differences with her director” that Pinkins addressed to be not worth exploring, merely “traditional,” part of the professional business of theater. What deserves his readers’ attention is not the gendering and racializing aspect of that business but the “nontraditional rancor” of “the star who was first cast” as Mother Courage, of Pinkins’s public voice. The director, and the theater critic, ought to control the meaning of the theatrical event; the upstart, unruly actress mistakes her place in the mode of production by claiming her part in it, by claiming that the production also always speaks for her. “Am I a dog or a slave to be misled so as to be controlled in my artistic expression?” Pinkins asked.17 Implicitly bound to refute her remarks, Isherwood’s review only ostensibly centers on Kecia Lewis’s “fine” work as the newly cast Mother Courage. Appearing to value Lewis’s “commanding performance,” in the very next moment Isherwood diminishes it, paradoxically specifying that Lewis’s performance “would be impressive under any circumstances” yet is particularly so given “the drama surrounding her undertaking the part [which] makes the achievement all the more remarkable.”18 Isherwood’s account is significant, less for commending Lewis’s tour de force than for what stimulates the reviewer’s accolade, the perceived violation of the norms that should govern the Black actress’s professional life in the theater. The valorized approval of Lewis’s performance reveals the consequences of white patriarchal culture’s rationality: acclaiming the performance’s delocalized power (“under any circumstances”), Isherwood emphatically positions Lewis’s “remarkable” “achievement” against the “drama” Pinkins created “surrounding her undertaking,” pitching one actress of color against another, ultimately to assimilate both to the whitening order of masculine theatrical things. Injecting race into the idea of woman, Isherwood’s Lewis is subsumed into the paradox of threatening inferiority, cast to appear and speak publicly only when

Speaking Black  101 she does not speak as herself but remains “fully in character,” integrated into the director’s “searing production”: her “fine performance” requires the actress’s separation from power, acting as a speechless act. Because Lewis replaced Pinkins on short notice, Isherwood pardons her need for some “necessary aids” to sustain the smooth run of the performance. Yet this pardon is condescendingly withdrawn when Lewis’s real, living voice is heard. At the moment when she needs prompting and asks for it, the African American actress is animalized, “barking the word ‘Line’.”19 Pinkins had previously refused to be debased—like “a dog or a slave”20—by the dehumanizing distribution of gendered and racialized power in theatrical production, power here reflexively confirmed by Isherwood. When Isherwood’s Lewis speaks out of character, as herself, she dramatizes the Black actress’s position in production, her voice animalized, mere barking; when fully controlled by the apparatus of theater technique, Isherwood’s Lewis is theatrically humanized, said to display a “powerful voice, by turns scathing, lyrical and mournful.”21 Covertly positioned to negate the powerful Black female paradigm that Pinkins’s discourse presents, Isherwood’s “powerful voice” is a trained voice, recording the effective work of assimilation to the system of production, the hard-earned effort of an actress with a “long background in musical theater.”22 Properly subordinated to this apparatus, Lewis’s voice affirms Pinkins’s perception. To accept the rigor of training is to be speechless; to speak is to bark “rancor.” Isherwood applauds the CSC’s Mother Courage as an unequivocally “terrific” production. This valuation, though, is assertively conditioned by refuting Pinkins’s claims through a racializing and patriarchal, liberal-humanist logic that compliments Lewis’s performance only to mask the telos of that logic: to govern the performance, the representation, and the speech of African American actress/es through a segregating dehumanization. Initially welcoming Kulick’s update of Brecht’s “tale of war […] to the modern-day conflagration in the Congo”23 as “an opportunity” for “[m]y art meeting my activism,”24 Pinkins resolutely disagreed with its timeless temporality and vaguely defined spatiality. From the perspective of globalization, she claimed an interconnection between national economic profitability, the Congolese wars, and theater, and was eager to interweave these issues critically and emphatically into the fabric of the CSC’s mise-en-scène. As she puts it, “the chaplain’s line, ‘If you want to sup with the devil, you need a long spoon’,” is “analogous to America’s participation in the war in the Congo through our appetites for electronic devices that require the resources of coltan, which is raped and pillaged along with the bodies of Black women and children.”25 Pinkins’s dramaturgical research here writes social anthropology with theater practice. This Mother Courage should activate the social, political and aesthetic moment of its staging, foregrounding an interdependent us globally inseparable from the “political economy of violence in the Democratic Republic of the Congo” where “terror has been abetted by the global market for columbite-tantalite [coltan],”26 a mineral improving the function of capacitors universally used in the electronic devices driving the digital technologies that we all have in our pockets, in our cars, and that, not incidentally, drive the operation of our theaters as well. Bridging the divide between critically

102  Hana Worthen oriented artistic research (dramaturgy is typically omitted) and artistic practice in the United States, Pinkins’s affirmative dramaturgy implicates the spectators in the profitability of Congolese war. On the other hand, Isherwood’s discourse frees us from this entanglement in the economic and the political, liberating us from the interdependence Pinkins proposes, enabling us to feel free to sympathize with the baffling consequences of unidentified “[b]rutal civil wars […] tearing apart African countries for years on end.”27 Indeed, what makes the production “engrossing” and the “characters and their circumstances feel entirely, grimly, relevant”28 is not an interdependent engagement with the contemporary and political specificity of circumstances that Pinkins foregrounds but a retreat to aesthetic abstraction and a reductive and domesticating identification within it.

“The natural impulsiveness of the female animal”29 Pinkins’s public speech instantiates the specific precarity of the Black voice in US theater, focusing the racialized pressure the New York Times, via Isherwood’s review, continues to exercise on it. Documenting the long historical prejudice against speaking life to the apparatus of theatrical reception, the Black stage voice both establishes a precedent for Pinkins’s experience and anticipates the friction her demands generate on the humanist-patriarchal ideology of whiteness. African American theater initially claimed its civic politics through the double inflection of the stage voice, its ability to speak both in character and for the Black community, a tendency lodged in its originary moment. The 1821 Richard III by the New York African Theatre Company (AFC) is a striking example, as the company not only distinctively modified the script “to reflect the local occasion of its performance” but deployed the Black voice to speak legitimately as and to its audience, instrumentalizing the great masterpiece to articulate racial injustice. Oriented toward the sociopolitical efficacy of the stage, the AFC used its performance of Shakespeare to underline “the claim of black citizenship in the U.S. nation” by asserting a professional, legitimizing vocalization. In a move contiguous with Isherwood’s discourse, the press reception of the production—typified by Mordecai Noah’s notorious review—represented the authority of the drama as undoing the Black actors’ performative doing, signifying the illegitimacy of their speaking by ridiculing their ability to reproduce the Shakespearean accents of whiteness: “Now is de vinter of our discontent made glorus summer by de son of NewYork.” For Noah, African American stage speech threatened the aura(lity) of (racializing) whiteness, the social and political privilege to access cultural law, an infelicity marked by the AFC’s alleged “inability to understand and perform Shakespeare.” Establishing the script’s authority to locate African American performance outside the white “(hu)man,” in part by inaugurating what Elizabeth Dillon calls “the print version of minstrelization,” Noah’s vocal travesty disempowered the Black voice, rendering it as a site of speechlessness.30 “My Mother Courage was left speechless,” Pinkins says; yet she refuses to be bereft of speech, much to Isherwood’s agitation, resulting in his tactical praise yet symbolic silencing of Lewis’s “powerful voice.” This racialized procedure

Speaking Black  103 not only articulates with the gendering traditions in the theater, correlating with the cultural force both attributed and denied to Helene Weigel’s “definitive” performance of Brecht’s (not her own) landmark dramatic roles; it also amplifies the function of “voice” in containing the actress’s work within a licensed sphere of race, gender and theater. Pinkins’s challenge to patriarchal binaries—woman/actress/Black body vs. man/director/white mind—helps to open up an alternative perspective on influential feminist readings of Mother Courage, in which the sounding of the (female) body, of performance, is displaced in favor of a (gender-critical) articulation of the text, the script and the author’s writing. In materialist feminist criticism, Mother Courage has been sharply delineated as a “demonstration object”31 denoting Brecht’s dramatic deployment of female characters as instruments of applied Marxism, a politics naturalizing the displayed female body as the “favorite medium”32 of the affective economy of masculine desire. Correlatively re-utilized (Lennox) and re-radicalized (Diamond, Solga) within the epic, gestic apparatus, the dramatic Mother Courage has also been envisioned as a ‘proto-feminist’ (Solga), imagined out of the text, so to speak, as a dialectical possibility contesting the patriarchal values and sentiments of femininity, including the self-sacrificing paradigm of maternity that Mother Courage both invokes and critiques.33 The radically critical feminist effort to stand with Mother Courage tends to silence theatrical performance in general and Weigel’s contribution to “Brecht’s” epic theater in particular, preferring to work with the disembodied theory and dramatic formalism expressed by Brecht rather than with the stage presence embodied by Weigel. This dramatic focus on Brecht’s authorial aims finds the “signs of a material epic feminine”—and so the critical potentiality of the Gestus—not in Weigel’s performance but in Brecht’s theory (Diamond) and drama (Solga), even though both approaches locate an “inherent concern with the performative processes through which gender identity is produced and disseminated.”34 Given its textual—theoretical and dramatic—concerns, this kind of critique can be inclined to bypass the actress’s performance, particularly the corporeal and metaphorical instrument of her dissent: her performing voice. Dramatic performance is understood to think through the actress but not with her. The intersection of text and body in performance, the voice provides a register of the authority that the naturalized—racialized and gendered—body is understood to engage in performance. Weigel’s voice, rather than merely contributing to Brecht’s authorial canonization, imagined and concretized the potential of epic theatricality. Mary Beard describes “authorized speech,” the privilege to articulate the political narrative, the muthos, as the product of ancient Greek philosophy and a logocentric technology belonging to the citizen-man, calibrated to exclude women’s speech (barking, yelling) from audibility. Early in her career, Weigel’s voice intervened in, as Beard might say, this Western, “democratic” tradition of gendered aurality. In the 1920s, following the dictum that “a woman should as modestly guard against exposing her voice to outsiders as she would guard against stripping off her clothes,”35 reviewers characterized Weigel’s voice as “shockingly explosive,” “very loud”36 and having a “hard tone of conscious eccentricity.”37

104  Hana Worthen “Yelling is her normal tone of voice,”38 Bernhard Diebold wrote in 1921, and “Weigel seems to place worth on being the noisiest actress in Berlin, her horrible yells should be stilled as quickly as possible,”39 Norbert Falk noted in 1928. The actress’s social, gendered and even human—sonorous—intractability, her public appearance, needed to be broken and tamed. After all, she was “[m]ean not from malice, but from animality.”40 Weigel’s non-conforming use of her voice could not but embody both excess and lack, that inferior yet threatening female animality, providing a self-legitimizing opportunity for the liberal-humanist patriarchy to exert its theatrical guidance. Weigel’s impassioned physicalized stage vocality was a force of titillating anxiety in the press, arousing a masculine desire to subdue her to the reviewer, the author, his play and/or the (always male) director. As Max Geisenheyner put it in 1920, “Her roaring, wailing, and sobbing were subterranean: a little volcano began to erupt. Words, indeed whole sentences were flung out with such vehemence that often their sense was lost.” Howling, erupting, Weigel’s voice signals a nature requiring acculturation: she “is a true artist who, guided by the right hands, could grow amazingly.”41 A stimulating challenge, the actress was encouraged to recognize her high “degree of vocal suppleness,” and to embrace her intuited “high measure [of] the art of instrumentalized speech.”42 Through an appeal both to external and internal(ized) control, Weigel’s voice was authorized by its enfolding into the gendered register of appropriately dramatic humanity, Brecht’s writerly objectivity. Already in 1928, Monty Jacobs’s review of the Volksbühne production of Mann ist Mann rerouted Weigel’s stage performance as Widow Begbick into Brecht’s mouthpiece: “Brecht wants his comedy to show that life on earth is dangerous. […] But when he says it through Helene Weigel’s mouth, each theatergoer believes it instantly, with a shudder.”43 Under the pressure of mouthing Brecht’s roles throughout her career, Weigel’s sonority took on the disinterested audibility of Brecht’s epic dialectics. Assuredly, as Kenneth Tynan remarked on his visit to the Berliner Ensemble in 1961, “[w]hat Brecht prescribed, his widow, Frau Weigel, embodies.” Her “acting is earthy,” and her Mother Courage “so utterly devoid of personal assertiveness that the life of the character appears to derive from the wares she handles and the trade she plies.”44 It is, perhaps, representative that Weigel’s most famous vocalization was no vocalization at all: Mother Courage’s silent scream at the death of Swiss Cheese.

“A Black female should have a say in the presentation of a Black female on stage”45 In the 1960s, Tynan appreciated Weigel’s performance as “devotedly Brechtian” and essential to the historical, dialectical embodiment of “the maxim that there is no such thing as a character ungoverned by a social context”; as a character, Mother Courage is not an individual “separable from history and social circumstance” but a figure whose “function determines” her action and social identity. Averring that “Brechtian drama is a gigantic tribute to motherhood,” Tynan’s

Speaking Black  105 review provides leverage for a comparative reading of Pinkins’s work in the role.46 Occupying a different, culturally and theatrically marginalized position, Pinkins would not adapt her voice, the intelligence of her argument as an African American actress, to the production’s thematic representation of motherhood and warfare nor to its professional representation of the structural power relations of contemporary theater work. Instead, Pinkins’s attention to the maternal dimension of “character,” to Mother Courage, focuses epic dialectics at the intersection of individual, historical and contemporary global experiences with the formal and thematic demands of the role. In terms of affirmative dramaturgy, her theatrical animation of motherhood interweaves local, material immediacy, a materially grounded notion of African American motherhood, with a global economic and political order. Uneasy with Kulick’s description of Mother Courage as “delusional,”47 Pinkins argues that the Black Mother Courage in a visibly economized “African war” must not be represented as a woman deluded into “trying to do the impossible” but as a figure of acute sociopolitical resistance, “an icon of feminine tenacity and strength, or of a Black female’s fearless capabilities.” Pinkins’s Mother Courage is the “‘hyena of the war’,” a cunning and persevering matriarch, “a woman who seizes power at every turn, who forces her way through hell, and who continues despite every opposing force” to care for her children.48 Her African American Mother Courage is inseparable from the “history and social circumstance” of which she—and any American audience—is a part. As the Africana scholar Dorothy Roberts argues, from the point of view of the reproductive technologies of slavery, of the “White’s domination of slave women’s wombs,” Black women’s mothering has been historically controlled, exploited and denied. The Black female body was instrumentalized in the economic profiteering of the slave owners, a dispossession still resonating in social politics, in Black women’s reproductive rights. Medical sociology, for example, pertinently demonstrates the continuing disparities in Black and white motherhood in the United States. Regardless of economic status, Black mothers and their infants are up to three times more likely to die in childbirth than white mothers and their children.49 Not erasing or diminishing but underlining the injustice inscribed into African American motherhood, Pinkins conceives Mother Courage less as the object of dialectical criticism than as a dialectical instrument, a subject dissenting from its objectification in the contemporary local economy of the African American female body and in the global structure of economized warfare. Pinkins’s epic characterization shifts the dialectical focus of Mother Courage and Her Children, as her affirmative dramaturgy foregrounds the Black female body as an irreducible materiality in theatrical representation, and forges an alliance with the global precarities of mothers subject to war. Approaching Mother Courage, Pinkins recognizes the play’s intersection of warfare, business and maternity: “Brecht’s drama follows Mother Courage, a woman who supports herself and her children by selling goods to warring armies from a cart she drags

106  Hana Worthen through the battle zones. Along the way, all three of her children are killed because of the war.” Taking on a geopolitical orientation, then, the African American actress enrolls her body in a complementary but alternative affective register of female global realities: “Mother Courage is the epitome of every poor, undocumented, battered, trafficked and immigrant woman, hustling to provide for her family however she must.”50 Lending her corporeality to engage empathy across a horizon of globalized displacements, across the populations “differentially exposed to injury, violence, and death,” Pinkins thinks of her Black female body as a performative potentiality critically engaging, in Butler’s words, the “disavowal of those living and interdependent relations upon which our lives depend.”51 Her Mother Courage is not an isolated instance of prior, dramatic dialectics but a site of urgently dialectical embodiment, speaking to historical and contemporary injustice, not becoming its representational hostage. When Black women’s bodies appear on stage, Pinkins argues, “Race and sex play a pivotal role in determining who holds the power to shape representation.”52 A “delusional” Black Mother Courage reifies Black materiality—Black “existing and mattering,”53 Black life as human life—within an act of racialized and gendered segregation from power. Insisting that the performer’s sociopolitical and cultural identification—an African American actress performing in millennial America—necessarily grounds the political and the ethical dimensions of performance, she disputes the presentation of Mother Courage within the established understanding of Brecht’s epic idiom, in which the play delivers “the warning that Courage has learned nothing.”54 Pinkins asserts here a topicality absent from Brecht’s thinking, apparently absent from the thinking of the CSC production, and certainly absent from Isherwood’s passive-aggressive review. Although her characterization of Mother Courage as an icon of “fearless” “feminine tenacity and strength” might appear to drain Mother Courage of the irony with which Brecht is widely thought to have dressed the role, Pinkins applies both the tradition of Black American women’s history and culture and the experience of racial discrimination to remediate an absence in Brecht’s now visibly gendered and racialized dialectics. Pinkins brings to bear less the naive heroism of Mother Courage than a refusal to do—to perform, to embody—Mother Courage within the propriety of disembodied (i.e. white, male) dialectics, making both the actress and the character appear “as obedient to a politically useful scenario”55 by virtue of which Black actresses, and actresses generally, are separated from access to theatrical power.

“My Mother Courage was neutered” The political and ethical issues animating the CSC’s Mother Courage and Pinkins’s departure from it galvanize questions of agency, questions that extend to a contested sense of the proper function—and potential uses—of the text in the power dynamics of theatrical production. Pinkins’s affirmative dramaturgy, addressing the “artistic visions” of the “White theater creatives” and arguing to

Speaking Black  107 free the “images of Black women” from being “held hostage in cages of white and/or patriarchal consciousness,”56 provided the focus of director Brian Kulick’s public response. Replying to Pinkins’s contestation of his vision of Mother Courage as “delusional,” Kulick mapped his professional, directorial work within the logic of “dramatic humanism” as engaging the tension between doing justice to the text and rendering it for a contemporary audience.57 Kulick has brought a successful series of Brecht plays to the CSC, and, according to his statement, in taking up Mother Courage, he was intrigued by the basic question that I started this process with: Can you treat a Brecht play like we now treat a Shakespeare play? In other words, is a Brecht play as open as a Shakespeare text where you can set it in another time and place and see how the play speaks through the lens of that new setting?58 Although Kulick is engaged by the impact of a “new setting” on the theater’s work, it is finally “the play”—not the actress—that “speaks”; “the play” may speak through the lens of a new setting, but that lens merely brings alternate elements of what it already says into view. Speaking as a director, assuming that figure’s function as licensing theatrical meaning, Kulick authorizes (and legitimizes) the evolving mise-en-scène through the spirit of the drama, simultaneously asserting and evacuating the work of directing as a creative function independent of the author and the authority of the text. This unquestioned dependency on a literaryhumanist conditioning and its framing of theater as a site of textually oriented experience, of spiritualized dramatic governance, conflicts with Pinkins’s understanding of the political and ethical demands of professional practice as motivated toward the conditions of livable (professional) life. Pinkins imagines the production radically to revise the conditions of Brecht’s play, proposing a globally relevant economic-political theme (coltan mining), an aesthetically topical model (Courage as a strong Black mother) and a dissenting professional paradigm (the actress speaks for herself), all re-politicizing the formal assumptions of epic theatricality and re-staging the disposition of power in the theatrical event. Yet in dissenting from the traditional apparatus of institutionalized power in the theater, the law of the director, Pinkins also, perhaps surprisingly, asserts an alliance with Kulick’s dramatic humanism, with the law of the text. This alliance, though, is only tactical, for the supporting authority of the text enables Pinkins to urge her gestic voice against the interpretive logic and hierarchies of the theatrical practice she experienced. Negotiating the multiple and contesting (male) authorities at work in the theatrical production process— author, director, actor—Pinkins invokes the text to prevent her Mother Courage from being “neutered”: My subordinate position was most clearly communicated to me when I attempted to perform a task Brecht specifically wrote for Mother Courage: snatching a fur coat off an armed soldier’s back. The actor playing the soldier argued, “I’m a man. This is a war. She gotta respect that. I’d have to kill her!”

108  Hana Worthen I fired back, “Brecht wrote it. Mother Courage can snatch the fur coat and not get killed. Brecht is illustrating her as a ‘hyena of the war’.” I told the actor I was going to snatch the fur coat, and if he “had to kill me,” the play would have to end seven scenes earlier than Brecht had intended. I snatched the fur coat at the performance. The actor found a way to continue the play. However, the director said that in future I couldn’t do it because “the actor said he would kill you.” What?!59 Pinkins defends her Gestus—the war steals from Courage, Courage steals from the war—as a way to reproduce the work Brecht has already scripted, summoning the author in a tactical effort to register and undo interlocking hierarchical binaries of liberal-humanist, aestheticized power: actress/director, actor/actress, mind/body, ideality/materiality. Performing an alternative Gestus in the scene of professional theater-making, she takes the perquisite of Mother Courage to transcend that of the soldier in wartime, dramatizing the resistance of the actress to the actor (“the actor”—not, apparently, the character—“said he would kill you”) and to the director, whose authority over the mise-en-scène ought to mediate the authority of the script to the stage. Pinkins’s invocation of the authority of the text may seem to contradict her radical politics as well as the ethos of Brecht’s play, but her seizure of the legitimating power ascribed to the inalienable body of the text here contributes to the resistant strategy of her affirmative dramaturgy. Strengthening the gestic quest for representational justice, Pinkins also mobilized the authorial integrity of the drama against the director’s interpretive decisions—“the cuts”—by contacting the Brecht estate. I was even told that the cuts related to Brecht estate rights and permissions associated with our transposition to the Congo. So I contacted the attorney to the Brecht estate to fight for the integrity of the text that Brecht wrote. The attorney assured me that changing the Thirty Years War references to Congo War references was acceptable to the estate, and that all such matters were artistic decisions between artist and director. Well, not this artist. My Mother Courage was neutered, leaving the unbridled Mother Courage wasting away inside me.60 Warranted by “the integrity of the text,” Pinkins may seem to understand the drama, against the model of Brecht’s career, as something final, achieved, selfenclosed and closed off from her agency by the director’s institutional command of the production script. Arguing that the mise-en-scène must accommodate the political and social realities of its moment of production (coltan mining; the perspective of an African American actress), though, her claims again go beyond the subordination of the material process of labor to the infringement of dramatic wholeness. That is, the just impulse of Pinkins’s affirmative dramaturgy contests the value of theater based on dramatic privilege and fixity: the drama’s reproducibility as literature is guaranteed by its organic integrity, by virtue of which drama arises as an inviolable entity protected from dissection.

Speaking Black  109 Rather than containing performance within the power grids of dramatic piety, the skeptical orientation of Pinkins’s affirmative dramaturgy projects performance as a movement, an animation toward justice, here also evocative of Étienne Balibar’s understanding that, in contemporary democracies, justice is achieved against the law, and must be achieved continuously.61 Performance, in this view, like justice, must continually exceed, challenge and remake the law, both the law of the drama and the implied laws of established practice. In this sense, if one understands drama as waiting to be revealed by its performance, then performance is immobilized, bound to the reiteration of the unjust laws of a theater aestheticizing life, a reiteration in which epic theatricality is prevented from seizing the forms and practices of life it necessarily should represent, incorporate and enact. Asking the Brecht estate to intervene, to enforce the law of the script, Pinkins works to subvert the directorial practice that left her Mother Courage “speechless, powerless, history-less,” while at the same time summoning a law—the play as “Brecht wrote it”—that her own claims to justice exceed as they attempt to re-instrumentalize and re-radicalize the historical and political urgency of epic theatricality. The reproductive character of theater based on the “integrity of the text” enacts a theater of the textual surrogation of life inherently inimical to the call for livable life, a critical immediacy developed in the gestic principle present in Pinkins’s pushing against the production’s universalizing epic thematics and dialectics, and her calling out of its disregard for the Black actress’s bodily materiality. Pinkins’s affirmative dramaturgy suggests that epic performatives are not immutable, seated in the spatiality of the drama. Epic performance cannot strive merely to reproduce the play, to reiterate known and felt thematic certainties to assuage the spectators’ aesthetic isolation in the theater and so to assure the drama’s commodification as theater: in the case of Mother Courage, the expectation of a liberal-humanist, self-contained perspective on warfare mediated apart from the temporal and geographical specificity we share. From the perspective of affirmative dramaturgy, the biopolitical—historical, institutional, gendering and racializing—and timeless practices territorializing Blackness must be taken into account, both the Congo and Mother Courage becoming not Brecht’s figures for interminable and incomprehensible warfare but figures drawing the play and the production into a critical relationality to our history. An affirmative dramaturgy does not retreat to the impersonal, to what precedes and prevents an understanding of art within the ecology of interconnected life. Instead, it interweaves critical thought while it reaches for relations across material difference: difference, and the interdependence it motivates, generate political and ethical possibilities. As a white, European academic, I cannot assume Pinkins’s perspective or experience, but I can collaborate with her public discourse in reframing the unjust processes making our lives—the life we share— less livable. To collaborate in this way helps to reshape performance, theater and critical writing as modes of livable cultural production, altering the relations of interpretation, memory and power between an actress and a scholar, a working with, an alliance with, that opens the possibility of theater as a mode of urgent, processual and professional interdependence.

110  Hana Worthen

Notes 1 Tonya Pinkins, “Who Loses, Who Thrives When White Creatives Tell Black Stories?” New York Amsterdam News, 31 December 2015, updated 6 January 2016, http:​/​/ams​​terda​​mnews​​.com/​​news/​​2015/​​dec​/3​​1​/who​​-lose​​s​-who​​-thri​​ves​-w​​hen​-w​​hite-​​ c​reat​​ives-​​tell-​​bl. 2 Mother Courage and Her Children, by Bertolt Brecht, trans. John Willett. Directed by Brian Kulick. Cast: Joshua Boone (Recruiter/Soldier/Young Soldier), Curtiss Cook Jr. (Eilif), Tonya Pinkins/Kecia Lewis (Mother Courage), Kevin Mambo (Cook), Jamil A. C. Mangan (Sergeant/Armorer/One-Eyed Man/Clerk/Corporal/Soldier/ Ensign), Geoffrey Owens (General/Colonel/Soldier/Older Soldier/Peasant/Peasant Father), Michael Potts (Chaplain), Deandre Sevon (Swiss Cheese/Boy), Mirirai Sithole (Kattrin), and Zenzi Williams (Yvette/Peasant Mother). Music by Duncan Sheik. Sets by Tony Straiges. Costumes by Toni-Leslie James. Lighting by Justin Townsend. Sound by Matt Stine. At the time of the production, Brian Kulick was also the artistic director of the CSC; currently, after 14 years of leading the company, he serves as its consulting artistic director. He is a professor of Professional Practice at the School of the Arts, Columbia University, New York. 3 The actress and singer Tonya Pinkins is best known for her roles in musicals, including Caroline in Caroline, or Change (2004), Kate in The Wild Party (2000), Lady Liv in Play On! (1997), Argentine Clotilde in Chronicle of a Death Foretold (1995) and Abita in Jelly’s Last Jam (1991). Her dramatic credits include The Merry Wives of Windsor (1994) and Radio Golf (2007). 4 Pinkins, “Who Loses, Who Thrives.” 5 Ibid. The “decorative motif” of “Blackness” extended to the advertising material surrounding the CSC’s Mother Courage. As Pinkins put it, embellishing itself with Blackness, the “poster shows my face plastered on an image of the African Continent, with the Democratic Republic of the Congo highlighted.” 6 Andrew Gans and Robert Viagas, “Exclusive: Tonya Pinkins Issues Unedited, Full Statement Detailing Abrupt Departure from CSC’s Mother Courage,” Playbill, 31 December 2015, www​.p​​laybi​​ll​.co​​m​/art​​icle/​​exclu​​sive-​​tonya​​-pink​​ins​-i​​ssues​​-uned​​ited​​f ull-​​s tate​​m ent-​​d etai​​l ing-​​a brup​​t ​- dep​​a rtur​​e ​- fro​​m ​- csc​​s ​- mot​​h er​- c​​o urag​​e ​- com​​3771​​96. 7 Rosi Braidotti, The Posthuman (Cambridge: Polity, 2013), 54. 8 Ibid., 51. 9 Judith Butler, Notes Toward a Performative Theory of Assembly (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2015), 42–45. 10 Jill Bennett, Empathic Vision: Affect, Trauma, and Contemporary Art (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2005), 10. 11 Butler, Performative Theory of Assembly, 44. 12 Bennett, Empathic Vision, 10. 13 Butler, Performative Theory of Assembly, 214. 14 Ibid., 42. 15 Pinkins, “Who Loses, Who Thrives.” 16 Charles Isherwood, “Review: A ‘Mother Courage’ Deployed to Africa,” New York Times, 19 January 2016, www​.n​​ytime​​s​.com​​/2016​​/01​/2​​0​/the​​ater/​​revie​​w​-a​-m​​other​​cour​​age​-d​​eploy​​ed​-to​​-afri​​ca​.ht​​ml?​_r​​=0. All references to Isherwood are to this review. 17 Pinkins, “Who Loses, Who Thrives.” 18 Isherwood, “Review.” 19 Ibid., italics added. 20 Pinkins, “Who Loses, Who Thrives,” italics added. 21 Isherwood, “Review,” italics added. 22 Ibid.

Speaking Black  111 23 The 2015/2016 Season, seasonal repertoire advertisement brochure (New York, NY: CSC, 2015). 24 Pinkins, “Who Loses, Who Thrives.” 25 Ibid. 26 Jeffrey W. Mantz, “Improvisational Economies: Coltan Production in the Eastern Congo,” Social Anthropology/Anthropologie Sociale 16, no. 1 (2008): 34. 27 Isherwood, “Review.” 28 Ibid. 29 “Review of Der Weibsteufel,” by Karl Schönherr, directed by Alois Großmann, Neues Theater Frankfurt, November 1919, reprinted in Werner Hecht, Helene Weigel: Eine große Frau des 20. Jahrhunderts (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2000), 241, my translation. 30 Elizabeth Maddock Dillon, New World Drama: The Performative Commons in the Atlantic World, 1649–1849 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014), 229. Mordecai Noah’s review is reprinted in George A. Thompson Jr., A Documentary History of the African Theatre (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1998), 61–62. 31 Sara Lennox, “Women in Brecht’s Works,” New German Critique, no. 14 (Spring 1978): 84. 32 Sarah Bryant-Bertail, “Women, Space, Ideology: Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder,” in Brecht, Women and Politics/Brecht: Frauen und Politik, The Brecht Yearbook 12, ed. John Fuegi, Gisela Bahr and John Willett (Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press, 1985), 45. 33 Elin Diamond, “Brechtian Theory/Feminist Theory: Toward a Gestic Feminist Criticism,” TDR 32, no. 1 (Spring 1988): 84; Kim Solga, “Mother Courage and Its Abject: Reading the Violence of Identification,” Modern Drama 46, no. 3 (2003): 341. 34 Solga, “Mother Courage and Its Abject,” 340. 35 Mary Beard, Women and Power: A Manifesto (New York, NY: Liveright, 2017), 16. 36 Norbert Falk, “Review of Titus und der Talisman,” by Johann Nepomuk Nestroy, directed by Karl Etlinger, Schauspielertheater Berlin, B. Z. am Mittag, 17 November 1923, reprinted in Hecht, Helene Weigel, 249; the review’s translation is from Sabine Kebir, “‘Shockingly Explosive’: The Young Weigel,” in Helene Weigel 100, The Brecht Yearbook 25, ed. Maarten van Dijk (Waterloo, ON: International Brecht Society, 2000), 146. 37 Werner Hecht, “Die Geburt des dramatischen Genies,” Notate 13, no. 2 (April 1990): 2, quoted in John Fuegi, Brecht and Company: Sex, Politics, and the Making of the Modern Drama (New York, NY: Grove Press, 1994), 120. 38 Bernhard Diebold, “Review of Der König,” by Hanns Johst, directed by Rudolf Frank, Neues Theater Frankfurt, Kammerspiele, Frankfurt am Main, Frankfurter Zeitung, 24 January 1921, reprinted in Hecht, Helene Weigel, 244; the review’s translation is from Fuegi, Brecht and Company, 120. 39 Norbert Falk, “Review of Mann ist Mann,” by Bertolt Brecht, directed by Erich Engel, Volksbühne Berlin, B. Z. am Mittag, January 1928, reprinted in Hecht, Helene Weigel, 260; the review’s translation is from Fuegi, Brecht and Company, 120. 40 Diebold, “Review of Der König,” italics added. 41 Max Geisenheyner, “Review of Die Ratten,” by Gerhart Hauptmann, directed by Alois Großmann, Neues Theater Frankfurt, Frankfurt am Main, Mittagsblatt, 8 March 1920, reprinted in Hecht, Helene Weigel, 242; the translation of Geisenheyner’s review of Weigel as Pauline Piperkarcka is from Kebir, “Shockingly Explosive,” 146. 42 E. R., “Review of Gas II,” by Georg Kaiser, directed by Arthur Hellmer, Neues Theater Frankfurt, Kammerspiele, Frankfurt am Main, 3 November 1920, reprinted in Hecht, Helene Weigel, 243; the review’s translation is from Kebir, “Shockingly Explosive,” 146. 43 Similarly, Weigel was seen as a “chanteuse of Brechtian song, which rings clear and sharp from her mouth” (Manfred Georg, Volkszeitung, 5 January 1928) and as achieving “a glittering performance whose pacing and expression corresponded perfectly to

112  Hana Worthen the author’s intentions” (“A.A.,” Lokal-Anzeiger, n.d.); both reviews, as well as Monty Jacobs’s undated review (Vossische Zeitung), are quoted and translated in Kebir, “Shockingly Explosive,” 153. 44 Kenneth Tynan, “Carrying the Torch,” Observer, 29 January 1961. 45 Pinkins, “Who Loses, Who Thrives.” 46 Tynan, “Carrying the Torch.” 47 “Director Responds to Tonya Pinkins’ Reasons for Leaving CSC’s MOTHER COURAGE AND HER CHILDREN,” Broadway World, 30 December 2015, www​.b​​roadw​​aywor​​ld​.co​​m​/art​​icle/​​Direc​​tor​-R​​espon​​ds​-to​​-Tony​​a​-Pin​​kins-​​Reaso​​ns​fo​​r​-Lea​​ving-​​CSCs-​​MOTHE​​R​-COU​​RAGE-​​AND​-H​​ER​-CH​​ILDRE​​N​-201​​51230​. 48 Pinkins, “Who Loses, Who Thrives.” 49 Dorothy Roberts, Killing the Black Body: Race, Reproduction, and the Meaning of Liberty (New York, NY: Pantheon, 1997), 61. 50 Pinkins, “Who Loses, Who Thrives.” 51 Butler, Performative Theory of Assembly, 33, 44. 52 Pinkins, “Who Loses, Who Thrives.” 53 Butler, Performative Theory of Assembly, 37. 54 Bertolt Brecht, “Das Modellbuch warnt vor falscher Darstellung,” in Theaterarbeit: 6 Aufführungen des Berliner Ensembles, ed. Ruth Berlau et al. (Dresden: VVV Dresdner Verlag, 1952), 299, my translation. 55 Susan Melrose, “Introduction to Part Four: ‘What Do Women Want (in Theatre)?’” in The Routledge Reader in Gender and Performance, ed. Lizbeth Goodman with Jane de Gay (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 1998), 134. 56 Gans and Viagas, “Exclusive: Tonya Pinkins.” 57 I have coined the term “dramatic humanism” to characterize a conception of the theatrical performance as principally concerned with instrumentalizing literature, literary value and the understanding of the liberal-humanist genre of the human; see my monograph, Humanism, Drama, and Performance: Unwriting Theatre (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2020). 58 “Director Responds to Tonya Pinkins,” Broadway World. 59 Pinkins, “Who Loses, Who Thrives.” 60 Ibid. 61 Étienne Balibar, “Justice and Equality: A Political Dilemma? Pascal, Plato, Marx,” in The Borders of Justice, ed. Étienne Balibar, Sandro Mezzadra and Ranabir Samaddar (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 2012), 13.

Bibliography Balibar, Étienne. “Justice and Equality: A Political Dilemma? Pascal, Plato, Marx.” In The Borders of Justice, edited by Étienne Balibar, Sandro Mezzadra, and Ranabir Samaddar, 9–31. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 2012. Beard, Mary. Women and Power: A Manifesto. New York, NY: Liveright, 2017. Bennett, Jill. Empathic Vision: Affect, Trauma, and Contemporary Art. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2005. Braidotti, Rosi. The Posthuman. Cambridge: Polity, 2013. Brecht, Bertolt. “Das Modellbuch warnt vor falscher Darstellung” [“The Model Book Warns against False Presentation”]. In Theaterarbeit: 6 Aufführungen des Berliner Ensembles [Theater Work: 6 Productions by the Berliner Ensemble], edited by Ruth Berlau, Bertolt Brecht, Claus Hubalek, Peter Palitzsch, and Käthe Rülicke, 298–99. Dresden: VVV Dresdner Verlag, 1952.

Speaking Black  113 Broadway World. “Director Responds to Tonya Pinkins’ Reasons for Leaving CSC’s MOTHER COURAGE AND HER CHILDREN.” 30 December 2015. www​. b​​roadw​​aywor​​ld​.co​​m​/art​​icle/​​Direc​​tor​-R​​espon​​ds​-to​​-Tony​​a​-Pin​​kins-​​Reaso​​ns​-fo​​r​Lea​​ving-​​CSCs-​​MOTHE​​R​-COU​​RAGE-​​AND​-H​​ER​-CH​​ILDRE​​N​-201​​51230​. Bryant-Bertail, Sarah. “Women, Space, Ideology: Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder.” In Brecht, Women and Politics/Brecht: Frauen und Politik. The Brecht Yearbook 12, edited by John Fuegi, Gisela Bahr, and John Willett, 40–61. Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press, 1985. Butler, Judith. Notes toward a Performative Theory of Assembly. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2015. Diamond, Elin. “Brechtian Theory/Feminist Theory: Toward a Gestic Feminist Criticism,” TDR 32, no. 1 (Spring 1988): 82–94. Dillon, Elizabeth Maddock. New World Drama: The Performative Commons in the Atlantic World, 1649–1849. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014. Fuegi, John. Brecht and Company: Sex, Politics, and the Making of the Modern Drama. New York, NY: Grove Press, 1994. Gans, Andrew, and Robert Viagas. “Exclusive: Tonya Pinkins Issues Unedited, Full Statement Detailing Abrupt Departure from CSC’s Mother Courage.” Playbill, 31 December 2015. www​.p​​laybi​​ll​.co​​m​/art​​icle/​​exclu​​sive-​​tonya​​-pink​​ins​-i​​ssues​​-uned​​ited​​f ull-​​s tate​​m ent-​​d etai​​l ing-​​a brup​​t ​- dep​​a rtur​​e ​- fro​​m ​- csc​​s ​- mot​​h er​- c​​o urag​​e ​- com​​3771​​96. Hecht, Werner. Helene Weigel: Eine große Frau des 20. Jahrhunderts [Helene Weigel: A Great Woman of the 20th Century]. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2000. Isherwood, Charles. “Review: A ‘Mother Courage’ Deployed to Africa.” New York Times, 24 January 2016. www​.n​​ytime​​s​.com​​/2016​​/01​/2​​0​/the​​ater/​​revie​​w​-a​-m​​other​​-cour​​age​d​​eploy​​ed​-to​​-afri​​ca​.ht​​ml?​_r​​=0. Kebir, Sabine. “‘Shockingly Explosive’: The Young Weigel.” In Helene Weigel 100. The Brecht Yearbook 25, edited by Maarten van Dijk, 140–59. Waterloo, ON: International Brecht Society, 2000. Lennox, Sara. “Women in Brecht’s Works.” New German Critique, 14 (Spring 1978): 83–96. Mantz, Jeffrey W. “Improvisational Economies: Coltan Production in the Eastern Congo.” Social Anthropology/Anthropologie Sociale 16, no. 1 (2008): 34–50. Melrose, Susan. “Introduction to Part Four: ‘What Do Women Want (in Theatre)?’” In The Routledge Reader in Gender and Performance, edited by Lizbeth Goodman and Jane de Gay, 131–35. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 1998. Pinkins, Tonya. “Who Loses, Who Thrives When White Creatives Tell Black Stories?” New York Amsterdam News, 31 December 2015. Updated 6 January 2016. https://amste​​rdamn​​ews​.c​​om​/ne​​ws​/20​​15​/de​​c​/31/​​who​-l​​oses-​​who​-t​​hrive​​s​-whe​​n​-whi​​te​​cr​​eativ​​es​-te​​ll​-bl​/. Roberts, Dorothy. Killing the Black Body: Race, Reproduction, and the Meaning of Liberty. New York, NY: Pantheon, 1997. Solga, Kim. “Mother Courage and Its Abject: Reading the Violence of Identification.” Modern Drama 46, no. 3 (2003): 339–57. Tynan, Kenneth. “Carrying the Torch.” Observer, 29 January 1961. Worthen, Hana. Humanism, Drama, and Performance: Unwriting Theatre. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2020.

6

Catalyst and conduit A call for the bicultural dramaturge Catherine Diamond

Despite the increase of bicultural theater performance during the first two decades of the twenty-first century, its raison d’être––why do it, for whom is it done and how to do it––continues to be an intriguing conundrum given the particular performance cultures involved in each instance. In collaborations with two directors from different cultures, for example, their two countries’ historical and current relationships and their relationships to their own cultures can affect the degree of agreement between them, especially when deciding how transpositions and fusions should evolve without compromising the integrity of specific performative elements. Under the conditions of collaboration, every artist is a ‘culture’ unto her- or himself when it comes to what may be adjusted or compromised, and what cannot. This ‘culture’ is not only expressed in the interpretation of text, forms of speech and physical movement but in the process of making performance and the aesthetic criteria for determining the success of the production. According to Zai Kuning, a Singaporean performance/installation artist, “[collaboration] involves democracy … the struggle is always an artist looking for a position within the group or getting comfortable protecting themselves from things they don’t wish to do.”1 This struggle is highly personal, but it can also be influenced by cultural differences when the performers and directors engaged have deep knowledge only of themselves, their art and their language and only superficial knowledge of the other. Keng Yi-wei, who implemented many bicultural experiments during his tenure as director of the Taipei International Arts Festival (2012–2017) states that nothing truly creative can come of an intercultural project unless there is conflict.2 Conflicts that disrupt entrenched notions can stimulate fruitful growing pains, but those arising from language misunderstandings and false assumptions tend to cause anxiety and resentment, erecting barriers to a more constructive flow of ideas. How basic assumptions, things taken for granted and language differences are handled is often the key to how the participants understand each other’s intentions in determining how the collaboration proceeds. In addition to unnecessary provocations during rehearsal, the final production can often be difficult for the audience to read appropriately, depending on the spectators’ desire for something new versus their tolerance for something alien. In the push to complete the work on time, unresolved issues might be glossed over, but often

A call for the bicultural dramaturge  115 audiences can sense the disparities at the core of a bicultural production stemming from awkward translations, disjuncture of styles and irreconcilable differences in directorial vision.

Language: The tip of the iceberg in bicultural performance Spoken dramas performed in languages belonging solely to specific regions intimately bind them to their local audiences––idioms, clever use of verbal structures, historical literary allusion, contemporary native references and simply the ease of comprehension all serve to promote the flow between spectator and performer who share a common linguistic heritage. Yet language difference can be the initial stumbling block in co-created bicultural performance, which then ramifies undetected throughout the creative process all the way to audience reception. This occurs especially when the cultures involved have had little prior contact and interaction, and do not share common worldviews, performance practices and social organization. Since languages are the rich repositories of ancient connotations and grammatical relationships upon which worldviews have been built and still unconsciously penetrate contemporary use, linguistic preconceptions can interfere with the incorporation of foreign concepts, aesthetics and working methods. In planning stages and rehearsals, even with excellent translators present, both spoken communications and performance texts are interpreted differently without people even knowing this is occurring. When it becomes evident that there is a discrepancy, often its root cause in linguistic incompatibility is not dealt with, leaving a festering sense of dissatisfaction. In 1993, after serving as a translator during the first Chinese-American coproduction of The Joy Luck Club, Claire Conceison put translation dead center of the bicultural project: The role of translation in intercultural theatre is minimized or even subverted, ironically, because most of those practicing it and writing about it are so dependent on interpreters. The belief that the deepest intercultural understanding happens outside of language is, quite simply, an illusion.3 Conceison observed that hurtful misunderstandings could arise from the very beginning stages of the project with differing interpretations of the word ‘collaboration,’ after which the entire process––including conflicts over textual interpretation, working methods and meeting audience expectations––could be plagued at every step by unfathomed linguistic discrepancies. Given the trajectory of increased bicultural collaborations, the importance of language transition––first among the creators, and second between performers and spectators––will continue to be a major challenge. Good translators play such a vital role during all stages of collaboration that they should evolve toward being bilingual, bicultural dramaturges, so that rather than serving as mere functionaries transmitting what artists say to each other, they become part of the creative team. If involved in translating the script, their linguistic knowledge aids them in

116  Catherine Diamond being conduits for conveying cultural connotations to both sides. If, in addition, they have theatrical knowledge, they can be catalysts facilitating the partnership by explaining rehearsal methods and artistic visions, as well as representing the audience so that it is not forgotten in the creative decision-making. The role of the bicultural dramaturge is that of an arch-weaver who makes sure that all the strands are picked up, that the pattern they are woven into has aesthetic integrity and that the fabric itself is attractive to people in the target audience beyond mere novelty. The bicultural dramaturge should be empowered not only to negotiate but also to assert a professional opinion regarding language appropriate for the target audience and what alterations might be necessary if the production is going to play to audiences of both languages. Linguistic points of dispute occur not only in prestige intercultural productions in which a great deal of artistic ego, national pride and, sometimes, big money is invested; in interviews I did with two Taiwanese directors of more modest productions, in which one would expect an easier flow of communication, similar problems were exposed.4 In a 2014 collaboration, a Malaysian-Taiwanese co-director reported that the visiting German co-director was offered 50 (!) alternative translations of the title that the Taiwanese cast thought sounded better in Mandarin. The guest director, however, insisted on the literal translation from the English that sounded awkward to the target Taiwanese audience. The new German script, commissioned for the Taipei International Arts Festival, was already too abstractly philosophical and wordy for this particular troupe, whose signature orientation was toward devising their own physical/musical performances based on folk narratives with minimal dialogue. The Taiwanese director conceded that spectator reactions to the much-hyped production were bewilderment and disappointment. A similar situation had arisen in 2012 when another Taiwanese troupe––one more accustomed to performing translated Western plays––collaborated with a different visiting German director who came to direct a German-authored bicultural script featuring German and Chinese characters. When the Taiwanese translator of the play altered the language to be more idiomatic in Mandarin, the director protested. But this time, the encounter was mutually instructive as he explained that some of the linguistic idiosyncrasies in German should be preserved rather than smoothed over so that their startling quality would come through in Mandarin. The translator understood that she would have to deal with this additional complexity and convey the various linguistic layers. Moreover, in rehearsal, she would have to help the actors understand this necessity as well, but there was no guarantee that the audience would comprehend the reasons for awkwardness, given that the contexts for it in German and in Mandarin would be different. These two examples demonstrate not only the German directors’ sensitivity toward the nuances of their native language but also that the Taiwanese casts were finely honed to what sounded natural (idiomatic) or artificial (foreign and stilted) on their stage. But neither side was sufficiently aware of, or concerned with, the nuances of the other’s language. Gayatri Spivak proposed examining “the politics involved in presupposing the heterogeneity of one’s own [cultural

A call for the bicultural dramaturge  117 identity] […] and the homogeneity of the other”5 and this examination could be applied to language. While being instinctively aware of nuance in our own language, we are often not sufficiently knowledgeable about the similar variation and range in other languages, a situation that becomes immediately apparent in the theater because of the actor’s need to interpret the lines and elicit appropriate responses. Acknowledging and transferring these nuances of both verbal and body languages lie at the base of a bicultural project, and they will be understood variously depending on the spectator’s cultural background and theater experience. The person responsible for managing this complex dialogue should be given due respect for the difficulty of being in constant negotiation between the knowledge, ignorance and capacity for compromise on both sides. In her discussion of three German-Chinese theater collaborations, Law Miu Lan suggests that hybridization and cultural fusions can successfully occur in three ways: through the use of Chinese mediators who transfer the Chinese theater culture and render it recognizable (to German audiences); through German theater artists who actually study and/or investigate and represent the Chinese theater culture (to German audiences); and through German theater artists who become acquainted with the Chinese culture with the help of mediators/translators.6 As she herself served as a translator for Chief Evening Breeze by Wu Wei Theater Frankfurt (WWTF) and the Shanghai Theatre Academy in 2003, she reiterates Conceison’s emphasis on the multiple contributions of the translator: “both sides asked me questions concerning the differences between the two theatre cultures. I had to find immediate answers to these questions, drawing on my life experiences in the respective cultures.”7 Being placed in this situation, she realized that translation “can function as a type of mediator through adjustments to both theatre cultures or as an intervention agency by presenting/representing its experiences of crossing both borders.”8 Although the Chinese actors questioned her, her focus was clearly on how to clarify Chinese drama aesthetics to the German performers and spectators rather than fully explore how Chinese audiences could also better understand the German theater tradition. In such cases, as translators already serve as de facto bicultural mediators, it would be reasonable to promote them as creative contributors, especially when it is critical that communication be precise and diplomatic in both connotation and denotation for the two sides to work together. Adding the dramaturgical function to the translator’s role facilitates more profound border crossings, especially when the artists involved have mistakenly presumed linguistic comprehension––such as what can occur when both sides are communicating via English as a second language––and their scant historical association unconsciously prejudices how they perceive one another.

Dramaturgy in Asia The concept of an individual serving as dramaturge is new in Asia, and dramaturgy is the current buzzword in the Asian performance communities, emerging somewhat contemporaneously with new dramaturgy percolating through Europe

118  Catherine Diamond as the term associated with “post-mimetic, intercultural, and process-conscious productions.”9 Authors Katalin Trencsényi and Bernadette Cochrane assert that new dramaturgy is the twenty-first century’s focal point in production, whether working with established texts or completely new creations. “Within the paradigm of new dramaturgy, the traditional hermeneutic action of understanding and interpreting a text has expanded to understanding, interpreting and negotiating between different cultural systems.”10 And those cultural systems can manifest differences on every level of the process, requiring constant negotiation. This kind of dramaturge is a curator and a facilitator who helps with the respectful negotiating between cultural values and supports interweaving various systems. In order to help develop the architecture and aesthetics of the work unique to a given production, the dramaturg brings to the company’s attention the way(s) they’ve chosen to work, articulating, challenging, or, at times, disrupting the creative process(es).11 This aspect of provoking during the rehearsal process, however, can be more complicated in a bicultural work because it can be construed as partisan critique and upset the balance between the collaborators, especially when there are already inchoate tensions. With the founding of the Asian Dramaturgs’ Network (ADN) in 2016 by Singaporean Lim How Ngean, Asian dramaturges met to map the terrain of their flexible and amorphous role. As both an insider and an outsider in a production, a dramaturge is like an embedded critic, maintaining a certain critical distance to observe the process, yet intimately involved in making sure all are working toward the same goal. While acknowledging how different a dramaturge’s work might be depending upon the particular configurations of each production or the specific needs of certain directors and playwrights, the discussants agreed that their function included that of interlocutor, not only tending to but being prescient of any gap in the process, filling in those gaps and reconciling conflicts. Facilitation, however, was not the only function, as they saw themselves as much more creatively engaged, both as sounding boards for the director’s ideas and as independent sources of cultural information that advised and proposed, though never making the final decisions. Trencsényi and Cochrane describe new dramaturgy as “the inner flow of a dynamic system,”12 with the dramaturge’s contributions being absorbed invisibly into the final product. Thus the dramaturge remains a rather shadowy figure, a creative catalyst and cultural conduit. Most of the people participating in that initial ADN symposium were bilingual, as all were speaking English. They were already aware that even translating the word ‘dramaturgy’ from English or Lessing’s German original into their native languages created ambivalence about the profession. Among them, Takiguchi Ken served as a prime example of a bicultural dramaturge able to inform both sides. As a Japanese long-term resident of Singapore, he assisted in several SingaporeanJapanese collaborations and his experiences revealed that even between two

A call for the bicultural dramaturge  119 prosperous, modern and friendly Asian nations, the theater cultures of particular troupes could differ so profoundly that they required him as an intermediary.13 The emerging role of the bilingual, bicultural dramaturge becomes increasingly necessary not only because bicultural performances are proliferating, but also because the technologies of the jet plane, the Internet and mobile phone translocate people without their passing through sufficient time and space to assimilate information. Moreover, the gloss of globalization creates an illusion of sameness and familiarity, making it more difficult to analyze one’s own cultural idiosyncrasies in terms of the other and to be receptive to the cultural idiosyncrasies of the other. Because guest directors are literally dropped into new cultures and expected to adjust and create for those cultures, the bicultural dramaturge is especially needed in certain conditions: the first being when artists who, belonging to different cultures, have little or no working knowledge of each other are brought together by outside parties, such as festival directors commissioning new works. Karen Ito notes: This aesthetic disjuncture may be more of a problem in curated collaborations where a third party brings together artists who may not be familiar with one [an]other’s standards of what would be considered a work of artistry, beauty, or fulfillment.14 When initiated by government cultural bureaus and funded by embassies or corporations, some prestige bicultural collaborations are promoted by local media that inflate their significance as paradigms of international cooperation, often resulting in local audiences being disappointed because their expectations were driven so high. The second condition is when a visiting dramatist, being unfamiliar with the culture of the target audience, needs help finding appropriate cultural correspondences, such as in transferring a metaphor that resonates in the text of one culture but means nothing to the new audience. Hanna Scolnicov asserts: The problem of the transference of plays from culture to culture is seen not just as a question of translating the text, but of conveying its meaning and adapting it to its new cultural environment so as to create new meanings.15 Often problems arise from the very beginning in the choice of text and who has the final word over its translation. These deepen throughout the process as the side whose language is used in the original text is preoccupied with conveying what it perceives as its ‘meaning’ while the other side, less familiar with the text and its cultural context, is more concerned with generating ‘new meaning’ for its local audience. In addition, the status of the text itself and its importance to generate meaning relative to the other theatrical elements of music, dance, scenery and lighting varies widely in performance cultures. The bicultural dramaturge acts as a shadow weaver combining all the strands of meaning and finding artful ways to elicit relevant new meaning both from the text and its staging.

120  Catherine Diamond

High-profile intercultural productions In the following, I would like to discuss three early bicultural collaborations that brought together American directors and their technical teams to work with Asian theater troupes. The problems that arose continue to occur in current bicultural performances, especially those that rely on unequal funding from the participating sides, but these three productions were also burdened with the extra-theatrical weight of being first-time events of cultural diplomacy, in some cases between erstwhile enemies. The previously mentioned The Joy Luck Club in China, a joint project between the Shanghai People’s Art Theatre and the Long Wharf Theatre in Connecticut, was described and analyzed by translator Claire Conceison. Regarding Orlando (Taipei, 2009), Daphne Lei, who briefly served as translator for American director Robert Wilson and Taiwanese jingju performer Wei Hai-min, wrote her perceptions of the collaborators’ misalliance. Taiwan’s National Theater also made a film documentary of the rehearsals and the final performance. The travails of participants in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream (2000) by the Central Dramatic Company of Vietnam and Artists Repertory Theatre of Oregon were documented by Tom Weidlinger in his film A Dream in Hanoi (2002). Although the artists in all three productions imagined that their responsibilities and artistic goals were clearly defined during the preparatory discussions, it quickly became apparent that their understandings of them were so at odds that struggles for control broke out when they began collaborating. Many of the problems were rooted in linguistic differences that were not immediately identified, beginning with the word “collaboration.” Initially, the Chinese, Taiwanese and Vietnamese participants assumed they would share ideas with the Americans, have their particular traditions respected and have equal say in the creative process as well as the final outcome of the performance. Their American counterparts, however, who had determined the texts (British and American), viewed themselves as mentors and/or experts expecting to lead and be followed because they either initiated the projects or were invited to oversee the production. Thus, the collaborations proceeded along the lines of global power relations at the time. On occasion, the assumptions made by the Americans were covertly challenged by their Asian partners, and the assumptions made by the Asian dramatists were often not voiced until there was little or no time to address them. Being the only people able to see the causes of discontent on either side, the translators recorded the processes; two were described in articles, and two were documented on film.

The Joy Luck Club debacle In 1993, when The Joy Luck Club was heralded as the first-time joint venture of eminent artists from the United States and China, it was almost inevitable that the media would accentuate its political importance over the successful exchange of artistic ideas. Unlike several previous high-profile intercultural productions

A call for the bicultural dramaturge  121 that were performed for European and American audiences, it was to be performed exclusively in China and thus the audience reception of the performance was not as important to the American media as the impressions of the American participants during the rehearsal process. Claire Conceison, a theater student in Shanghai at the time, provided the simultaneous English translation for the opening performance, having served as the only American translator working in tandem with Chinese translators for the five weeks of rehearsal. She reveals that Chinese co-director Yu Luosheng was under the impression that his input and that of his colleagues in Shanghai would be given equal weight to those of their American counterparts, especially regarding how to present the translated text to the Chinese audience. It is difficult to believe that during the four-year preparation, initiated and mediated by the Yale-China program, the whole American team instead assumed that the Chinese would be carrying out their creative decisions. This misunderstanding seriously undermined the meaning of collaboration, or he zuo 合作 (making together), as the Chinese understood it. Conceison relates how, at every turn, the Chinese were disappointed at how they were relegated to subservient positions without the Americans realizing that it was not what they had bargained for. Her account faults the project from the very beginning with the text chosen by the Americans, who thought it would be a perfect vehicle for theatrical fusion. Amy Tan’s popular novel had been scripted for the stage by Susan Kim, who had found the novel’s back-and-forth storytelling difficult to adapt for live theater.16 To any bilingual person, however, it would be quickly apparent that Chinese was the one language in which the text would not work because much of the humor––being based in the misuse of English by the China-born mothers struggling to express their life experiences––would evaporate in literal translation back into Chinese. Yu Luosheng, thinking the translation awkward, had the text retranslated, perhaps not realizing that any translation would fail: “The script they [the Chinese actors] memorized was to them quite illogical, the language stilted, the characterization flat. Few of them liked the play much at all.”17 Because co-director Arvin Brown and his team only knew the English version, they did not understand the problem. Assisting in rehearsal with the cast of eight Chinese actresses and one American actor who played all the male roles, Chinese translator Zhang Fang was rarely given credit for facilitating successful communications but was held accountable when mistakes occurred: Unfortunately, the importance of translation and interpretation in intercultural theatre, including international theatre exchange projects such as this one, is almost always downplayed. In fact, it is often reduced to a burden or annoyance rather than a key that opens doors, or a link without which the project could not be realized.18 Translating back and forth requires patience from everyone since it slows down all processes. Conceison and Zhang were expected to function for cast and crew around the clock, always ready to work. When they tried to intervene, however,

122  Catherine Diamond they were told not to get involved and that they were only “providing a service.”19 But as Conceison states, they were inevitably involved since how they translated the discussions affected how the problems were perceived and what would be done about them. This blindness on the part of the others limited the much greater service the translators could have rendered if they had been promoted to bicultural dramaturges, as both Zhang and Conceison were more familiar with Chinese theater practice than any of the American team, and the Chinese had had very limited experience with American theater methods. Following the novel’s emphasis for American readers, Brown focused on the stories of the Chinese mothers, and because the linguistic humor of the mothers got lost in translation, the Chinese team found them boringly prosaic and wanted to concentrate on the more exotic experiences of the American-born daughters. When Yu tried to introduce ways to counteract the flatness of the Chinese script, some of his suggestions were integrated, but Brown was constrained by royalty regulations not to make major alterations. In China, not only is the traditional theater actor-based, in which scripts can be tailored to fit the talents of the performer, but foreign plays are loosely adapted for the stage without much concern for fidelity to the original script. Neither side could persuasively explain its perspective since neither side knew what the other side was hearing or seeing. In contrast to the media hype that kept the production at the forefront of Chinese cultural news, the final show received only a tepid response. Conceison reports that Chinese audiences were left puzzled, and the play did not manage to stimulate their curiosity about how Americans perceive these Chinese immigrants. In conclusion, she makes a plea for more self-educating and the need for a professional bicultural dramaturge: Finally, I suggest that in addition to acquiring as much knowledge as possible before approaching another culture’s theatre––knowledge regarding its historical development, aesthetic principles, and social context––we consider bringing in a kind of consultant to aid us in our efforts. This person may be able to assist in interpreting and/or translating, but more importantly he or she can draw on knowledge deeper than that of the artists in order to inform and smooth potential conflicts.20 A bicultural dramaturge, who represented neither side, could have assisted with transferring meaning to new meaning, both of which seem to have been lost in this production. As the production appeared only to Chinese audiences, the American participants were more concerned with how their unique adventure played back home through the American media. They left after the opening and were not around to gauge local audience reception. Kim’s script was replayed at the Long Wharf Theatre in Connecticut in 1997 with a cast of Asian American actors, but the critical reception was similar, in that the play was deemed tediously long, and that without being familiar with the book, the spectator would be lost.21 Although Yu Luosheng took the Chinese cast to perform in Hong Kong and Singapore, the stage play was superseded by the more popular film version also released in 1993.

A call for the bicultural dramaturge  123

A culturally neutered Orlando In 2007, American director Robert Wilson first saw Taiwanese jingju actress Wei Hai-min perform the role of a famous woman general that required her to demonstrate both a male and a female persona. She was eminently suited to do so because she had been trained in the Mei (Lanfang) tradition of the male dan (main female role). Wei further complicated this duality by playing a female actress impersonating a male impersonator of women.22 Wilson and Wei’s encounter led to their collaboration in presenting the first Asian production of Orlando. Wilson had previously staged Darryl Pinckney’s adaptation of Virginia Woolf’s novella in Germany (1989), France (1993) and England (1996). Wei, as Taiwan’s most famous opera diva, is not only a master of traditional jingju, but her experience in many experimental jingju such as the Contemporary Legend Theatre’s Kingdom of Desire (1986, adapted from Macbeth) and Luo Lan Princess (1993, adapted from Medea), and as Clytemnestra in Richard Schechner’s Oresteia (1995), made her an appropriate choice for Orlando, a character who changes from male to female while traversing 400 years of English history. Taiwan’s prosperity as one of the Asian tiger economies makes it a ready consumer of foreign art, but its sovereignty is undermined by China, which keeps it out of international organizations and hampers intercultural exchanges. In order to gain worldwide visibility and independent cultural viability, Taiwan invites famous directors to collaborate with local performers. Thus, it was considered a coup to get the renowned Wilson to direct a local artist. Because the production was coordinated and co-funded by Taiwan’s National Theater and the GuoGuang Opera Company, both these sponsors and Wei herself expected Wilson to direct a jingju version of the play, that is, accomodate his previous work to highlight her technique and style. Shouldering the tremendous expense of not only technically revamping the National Theater to support Wilson’s lighting and set demands, but hosting his team of American and German specialists, they hoped Orlando would boost the declining popularity of the traditional theater by stimulating interest in the potential of jingju as a medium for contemporary expression, making a major contribution to the development of Taiwan’s stage art, and thrusting Taiwan into the international limelight as a fertile ground for cutting-edge experimental performance. Taiwanese-American theater scholar Daphne Lei, though only present during the first talks, recorded the process through correspondence with Wei Haimin and Wang An-chi, the artistic director of the GuoGuang Opera Company and the production’s scriptwriter. When Lei accompanied the Taiwanese team to meet with Wilson at his Watermill Center in New York, they left with the impression that Wilson was prepared to work with a new script comprising multiple characters for jingju actors.23 However, the two sides misconstrued the project from the very beginning as Lei writes: Our group heard it [Wilson’s plan] but unfortunately didn’t really hear it; we took his words as general suggestions, not as ironclad laws; his statement

124  Catherine Diamond was interpreted through our cultural and artistic filters. The director’s role in traditional jingju is minimal.24 Lei reveals a rather startling naiveté on the part of the Taiwanese collaborators if they thought that Wilson, the archetype of a twenty-first-century Super-Regisseur, would ever allow his vision and style to be compromised. As with The Joy Luck Club, preparations for the production proceeded under false assumptions of reciprocal give-and-take, but when the actual rehearsals began, it became clear that Wilson was not going to revise his European concept to fit jingju, but rather instructed Wei to apply her skills to its configuration as a solo work. Wei then discovered that Wilson knew nothing of jingju and would not know how to direct her in it. Nonetheless, she felt compelled to include aspects of jingju, saying: “Previous productions of Orlando have been ‘dramatic,’ with no singing. As my background is in opera, I wanted to incorporate song, and this was discussed right at the beginning.”25 Wei sought Wang An-chi, well-known for adapting scripts, to rewrite the text even though “[a]t first she [Wang] was very reluctant, for she frankly found the story ridiculous.”26 After Wang produced her opera script “based on jingju logic and a Chinese historical background,”27 Wei altered it further to fit musically by removing some of the conventional rhythms and adding rhyme to some of the spoken parts, drawing on theatrical conventions that indicate the social rank of a character.28 Wilson apparently did not receive this Chinese script, or at least never responded to it because when the two sides met again in Taipei, he insisted on a line-by-line translation of the Pinckney script used in the German production.29 Wang An-chi was burdened with the task of rewriting a script for a director who averred that he was anti-text as well as for a singer-actress who needed to display her musical artistry. Wang did her best to edit the literal translation to comply with jingju style of linguistic variation between classical and colloquial speech, rhymed or unrhymed lines, but she found the musical sequences incompatible with the preset German blocking. However, it became clear to the Taiwanese team that everything was going to be subordinated to Wilson’s lighting cues, for it was in order not to change them that he insisted on adhering to the previous script. It is ironic that after insisting on the literal translation of the Pinckney script, Wilson responded to Wei Hai-min’s query about how to deliver some lines with “Words are not important” and then stated that his theater was based on the interface of time, light and space.30 He also wrongly claimed that the Chinese theater was too “text-based,” a complaint he often makes of Euro/American theater, but jingju is “actor-based” and coordinates poetry, movement and song with ongoing textual adaptations.31 Wilson was evidently aware of the difficulties surrounding the text and addressed the group, saying: The difficulty of this project is that we have to create a new language, one that is different from both the text and the actor’s traditional training, so it is a crisis. It isn’t the text we need to adjust, what we are doing is different from

A call for the bicultural dramaturge  125 other visions of East-West theatre […] [we want] to preserve the spirit of a dream.32 In addition to verbal reconstructions, Wei’s body language was also translated from jingju’s unique physical expressions to a more universal style desired by Wilson, which really meant transferring them from a Chinese-specific tradition to a contemporary Euro-American form. She nonetheless signified gender change by shifting her singing style from that of the young male role (hsiao sheng) to the young female role (dan). Despite being open and malleable throughout the process, Wei was most worried about her traditional jingju fans, who would not understand the demands placed upon her in this avant-garde experiment.33 Wilson’s new formalistic language would be difficult for her audience to penetrate since the novel was not well-known, and the script eliminated much of its already sketchy narrative as well as most of the musical, poetic and gestural frameworks that orient both jingju’s actors and its knowledgeable spectators. On the other side of the audience spectrum, the young local dramatists interested in avant-garde theater, the production’s expense and technical complexity put it far out of reach as a working model they could build upon. The Taiwanese were not the only ones frustrated by miscommunications. Co-director Ann-Christin Rommen, who took over much of the day-to-day rehearsal, remarked on the difficulty of communicating with the Taiwanese crew, not only because she did not understand their language but because her inability to read their facial expressions made her uncomfortable and unsure what was, and was not, being understood.34 Her comments resemble those of the American crew in The Joy Luck Club who complained because “yes” was the Chinese answer to everything and left them stymied as to what really had been communicated. Wilson’s interpretation of the character Orlando was merged with Woolf’s own bisexual, androgynous self, or as Wang An-chi put it, “the perfect integration of yin and yang”35 that allows Orlando to transcend gender and find immortality in the pursuit and practice of literature. The thread that connected the themes, however, was the loneliness of the creative genius. Wei repeats “I am alone” throughout her two-hour solo,36 implying not only the lonely genius of a Woolf or a Wilson but of Wei herself, alone on the huge National Theater stage. At the end, stripped of her artistic framework of music, gesture and costume, dressed in only a white shift and pin-cushioned with writing quills––a diminution of the writer’s art––she was rendered minuscule by Wilson’s bold cosmic lighting. Confronted with radically different theater-making, most of the Taiwanese team averred that they “learned something,” but they also concurred with the National Theater board’s chairperson Tcheu Yu-chiou’s assessment that the performance was “extremely cold,” thereby alienating the audience from the emotions, music and aesthetics of its own cultural heritage in a bid for status in the international avant-garde art world.37

Nightmare in Hanoi The Vietnam America Theater Exchange (VATE) started in 1997 when the Central Dramatic Company of Vietnam presented a traditional play, Truong Ba’s

126  Catherine Diamond Soul in the Butcher’s Body, in the United States. Lorelle Browning, a Pacific University professor of Literature and Peace Studies in Oregon, and Do Doan Chau, artistic director of the Vietnamese company in Hanoi, initiated the project that resulted in actors from Oregon’s Artist Repertory Theatre traveling to Hanoi in 2000 for a bicultural collaboration of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Though Vietnamese theaters had staged Shakespearean tragedies, and the Hanoi company wanted to do King Lear, Browning, saying that the two countries had shed enough tears, pushed for a text that would allow them to laugh together, not imagining that Shakespeare’s language-based humor would be a challenge to translate effectively.38 And indeed, because of the literalness of the translation, Bottom’s comic malapropisms were construed by the Vietnamese audience as mistakes.39 Literal translations of Shakespeare’s plays into Asian languages can prove to be a barrier to their successful transfer to the stage, as they are treated as texts to be read rather than performed. Midsummer was translated for the show by a Vietnamese academic but it took the collaborators a long time to both discover its inadequacies and be willing to change it. Neither Browning nor the Vietnamese realized that the discrepancies between the original and the translation were the source of many of their arguments. Moreover, the two sides held the text in different regards––Browning and director Allen Nause were concerned with preserving what they construed as its meaning, while Do, along with co-director Doan Hoang Giang, was adamant about creating its new meaning. Not only are Vietnamese traditional theaters actor-based, regularly altering texts to suit the performers, but Vietnamese modern theaters also, when unaware of the nuances of foreign texts, do not have qualms about amending them to make them more accessible to local audiences. In addition, Tom Weidlinger, who made the film documentary of the production’s intercultural process, admitted that, during rehearsal, translation was a continual problem: It was really hard to find good translators to do simultaneous translations. It takes a particular skill. Even if people are relatively fluent in both languages, I found it does not necessarily mean they will be a good translator […] professional translators are quite expensive––beyond the budget of a non-profit theater production or documentary film!40 His A Dream in Hanoi highlights points of contention from the moment the Americans arrive, primarily the antagonism between dramaturge/producer Browning, as the guardian of Shakespeare’s text, and co-director Doan Hoang Giang, who was determined to uphold Vietnamese cultural traditions. Co-director Allen Nause and co-producer Do acted as conciliators between them. As Browning and Nause knew no Vietnamese, and Do and Doan spoke no English, they were constantly working through interpreters, two Vietnamese, Bac Tran and Tuang Vu, and a 24-year-old American Fulbright student, Hillary Douglas. Having written a drama about Vietnam and playing one of the fairies, Douglas often served as an informal cultural mediator, explaining the Vietnamese context

A call for the bicultural dramaturge  127 to the Americans. The two Vietnamese translators were less able to offer cultural explanations since they had never experienced American theater culture firsthand and were reticent about offering corrections when they encountered faulty assumptions.41 A Midsummer Night’s Dream differed from most bicultural performances, as it was bilingual, each side performing in its own language. However, some of the best moments between the actors occurred in rehearsal, when they separately paired off to learn a few lines in each other’s languages to say in the performance. This direct exchange created a means of non-combative equal sharing. One of the most disturbing scenes in the film occurs about two weeks before opening night when Nause and Browning meet with Doan and Do to discuss the fact that the production is not shaping up. The scene is a classic demonstration of miscommunication without any of the players realizing the root cause of their distress. Nause brings up the problem of pacing, saying that the show slows down just where the text speeds up, discretely alluding to the Vietnamese music-dance sequences added by Doan to employ more of the actors in his company. Doan rejects the idea of cutting them and suggests instead that Browning cut more of the “inessential dialogues” as many of the speeches are too long and difficult to follow in Vietnamese. She rejects this, saying she has already cut 400 lines and cutting any more would disrupt the story. When Doan dismisses her concerns, and Do backs him up, the Vietnamese translator pauses. One sees the strain on his face as he struggles to find appropriately diplomatic language, and says: “when enough information…” The word sets off a knee-jerk reaction from Browning who shouts: “It’s not about information!” The translator knew his word was inadequate, but the already acrimonious stand-off made him nervous.42 The scene is painful to watch, as the translator struggles to follow both directors’ arguments and is caught in the middle without being able to allay them. Aware of the Vietnamese nuances, he does not know sufficient English to present them in the right phrasing for the Americans and inadvertently exacerbates the problem. Finally, Doan pinpoints several parts that seem badly translated and says he will retranslate them––a move that calms everyone. Douglas, too, had previously noted poorly translated lines, but it seems her observation had gone unheeded––leaving open how much more of the text, especially the verse, did not read well in Vietnamese, making it tedious. Both sides were unhappy with the compromises they were making. Nause told Browning she had to realize that the project was a collaboration of “East and West,” as if theirs and Doan’s ideas were representative of their cultures rather than idiosyncratic decisions of individual artists. In such politically fraught bicultural projects, the personal and the national are mixed without the participants showing much insight into the subliminal forms of historical hostilities. The film’s voice-over says that, at first, the Americans expected resentment from the Vietnamese but experienced none––failing to realize that Doan’s recalcitrance was a response to past and present American aggression. Differences in body language were also a source of contention as the movements of the American actors lacked finesse and subtlety and were imposed

128  Catherine Diamond upon the Vietnamese actors, while the Vietnamese music and dance sequences were poorly composed and executed, exasperating the Americans. Not only does Helena embarrass her Vietnamese Demetrius with her aggressive pursuit, but the Vietnamese Hermia also shocks when, finding her lost Lysander, she is directed to jump into his arms and straddle her legs around him. The only time a Vietnamese actress would do this onstage would be to demonstrate her character’s lasciviousness, or her Westernization, substantiating the Vietnamese stereotype that this behavior is typical of American women rather than an exaggerated idiosyncratic interpretation of the character. Filmmaker Weidlinger later commented on the continuous sensation of treading on the thin ice of cross-cultural communication: “[W]e pick up different cues, we read each other differently. Just when you think you’ve got it, something else comes up.”43 Although 9,000 spectators viewed the performances, people in the Vietnamese team were evidently so fed up, they did not want to talk about it afterward until they saw the film: “When the Vietnamese and the Americans who took part in the production saw the film for the first time with translations, and realized what had really been going on, the scales fell from their eyes.”44 Both sides were ashamed, but seeing the embarrassment of the other, they affected a more complete reconciliation. In addition, they reconvened to bring a reduced version of the show to the United States in 2004.

The future of bilingual bicultural dramaturgy It does not seem that any of these three prestige productions achieved the dual goal of conveying meaning and creating new meaning, and the compromises made to get the performance to the stage left both audiences and participants discontented in several quarters. The conflicts arising from cultural and linguistic misunderstanding were not productive but obstructive, breaking the creative flow between directors and actors of different backgrounds. In each case, not only did the lack of a bilingual dramaturge leave a vacuum in which feelings were hurt unnecessarily, it adversely affected the artistry of the final product. If a bicultural dramaturge had been employed to deal with the cultural and translation differences, the directors might have been freed up to consider new meanings beyond simply partaking in a bicultural experience, beyond mere cultural transfer. A bicultural dramaturge’s intercession might have helped adjust expectations on both sides to the realities of the collaboration. The four young women––Conceison, Lei, Douglas and Law––served in their capacity as on-the-spot interpreters, but they also provided much more insight into the workings of bicultural collaboration through their writings. Because they were not given the authority of dramaturges, their ability to explain, negotiate and contribute to the creative decision-making was restricted. If they had been designated as dramaturges, their bicultural knowledge could have been put to better use. Conceison confessed that she felt responsible for some of the awkwardness and hurt that occurred, but she was not in a position to do much about it. Lei, on the other hand, felt compelled to speak on behalf of the Taiwanese

A call for the bicultural dramaturge  129 team when she saw it was too cowed by Wilson’s demands. If Lorelle Browning had been informed that the poetry in some passages of Shakespearean text was impossible to translate into vernacular Vietnamese, or that in a socialist country, performers in government troupes were civil servants with set terms of employment, she might have been more appreciative of Do’s efforts to stage the show. As Conceison says, “I am not suggesting we bracket such contradictions, but rather that we rigorously examine them in hopes that they may eventually be resolved, or at the very least be better understood.”45 If someone had been able to present the two sides dispassionately to each other, as Law was gradually able to do, they still might not have agreed, but their choices about how to resolve the problem would have been better informed, and the results less aesthetically constrained. Chen Yu-jun, a Taiwanese dramaturgy student, was the translator for the two Taiwanese-German productions mentioned at the beginning of this essay. She not only translated the German scripts into Mandarin but also assisted as a rehearsal interpreter and served to inform the visiting German directors about Taiwanese culture and theater. She often saw what annoyed either the visiting or local artists and, where she could, she negotiated between the two, yet her ability to alter their predetermined views and goals was minimal. The experience, however, gave her insight into the idiosyncrasies of national forms of theater practice. When she becomes a full-fledged dramaturge and is invested with more authority, her explanations of cultural differences should begin to alleviate the frustration that comes from not being able to express a grievance or not knowing its true source.

A new paradigm of embedded encounter In addition, Chen and I concur that it is not enough to merely fill in the gaps and lessen cultural misunderstanding. Instead, we propose a bicultural presentation that does not provide a smoothly synthesized product with a seamless interwoven surface but the opposite––to deconstruct the notion of contention-less cooperation and inject that concept into the performance itself.46 We suggest that performances lay bare some of the difficulties that their creators’ encounter, and integrate the critique––such as revealed in the aforementioned accounts––into the final performance. Spectators should be allowed to see some of the confrontations because, then, they, along with the performers, can recognize the depths and diversity of difference. Since the issues of cultural difference are not going to disappear, audiences should be privy to the theater’s process of dealing with them, and thereby experience and reflect upon them in the context of their own interactions with people from other cultures. While these three productions reflect political and economic hegemonic relations that have since been challenged on many fronts, one of the problems at the heart of bicultural practice remains. It is less conditioned by external factors and more susceptible to the internal limitations of the dramatists’ own personal experiences of other cultures: collaborators tend to either project their own assumptions about human universality and art’s ability to transcend cultural difference onto their partners, or they gravitate toward a limited and limiting definition of their

130  Catherine Diamond partners’ culture––echoing Spivak’s observation of people homogenizing the representation of other cultures. Neither stance is flexible enough to deal with the complexity of how individual and cultural differences interplay in every artist. A bicultural work could dramatize how each side perceives the other before even getting together to rehearse, and through watching the process of each side plumbing its own preconceptions, the audience could follow a similar route of introspection. The rehearsal and backstage altercations in bicultural productions are often more interesting and enlightening than the performances themselves––hence the film documentaries being more compelling than the Midsummer and Orlando performances. Spectators can often sense the disjuncture and tension but, not being privy to the struggles that create it, are dissatisfied without knowing why. The bicultural production could stage the points of contention, not to judge but to illuminate the ease with which you fall into the trap of your own preconceptions without recognizing that the person you’re working with starts and progresses from very different perspectives and is actively projecting those onto you. Translation is just the tip of the iceberg of cultural difference, but it is also the point of entry into your theater colleague’s world if your ears are ready to hear the true foreignness of its sounds.

Notes 1 Zai Kuning, quoted in Karen Ito, “Cultural Differences and the Dynamics of Collaboration,” UCLA, accessed 2 September 2020, https​:/​/we​​b​.arc​​hive.​​org​/w​​eb​/20​​ 16030​​60526​​05​/ht​​tp://​www​.w​​acd​.u​​cla​.e​​du​/ci​​p​/arc​​hive/​​appex​​book/​​cu​ltu​​raldi​​ffere​​nces.​​ html. The article is also printed in Narrative/Performance: Cross-Cultural Encounters at APPEX, ed. Judy Mitoma, Ricardo D. Trimillos and Anoosh Jorjorian (Los Angeles, CA: UCLA Center for Intercultural Performance, 2004), 26–41. 2 Keng Yi-wei, 喚醒東方歐蘭朵：橫跨四世紀與東西方文化的戲劇之路 (Taipei: 國家表演藝術中心, 2009), 41. 3 Claire A. Conceison, “Translating Collaboration: The Joy Luck Club and Intercultural Theatre,” The Drama Review 39, no. 3 (1995): 156. 4 These interviews were conducted in confidentiality, and the names of interviewees are withheld by mutual agreement. 5 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “The Intervention Interview,” Southern Humanities Review 22, no. 4 (1988): 334. 6 Miu Lan Law, “The Interweaving of the German and Chinese Theatre Cultures in the Early 21st Century,” Berliner China-Hefte: Chinese History and Society, no. 39 (2011): 68. 7 Ibid., 70. 8 Ibid., 73. 9 Katalin Trencsényi and Bernadette Cochrane, “Foreword: New Dramaturgy: A Post-Mimetic, Intercultural, Process-Conscious Paradigm,” in New Dramaturgy: International Perspectives on Theory and Practice, ed. Katalin Trencsényi and Bernadette Cochrane (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), xii. 10 Ibid. 11 Ibid., xiii. 12 Ibid., xi. 13 Takiguchi spoke of his experience working on Sanctuary (2016), a collaboration between English-speaking Singaporean troupe The Necessary Stage (TNS) and

A call for the bicultural dramaturge  131 the Japanese-speaking troupe Hanchu-Yuei (範宙遊泳). The creation strategies of the two companies were radically different. See Leow Puay Tin, “Ken Takiguchi: A Dramaturg’s Sanctuary,” ArtsEquator, 19 October 2017, https​:/​/ar​​tsequ​​ator.​​com​/k​​en​ta​​kiguc​​hi​-dr​​amatu​​rg​-​sa​​nctua​​ry/. 14 Ito, “Cultural Differences.” 15 Hanna Scolnicov, “Introduction,” in The Play out of Context: Transferring Plays from Culture to Culture, ed. Hanna Scolnicov and Peter Holland (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 1. 16 Reviews of later English productions commented on the difficulty of following Kim’s script if one had not first read the novel, and that the play did not capture the wit and depth of the book. See D. J. R. Bruckner, “Theater Review; For These Bonded Souls, Some Luck but Little Joy,” New York Times, 27 April 1999, www​.n​​ytime​​s​.com​​/1999​​/04​/ 2​​7​/the​​ater/​​theat​​er​-re​​view-​​for​-t​​hese-​​bonde​​d​-sou​​ls​-so​​me​-lu​​ck​-bu​​t​-lit​​tle​-j​​oy​.ht​​ml. 17 Conceison, “Translating Collaboration,” 158. 18 Ibid., 156. 19 Ibid., 157. 20 Ibid., 164. 21 See Malcolm Johnson, “Director Not Up to the Task of ‘Joy Luck Club’,” Hartford Courant, 2 May 1997. 22 See Daphne P. Lei, “Waiting for Meaning: The Joint Venture of Robert Wilson, Jingju, and Taiwan,” in Alternative Chinese Opera in the Age of Globalization: Performing Zero (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 148. 23 See Daphne P. Lei, “Interruption, Intervention, Interculturalism: Robert Wilson’s HIT Productions in Taiwan,” Theatre Journal 63, no. 4 (2011): 575. 24 Lei, “Waiting for Meaning,” 150. 25 Ian Bartholomew and Bradley Winterton, “Listen to the Pictures,” Taipei Times, 20 February 2009, www​.t​​aipei​​times​​.com/​​image​​s​/200​​9​/02/​​20​/TT​​-9802​​20​-P1​​3​-IB.​​pdf. 26 Ibid. 27 Lei, “Interruption, Intervention, Interculturalism,” 576. 28 See Bartholomew and Winterton, “Listen to the Pictures.” 29 Wang An-chi, personal communication with the author, 8 November 2017. 30 Quoted from the Orlando documentary directed by Chiu Hsiao-wei and Chen Kuen-yu (National Chiang Kai-shek Cultural Center, 2009), DVD. 31 Quoted from the documentary Orlando. 32 Robert Wilson, quoted in Keng Yi-wei, 42, author’s translation. 33 Quoted from the documentary Orlando. 34 Quoted from the documentary Orlando. 35 Wang An-chi, Program Notes, 29. 36 Ibid. 37 Tcheu Yu-chiou, quoted from the documentary Orlando. 38 See Lorelle Browning, quoted in Laura Tode, “‘Midsummer’ Show Thrills Kids,” Independent Record, 4 November 2004, http:​/​/hel​​enair​​.com/​​news/​​local​​/mids​​ummer​​show​​-thri​​lls​-k​​ids​/a​​rticl​​e​_288​​13161​​-24fa​​-516c​​-bc8e​​-​d5be​​b4b07​​2a3​.h​​tml. 39 See Tom Weidlinger, quoted in Vicky Elliott, “A Midsummer Night’s Nightmare in Hanoi / Documentary Film Captures Clash of 2 Disparate Troupes,” SFGate, 8 November 2002, www​.s​​fgate​​.com/​​bayar​​ea​/ar​​ticle​​/A​-Mi​​dsumm​​er​-Ni​​ght​-s​​-nigh​​tmare​​in​-H​​anoi-​​27735​​04​.ph​​p. 40 Tom Weidlinger, personal communication with the author, 7 October 2017. 41 Ibid. 42 Quoted from Weidlinger’s A Dream in Hanoi. 43 Weidlinger, in Elliott, “Midsummer Night’s Nightmare.” 44 Elliott, “Midsummer Night’s Nightmare.” 45 Conceison, “Translating Collaboration,” 161. 46 Chen Yu-jun, in discussion with the author, Taipei, 29 September 2017.

132  Catherine Diamond

Bibliography Bartholomew, Ian, and Bradley Winterton. “Listen to the Pictures.” Taipei Times, 20 February 2009. www​.t​​aipei​​times​​.com/​​image​​s​/200​​9​/02/​​20​/TT​​-9802​​20​-P1​​3​-IB.​​pdf. Bruckner, D. J. R. “Theater Review; For These Bonded Souls, Some Luck but Little Joy.” New York Times, 27 April 1999. www​.n​​ytime​​s​.com​​/1999​​/04​/2​​7​/the​​ater/​​theat​​er​-re​​view-​​ for​-t​​hese-​​bonde​​d​-sou​​ls​-so​​me​-lu​​ck​-bu​​t​-lit​​tle​-j​​oy​.ht​​ml. Chiu, Hsiao-wei and Chen Kuen-yu, dir. Orlando. Documentary. National Chiang Kaishek Cultural Center. 2009. DVD. Conceison, Claire A. “Translating Collaboration: The Joy Luck Club and Intercultural Theatre.” Drama Review 39, no. 3 (1995): 151–66. Elliott, Vicky. “A Midsummer Night’s Nightmare in Hanoi/Documentary Film Captures Clash of 2 Disparate Troupes.” SFGate, 8 November 2002. www​.s​​fgate​​.com/​​bayar​​ea​/ ar​​ticle​​/A​-Mi​​dsumm​​er​-Ni​​ght​-s​​-nigh​​tmare​​-in​-H​​anoi-​​27735​​04​.ph​​p. Ito, Karen L. “Cultural Differences and the Dynamics of Collaboration.” UCLA. Accessed 2 September 2020. https​:/​/we​​b​.arc​​hive.​​org​/w​​eb​/20​​16030​​60526​​05​/ht​​tp://​www​.w​​acd​. u​​cla​.e​​du​/ci​​p​/arc​​hive/​​appex​​book/​​cul​tu​​raldi​​ffere​​nces.​​html. Johnson, Malcolm. “Director Not Up to the Task of ‘Joy Luck Club’.” Hartford Courant, 2 May 1997. Keng, Yi-wei. 喚醒東方歐蘭朵：橫跨四世紀與東西方文化的戲劇之路 [Awake the Oriental Orlando: The Route of a Drama Traversing Four Centuries of East-West Culture]. Taipei: 國家表演藝術中心 [National Center for the Performing Arts], 2009. Law, Miu Lan. “The Interweaving of the German and Chinese Theatre Cultures in the Early 21st Century.” Berliner China-Hefte: Chinese History and Society 39 (2011): 59–80. Lei, Daphne P. “Interruption, Intervention, Interculturalism: Robert Wilson’s HIT Productions in Taiwan.” Theatre Journal 63, no. 4 (2011): 571–86. ––––––. “Waiting for Meaning: The Joint Venture of Robert Wilson, Jingju, and Taiwan.” In Alternative Chinese Opera in the Age of Globalization: Performing Zero, 142–77. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. Leow, Puay Tin. “Ken Takiguchi: A Dramaturg’s Sanctuary.” ArtsEquator, 19 October 2017. https​:/​/ar​​tsequ​​ator.​​com​/k​​en​-ta​​kiguc​​hi​-dr​​amatu​​rg​-s​anctua​​ ​​ ry/. Scolnicov, Hanna. “Introduction.” In The Play Out of Context: Transferring Plays from Culture to Culture, edited by Hanna Scolnicov and Peter Holland, 1–6. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. “The Intervention Interview.” Southern Humanities Review 22, no. 4 (1988): 323–43. Tode, Laura. “‘Midsummer’ Show Thrills Kids.” Independent Record, 4 November 2004. helen​​air​.c​​om​/ne​​ws​/lo​​cal​/m​​idsum​​mer​-s​​how​-t​​hrill​​s​-kid​​s​/art​​icle_​​28813​​161​-2​​4fa​-5​​16c​b​​​c8e​-d​​5beb4​​b072a​​3​.htm​​l. Trencsényi, Katalin, and Bernadette Cochrane. “Foreword: New Dramaturgy: A Post-Mimetic, Intercultural, Process-Conscious Paradigm.” In New Dramaturgy: International Perspectives on Theory and Practice, edited by Katalin Trencsényi and Bernadette Cochrane, xi–xx. London: Bloomsbury, 2014. Wang, An-chi. “Librettist’s Notes.” Orlando Program Notes, 2009.

Interlude

A Durus Arabij/Arabic Lessons Michael Roes Translated by Naomi Boyce

Durus Arabij/Arabic Lessons is a lyric experiment developed in parallel to my Arabic lessons before and during my trip to Yemen in 1993–1994. The Arabic script mesmerized me from day one and came easily to me. At first, however, I had difficulties with the grammar and vocabulary; the new language was that foreign to me. So I tried to recognize the language’s foreignness as a poetic challenge. I approached each new lesson in the form of a strange poem that I initially composed in Arabic using the “language material” that I was to acquire. I then translated it into German without smoothing out the roughness and awkwardness of these experiments, which were completely unpoetic to Arab ears. As a result, the German also lost an element of its implicitness for me and could adopt completely new forms and content through the translation. At the same time, the knowledge of language is always an essential key to accessing another culture. For example, a poem titled Stämme (Tribes, or Roots1) is not only about the peculiarities of Arabic word roots but also about the tribal structures in Arab societies. A third translation from Arabic into Hebrew was made in collaboration with the Israeli composer Amos Elkana, who set this now three-voiced poetic cycle to music for three sopranos and a chamber orchestra. At least in music, the tensions and untranslatability of these three (linguistic) cultures come together, sounding with and against each other.

Note 1 The German word Stamm (pl. Stämme) bears multiple meanings including: 1) “tribe” in the sense of cultural or indigenous groups, 2) “trunk” in botanical usage, 3) “strain” when referencing biological processes of reproduction, or 4) “root” in etymological usage (Wortstamm: word stem). In Arabic, the variety of meanings far exceeds the ambiguity in German. This has to do with the strict grammatical system of word roots from which extensive word families grow, including those with diverse metaphorical meanings.

136  Michael Roes

Durus Arabij/Arabic Lessons  137

B Arabic Lessons Stämme/‫שורשים‬/‫جذور‬

Amos Elkana

My collaboration with Michael Roes began sometime in 1992. We met through my father, and I took an immediate interest in Michael’s work. My father was to turn 60 years old in 1994, and I thought it would be nice to create something for the occasion. We were writing letters back and forth, thinking about appropriate texts to set to music. In one of those letters, he mentioned that by the time we would meet again, he hoped to finish a song cycle that he was working on, entitled Arabic Lessons. When we finally met some months later, Michael showed me the song cycle, and I immediately fell in love with it. He read me the poems—simultaneously translating them into English so I could understand—and I thought they were fantastic, very interesting and full of imagery, colors and sounds. They were written in Arabic, and as far as I know, it was Michael’s way of preparing himself for a journey he was going to take to Yemen. It was only natural for me to want to set these poems to music. But since the poems were difficult and my Arabic and, even more so, my German were very weak, I suggested that we get them translated into Hebrew as well. I asked Professor Sasson Somekh to translate the poems into Hebrew from the Arabic original, and he most graciously agreed to do it. We then had three versions of the song cycle: the original in Arabic, Michael’s version in German, and Somekh’s translation in Hebrew. It was, however, impossible to prepare it in time for my father’s birthday, but I was eager to set it to music anyhow. I knew it was going to be a lot of work, so I was looking for a commission that would enable me to do it. Finally, in 1996, after many failed applications, Ulrich Eckhardt, who was the artistic director of the Berliner Festspiele at that time, decided to commission it for the MaerzMusik festival in 1998. I started working on it in 1997, and by early 1998, it was finished. Composing it was challenging and difficult, but I also enjoyed every minute of it. The texts are so colorful and inspiring that they lend themselves to being set to music very naturally. Composing music for these three languages was very interesting and also very personal to me: Hebrew is my mother tongue; growing up in Jerusalem, I heard Arabic daily, whether it was in the streets, on TV, or in Arabic class at school, which was mandatory. German was my grandparents’ mother tongue and was spoken by my grandmother until she died. It was the language that my mother and

Arabic Lessons  139 my grandmother spoke with one another when they didn’t want the children to understand. Later I also took German lessons with my grandmother. There are 15 movements in this work: 13 of them are poems from the song cycle set to music, and two are purely instrumental. It is around 40 minutes in length. It is written for three sopranos, one for each language, and a sextet of musicians playing flute, trumpet, saxophone, cello, electric bass and a drum set. Each soprano has two poems, which she sings solo—so that two poems are only in Arabic, two in Hebrew and two in German—and seven poems are for all three sopranos together. In these movements, the singers sometimes sing one after the other, and sometimes they sing simultaneously. Arabic Lessons premiered in Tel Aviv on 6 March 1998, followed by the Berlin premiere at the  Hochschule der Künste three days later. For those concerts, I specifically looked for singers who spoke Arabic, Hebrew and German as their mother tongue, since it was extremely important that the text would be pronounced correctly. The concert in Tel Aviv was recorded and later released on my album Casino Umbro.

140  Amos Elkana

Arabic Lessons  141

142  Amos Elkana

Arabic Lessons  143

144  Amos Elkana

Arabic Lessons  145

146  Amos Elkana

Arabic Lessons  147

C Heiliger Franz/St. Francis Notes from a playwright’s perspective Claudius Lünstedt

What is playwriting? It’s to deal with language and to augment one’s language, and to do so is the challenge of a lifetime. The boundaries are obvious. In comparison to filmmaking, for example, where the picture dominates the language, playwriting is a more locally rooted genre. How many international film productions are screened every week in our cinemas in Germany compared to the very small number of international theater productions shown on German stages? Additionally, these international theater productions are usually not based on plays but are performances of various kinds in which language certainly plays an important but not a crucial role compared to “traditional” plays. In other words, as soon as you are in the mood for transcending your monolingualism as a German playwright such as myself, you need translation. We all know the challenges and problems linked to translation: the difficulties in achieving an “equivalence effect” in the target language, or of translating typologies of culture, to name but two. Then there are the barriers that arise as soon as a play is translated and the translated play has to be distributed by agencies. These very different but established systems of theater production, which have their origin in their respective courses of theater history, contribute to certain limitations and other barriers. Consider, for example, the profession of the dramaturge and the “repertoire system” in Germany compared to the “en-suite system” and the less separated tradition of writing, directing and acting in France. And I have only mentioned here my own experience of some European barriers for a playwright whose plays are translated into French. So is it better to simply throw in the towel, to stay at home, stick with the German repertoire, and get bored? Of course not! This is why I have chosen to write about an example from my own work in which my wanderlust pushed me to cross boundaries. In 2008, the Russian composer Sergej Newski asked me if I could imagine writing an opera libretto for him. I was excited and—at the same time—doubtful, given that I am in no way a specialist in contemporary classical music—what we call Neue Musik (new music) in German. When he mentioned that the libretto would be about the historical figure of Saint Francis, I was even more astonished, since I am not very well versed in Roman Catholic orders either. Thanks to Sergej’s fluency and eloquence in German, we were at least able to communicate

A playwright’s perspective  149 easily, and the risk of misunderstandings seemed low. Finally, the project was far too inspiring to turn down. What exactly was challenging about it? First, what I just mentioned about being able to communicate in the same language is not the whole truth. In fact, although Sergej speaks German, his native tongue is also the technical lingo of a composer, while I was using a playwright’s terminology. For example, when we were using words that were essential both for the writing and the composing process—such as Form (form), Sprache (language), Figur (character), Pause (pause), or Klang (sound)—not only was the meaning of this vocabulary rather different within our own technical contexts, but our respective knowledge of the other side was also rather limited. We were dependent on descriptions, transcriptions, paraphrases, or even drawings to better understand what we were saying to the other about form, language, character, pause, or sound. Second, the two of us had obviously grown up in different cultures with our own religious and spiritual influences and orientations. Our views on the character of Saint Francis would of course diverge. Third, I had to write the libretto without knowing anything about the music Sergej wanted to compose because his idea was to first have the finished libretto and then to compose his music. Since I had never written a libretto before, I decided to stretch the boundaries of my own genre, which to me meant that I would try to write a permeable, dramaturgically open play that would allow Sergej’s music to be interwoven with it later. How exactly did we proceed and at what point did our collaboration begin? In spite of both of our concerns, or because of them, we decided to proceed in an easygoing and ultimately intuitive manner. We never dwelled on concerns or issues. We simply followed our noses and believed in the integrity of this nascent work-friendship and forgot about all the differences that might have burdened or even sabotaged our project. When we didn’t understand what the other tried to explain with his specialized vocabulary, we switched to colors and at least imagined that we understood when one of us said “more like a deep red” or “quite black” or “whiter than white,” while not being fully aware that the interpretation or experience of colors is far from universal. When it came to discussions about the structure of my play, it was possible at least to refer to terms and definitions that were probably slightly less prone to misinterpretation, such as “wave,” “circle,” “line,” or “electrocardiogram.” Of course, I am simplifying, and it was not always easy, but in a creative process, it is more productive not to focus on all the potential pitfalls and obstacles along the way, as aiming for ultimate perfection in this respect is like chasing the horizon. What I described previously was in the end a necessary requirement for our collaboration. Our discussions, including all possible misunderstandings, could be seen as the essential process of an early interweaving, one that was crucial for determining whether or not we should really risk collaborating. What fascinated us was that during this phase of the work nothing hinted at a possible interweaving—there was no text to read, no music to listen to. The result was more atmospheric. It was something that could be better described as a feeling of enthusiasm or mutual empathy or inspiration. It pushed us, made us believe in what we were

150  Claudius Lünstedt supposed to do, and convinced us that we would surely understand each other, even if understanding meant that we simply agreed to fight for this project. After the discussions with Sergej, I started writing the play. I had to ask myself what kind of play I was trying to write and how. What would my version of Saint Francis—this young son of a wealthy textile merchant, who both inspired and shocked the Church by interpreting the gospels literally, without seeing any limit and without any or, arguably, too much self-importance—be like? He was plagued by serious illness but his self-sacrifice was his sole aim until his death. If you think about previous theater adaptations of Saint Francis, Dario Fo’s comedic approach in Francis, the Holy Jester immediately comes to mind, along with films such as The Flowers of Saint Francis (1950) by Roberto Rossellini or the British-Italian production Brother Sun, Sister Moon (1972) by Franco Zeffirelli. This may lead one to suppose that a successful contemporary realization of the historical material concerning Francis of Assisi would have to be situated in the comic genre, perhaps even with a tendency towards harlequinery. Nevertheless, my libretto of Saint Francis did not turn out to be a comedy. My research focused on the abundantly embellished biographies of Thomas of Celano, an admirer and near-contemporary of Francis of Assisi, and the so-called Fioretti (Tiny Flowers), the small literary heritage of Francis himself. By studying these sources, I was inspired and became excited about the work I was supposed to do. The recurring and crucial question of “why am I dealing with it?” receded and soon I was able to identify the—in my view—essential topics of the unique figure of Francis, topics that contained a contemporary and also spiritual approach for realizing the material, and that are still valid for me today: the “sweet” sensation of an individualized belief; sublimity; the sensual orgy; the father conflict and intentional de-socialization; dealing with authorities (in general); to want to always be the poorest; guilt; finding stability; to be a “new” human being or only an ordinary one; fluctuations of mood between hubris and depression; the battle against lust; experiencing the body as foreign and concentrating on intellectual matters; illness and self-mutilation; imagination and veneration; the hypocrisy of the church and its dignitaries; believing in miracles; the devil as a credible threat or force or indeed as “the police of the Lord.” Once the figure becomes more concrete as a result of the research, the question of his speech and appearance arises at the same time, which means that figure, form and language condition each other mutually; they depend on each other completely. The character generates its language, the subject contains its form— all that is needed now is to set it free. The form has to be released from the subject, the character has to be made to speak. For Francis, I felt that a monologue voice would be the most appropriate—a monologue voice that leads through the text, with words taking over the action, and then concentrating on those moments which turned out to be crucial for a contemporary figure of Francis. He goes through key moments of his life resorting to a tongue-in-cheek language. This refers to the attempt to let a contemporary Francis speak: one who makes the historical figure shine but who lives today; one who moves in our world where his central moments of feeling, thinking and acting still enjoy a boundless validity.

A playwright’s perspective  151 Why then a monologue? As the German dramaturge Johann Christoph Gottsched already pointed out in the eighteenth century: “Smart people don’t speak out aloud when they are alone.”1 While this might be true on the surface of things, it is also false for two reasons. Firstly, as Peter von Matt writes in his contributions to the poetics of drama: What communication studies must regard as “objectively unobservable” occurs before everyone’s eyes in the literary genre of drama via the monologue. Here, with a single slight twist, the dramatis persona detaches itself from all individual references and turns to reality as a whole, hypostatized into a partner. Here and now the protagonist is confronted with his society as a totem, with an answering face.2 Thus, you can have a dialogue with your own imagination or with your existence. However, the monologue in my libretto is not such an imaginary dialogue but a spiritual conversation. Francis has a long conversation with his God; this is why my libretto Heiliger Franz3 is subtitled Conversation with Three Short Pauses. Summing up, I decided to realize the historical topic of “Francis of Assisi” via a text that follows a basic monologue voice. Snatches of dialogue with other characters are integrated into the leading voice. This creates a network of space and time that makes simultaneity of action and thought possible. Francis attempts to survive without lying to himself. He feels salvation whenever he is able to experience his special sweet sensation—in other words, when he is able to connect to his personal and individualized belief. He is willing to give everything and even consciously destroy his body for spiritual moments of this kind. After his death, the canonization of Saint Francis took place as a hasty mythification based on the many miracles he apparently performed. The sheer quantity of strange deeds defeated all skepticism. Now it was Sergej’s turn. Fortunately, he liked what I gave him, so he was able to begin composing his music based on my libretto and on our important process of “oral interweaving” that we had begun earlier. However, in the end, it took him longer than expected to complete the work. When we were invited to take part in the Klangspuren Festival in Austria and the Transart Festival in Bolzano (Italy) in 2010, only two-thirds of the opera were finished. Nevertheless, the concertante (conducted but not directed) fragment was shown at several places. The most fascinating performance was at Chiesa dei Francescani, the Franciscan monastery at Bolzano. One of the fathers at the monastery, Father Willibald Hopfgartner, was interviewed for the festival’s brochure and expressed his fondness for my skeptical Francis: Contrary to a more popular assessment of Saint Francis as a brother who was “always happy,” who wanders blithely, singing through the countryside, Francis was an agonized person and, you may say, a somewhat inwardly anxious person: He was a driven individual, and it is exactly this dimension which the libretto expresses very well. […] What really is astonishing for

152  Claudius Lünstedt me [is] how the text strikes home about expressing this search for God. The mystics know a pretty phrase for that: The experience of “God’s sweetness,” something that most probably is not accessible to every human being.4 The libretto Heiliger Franz was thus unexpectedly able to cross another boundary. My vision for a modern figure of Saint Francis—and especially the language it implied—could speak as strongly to a father of a Franciscan monastery as to a less-believing reader or listener such as myself. The premiere of the completed opera was finally held at the Bolshoi Theater in Moscow in 2012. In 2014, it won the Golden Mask Award. Looking back on the staging experiences from a critical distance of a few years, I do, of course, see deficiencies in my work. Two main concerns come to my mind: even if our Francis was conceived in opposition to flower power characters such as in Rossellini’s The Flowers of Saint Francis, a sense of humor nevertheless was an important stylistic device for my writing. Unfortunately, however, all performances I saw lacked this less-than-deadly-serious approach. And as the speech I invented for our Francis is very dense, it might offer too little room for any scenic imagination. In summary, this project was something of an eye-opener for me: putting out feelers to explore different kinds of boundaries within my own playwriting and trying to overcome some of them while experiencing that the mainspring of creativity always lies in the desire for “the new” and the “undiscovered.” Thus, the main challenge in achieving my personal wish to push my writing forward was to elaborate, stretch and discover new aspects of its major tool—language. As such, Heiliger Franz remains among my most enriching experiences as a playwright.

Excerpt from the play St. Francis: Conversation with Three Short Pauses Claudius Lünstedt Translated by David Tushingham Winter but felt no cold just a thin cloth no coat makeshift the people carp the son and heir used to wear scarlet so what now I find even a thin cloth wasteful I’d prefer to walk naked through the forest … the fir trees weighed down with snow felt light as a feather a jackdaw’s sitting on a branch don’t fly away … jackdaw I said jackdaw let me kiss you have to praise God love him he gave you feathers to fly with whatever you need he gave it to you all in vain wanted to bless the jackdaw make the sign of the cross but it flew into the sky before asking me for permission why did it ah like that two men behind my back where did they come … tap me on the shoulder at the same time I’m suddenly turned round smile though I’m afraid … who are you they grumble finger my body from top to bottom to top … I’m worth nothing what business is it of yours who I am in full voice I hear myself cry … I I I am God’s messenger a kick in the back steel toe caps by the feel of it the

A playwright’s perspective  153 other one hits me on the nose my tongue automatically reaches for my upper lip doesn’t lick snot no blood they grab me like a rubbish bag hurl me into a snowdrift still trying to hold the cloth down with one hand it keeps riding up like a skirt bare legs hiding my member with a cupped hand … you lie there the men shout … you peasant messenger of God and go off yakking away bare skin a broken arm hanging limply so what not hurting minimal bleeding a few drops now I roll around a bit more in the snow like after a sauna press the snow flat with my red body the cloth is soaked through eyes focussed on the tops of the fir trees I shout it out … God dear God I’m a worm not a man I thank thank you dear God for for for … a sweet feeling draws tempts me in spheres music warmth white light streaming through laughter muscles can’t help it arousal dear God completely filled it’s addictive want to hold onto it you for ever never ending thank you thank you can feel it dear God you exist I’m sure now quite sure don’t ever leave me alone never promise want to wander have nothing absolutely nothing at all never possessions possess only you would love to possess preach with zealous fire in towns villages wherever you want dear God your eyes on me no-one should give to me who is needier than I want to cover the world with a trace of mercy promise and if I see a leper I’ll spit on my disgust get down off my high horse rush to him kiss his scabs wash his rotting flesh carefully wipe the pus away never hold my nose again dear God I want to debase myself work in large kitchens as a servant dear God I want to still my hunger with nothing more than soup no more fine food feel life away from home at last cast off this cushioned life conceal my origins I want to love only you God want to do everything right behave in such a way that you can’t do anything but … the perfect son dear God that sweet feeling please rules that I can hold onto dear God I will give everything for this yours Francis. Short pause. Dreamed last night … I’m standing at the edge of the forest not far from a tree the tree’s incredibly high very beautiful the tree very strong the tree really thick when I get closer and closer still stand under its crown then suddenly I myself grow to such height I can touch the treetops with my bare hand I can hold the tree and bend it down to the ground quite easily what does that mean dear God are you letting me grow up to you to be your equal … is that really true dear God in thin rags I stand here freezing temperatures still winter shivering a bit thighs shaking dear God are you there I can’t hear you just now because … stop who’s talking is someone talking behind my back… hello brother brother of my flesh what do you want … nothing he says grins his idiotic dentist’s white fans the cold as if it’s high summer … hey Francis can you sell me a vial of your sweat well I really wanted to spit at him didn’t dare before you dear God your eye watches over me quite honestly I was shaking too much anyway I would have had spit dripping from me on both sides like foam on the jowls of a mad dog dear God I cannot love a brother of the flesh like him dear God only you you are my rightful father listen … where my family stamped my heritage that’s where I want to begin cut my body off immediately torment it bring it on the right track dear God despise myself till I am redeemed personally by you achieve complete victory over myself dear God my despicable body will never be covered by anything other than these rags here

154  Claudius Lünstedt dear God I have the master plan want to remove the soul from the body drive out the shivering Francis show the body this ambitious object what’s what dear God from this moment I will wear no more shoes the soft soles of my feet will finally get something to do I don’t need a belt either a rope is better cooked food Francis only if you’re weak severely ill a little bit of chicken alright but you’ll have to run through the town on a dog leash afterwards shouting out loud … look at him Francis the glutton stuffed himself with chicken without you knowing he’s bitten something off now dear God promise I’ll mix ashes into my food so nothing tastes good and I’ll also pour cold water on it so the spices don’t stimulate me yes and if you don’t like it Francis you can throw it up dear God don’t give me too much to drink either a glass of tap water is enough no blanket at night bare floor a pillow of stone is enough a piece of wood would do too dear God … like to treat my body with cleansing charcoal so it submits to my soul in obedience dear God … come on take this soulless body lay it wherever you wish you’ll see … it won’t resist won’t complain when you just leave it lying dear God and if you put it on a throne it will look down if you dress it as it was accustomed in purple it will now seem twice as pale the more it is honoured the more it despises itself as unworthy dear God blessed is the servant who amasses goods in heaven yours Francis. Short pause. […]

Notes 1

“Was der Kommunikationsforschung als ‘objektiv unbeobachtbar’ gelten muss, ereignet sich in der literarischen Gattung des Dramas vor aller Augen im Monolog. Hier löst sich die dramatis persona mit einer leichten Drehung aus allen individuellen Bezügen und wendet sich an die zum Partner hypostasierte Wirklichkeit als Ganzes. Hier und jetzt tritt dem Helden seine Gesellschaft als Totum gegenüber, mit einem antwortenden Gesicht.” (Johann Christoph Gottsched, quoted in Peter von Matt, “Der Monolog,” in Beiträge zur Poetik des Dramas, ed. Werner Keller (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1976), 72, my translation)

2 Von Matt, “Der Monolog,” 80. 3 Claudius Lünstedt, Heiliger Franz (Frankfurt am Main: Verlag der Autoren, 2008). 4 “Denn im Gegensatz zu einer gewissen populären Einschätzung des Franziskus als Bruder Immerfroh, der also nur fröhlich singend durch die Lande zieht, war ja Franziskus im Wesen ein Ringender und, wenn man so sagen kann, auch ein irgendwie innerlich unruhiger: er war ein gespaltener Mensch und genau diese Dimension bringt der Text auch sehr gut zum Ausdruck. [...] Was mich eben erstaunt hat, ist, dass er dieses Zentrum wirklich trifft, ich möchte sagen, um in der Metapher des Schützen zu bleiben, er hat wirklich ins Schwarze getroffen, diese Suche nach Gott. Die Mystiker haben ja dafür ein schönes Wort, die Erfahrung der Süßigkeit Gottes. Das ist etwas, was wahrscheinlich dem normalen Menschen so nicht zugänglich ist.” (Pater Willibald Hopfgartner, interview by Peter Paul Kainrath, Transart10 program book, Bolzano, 2010, 34–39, my translation)

PART IV

Entangling diverse audiences

7

Encountering a “theater of (inter-)singularity” Transformations and rejections of shifting institutional dramaturgies in contemporary German theater Peter M. Boenisch

The societal transformations provoked by the present era of globalization do not only supply themes and topics for contemporary theater plays and performances. The conjunction of an indefinite growth of techno-science, of a correlative exponential growth of populations, of a worsening of inequalities of all sorts within these populations—economic, biological, and cultural—and of a dissipation of the certainties, images, and identities of what the world was with its parts and humanity with its characteristics,1 which Jean-Luc Nancy perceptively pointed toward in 2002, affect the Western cultural institution of theater to its very core. For the unique system of the publicly funded state and city theaters in Germany, which is embedded in the notion of Bildung—that barely translatable notion of bourgeois ‘cultivation’—and the German self-understanding as a ‘nation of culture,’2 this socio-cultural shift has heralded “the end of its disingenuous innocence.”3 This chapter will discuss three recent attempts to (re)invent the locally rooted German city theater institution as an agent of global change and transcultural interweaving. The prominent case of Berlin’s Maxim Gorki Theater in reflecting the pluricultural environment of a twenty-first-century “para-polis” will be analyzed alongside the Munich Kammerspiele’s programmatic “cultural globalization” and the initiative at the Thuringian theater of Altenburg to confront its audiences with an ‘international theater’ in a region with barely any foreign population. These exemplary attempts at (re)positioning the special cultural resource that is the German ‘public theater institution’ enact a “mondialisation” or “world-forming”4 of the institutional sphere that (above all, affectively) resonates with prevalent local cultural and psychological experiences of globalization. Meeting responses that range from passionate celebration to vicious rejection, the cases reveal local debates, even battles, over institutional hegemony and authority that reflect an increasingly post-bourgeois and post-national, yet at the same time also an increasingly conservative, nationalist and reactionary “public sphere.”5

158  Peter M. Boenisch Interpreting these institutional changes as well as the responses, following Fredric Jameson, as manifestations of an “aesthetics of singularity,”6 my discussion will focus on what I term “institutional dramaturgies”7: the institutional conditions for making as well as encountering performance, which shape symbolic, aesthetic and affective significations, practices and narratives. They relate artists and audiences, places and spaces, the present and the past—and, not least, the global and the local. Such a dramaturgic perspective on the theater institution as a productive force of relational mediation highlights institutional narratives that ‘authorize’ not only which (and how) works are being produced within these institutions (and which are not), but furthermore also direct the spectators’ engagement by permitting (or not) certain symbolic and imaginary worlds, and hence meanings, to emerge. Methodologically, I will draw, in particular, on Mieke Bal’s narratological “cultural analysis,”8 which provides two pertinent concepts: first, the idea of “exposition,” which for Bal replaces the conventional focus on (authorial) “intention” and instead foregrounds gestures of showing that “expose” the artwork/performance to its audiences, make it available and accessible, and thus inscribe it within the wider cultural sphere. Second, her notion of “focalization”—which marries Genette’s discourse analysis with the Lacanian psychology of the “gaze”—further dissects the mechanisms of this expository agency by analyzing the constitution of privileged (or negated) positions of address, of speaking and perceiving. Both of these concepts elucidate the role of institutional dramaturgies in shaping, claiming and defending cultural ownership, participation and belonging.

A theater for the entire city: The Maxim Gorki Theater, Berlin (since 2013) Since Şermin Langhoff (b. 1969) and Jens Hillje (b. 1968) took over as joint artistic directors in 2013, the Maxim Gorki Theater—Berlin’s smallest of its five publicly funded stages for dramatic theater—has become a central force in mainstreaming debates about cultural participation within the institutionalized German theater system. Langhoff, still one of the country’s few female artistic directors and the only one with a migrational background, previously had been artistic director at Ballhaus Naunynstraße in Berlin’s Kreuzberg district, a hub of the city’s migrant Turkish communities.9 Hillje had worked for many years with renowned director Thomas Ostermeier as head dramaturge of the Schaubühne before teaming up with Langhoff at Naunynstraße, where they produced the play Verrücktes Blut (Crazy Blood) in 2009. Directed by Turkish director Nurkan Erpulat (b. 1974), it became the first ‘postmigrant’ production to be invited to the annual Theatertreffen selection of the season’s ten best productions.10 Moving to the Gorki, Langhoff and Hillje appointed an ensemble of 11 (of 15) performers with ‘migrational background’—as it is officially phrased in the German discourse—and brought with them directors such as Nurkan Erpulat, Neco Çelik and Hakan Savaş Mican, with whom they had worked at Ballhaus

A “theater of (inter-)singularity”  159 Naunynstraße. Still, they did not confine their ambitions for the venue to a purely ‘postmigrant’ exposition. In fact, they intended to turn the Gorki into a veritable Stadttheater of the twenty-first century: a ‘city theater’ that would indeed focalize the entire city with its diverse communities and multiplicity of (sub)cultures. Their mission statement for the opening season read, The Gorki is for the whole city, and that includes everyone who has arrived in the city in the last few decades, whether in search of asylum, whether in exile, whether they be immigrants or simply people who grew up in Berlin. We invite you all to a public space in which today’s human condition and our conflict of identity will be reflected through the art of making theatre and watching theatre, in order to contribute to a thorough and patient debate about living together in today’s diverse world.11 Langhoff and Hillje thus went beyond the often exclusive focus of the German city theater system on educated middle-class Bildungsbürger audiences, instead focalizing the heterogeneous (national, personal, ethnic, gender and other) cultural spheres that paratactically co-exist, side by side, in what Mark Terkessidis terms the twenty-first-century global “parapolis.”12 The Gorki’s exposition, as communicated by the theater’s corporate image and its symbolic imagery, as well as by the performers on stage, reflected not just national and ethnic diversity (let alone minority) but provided further spaces of focal­ ization, not least for various gender roles, LGBT issues and queerness. This was evident in productions from Langhoff and Hillje’s inaugural season, such as Falk Richter’s Small Town Boy, Yael Ronen’s Erotic Crisis or the commissioned plays by German playwright Sibylle Berg. Even in Erpulat’s distinctly “postmigrant” Der Kirschgarten (The Cherry Orchard), with which the Gorki programmatically opened under its new artistic directors in Autumn 2013, the locally famous Kreuzberg transgender artist Fatma Souad was cast as Charlotta Ivanovna. Regarding its institutional exposition, this new inclusive and diverse focal­ ization became the Gorki’s decisive innovation. German author Sasha Marianna Salzmann (b. 1985), who during Langhoff and Hillje’s first two seasons was in charge of programming the Studio Я—the Gorki’s studio space—and who herself comes from a Russian-German migrant background, remembered the significant impact of her own first visit to Ballhaus Naunynstraße years before: It was a feeling of being meant. Finding my own life and its everyday reality reflected on stage was something new for me. […] This feeling of being meant can save you from becoming weary and frustrated, from aggression and depression, which arises when, as a young person, you become used to always remaining the “foreign body” within an organism that functions very well without you.13 Salzmann goes on to consider it Langhoff and Hillje’s major achievement at the Gorki to have expanded this ethos to ‘mean’ even more groups, thus creating “a

160  Peter M. Boenisch home [Heimat] for quite a few who normally would have never even let this word cross their lips.”14 This has been a particular achievement, since the Gorki’s geographical exposition does not seem to support such an intention. In contrast to Ballhaus Naunynstraße’s location right within a lively Turkish working-class district, the way to and into the Gorki requires effort and travel—right into the very center of German national Bildung, high art and bourgeois ideology. The theater is situated just off Unter den Linden boulevard, in the vicinity of the site of the former imperial palace, which currently houses the Humboldt Forum, a site of numerous museum collections. Across the street are the Deutsche Staatsoper, the Humboldt University and the Museum Island with its many displays of artifacts assembled in the colonial era such as the famous bust of Nefertiti and the Pergamon Altar. Langhoff and Hillje’s prime task was to counter this exposition of cultural privilege. Their first advertising campaign simply showed portraits of their performers’ faces; these expressed a diversity rarely represented elsewhere on public stages.15 The performances, meanwhile, are characterized by an identifiable aesthetic that equally emphasizes accessibility and inclusivity. Consistently, the border between represented fiction and the experienced, everyday Berlin reality is kept low and fluent. The dramaturgy is usually related to a recognizable everyday scenario, both in the devising of new pieces (which often draw on verbatim and autobiographical material) and the production or adaptation of canonical plays. At the same time, the reality of performing is also highlighted, through direct audience address, the simplicity and at times makeshift appearance of the scenography, and often through interspersed songs. The spectators therefore remain in the ‘here and now’ of the immediate theater situation and are focalized as spectators, rather than being invited to identify with an other from an asserted distance. As a matter of principle, all performances are surtitled, and German is no longer the only language spoken on stage. The program notes, elsewhere hefty volumes of long essays, are provided as folded posters for 50 cents. Notably, however, alongside their programming of new work by a heterogenic range of theater-makers representing various cultures (who would create just as much experimental work as conventional ‘well-made’ plays), the Gorki has continued to offer the typical ‘state-theater fare’ of plays by Heiner Müller, Elfriede Jelinek, Heinrich von Kleist, Schiller and Shakespeare. Langhoff and Hillje’s institutional dramaturgy hence turned a city theater institution into a locally rooted polycentric and thereby inclusive institution.16 Salzmann describes the effect of their dramaturgic focalization at the production and institutional levels as ‘invitation’: Usually, people attend if they feel invited. If people do not attend, then it’s not because they do not want to. We all want to be invited. We all want to be meant. One can feel invited, but also un-invited, to attend the theater by the faces on the posters, by the price of the tickets, by the gender signs on the toilets, and most of all by identifying with the themes put on stage.17

A “theater of (inter-)singularity”  161 The Gorki’s institutional dramaturgy managed to create such identification— not only with themes but, moreover, also with the institution as well as with one’s own position as part of the city’s cultural public sphere. It extended an invitation to join and explore the cultural tradition of the state theater institution to those who had previously felt, as Salzmann expressed it, as foreigners or intruders—not only on grounds of their passport or ethnicity—and, most importantly, it focalized them not as ‘foreigners’ or as ‘minority’ but as equals. But has the Gorki really succeeded in establishing a ‘city theater for all’? After more than half a decade, the theater certainly invites a more diverse, multinational, no longer necessarily German, queer, cosmopolitan and politically engaged twenty-first-century audience that appears different from the spectators frequenting more traditional Berlin theaters such as Deutsches Theater and the Berliner Ensemble. At the same time, not unlike the Schaubühne, the main demographic in the auditorium seems to reflect the global ‘hipster’ generation of mobile and often precariously employed ‘postcapitalist’ cultural creatives. As they have replaced the traditional, German Bildungsbürger as the new, global, cultural, hegemonic mainstream of the twenty-first century, the opening of the focalization seems to have been mainly a horizontal one. Meanwhile, the less culturally savvy postmigrant and other local constituencies who would not have frequented theaters and other cultural institutions before may feel as excluded by the new liberal cosmopolitan city theater as by its previous white, German, institutional incarnation. The highly complex and ambiguous ideological mechanics of the institutional machinery, as well as the projects’ own potential pitfalls, often have been overtly reflected on the Gorki stage. Christian Weise’s 2016 Othello transported Taner Şahintürk in the title role, at the outset dressed in everyday streetwear, into a bizarre and exaggerated commedia Venice. Julia Oschatz’s set replicated the theater’s somewhat dull and functional 1950s socialist-realist proscenium décor multiple times on stage, in ever smaller perspectival miniatures. Şahintürk’s Othello gradually mutated into another puppet in this stage world, until he was eventually ‘white-faced’ by Iago. Weise’s production exposed and reflected the standard representational mechanisms of German culture and the wider Western canon. Elsewhere, as Hakan Savaş Mican staged Hans Fallada’s 1932 economiccrisis drama Kleiner Mann—was nun? (Little Man, What Now?), its main character, former bookkeeper Pinneberg, is eventually reduced to selling clothes on a commission contract. In a late scene, he serves a well-known actor, who, after trying on numerous suits, leaves the store buying nothing, leaving Pinneberg without income. Desperately, he calls after him, “But you have acted me on stage—surely you must know how I feel!” The scene perceptively articulated the Gorki’s inherent danger: that a hegemonic majority may grant the theater a plethora of critical praise, many renowned prizes and regular nominations to Theatertreffen, but that it eventually walks away, like the actor in the play, unaffected, not understanding but merely feeling content about having ticked the ‘diversity box’ in the German theater system.

162  Peter M. Boenisch

Theater as agent of “cultural globalization”: Munich Kammerspiele (2015–2020) At the heart of Germany’s capital city, the Maxim Gorki Theater has widened the focalization of a state theater institution to foster recognition, participation and identification of (some) previously un- or underrepresented ‘foreign’ and ‘minor’ voices from within the capital’s sizable and visible subcultures and communities. Outside Berlin, similar attempts at refocusing institutional expositions regularly hit resistance and brick walls.18 Matthias Lilienthal (b. 1959), former head dramaturge at Frank Castorf’s Volksbühne between 1992 and 1999, artistic director of the independent HAU venue from 2003 to 2012 (where, from 2005, he had commissioned Langhoff to initiate postmigrant performance projects in the theater’s Kreuzberg neighborhood), and curator of the German ITI’s Theater der Welt world theater festival, took over as new artistic director of Munich Kammerspiele in 2015. In contrast to the easygoing, multicultural and protestant Berlin, the state of Bavaria in the south of the country is Germany’s stronghold of conservative traditions and of Catholicism, as embodied by former Pope Benedict XVI, a former archbishop of Munich, and by the ultra-conservative CSU party that used to rule Bavaria with an absolute majority for many years. While Munich stands out as a liberal island in the conservative state—the city has been run by a social-democratic mayor since 1946, since 2014 in a ‘grand coalition’ with the CSU—and though the city hosts headquarters of multinational corporations such as BMW, Siemens and the German head office of Microsoft, the Bavarian capital appears far less a cosmopolitan ‘parapolis’ than Berlin. Still, statistics disclose in fact a higher proportion of residents with a non-German background in Munich than in Berlin (43 percent vs. 35 percent).19 And yet, as Lilienthal notes, in Munich, the cultural orientation is uniformly defined by the ideal of the upper middle class, even among an audience of Turkish background. Therefore, our theater must speak to an upper middle class, which tends to be easier when the stage expresses itself through literature.20 Lilienthal’s interventions into the institutional dramaturgy of the Kammerspiele, the city’s second-largest dramatic stage and a prominent ensemble theater whose tradition goes back to Bertolt Brecht and Otto Falckenberg, turned out no less radical yet far more controversial than Langhoff and Hillje’s institutional transformations in Berlin. Lilienthal tackled two cultures hitherto excluded from the system: first, he refused to accept the guarded frontier between the Regietheater tradition of Germany’s public theater and the progressive post-dramatic aesthetics and alternative production structures of independent, so-called ‘free theater’ (freies Theater). He commissioned well-known ‘free’ companies, such as Rimini Protokoll, Gob Squad and She She Pop, to create work with the Kammerspiele ensemble of actors. Secondly, in an explicit “attempt to express the pleasure of international­ization,”21 his programming engaged with transcultural and global theater-makers, as he committed to dedicating a third of the theater’s repertoire

A “theater of (inter-)singularity”  163 to international work. On the one hand, Lilienthal co-produced works by artists such as Lola Arias, Rabih Mroué and Marlene Freitas. On the other hand, he initiated collaborations with directors such as, from within Europe, Philippe Quesne (France) and Marta Górnicka (Poland), and from further away, Amir Reza Koohestani (Iran) and Toshiki Okada (Japan): We are trying to integrate, in the Kammerspiele, artistic practices, for example, from Tokyo, Tehran and elsewhere. […] Commissioning directors and thereby expressing the perspective of people in the Middle-East, in our times, brings a significant cultural and political value. I am a passionate supporter of such a cultural globalization, and find this kind of cultural exchange enormously important.22 The prime focalization point of this strategy of “cultural globalization” is, in contrast to Gorki Theater’s appropriation of the institution in the name of the entire city, in the first instance, the Kammerspiele’s established core audience of ticket subscribers—in Lilienthal’s own words, “the leftist, liberal middle-class and Schwabing bourgeoisie, while in addition we also try to reach a younger audience.”23 He addresses this constituency with the full expository authority that an established cultural institution like the Kammerspiele commands, seeking to complement this authoritative institutional voice with an orchestrated polyphony of foreign echoes and reverberations. Two productions created at Kammerspiele by Iranian director Amir Reza Koohestani (b. 1978) are apt examples. Lilienthal opened his second Munich season in September 2016 with the director’s adaptation of Kamel Daoud’s novel Der Fall Meursault (The Meursault Investigation). In March 2018, Koohestani staged Yasmina Khadra’s Die Attentäterin (The Attack), the Algerian military officer’s novel about the Israeli–Palestinian conflict in the West Bank. In the program booklet for The Attack, Koohestani challenged his reductive branding as an ‘Iranian director’ who creates work that engages with present-day fault lines between the Islamic Middle-East and the Christian West, while at other German theaters, he has staged, for instance, Chekhov; yet, within Lilienthal’s expository strategy, the affirmation of exoticizing expectations about an Iranian theater director is a deliberate part: I find it, first and foremost, quite a sensation that a director such as Amir Reza Koohestani has been able to establish himself with the Munich audience, working on the big stage, introducing a clear anticolonial perspective. Both novels were of course prominently debated in German media and literary circles, and this played an important role in the acceptance of these productions. Munich audiences are very interested in certain forms of international local cultures, and we try and meet them through the work we create with Amir and also Toshiki: We offer them an easy access through a form of “progressive folklore” in order to then expose them to modern contents and advanced aesthetics. Koohestani looks at the world, and at these stories, through a

164  Peter M. Boenisch distinctly Iranian lens, but he also creates a stage world that is not at all free from melodrama. This approach has worked very well here in Munich.24 Productions such as Koohestani’s and Okada’s thus seek to facilitate an inclusive experience of “cultural globalization,” focalizing a liberal Bildungsbürger mindset open to productive challenges and new experiences that are perceived as extending and enriching their own cultural status and self-understanding. They offer playful encounters with the unknown, which Koohestani emphasizes by casting actors from his own company who speak in Farsi, even in dialogue scenes where the German actors respond in German. In his disproportionately less accessible Japanese stage worlds, Toshiki Okada uses the presence of the familiar ensemble actors as mediators that allow him to notably not cater to a German audience. The institutional dramaturgy thus reflects in its guided and calibrated “global foreign-ness” aspects of globalization such as constant transformation, shifting fluidity and an emphasis on in-between spaces. The expositional gesture is expanded through multiple layers of address, and of meanings, which are juxtaposed without asserting hierarchization, and also without passing judgment. The core strategy of Lilienthal’s “cultural globalization”—that of a multiply layered over-writing—is even turned on the theater’s own work. In his first season, the Kammerspiele staged Mittelreich, the autobiographical novel by renowned Bavarian actor Josef Bierbichler, adapted by Anna-Sophie Mahler, long-time assistant of Swiss director Christoph Marthaler. Emerging Afro-German director Anta Helena Recke, who had worked as assistant director on the original production, later restaged the same production about an exemplary Bavarian farmhouse life spanning the twentieth century—but now casting exclusively Afro-German actors. In the style of ‘appropriation art,’ she, in Recke’s own term, “black-copied” the original in an exact reproduction.25 The (in parts) embarrassingly racist denigration of this project by some theater critics, who slurred the work of (professional) German actors of color as “bad amateur theater,”26 exposed institutional racism as much as it pointed out the absence of Afro-German representation in the standard focalization of the German state theater institution. Using their institutional power, the Kammerspiele authorized such transformations of the symbolic imaginary through encounters with representations of global plurality, diversity and participation on stage, in the same way as the theater’s experimental collaborations with ‘free’ experimental companies. The mixture of the radical and the consumable, of the foreign and the known, the local and the global, created a fluid distancing that fostered relations between cultures and invited playful explorations of alternative ‘others’ that challenged exclusionary, static affirmations of culture, identity and institutions as stable and different from ‘the other’ of a global culture or of Afro-German ‘minority’ culture. Thereby ‘foreignizing’ the experience of ‘the own’ spectating self, the foregrounding of ‘gaps’ of possibility and opportunity challenged purely dualist logics of (cultural and other) identity and difference.27 Such a progressive reshaping of both the public cultural sphere and of institutional structures, however, was a provocation not only of the Bavarian right-wing

A “theater of (inter-)singularity”  165 political forces. Local liberal theater critics also questioned Lilienthal’s reengineering of the city theater institution, especially when, after his first year in office, three popular actors quit their contracts and French director Julien Gosselin gave up the work on his adaptation of Michel Houellebecq’s novel Soumission (Submission) before the premiere. Theater critic Christine Dössel started an intense public debate with her fierce attack against Lilienthal’s “performeritis which wiped out any traditional dramatic theater” in favor of a “mediocre, harmless, superficial and simplistic piffle-theater with the attitude of explaining, teaching and being migrational, social, global and politically correct.”28 These debates would not wane. In early 2018, the CSU’s spokesperson for culture, Richard Quaas, who had previously led a similarly clamorous crusade against Lilienthal via social media, declared in a newspaper interview, “the time of financial and artistic experiments is finally over.”29 He announced that his faction in the city parliament would seek the termination of Lilienthal’s contract, thus leaving their social-democratic coalition partners unable to reach a majority of votes. As a consequence, Lilienthal himself offered his departure from Kammerspiele, not seeking the renewal of his initial five-year term of office, which is usually a mere formality. Commenting on this decision and comparing his case with the failed tenure of Chris Dercon at Berlin’s Volksbühne, Lilienthal’s critic Christine Dössel refuted the reading that Lilienthal’s demission had been pushed by a conservative Munich, as Lilienthal’s fan club suggests—as if this city was not ready for the other, and the new. This is nothing but the creation of a legend. […] That Lilienthal’s experiment failed is, above all, his own fault. At a highly subsidized public state theater, which is meant to exist for everyone, one simply has to meet and take along an audience, even if one despises them as overaged and white.30 More soberly, her colleague Egbert Tholl seconded, suggesting that Lilienthal disappointed “not in the what but in the how,” and attesting the Kammerspiele “a crisis of content, not of aesthetics.” Tholl stressed that after a difficult first season, the theater had produced some strong works, noting expressly productions by the Kammerspiele’s associate director Christopher Rüping but also the work of Koohestani and Okada: All around it, though, there was nothing but a foaming lust for non-actuality. Perhaps Lilienthal’s theater was better than one wanted to notice. His failure to win the favor of the ancestral audiences is not a failure of modernity, but a failure of reaching out. The new must legitimatize itself by demonstrating its urgency. […] While it was clever, perhaps at times virtuosic, it was never compellingly urgent. It was like asking the visitors of a museum to chose the colors for a painting they want to watch themselves. One missed an attitude [Haltung] in the many works which with a lot of irony ducked out of any meaning. In the long run, this had made it stale.31

166  Peter M. Boenisch Yet the criticism was premature. Both in 2019 and 2020, the Kammerspiele was voted “Theater of the Year” by the jury of German theater critics (presumably all but the Süddeutsche Zeitung writers). It was, however, too late, and Lilienthal left Munich, to the regret of the majority of his audience, contrary to what the local paper had envisioned two years prior.

Theater and the battle for the center ground: Theater Altenburg (2012–2017) The Kammerspiele’s project of “cultural globalization” met such resistance even in a modestly cosmopolitan, liberal city with a long theater tradition. Away from metropolitan centers and the attention of national newspapers, however, the stakes for theater-makers and artistic directors are even higher. Working in a region that lacks a notable foreign population (at a proportion of around three percent, half of whom are from other European countries and Russia),32 and where the populistnationalist AfD is the second strongest political party with almost 25 percent of the votes, artistic director Bernhard Stengele (b. 1963) tried to turn the theater in the Thuringian town of Altenburg into an ‘international theater,’ inviting actors from Burkina Faso, Greece, Romania, Turkey and elsewhere to join the local ensemble. The former Renaissance court town with its lavish sixteenth-century architecture, situated some 50 kilometers south of Leipzig, exemplifies the significant demographic, economic and socio-cultural changes that affected the regions of the former GDR since German reunification. The funded public theater landscape was also transformed beyond recognition, as many theaters were closed entirely; others merged into larger regional companies. Since 1990, Altenburg’s population has dropped from above 50,000 to the current 33,000, the majority of which is in the upper age range. The city’s theater, with a tradition dating back to principal Friederike Caroline Neuber in the mid-eighteenth century, was merged with neighboring venues to form the Theater & Philharmonie Thüringen, which now serves, as a touring company, a number of stages across the federal state of Thuringia. Launching his tenure as artistic director of the Altenburg-based drama ensemble in 2012, Stengele, who had previously led the theater in the North Bavarian town of Würzburg, was determined to reflect current globalization, not only on stage but also by employing a diverse workforce that eventually included 26 nationalities. Proclaiming his vision of an “international Theater Altenburg,” he obtained funding from a special federal cultural initiative to instigate formal cooperation with the Carrefour International du Théâtre de Ouagadougou (CITO) in the West African state of Burkina Faso, whose actor Ouelgo Téné permanently joined the Altenburg ensemble in 2013. After collaborating on a Christmas family show, the theaters worked on a piece about African refugees attempting the often fatal crossing of the Mediterranean. With Burkinabe playwright Paul Zoungrana, Stengele adapted material from Aeschylus’s and Euripides’s The Suppliants for the bilingual production Les Zéro-Morts/Die Schutzlosen (2014). The actors from both countries first met on the Italian island of Lampedusa, where many of the

A “theater of (inter-)singularity”  167 African refugees arrive with their boats, before rehearsing at Altenburg. The resulting performance was accompanied by lectures, an exhibition of posters and photographs, and post-show talks. As the refugee situation exploded the following year, the production was reworked. Rather unusually for a regional theater, it remained in the Altenburg repertoire for two seasons. During this period, Stengele noted that previously latent xenophobia among the local population came to the open. Some of the foreign actors were verbally and sometimes physically attacked. The local branch of the populist Pegida (European Patriots Against the Islamization of the Occident) movement called for the theater’s boycott for being too “migrant friendly.”33 Whereas in larger cities, right-wing extremism appears as a somewhat anonymous force remote from the theater-going majority, the situation in the small town was more complex. As Stengele noted in an interview, the people marching for Pegida on the market square and penning hate-filled letters to the editor of the local newspaper were in fact also the subscribers of his theater, locals and neighbors, whom he knew by name and who politely greet him on the street. Stengele described his theater as engaging in a “battle for the center ground,”34 hoping to intervene even at the right-wing fringes of the town’s community. “With our productions, we can create a basic understanding for the current situation. ‘If that also went kaput, we’d have nothing at all,’ people tell me—and this is indeed our big chance,” he stated in 2016.35 Following Les Zéro-Morts/Die Schutzlosen, Stengele staged Euripides’s Women of Troy, again working with performers from Burkina Faso, while also bringing in actors from Turkey, Bulgaria and Greece. In contrast to the earlier production, where the African actors played the roles of the refugees, the 14 female performers here spoke across languages and were no longer allocated individual roles. With his productions, Stengele also exploited what Lilienthal termed “progressive folklore,” as in his more recent 2016 Das zweischneidige Schwert (The Double-Edged Sword), a devised play about Islam and the fear of the unknown. It drew on Sufi dances and other somewhat exotic ritualistic elements. In Stengele’s repertoire, these international productions were performed alongside work (often devised pieces or commissioned plays) that addressed specific local issues, both contemporary or from history, such as the high level of drug abuse in the town, or a documented case of local resistance against the communist Stasi; a further major source for the theater’s productions were best-selling novels by East German authors. The key strands of Stengele’s international theater work came together for his final productions in 2017. First, he staged Carl Zuckmayer’s 1931 satire Der Hauptmann von Köpenick (The Captain of Köpenick) about an unemployed sans papier who gets hold of an army uniform and marches on the local town hall in a desperate attempt to obtain a passport. Stengele once more cast Burkinabe actor Ouelgo Téné in the lead, thereby adding contemporary resonances to the original portrayal of a societal outcast without altering Zuckmayer’s text. Next, Stengele revived an earlier association with the Hebrew-Arabic Jaffa Theatre from Israel. For Cohn Bucky Levy, the two ensembles explored traces of a Jewish

168  Peter M. Boenisch family who had run the local department store in Altenburg, before being chased away by the Nazi regime and murdered in a concentration camp. The play mixed their story with the narrative of a present-day Palestinian refugee, who fled from Israeli occupation into twenty-first-century Germany. The production once more addressed the topics of fear, prejudice, resentment and also human hope that had dominated many of Stengele’s shows at Altenburg. As a site-specific production, it was staged in one of the many vacant bourgeois houses in the city center, and again used numerous elements of popular theater, starting out in the streets with a Jewish wedding scene, with live music and dance, while maintaining thematic complexity and integrity. The deliberately popular, affectively charged aesthetic strategies helped to domesticize the foreign, as in Téné’s casting as Zuckmayer’s fake captain, and to offer enjoyable narratives of the other that emphasized aspects of communal sameness and equality. Stengele’s ‘international theater’ also confronted the Altenburg audience very openly with its clichés, its stereotypes and its fears, on stage and through the daily presence of its international staff in the town. It facilitated opportunities for encounter and for a positive affective relation with the other, thus (re)shaping actual social relationships for an audience with little if any exposure to the foreign, and to narratives other than the demonizing rejection of anything foreign as intrusion and outright existential threat propagated by the nationalist extremists. Against—and alongside—their populist invocation of the ‘German Volk’ and reactionary nostalgia of an anti-liberal “retrotopia,”36 Stengele’s theater insisted on its hegemonic power as a cultural institution to enforce the values of Western enlightenment culture within the town’s civic public sphere. It offered its audiences a different platform of “response-ability”37 to its concerns about issues of globalization, which they otherwise perceived as solely being addressed by the populist demagogues. The Altenburg theater’s achievement was rewarded with a special culture prize by the German federal minister for culture and the arts, Monika Grütters, in 2017—just before this remarkable attempt finally folded. In late 2016, four of the international actors decided not to renew their contracts beyond the end of the season. Their resignation letter, which referred to “verbal abuse, concerning the colour of their skin and their language” and concluded “the limit of tolerance has been exceeded,” was leaked by a local politician on social media and made headline news across the country. The town’s (social-democratic) mayor subsequently criticized the theater for giving his town a bad name in the press, showing little support for Stengele, who left his position at the end of the 2017 theater season as well.38

Against “cosy anonymity”: Interweaving cultures in “dramaturgies of (inter-)singularity” Rather than discounting the funded system of German theater institutions as obsolete in an era of “cultural capitalism,”39 the transcultural institutional dramaturgies discussed in this chapter attempted to rewrite, reinvent and refashion the

A “theater of (inter-)singularity”  169 established structures from within. This ‘mondialisation’ went beyond using the stage, in the tradition of Western enlightenment, as a platform to educate its spectators about the complexities of globalization. Offering, on occasions even imposing, ‘para-political’ encounters, narratives and imagery that inscribed the local into the global (and vice versa), the theaters made use of their institutional authority to intervene directly in the sociocultural fabric of their respective globalized polis, without reducing themselves to instruments of cultural policy: Berlin’s Gorki Theater shifted its exposition to ‘mean’ previously un-invited ‘foreign bodies’ while not giving up traditions of the literary canon; Munich Kammerspiele embraced a foreignizing perspective of “cultural globalization,” still focalizing a middle-class notion of Bildung and cultural prestige; Theater Altenburg insisted on the regulative authority of the cultural institution to define as well as defend values against populist reaction. As became evident, there can be neither a uniform response to the present socio-cultural changes, nor will these institutional dramaturgies be unanimously supported. The variant transformations of the theater’s institutional exposition and focalization echo Fredric Jameson’s diagnosis of global capitalism’s political, economic and sociocultural regimes as fostering an “aesthetics of singularity,” a notion which he pitches against the fashionable trope of global “multitudes.”40 From this point of view, the diverse relations and imaginaries projected by these institutional dramaturgies can be interpreted as instantiating a ‘theater of intersingularity.’ They confront their audiences with the shifting grounds of the global ‘para’-polis, the ‘too much’ of cultural globalization. The ‘dramatic conflict’ is no longer played out in the represented action alone but in the affective exposition and focalization of no longer homogenized, even incompatible narrations and positions in the same local space and in the same present moment. Theaters of inter-singularity thus relate and navigate between the Heimat of the local city and global foreign-ness in ways that resist easy reduction and appropriation of the foreign other, while also refusing to privilege the local and the established traditions. Both positions are rendered as singularities. While singularization may thus erode feelings of being ‘at home’ or of subjective agency, thereby contributing to the rise of mental health issues as well as to right-wing reaction, Jameson points to an emerging productive opportunity for reshaping not least transcultural relations. Where Lyotard in the 1970s’ postmodern context still evoked “a big patchwork of a host of minoritarian singularities” that would “break the mirror in which subjects were to recognize their national identities,”41 the global singularity of the present dissolves the weighted positions of center and margins. Transcending exclusionary mechanisms of ‘othering,’ today’s ‘inter-singular encounters’ require the hegemonic subject of the colonial past to see eye to eye with its subaltern others: the local and the global meet on par in what Jameson describes as “good anonymity,” where “the bourgeois subject is reduced to equality with all these former others.”42 The communal and collective institution of the theater is a particularly efficacious institution to facilitate such ‘good confrontations’ on a local level and to foster potential alliances between a diversity of interrelated (global) singularities.

170  Peter M. Boenisch Enacting subject and object positions as well as providing spaces, times and encounters where the ‘former other’ is no longer seen as being in need of assimilation and integration nor of violent rejection, it—performatively and institutionally—may model lived social relations that are predicated on the complicity of plural participants and their heterogenic collaboration.43 It asserts cooperative relations with the complex hybridity of any singular position on its own terms, demanding the acknowledgment of ‘para-political’ positions that remain irreducible to any singular, ‘own’ logic of values. A theater of inter-singularity hence gestures towards “true universality,” as evoked by François Jullien: “Only if we manage to foster a common that does not result in the reduction to uniformity, the common of community will become active, so that we will have the opportunity to properly share this common.”44 Yet, such recognition of a ‘common of community’ and of the ‘good anonymity’ effected by global singularity is by no means a neutral operation but enforces agonistic contest. Above all, they require to leave the ‘cozy anonymity’ afforded by the normative order that underpins the German theater system, predicated on ‘universal’ Bildungsbürger uniformity and its weighted hierarchies. The regulatory governmental powers will forcefully combat any such equalizing “profanation”45 of standard (empty) signifiers that usually ‘quilt’ the normative imaginary and symbolic orders, such as, in particular, tropes of the ‘nation.’ Hence, ‘theaters of inter-singularity’ bring to the open this ongoing societal dispute over the hegemonic “imaginary moment of the institution.”46 Far from mapping a utopia, they expose a major “political dilemma” that Jameson locates at the heart of our global aesthetics of singularity: the “radical differentiation” between individual experience and collective groups that manifests itself as a rampant ideological dialectic of the equally fraught “moods” of egoism and “pseudo-collectivity.”47

Notes 1 Jean-Luc Nancy, The Creation of the World or Globalization, trans. François Raffoul and David Pettigrew (2002; repr. Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2007), 34. Page references are to the 2007 reprint. 2 Cf. Erika Fischer-Lichte, “Patterns of Continuity in German Theatre: Interculturalism, Performance and Cultural Mission,” in A History of German Theatre, ed. Simon Williams and Maik Hamburger (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 360– 77; Peter M. Boenisch, “What Happened to Our Nation of Culture? Staging the Theatre of the Other Germany,” in Theatre and National Identity: Re-Imagining Conceptions of Nation, ed. Nadine Holdsworth (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2014), 145– 60. 3 This is how Mieke Bal once aptly phrased it, from a postcolonial perspective, with regards to the other prime institution of the white, male and bourgeois European national culture: the museum. Mieke Bal, Double Exposures: The Subject of Cultural Analysis (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 1996), 70. 4 Nancy, Creation of the World, 36. 5 See Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Enquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society, trans. Thomas Burger and Frederick Lawrence (1962; Cambridge: Polity, 1989); Heinz Bude, Joachim Fischer and Bernd Kauffmann, eds. Bürgerlichkeit ohne Bürgertum: In welchem Land leben wir? (Munich: Fink,

A “theater of (inter-)singularity”  171 2010); Christopher B. Balme, The Theatrical Public Sphere (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014). 6 See Fredric Jameson, “The Aesthetics of Singularity,” New Left Review, no. 92 (2015): 101–32. For a detailed sociological analysis following a similar approach, see Andreas Reckwitz, Die Gesellschaft der Singularitäten: Zum Strukturwandel der Moderne (Berlin: Suhrkamp, 2017). For a study of contemporary dance work from a related perspective, see André Lepecki, Singularities: Dance in the Age of Performance (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2016). 7 See Peter M. Boenisch, “Drama – Dramaturgie,” in Handbuch Drama: Theorie, Analyse, Geschichte, ed. Peter W. Marx (Stuttgart and Weimar: Metzler, 2012), 43–52. 8 See Bal, Double Exposures; Griselda Pollock, ed. Conceptual Odysseys: Passages to Cultural Analysis (London: I.B. Tauris, 2007). 9 The small venue had already created work for (and with) the local migrant community since 1983, yet only during Langhoff’s tenure from 2008 did it obtain funding from the city. This had become possible due to a change in German cultural policy, which for a long time had considered the funding of migrant cultural activity purely a matter of the migrants’ “home countries.” 10 On the notion of “postmigrant” theater, see Wolfgang Schneider, ed. Theater und Migration: Herausforderungen für Kulturpolitik und Theaterpraxis (Bielefeld: transcript Verlag, 2011). 11 “About Us,” Maxim Gorki Theater, accessed 11 September 2019, https://gorki​.de​/en​/ the​-theatre​/about​-us. 12 Mark Terkessidis, Interkultur (Berlin: Suhrkamp, 2010), 11–12. 13 Sasha Marianna Salzmann, “Gemeint sein,” in Theater Heute Jahrbuch: Grenzen (Berlin: Friedrich, 2016), 124–26, translated by the author. 14 Ibid., 128. 15 The aesthetics of this campaign has been maintained on the ensemble webpage until today; see “Ensemble,” Maxim Gorki Theater, accessed 11 September 2019, www​. gorki​.de​/index​.php​/en​/ensemble. 16 See Elinor Ostrom, Understanding Institutional Diversity (Princeton, NJ and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2005). 17 Salzmann, “Gemeint sein.” 18 An early prominent and well-documented case was Karin Beier’s tenure at Schauspiel Köln from 2007, where she also decided to reflect the city’s postmigrant reality in her ensemble. Yet, local respondents with migrational background, all of whom regularly participated in cultural activities, still did not feel focalized. Equally, the multiethnic performers themselves felt perceived first as “foreigners” then as “actors” and considered unable to perform in “classical plays.” See Azadeh Sharifi, Theater für alle? Partizipation von Postmigranten am Beispiel der Bühnen der Stadt Köln (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2011). 19 See “Landeshauptstadt München Bevölkerung: Daten zur Demografie,” muenchen​.de​, accessed 16 September 2020, www​.m​​uench​​en​.de​​/rath​​aus​/S​​tadti​​nfos/​​Stati​​stik/​​Bev​l​​kerun​​g​.htm​​l; “Berlin international: Migrationsanteil bei 35 Prozent,” berlin​.de​, accessed 16 September 2020, www​.b​​erlin​​.de​/a​​ktuel​​les​/b​​erlin​​/6092​​347​-9​​58092​​-berl​​in​in​​terna​​tiona​​l​-mig​​ratio​​nsant​​eil​-b​​e​.htm​​l. 20 Matthias Lilienthal, in personal communication with the author, 9 March 2018. 21 Ibid. 22 Matthias Lilienthal, “Ik ben fervent voor culturele globalisering,” interview by Jeroen Coppens, Etcetera, no. 151 (December 2017): 32, translated by the author. Lilienthal also appointed a number of international actors, such as former protagonist of Alvis Hermanis, Gundars Āboliņš, and German actors with postmigrant biographies. 23 Lilienthal, personal communication. Schwabing is Munich’s most fashionable bohemian district. 24 Ibid.

172  Peter M. Boenisch 25 See Recke’s interview with Matthias Dell, “Das wurde nie gemacht,” Der Freitag, 12 October 2017, www​.f​​reita​​g​.de/​​autor​​en​/md​​ell​/d​​as​-wu​​rde​-n​​ie​-ge​​macht​. 26 Most notably in Eva Elisabeth Fischer’s review “Schwarz allein reicht nicht,” Süddeutsche Zeitung, 13 October 2017, www​.s​​uedde​​utsch​​e​.de/​​kultu​​r​/sch​​auspi​​el​na​​ch​-se​​pp​-bi​​erbic​​hler-​​schwa​​rz​-al​​lein-​​reich​​t​-nic​​ht​-1.​​37071​​39, translated by the author. See also Matthias Dell, “Finde den Unterschied,” Der Spiegel, 23 October 2017, www​.s​​piege​​l​.de/​​kultu​​r​/ges​​ellsc​​haft/​​mitte​​lreic​​h​-an-​​den​-m​​uench​​ner​-k​​ammer​​spiel​​en​di​​esmal​​-nur-​​mit​-s​​chwar​​zen​-a​​-1174​​264​.h​​tml. 27 See François Jullien, “Die Differenz oder der Abstand: Identität oder Fruchtbarkeit,” Chapter 3 in Es gibt keine kulturelle Identität: Wir verteidigen die Ressourcen einer Kultur, trans. Erwin Landrichter (Berlin: Suhrkamp, 2017), 35–44, in which the author counters the established notion of “cultural difference” with what he terms “gap” or “distance” (écart). Cf. Anil Bhatti et al., “Ähnlichkeit: Ein kulturtheoretisches Paradigma,” in Internationales Archiv für Sozialgeschichte der deutschen Literatur 36, no. 1 (2011): 233–47. 28 The heated public debate was mainly prompted by theater critic Christine Dössel, “Kammerspiele? Jammerspiele!” Süddeutsche Zeitung, 11 November 2016, www​. s​​uedde​​utsch​​e​.de/​​kultu​​r​/the​​aterk​​rise-​​in​-mu​​enche​​n​-kam​​mersp​​iele-​​jamme​​rspie​​le​-1.​​ 32432​​28, translated by the author. 29 Sascha Karowski and Klaus Vick, “Lilienthal macht 2020 Schluss,” Münchner Merkur, 20 March 2018, translated by the author. 30 Christine Dössel, “An alten Ufern,” Süddeutsche Zeitung, 21 March 2018, www​. s​​uedde​​utsch​​e​.de/​​polit​​ik​/th​​eater​​-an​-a​​lten-​​ufern​​-1​.39​​13630​, translated by the author. 31 Egbert Tholl, “Die schäumende Lust an der Uneigentlichkeit,” Süddeutsche Zeitung, 21 March 2018, www​.s​​uedde​​utsch​​e​.de/​​kultu​​r​/hal​​bzeit​​bilan​​z​-in-​​muenc​​hen​-d​​ie​sc​​haeum​​ende-​​lust-​​an​-de​​r​-une​​igent​​lichk​​eit​-1​​.3913​​714, translated by the author. 32 See “Landkreis: Altenburger Land,” Thüringer Landesamt für Statistik, accessed 16 September 2020, https​:/​/st​​atist​​ik​.th​​uerin​​gen​.d​​e​/dat​​enban​​k​/por​​trait​​.asp?​​Tabel​​leID=​​ KR000​​1 02​& auswahl​= krs​& nr​= 77​& Aevas2​= Aevas2​& daten​= jahr​​& ersterAufruf​= x​&tit2=​&SZDT. 33 See Ronald Düker, “Im MäcGeiz-Land,” Die Zeit, 9 February 2017, www​.z​​eit​.d​​e​/201​​7​/ 07/​​thuer​​ingen​​-land​​esthe​​ater-​​alten​​burg-​​schau​​spiel​​er​-ra​​ssism​​us; Mounia Meiborg, “Wie de aussiehst, so wirste anjesehen,” Süddeutsche Zeitung, 25 February 2017, www​. s​​uedde​​utsch​​e​.de/​​kultu​​r​/the​​ater-​​wie​-d​​e​-aus​​siehs​​t​-so-​​wirst​​e​-anj​​esehe​​n​-1​.3​​39417​​4. 34 Bernd Noack, “Unser Theater ist ein demokratisches Zentrum,” Theater Heute, no. 6 (June 2016): 6, translated by the author. 35 Ibid. 36 See Zygmunt Bauman, Retrotopia (Cambridge: Polity, 2017). 37 Hans-Thies Lehmann, Postdramatic Theatre, trans. Karen Jürs-Munby (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2006), 185. 38 See Bernd Noack, “‘Love It, Change It, Leave It’: Schauspielchef Bernhard Stengele verlässt das Theater Altenburg-Gera,” Theater Heute, no. 8/9 (2017): 50–53. 39 See Jeremy Rifkin, The Age of Access: The New Culture of Hypercapitalism Where All of Life Is a Paid-For Experience (New York, NY: Tarcher/Putnam, 2001); Jodi Dean, Democracy and Other Neoliberal Fantasies: Communicative Capitalism and Left Politics (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009); Franco “Bifo” Berardi, The Soul at Work: From Alienation to Autonomy, trans. Francesca Cadel and Giuseppina Mecchia (Los Angeles, CA: Semiotext(e), 2009); Gilles Lipovetsky and Jean Serroy, L’esthétisation du monde: Vivre à l’ âge du capitalisme artiste (Paris: Gallimard, 2013). 40 See Jameson, “Aesthetics of Singularity”; Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, Multitude: War and Democracy in the Age of Empire (London: Penguin, 2005). 41 Jean-François Lyotard, Das Patchwork der Minderheiten (Berlin: Merve, 1977), 37, translated by the author.

A “theater of (inter-)singularity”  173 42 Jameson, “Aesthetics of Singularity,” 129. 43 Mark Terkessidis, Kollaboration (Berlin: Suhrkamp, 2015). 44 Jullien, “Die Differenz oder der Abstand,” 16; cf. also Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 2nd edn (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2004), 50. 45 See Giorgio Agamben, Profanations, trans. Jeff Fort (New York, NY: Zone, 2007). 46 Cornelius Castoriadis, The Imaginary Institution of Society, trans. Kathleen Blamey (Cambridge: Polity, 1997). 47 Jameson, “Aesthetics of Singularity,” 130; cf. Heinz Bude, The Mood of the World (Cambridge: Polity, 2018).

Bibliography Agamben, Giorgio. Profanations. Translated by Jeff Fort. New York, NY: Zone, 2007. Bhabha, Homi K. The Location of Culture. 2nd edn. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2004. Bhatti, Anil, Dorothee Kimmich, Albrecht Koschorke, Rudolf Schlögl, and Jürgen Wertheimer. “Ähnlichkeit: Ein kulturtheoretisches Paradigma” [“Similarity: A CultureTheoretical Paradigm”]. Internationales Archiv für Sozialgeschichte der deutschen Literatur 36, no. 1 (2011): 233–47. Bal, Mieke. Double Exposures: The Subject of Cultural Analysis. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 1996. Balme, Christopher B. The Theatrical Public Sphere. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Bauman, Zygmunt. Retrotopia. Cambridge: Polity, 2017. Berardi, Franco. The Soul at Work: From Alienation to Autonomy. Translated by Francesca Cadel and Giuseppina Mecchia. Los Angeles, CA: Semiotext(e), 2009. Boenisch, Peter M. “Drama – Dramaturgie” [“Drama – Dramaturgy”]. In Handbuch Drama: Theorie, Analyse, Geschichte [Handbook Drama: Theory, Analysis, History], edited by Peter W. Marx, 43–52. Stuttgart and Weimar: Metzler, 2012. ———. “What Happened to Our Nation of Culture? Staging the Theatre of the Other Germany.” In Theatre and National Identity: Re-Imagining Conceptions of Nation, edited by Nadine Holdsworth, 145–60. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2014. Bude, Heinz. The Mood of the World. Cambridge: Polity, 2018. Bude, Heinz, Joachim Fischer, and Bernd Kauffmann, eds. Bürgerlichkeit ohne Bürgertum: In welchem Land leben wir? [Citizens without Civility: Which Country Do We Live In?]. Munich: Fink, 2010. Castoriadis, Cornelius. The Imaginary Institution of Society. Translated by Kathleen Blamey. Cambridge: Polity, 1997. Dean, Jodi. Democracy and Other Neoliberal Fantasies: Communicative Capitalism and Left Politics. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009. Dell, Matthias. “Finde den Unterschied” [“Find the Difference”]. Der Spiegel, 23 October 2017. www​.s​​piege​​l​.de/​​kultu​​r​/ges​​ellsc​​haft/​​mitte​​lreic​​h​-an-​​den​-m​​uench​​ner​-k​​ammer​​spiel​​en​di​​esmal​​-nur-​​mit​-s​​chwar​​zen​-a​​-1174​​264​.h​​tml. Dössel, Christine. “An alten Ufern” [“On Old Shores”]. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 20 March 2018. www​.s​​uedde​​utsch​​e​.de/​​polit​​ik​/th​​eater​​-an​-a​​lten-​​ufern​​-1​.39​​13630​. ———. “Kammerspiele? Jammerspiele!” [“Chamber Plays? Lamentable Plays!”]. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 11 November 2016. www​.s​​uedde​​utsch​​e​.de/​​kultu​​r​/the​​aterk​​rise​​in​-mu​​enche​​n​-kam​​mersp​​iele-​​jamme​​rspie​​le​-1.​​32432​​28.

174  Peter M. Boenisch Düker, Ronald. “Im MäcGeiz-Land” [“In the Mc-Greed Country”]. Die Zeit, 9 February 2017. www​.z​​eit​.d​​e​/201​​7​/07/​​thuer​​ingen​​-land​​esthe​​atre-​​alten​​burg-​​schau​​spiel​​er​-ra​​ssism​​us. Fischer, Eva-Elisabeth. “Schwarz allein reicht nicht” [“Black Alone is Not Enough”]. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 13 October 2017. www​.s​​uedde​​utsch​​e​.de/​​kultu​​r​/sch​​auspi​​el​-na​​ch​se​​pp​-bi​​erbic​​hler-​​schwa​​rz​-al​​lein-​​reich​​t​-nic​​ht​-1.​​37071​​39. Fischer-Lichte, Erika. “Patterns of Continuity in German Theatre: Interculturalism, Performance and Cultural Mission.” In A History of German Theatre, edited by Simon Williams and Maik Hamburger, 360–77. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Habermas, Jürgen. The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Enquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society. 1962. Translated by Thomas Burger and Frederick Lawrence. Cambridge: Polity, 1989. Hardt, Michael, and Antonio Negri. Multitude: War and Democracy in the Age of Empire. London: Penguin, 2005. Jameson, Fredric. “The Aesthetics of Singularity.” New Left Review 92 (2015): 101–32. Jullien, François. Es gibt keine kulturelle Identität: Wir verteidigen die Ressourcen einer Kultur [There Is No Cultural Identity: Defending the Resources of Culture]. Translated by Erwin Landrichter. Berlin: Suhrkamp, 2017. Karowski, Sascha, and Klaus Vick. “Lilienthal macht 2020 Schluss” [“Lilienthal Steps Down in 2020”]. Münchner Merkur, 20 March 2018. Lehmann, Hans-Thies. Postdramatic Theatre. Translated by Karen Jürs-Munby. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2006. Lepecki, André. Singularities: Dance in the Age of Performance. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2016. Lilienthal, Matthias. “Ik ben fervent voor culturele globalisering” [“I Am Keen on Cultural Globalization”]. Interview by Jeroen Coppens. Etcetera 151 (December 2017): 30–32. Lipovetsky, Gilles, and Jean Serroy. L’esthétisation du monde: Vivre à l’âge du capitalisme artiste [The Aesthetication of the World: Living in the Age of Artistic Capitalism]. Paris: Gallimard, 2013. Lyotard, Jean-François. Das Patchwork der Minderheiten [The Patchwork of Minorities]. Berlin: Merve, 1977. Maxim Gorki Theater. “About Us.” Accessed 11 September 2019. https://gorki​.de​/en​/the​theatre​/about​-us. ———. “Ensemble.” Accessed 11 September 2019. www​.gorki​.de​/index​.php​/en​/ ensemble. Meiborg, Mounia. “Wie de aussiehst, so wirste anjesehen” [“You Will Be Looked at the Way You Look”]. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 25 February 2017. www​.s​​uedde​​utsch​​e​.de/​​ kultu​​r​/the​​ater-​​wie​-d​​e​-aus​​siehs​​t​-so-​​wirst​​e​-anj​​esehe​​n​-1​.3​​39417​​4. Nancy, Jean-Luc. The Creation of the World or Globalization. Translated by François Raffoul and David Pettigrew. 2002. Reprint, Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2007. Noack, Bernd. “‘Love It, Change It, Leave It’: Schauspielchef Bernhard Stengele verlässt das Theater Altenburg-Gera” [“Love It, Change It, Leave It: Theater Manager Bernhard Stengele Leaves Theater Altenburg-Gera”]. Theater Heute 8/9 (2017): 50–53. ———. “Unser Theater ist ein demokratisches Zentrum” [“Our Theatre Is a Stronghold of Democracy”]. Theater Heute 6 (June 2016): 4–9. Ostrom, Elinor. Understanding Institutional Diversity. Princeton, NJ and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2005. Pollock, Griselda, ed. Conceptual Odysseys: Passages to Cultural Analysis. London: I.B. Tauris, 2007.

A “theater of (inter-)singularity”  175 Recke, Anta Helena. “Das wurde nie gemacht” [“That Was Never Done”]. Interview by Matthias Dell. Der Freitag, 12 October 2017. www​.f​​reita​​g​.de/​​autor​​en​/md​​ell​/d​​as​wu​​rde​-n​​ie​-ge​​macht​. Reckwitz, Andreas. Die Gesellschaft der Singularitäten: Zum Strukturwandel der Moderne. [The Society of Singularities: On the Structural Change of Modernity]. Berlin: Suhrkamp, 2017. Rifkin, Jeremy. The Age of Access: The New Culture of Hypercapitalism Where All of Life Is a Paid-For Experience. New York, NY: Tracher/Putnam, 2001. Salzmann, Sasha Marianna. “Gemeint sein” [“Being Meant”]. In Theater Heute Jahrbuch: Grenzen, 124–28. Berlin: Friedrich, 2016. Schneider, Wolfgang, ed. Theater und Migration: Herausforderungen für Kulturpolitik und Theaterpraxis [Theater and Migration: Challenges for Cultural Policy and Theater Practice]. Bielefeld: transcript Verlag, 2011. Sharifi, Azadeh. Theater für alle? Partizipation von Postmigranten am Beispiel der Bühnen der Stadt Köln [Theater for Everyone? Participation of Postmigrants Using the Theater of the City of Cologne as Example]. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2011. Terkessidis, Mark. Interkultur [Inter-culture]. Berlin: Suhrkamp, 2010. ———. Kollaboration [Collaboration]. Berlin: Suhrkamp, 2015. Tholl, Egbert. “Die schäumende Lust an der Uneigentlichkeit” [“The Gushing Passion for Ambiguity”]. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 20 March 2018. www​.s​​uedde​​utsch​​e​.de/​​kultu​​r​/ hal​​bzeit​​bilan​​z​-in-​​muenc​​hen​-d​​ie​-sc​​haeum​​ende-​​lust-​​an​-de​​r​-une​​igent​​lichk​​eit​-1​​.3913​​714.

8

Yael Ronen Devising dramaturgy for an interwoven world S. E. Wilmer

In the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, documentary theater has become a fashionable strategy for performance. Often such work relies on the autobiography and personal experiences of the actors, utilizing the technique of devising to provide characters, relationships and narratives. This chapter1 focuses on the directing practices of Yael Ronen, who has developed a dramaturgy of cultural diversity over the last ten years, mixing therapy with ethnography and creating a humorous form of dissensus in her work during a period of increasing immigration into Germany. In Third Generation: Work in Progress (2009), Ronen brought together actors from the Schaubühne in Berlin and the HaBima Theatre in Tel Aviv with Palestinian actors to explore the burden of history on Germans, Israelis and Palestinians. In Common Ground (2014), she employed actors from the Balkans living in Berlin to reflect on the Balkan wars of the 1990s. In The Situation (2016), she engaged Israeli, Palestinian, Syrian and Kazakh actors to comment on the influence of the Middle East conflict on immigrants and refugees living in Germany. More recently, in 2017, she helped to develop the Exil Ensemble, consisting of professional actors from Palestine, Syria and Afghanistan at the Maxim Gorki Theater, and also devised a production with Romani actors called Roma Armee (Romani Army). Such performances juxtapose the stateless with the citizen, or contrast those with different nationalities, languages, religions or cultures, and create what Jacques Rancière calls “dissensus”2 by reconsidering political designations. According to Steven Corcoran, by “reorienting general perceptual space and disrupting forms of belonging,” dissensus constitutes a “radical challenge to the normal social distribution.”3 In emphasizing difference, plays employing dissensus enable the spectator to see more clearly the political and cultural issues at stake. As in Brecht’s theory of Verfremdungseffekt (estrangement effect), they make strange what is considered to be normal. But unlike Brechtian Lehrstücke (teaching plays), in which the desired identification with the protagonist ideally prompts the audience to recognize the need for political action, Rancière argues that the effect of dissensus is unclear: There is no reason why the production of a shock produced by two heterogeneous forms of the sensible ought to yield an understanding of the state of

Ronen’s dramaturgy of cultural diversity  177 the world, and none why understanding the latter ought to produce a decision to change it. There is no straight path from the viewing of a spectacle to an understanding of the state of the world, and none from intellectual awareness to political action. 4 All of Ronen’s productions discussed in this chapter involve problems of identification for the audience and thus manifest the provocative and indefinite effects of dissensus. Ronen, an Israeli director who lives in Berlin, has worked regularly at the Maxim Gorki Theater since Şermin Langhoff, the Turkish-born director, took over as joint artistic director (Intendantin) in 2013. Although she has also directed classics such as Antigone (Staatschauspiel Dresden, 2007), Ronen’s more innovative approach is to start work without a text and explore a specific theme with a group of specially chosen actors that leads to an original play. Often her dramaturgical strategy has been to take the actors on a research trip into the target area of the proposed play to gather material as well as personal experiences. The actors keep a record of their encounters with the outside world as well as their conversations with each other and their individual thoughts. The second phase of the development process takes place in the rehearsal room where the director, dramaturges and actors work out scenes based on the material they have gathered and look for a framing structure for the play. The personal diaries and experiences of the actors become a resource for developing dramatic situations in which the actors will often act as exaggerated versions of themselves on stage.

Third Generation: Work In Progress (2009) Ronen’s devised production of Third Generation: Work in Progress was jointly sponsored by the Schaubühne, the HaBima Theatre and the Ruhrtriennale, and established a pattern for Ronen’s work. Following a successful production of Plonter (Mess, or Confusion), which she had devised with Israeli and Palestinian actors in 2005 at the Cameri Theatre in Tel Aviv and which had toured around the world, she brought three ethnic groups together—Germans, Israelis and Palestinians—that signaled an even more complex clash of outlooks. Two dramaturges, Amit Epstein and Irina Szodruch, assisted Ronen on the production, which, with its controversial theme and risky casting decisions, also became a major success, touring Poland, Sweden, Denmark, Czech Republic, France, Portugal, Greece, Italy and Israel, in addition to various theaters in Germany (and was reprised at the Gorki in 2019 as Third Generation: Next Generation). In the title, “Third Generation” refers to the third generation of Germans, Israelis and Palestinians since the Holocaust, the founding of the state of Israel and the 1948 Arab–Israeli War. The notion of the third generation resonates most strongly with the Israelis who frequently use this phrase. As Irina Szodruch explained to me,

178  S. E. Wilmer The trauma that the first generation passes to the second generation is very often connected to silence. The first generation wouldn’t talk. The second generation wouldn’t ask because the pain of your parents is too fresh […] the role of the third generation is very often to ask and to talk […] This kind of process always goes together with the breaking of loyalty to family members, and it is easier for the third generation to talk with their grandparents than their parents […] The breaking of silence is very often the role of the third generation.5 Epstein acknowledges the complexity of the play’s theme: The first and second generations have their own discourse about the Holocaust and the events in the Palestinian territory. They have quite a specific terminology; they think in terms of the categories of “victim” and “perpetrator.” The third generation is experiencing a great discrepancy at the moment: on the one hand, these events happened a long time ago historically; on the other hand, they determine the lives and the identities of the third generation to such an extent that they cannot be ignored.6 The “Work in Progress” part of the title refers both to the style of performance as a possibly unfinished artistic work and to the notion that the relations between these three peoples and their governments are still being worked out. By combining actors from two of the major state-subsidized theaters in Germany and Israel with Palestinian actors, Ronen contrasted national identities, ideologies and personal memories. She explained, “My piece is about reflecting on how a society manipulates a historical memory and uses it for its political purposes.”7 Epstein describes the two-part process of their dramaturgical work: The first phase of the project served as research; the actors went to Israel, Berlin and into Palestinian territories and talked to therapists, journalists, politicians and writers who have a particular opinion on the German-Jewish relationship or the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. In the second phase, we considered together how the personal experiences could be presented dramatically. Here the idea emerged of a half-circle, similar to that of a group therapy session, from which everyone can present their scene. The content of the individual scenes continued to change throughout the process, particularly after the renewed conflict in Gaza.8 Ronen wanted to work with high-quality professional actors who were committed to the subject matter of the piece and enlisted four Germans, four Israelis and four Palestinians for the cast. According to the Schaubühne publicity (2009), The participants come from very different family backgrounds. Some come from families where relatives were born on opposite sides of the divided Germany, or are either Muslim or Christian Palestinians who have Israeli

Ronen’s dramaturgy of cultural diversity  179 passports and live in Haifa or Tel Aviv, or come from Jewish families with different origins—from Europe, the Middle East or North Africa.9 Thus she juxtaposed stateless Palestinians with Israeli citizens, and Jews whose relatives had suffered in the Holocaust with Germans whose grandparents had been Nazis. As Radu Lupo explains, this interweaving of diverse cultures was rendered more complicated by “further subdivisions, as, for example, male/female, hetero-/homosexual, east/west, Jewish/Muslim, Protestant/Catholic to name just the most basic, resulting in overlapping bi- and trifurcations.”10 The resulting production used a variety of languages in performance, including German, English, Arabic and Hebrew. The gestation period for the play consisted of three weeks on a field trip and one week in the rehearsal room. Szodruch recalls, “we had no idea what kind of theatre show might come out of it […]. We just promised a workshop presentation.”11 Ronen developed the playscript from conversations and improvisations amongst the actors on important questions of identity, political perspective and shared histories and “on how our common history is being memorialized and what effect that common history has on us today.”12 In developing the play, Ronen reveals, “people had to bring their own materials and most of the actors here wrote their own numbers.”13 Szodruch adds, They don’t need to be good writers. They just need to be sharp thinkers and take a decision of what they want to talk about […] The actors start from a very personal point of view […] They use their own name. But it’s always a game. It’s always a decision by the actors themselves as to how much they want to stay by themselves or how much they want to create a character.14 Despite the contentious and potentially explosive material being addressed in the performance (especially the Israeli–Palestinian conflict), Ronen employed a comic and ironic approach, encouraging the actors to find humor in conflict and oppositional discourse to make it more enjoyable for the audience: “Humor always helps within the group to digest a heavy subject that we are talking about. When we are dealing with things with humor, we are already able to go much further than we originally thought.”15 Each actor spoke of the traumatic events in their lives and acted them out in exaggerated scenes with the other actors. For example, Niels Bormann, one of the German actors, appears ridiculous by constantly apologizing for the past. By satirizing acrimonious arguments and exaggerating personal confrontations to make them seem ludicrous, Ronen raised important questions about historical issues and current disputes in a lighthearted way and without providing any answers so that it would not come across as didactic. The framing device of a group therapy session provided a structure in which the problems of the third generation could be processed as though the actors were suffering from psychological trauma. One of the main influences on the production was the group’s encounter with Dan Bar-On, an Israeli psychotherapist, who had developed a practice of reconciliation by bringing together second-generation

180  S. E. Wilmer Holocaust survivors with children of Nazi perpetrators to listen to each other’s stories as parallel narratives. He demonstrated schoolbooks to the actors that described the same event in Israel/Palestine from diametrically opposed viewpoints. According to Szodruch, The parallel narrative method means that you can tell two fundamentally different versions of an event which can be totally contradictory and […] you can be able [sic] to stay in the same room […] and acknowledge that someone else can have a totally different version of reality than yourself […]. This teaching was essential for the work we are doing […]. That’s why Third Generation became so vivid and explosive in the dialogue, and we managed to still stay in the room and come up with a show.16 While the concept of group therapy was a pivotal aspect of the developmental process of the play, it also was satirized as a medical practice in performance, with the obvious inability of the actors, supposedly under therapy, to benefit from the session. Sitting in a half-circle, the actors faced the audience as if certain of their opposing ideological positions but seeking sympathy for their difficulties in convincing the others. This theatrical convention allowed them the possibility of direct address to the audience about their serious concerns and, at the same time, the audience could enjoy the actors being ridiculed by other members of the group. For example, after Knut Berger and Niels Bormann, two of the German actors, proudly told a story to the group therapy session (and the theater audience) about their work as progressive-minded activists and how they wanted to protest against the inhuman treatment of battery hens, Ayelet Robinson, an Israeli Jew, deflated their self-confidence by complaining about the facile nature of their story: It’s not that I didn’t like it … it’s just that I expected something else. I mean, this is about third generation. I thought you would do something about the Third Generation of Nazis. His grandfather was a Nazi. So, I expected him to do a scene where he confesses about his family history and maybe even cry a little. I know it’s hard for you Germans because you’re so cold and everything, but still, we really need it! And then it would trigger a Jew … maybe me, to tell my own family story from the Holocaust. And then I would probably cry. And then, Niels, you would cry, because I would cry. And then you would ask me to forgive you and I would say “I can’t. Not because I don’t want to but because it’s not my place,” and then we would all cry. And then we’ll hug. And then we would really connect. [silence] But no … you had to come up with this stupid scene.17 In Third Generation: Work in Progress, Ronen managed to elicit a production in which the actors manifested the historical hostilities between the three ethnic groups, whose identities have been polarized by historical and ongoing events, staging it in such a way that their aggressive dialogue seemed funny rather than cruel. While presenting the opposing positions in an amusing fashion, the play

Ronen’s dramaturgy of cultural diversity  181 allowed the audience to consider parallels between the Holocaust and the displacement of Palestinians, as well as the danger of intransigent ideologies and political positions. Toward the end of the play, Robinson (speaking in English) began to express her personal frustration with working on such emotionally charged autobiographical material for a theatrical production that was touring throughout Europe: I can’t stand it anymore. I don’t want to be a part of this project … For me, this subject is really important. Do you think any of them really gives a shit? Do you think they have sleepless nights digging to the bottoms of their souls thinking of this subject? They just know this topic is hot. Take a handful of Palestinians, pour in some Israelis, mix it with the conflict, spice it with some guilty Germans, and … what do you get? A huge European success … Disgusting. These are a bunch of cynical parasites that under the façade of “political artist” travel around the world, shopping. Going to cocktail parties and being invited to every international festival.18 Her outburst leads to the breakup of the group therapy session with the actors hurling insults at each other, accusing each other of anti-Semitism, racism, Zionism and selling out to the establishment for high wages and fame. The scene ends with them running off the stage screaming at each other. After a crashing sound, the actors immediately return for the curtain call with their bodies comically covered in bandages, as if they had been fighting with each other backstage. Thus, the ending suggests that no one has a monopoly on righteousness, that everyone feels like a victim trapped in their own histories and sees others as perpetrators, and so the dissensus will continue unresolved. At the same time, the final scene, while humorously exaggerating the lack of reconciliation between the opposing attitudes, hints at the difficulty for the actors themselves in dealing with such fraught and highly flammable autobiographical material.

Common Ground (2014) Ronen used a similar dramaturgical approach in her play Common Ground, which premiered at the Gorki in 2014 and was invited to the prestigious Theatertreffen in 2015. Because of the widespread appreciation of Third Generation: Work in Progress, Ronen felt it was possible to do a similar type of show that used the same process but did not deal with her own ethnic background. According to Szodruch, originally, we thought we would do a show with actors who were still living in Serbia, Bosnia, Croatia, but then we thought that would be stupid. If we wanted to show something about the diversity of our society of the city where we are living, let’s do the show with people who are living here now.19

182  S. E. Wilmer Common Ground concerns the actors’ memories and experiences relating to the Balkan wars of the 1990s, and more specifically of their journey to former Yugoslavia to explore traces of the past. Like Third Generation: Work in Progress, Ronen began the dramaturgical process with an idea rather than a text. Rather than having a specific proposal for what the play might look like, she began with a research question: “was there a real reconciliation there” amongst people in the Balkans who had gone through devastating wars in the 1990s and appeared to be living peacefully now?20 She also wanted to “look at Berlin as some kind of common ground [or] field, which can bring different parties of conflict to create some kind of an artistic dialogue.”21 Ronen engaged a cast of actors living in Germany who were first- or secondgeneration immigrants from former Yugoslavia and would therefore be appropriate to address the theme. She also worried about how she and Szodruch, as Israeli and German, could address the topic of the Balkan wars and decided to include in the cast a German and an Israeli actor who could represent their positions as outsiders. She started the devising process by taking the actors on a five-day research trip to Bosnia to meet people and go to places that the actors selected, before eventually finding a framing structure that would provide a coherent narrative for the play. According to Ronen, “the most interesting thing that happened inside the group was actually the trip itself,” and so they decided that “the piece would be a reflection on the trip.”22 While Ronen as director was an outside observer, shaping and editing the script, she also relied on the actors, as in Third Generation: Work in Progress, to provide much of the dialogue: “We asked everybody to keep some kind of diary during the trip […]. The whole piece became a kind of really a mutual diary of this experience.”23 The play documents both their research trip and their reactions to the current situation there, as well as their memories of life in the Balkan countries during the breakup of Yugoslavia. According to Szodruch, “it was crazy how alive the wars are […]. The trip was so loaded.”24 The actors also discovered uncanny coincidences about their family circumstances that awakened dark memories, such as one actor’s father having been killed in a prison where another actor’s father had worked. Because of the sensitivity of the material, the rehearsal process was very heated and raw. According to Ronen, There is one fight that is the most loud fight on stage that we have that really happened and when it happened in real life it was very emotional and people were crying […]. There were also a lot of very emotional fights and breakdowns […]. We really had to […] take the responsibility of one step beyond creating a play, but really taking care of a very vulnerable group of people that are handling very deep wounds […]. A play kind of erupted out of a very personal group therapy process.25 Thus the actors provided the material for the play from their own personal and collective experience of the research trip, often speaking or singing songs in their native languages.

Ronen’s dramaturgy of cultural diversity  183 Much of the play deals with ethnic divisions and loyalties (Bosnian, Croatian, Serbian, etc.) and their effects on the actors. These are complicated by some of the actors’ families in former Yugoslavia having intermarried. For example, Dejan Bućin is reluctant to identify himself as Serbian: My ancestors came from Sicily. Part of the family moved to Croatia. The other part to Montenegro. My great-grandfather married a half-Croatian and half-Hungarian. They had three children. The first son married a Slovenian woman and they moved to Zagreb in Croatia.26 In some instances, the material was too close and sensitive for the actors to perform and so Ronen had to find ways to make it easier for them: There was a process where the more intimate things had to go into the play, then actors would be maybe a bit suddenly more afraid about it or then we had to distance it a little bit and to put some fictions also into the fact or to play a little bit with the biographies or to change role in some cases. There was a later stage of both the actors doing the step of being willing and wanting to expose themselves but at the same time putting a little bit more of an artistic disguise on it or fictional disguise in order to create also some kind of common layer of protection.27 In the case of the two young actresses who were just out of acting school and had discovered the coincidence of their fathers being in the same prison camp, the daughter of the one who had died in the prison camp decided that she didn’t want to play herself in the play because it was too emotional and asked to take the role of the daughter of the perpetrator instead. The other actress was relieved and delighted to change roles with her, and they decided to hide this fact from the audience, providing only occasional hints of the role change. By putting themselves on stage in this way and embodying their own and each other’s stories, the actors participate in a kind of confessionary theater. All of them struggle with their ethnic identity, which inhibits their ability to accept the perspective of others and exacerbates dissensus. Orit says, “my country is tattooed on my body. I don’t even notice it is there; it’s a natural part of my body, and no matter how far I go, it will always be there.”28 Nevertheless, they find that they are able to overcome some of the restrictions of their ethnic identities through Ronen’s therapeutic devising process of confronting parallel narratives, and in Deleuzian terms, “become other.”29 As the two young actresses are leaving Sarajevo, Mateja says, I find a photo of Jasmina in my passport. The woman at the check-in mixes up our passports. When we give each other our identities back, I think it’s all just chance. In a parallel world, I have to live Mateja’s life and she has to be Jasmina,30 which is indeed what happens on stage.

184  S. E. Wilmer

The Situation (2016) Similar to Third Generation: Work in Progress and Common Ground, Ronen’s 2016 devised play The Situation started with a theme instead of a text and humorously dealt with the confrontation between characters from differing cultural backgrounds. For this production, also staged at the Gorki Theater, she chose actors from the Middle East to deal with the topic of the immigrant community who have settled in the Neukölln borough of Berlin. The play coincided with the influx of approximately one million immigrants to Germany in 2015, including a large number of Syrians fleeing an ongoing civil war, who were granted asylum. In contrast to the other two plays, the rehearsal process of The Situation hardly needed to start with a research trip since most of the actors were already living as exiles in that community and were familiar with the triple problems of trying to live in the German society, getting along with fellow Middle Eastern immigrants and dealing with problems back in their homelands. As the Gorki publicity points out, In her new devised piece, Yael Ronen and the participating actors, whose biographies are intertwined with the conflict in the Middle East, grapple with these paradoxical re-encounters with the “neighbours.” They are all connected by the fact that they recently came to Berlin because the reality in their countries offers little hope for a peaceful future.31 Unlike other productions, Ronen invented a fictional location (a German language classroom) for The Situation, and so it made sense for the actors to invent names for themselves. Nevertheless, the characters that they play are quite similar to the actors themselves, and the actors mix autobiographical material with invented or borrowed stories. All of the characters are worried about their national identities and reveal that they often devise strategies to hide them when meeting other people from the Middle East. Moreover, two of the actors who had worked several times with Ronen, her former husband Yousef Sweid (Amir) and Orit Nahmias (Noa), act out Sweid and Ronen’s own failed marital relationship in the play as a metaphor for the Middle East conflict. The Situation, which won Theater Heute’s prize for “Play of the Year” and was invited to the 2016 Theatertreffen in Berlin, expressed the challenge for immigrants to adjust to their new environment while leaving behind relatives and loved ones and dealing with traumatic memories. It featured Israeli, Palestinian, Syrian and Kazakh actors who played semi-autobiographical characters living in the Berlin immigrant area of Neukölln, and it used German, English, Russian and Arabic languages in performance. The title of the play reflects the ongoing violence in Israel/Palestine and Syria: “Anyone who wants to allude to the current political situation in the Middle East in Hebrew or Arabic speaks simply of ‘The Situation’.”32 According to the Gorki publicity, “what was previously separated by social and physical walls develops into a new Middle East in Berlin.”33

Ronen’s dramaturgy of cultural diversity  185 The play is divided into scenes (announced with Brechtian-like surtitles) that introduce basic grammatical constructions and serve as a learning experience, not only for the students of the class but also for the audience, who discovers a new side of German life and an idiosyncratic understanding of the Middle East situation, politically, sociologically and personally. Stefan, the teacher, who calls himself “the masterpiece of integration,”34 is a naive, young gay man who sees his purpose in the classroom as being not only to teach the students how to speak German but also to try to integrate them into German society. In order to introduce different grammatical forms in the German language, he asks them basic questions such as “Who are you?”35 and “Where are you from?”36 However, this approach uncovers material that is more problematic than he anticipated. Recounting experiences from their past, the characters, who emigrated from various countries, express differing political views and frustrations in an amusing banter with the teacher. Because he is surprised by their divergent viewpoints, Stefan serves as a gormless foil for their dialogue, not knowing how to respond to their comments. As in Third Generation, Ronen employs dissensus and conflict to create humorous moments. For example, when Stefan asks Noa what her mother in Israel thought about her moving to Berlin, she replies, “What should she say? After I married a Palestinian, Berlin is her smallest problem.”37 Stefan is also wrongfooted by Hamoudi, a Syrian student, who says he would like to work legally in Germany but would need numerous documents, including his birth certificate. Because ISIS has occupied his hometown, he would need to ask them to send it. As he brags about his business dealings with ISIS, Stefan becomes worried about his student’s links with radical extremists. In another scene where he is wrong-footed, Stefan encourages two of the students to form a band. When Karim, a Palestinian who practices parkour, tries out some rap lyrics, Stefan interrupts him: “Let me stop you right here. It’s a beautiful song […] But in Germany you can’t just say all Zionists should burn.” When Karim asks “Why?” Stefan answers, “Let’s say it’s a sensitive subject, it might work in London, maybe Paris, but here you can’t say those things. Maybe we can make another version that is a bit more balanced.”38 Similarly, Amir, the Palestinian, who is played by Ronen’s former husband, recounts that when he ordered food in Arabic in a German restaurant and his young son ordered in Hebrew, he received a look from the waiter to suggest that he must be a Jewish spy working for Mossad. Again, Stefan becomes the butt of the joke by Amir taking out his anger on him: Do I have to come and apologize for my son’s Hebrew? […] [The waiter] gives me this patronising look. “Ohhh, poor lost man, you don’t know who you are […].” I know exactly who I am and what I am. I am a real Palestinian. I belong. Belong to the oppressed. I’m a victim. I suffered from the occupation! Jews abused me. All my life. Especially my wife!39 While Amir asserts his Palestinian identity at this moment in the play, later he and other characters complicate their ideological positions by revealing that they

186  S. E. Wilmer often hide their ethnic or religious affiliation in Germany to protect themselves from confrontation. Noa says, Until I moved to Neukölln, I never met in my life people from the Middle East. Israel is part of Europe, after all. I was told to believe that if [I] happen to meet an Arab abroad I should do anything to avoid contact. I should definitely hide the fact that I’m Israeli or Jude [Jewish]. Basically, in Israel you are brought up to believe that outside of Israel everybody wants to kill you even if they say they don’t. Except for the Dutch maybe.40 Hamoudi remarks, “when I meet a Lebanese man, I’ll try to change my accent so he wouldn’t know I’m from Syria.”41 Laila adds, “when I meet a Palestinian man in Berlin, I cover myself up and pretend to be a good Muslim.”42 Stefan, the German teacher, then surprises his students by saying, “when I meet German people, I wonder if I pass as a German.”43 Later he reveals that his real name is Sergei and that he comes from Kazakhstan. In juxtaposing people from such diverse backgrounds and presenting their competing reflections on personal traumatic experiences and their problems of getting on with each other, as well as their need often to disguise their national or religious identities, Ronen exaggerates the difficulties of their fitting into German society, at the same time as revealing some of the real issues that they confront on a daily basis. By establishing Stefan as a gormless teacher of a language class who asks naive questions of his students as part of the process of explaining grammatical constructions, she sets up a comic device whereby the immigrant characters reveal their discordant views and divergent backgrounds. The audience becomes a witness to Stefan’s difficulties in handling the class. Ultimately, he plaintively explains to the audience, Since we were studying the past tense, I asked my students to tell their own story. I was hoping they would tell amusing anecdotes about their families. But we soon heard contradictory versions of the 100-year conflict in the Middle East.44 As this leads to a series of traumatic stories from his students, Stefan begins to despair, “How can I solve the conflict in the Middle East?”45 Ronen’s use of a language class as the structural device for the play provides a metaphor for the central problem of immigration. In trying to help the students overcome the language barrier, Stefan seeks to help them understand and adjust to their new cultural environment. However, instead of assimilation and harmony, the class exposes conflict, dissensus and irreconcilable difference. According to a critic at Der Spiegel, even the initial thesis of the evening is captivating: The Near East conflict once held Israelis, Palestinians and Syrians at the greatest possible distance from each other—and now brings them together, far from their home countries, in a very small space.46

Ronen’s dramaturgy of cultural diversity  187 This dramaturgy of cultural diversity enables the audience to reflect on differences between the various nationalities, religions, ethnicities and historical, political and sociological problems in the Middle East as well as the characters’ problems of leaving their homelands and living in Germany. Without offering any solution (as in Third Generation), The Situation also highlights the differences between those who are citizens and those who enter a new environment and remain in a liminal sphere between their current home and their earlier homeland, often afraid to reveal their ethnic origins or religious ties. In the final scene, Amir and Noa’s failed marriage (between a Palestinian and an Israeli) is represented as a metaphor for the Middle East conflict. As in Third Generation, which stages a group therapy session as a failed attempt to overcome the polarization of views between Germans, Israelis and Palestinians, Noa recalls her unsuccessful experience of marriage counseling: We went through more than one couple therapies [sic]. Every therapist started the process super confident and motivated, sure that he will be the one who will make history and bring the peace to the Middle East. And like every American president before him, he goes back home desperate with his tail between his legs and announcing a dead end. Forget about the hope of a future together. Nobody even managed to help us to separate in a civilized way.47 With the immigrant characters’ gloomy predictions for the future, The Situation echoes the unresolved dissensus experienced at the end of Third Generation. Nevertheless, Noa offers a somewhat more positive note at the end of the play. Reflecting on the conflict in the Middle East as she talks about her failed marriage and her recent life in Berlin as a successful actor, she concludes, “I never thought I will find myself in this kind of a trap. And that made me optimistic: The fact that you don’t believe something can happen doesn’t mean it’s not possible. There is still hope for us.”48

Winterreise (2016) In 2016, the Gorki Theater announced that it would launch the Exil Ensemble, consisting of actors who “are forced to live in Germany.”49 Its justification in forming an exile ensemble stemmed from their attempts to avoid treating migrants like a passing fad and instead to provide them with some form of ongoing empowerment. In creating the ensemble, the Gorki was addressing several questions: “How can the theatre become a space where refugees are represented with selfdetermination? How can we successfully escape from the arrogant gesture of a privileged institution?”50 The Gorki wanted to provide a more enduring role for some of the refugee population: The central issue on both sides is one of duration: is theatre, as an institution notoriously obsessed with remaining current, interested in sustainability in

188  S. E. Wilmer their work with refugees? And on the other side, are refugees forced to performatively perpetuate their flight state on a project basis just as long as they are interesting as protagonists in their own biographies?51 To address these questions, the Gorki produced a plan to foster a much more elaborate development. With grants from state and private bodies, they issued a call for applicants in 2016, advising that the theater had managed to formulate a program that should enable seven colleagues in exile to pursue their professions with us for two years. With continuous dramaturgical support, the members of the ensemble will develop projects that can be toured and be flanked by workshops. The projects will be presented at cooperating theatres. In addition, participants will perform in Gorki projects and productions, and develop smaller evenings of performance, musical formats or lectures in the Studio Я themselves.52 Following the interview process in which they considered 120 applications, they hired seven actors from Afghanistan, Palestine and Syria. Three of these actors had worked with the Gorki before in The Situation, while four of them were completely new to the theater, including two who came directly from Damascus to join the ensemble (Mazen Aljubbeh and Kenda Hmeidan). Following a first workshop performance of Wonderland in December 2016 that used Alice in Wonderland as a starting point to develop “scenes about the rules of the house within which they now have to orient themselves,”53 Ronen used her familiar technique of taking the actors on a field trip as preparation for devising a new play. They toured to theaters in ten different cities that would act as partners on the production. As in Third Generation and Common Ground, the actors kept a diary during the journey, and the company filmed aspects of the trip to include as a visual backdrop for the dialogue. The resulting play, Winterreise (Winter Journey), which opened in 2017 and toured successfully to the ten cities,54 was based on the actors’ reactions to their new environment in Germany and their personal memories of their earlier lives in the Middle East. As in some of Ronen’s other work, the play is highly autobiographical, and the actors use their own names and evidently wrote many of their own lines, re-jigging details from their personal experiences or inventing some of the stories. Unlike the normal tourist visit to the Middle East, Winterreise provided the reverse experience for the audience, who would see their own country through the critical eyes of foreigners. The first stop on the trip is the historic city of Dresden where Niels, who is acting as their German guide and wants to show them the “romantic and classic Germany,”55 informs them that the anti-immigration right-wing group Pegida might be demonstrating outside their hotel. The actors feel threatened that the Pegida demonstration might turn against them and remain in their hotel rooms. However, Ronen lightens the atmosphere in what might have become an ugly scene by having one of the actors act as a naive foreigner innocently trying to interpret the placards carried by the racist demonstrators. Telling Hussein that

Ronen’s dramaturgy of cultural diversity  189 he wants help in reading the Pegida placards in order to improve his German, Karim (speaking in Arabic with his words in surtitle) tries to understand the antiimmigration slogans that he can see from his hotel room. Karim: Hussein: Karim: Hussein: Karim: Hussein: Karim: Hussein: Karim: Hussein: Karim: Hussein: Karim: Hussein: Karim: Hussein: Karim:

“Fatima Merkel.” Who is Fatima? Frau Merkel. I thought it was Angela. Yes, but maybe it’s her middle name. Like Barack Hussein Obama. Angela Fatima Merkel? I don’t know. I never heard about it. “Abschiebung.” Deportation. Go. Go where? Go wherever, but go! Who? Who do you think? Fatima? Fatima who? Angela Fatima Merkel. “Merkel muss weg!” [Merkel must go!] Maybe. I didn’t even know she is Muslim. [Pointing] Of course, [there is] a picture [of her wearing a] hijab.56

Before heading off on the bus to Weimar, Karim reads a poem by Bertolt Brecht about the plight of exile that he says could have been written by the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish. The poem helps draw a parallel between the Gorki’s Exil Ensemble of Middle Eastern actors on the stage and the German exiles who fled Nazi Germany in the 1930s and created their own exile ensemble in Zurich (which the group later visits). Instead of the historic city of Weimar, the bus brings the actors to Buchenwald, and they react with disappointment and anger at being brought to a death camp since some of them feel that they have just escaped from one in Syria. Mazen says: “I don’t want to leave the bus. The Niels say he want to show romantic and classic Germany. But then he shows Pegida and Buchenwald.”57 Memories of the past begin to flood in as some of the actors pine for lost lives and lost loves. Kenda misses her boyfriend who left her in Damascus to escape to Germany. Mazen spots someone who looks like his girlfriend in Buchenwald. Maryam, in an obviously exaggerated and comical story, seeks advice from Niels, saying she doesn’t understand relationships in Germany. She has just met the girlfriend of the German man with whom she spent the weekend and was invited to eat asparagus with them and the girlfriend’s girlfriend: “I didn’t know that he has a girlfriend and his girlfriend has a girlfriend and they all want to eat Spargel [asparagus] together. With me. What is wrong with you Germans?”58 The play becomes as much about memories of home in the Middle East as about their reactions to German society and customs, with each of the actors revealing many personal details about their past. Although, as in The Situation, it is difficult

190  S. E. Wilmer to know the extent to which the actors have invented aspects of their past, their monologues come across as plausible. For example, Karim tells about his life doing parkour in Palestine. By exhibiting his abilities in running and jumping around the stage, he demonstrates how parkour gave him a sense of freedom that was otherwise limited by Israeli restrictions: “Walls were a reality for most of my life. Parkour was what freed me … from boredom … from occupation … from the gunshots.”59 Likewise, in a similarly convincing mode, Kenda reminisces about her life in Damascus with her boyfriend, telling how they created their own parties with their friends until their friends left Syria or died: “All I felt was the void created by the people that left me behind.”60 Hussein tells an equally autobiographical story about his perilous escape from Syria via Turkey and Greece with the help of smugglers and several false passports. Like Stefan’s function as a gormless teacher in The Situation, Niels’s role as German guide provides an amusing foil for the others’ reactions to Germany. He apologizes for taking them to inappropriate destinations and struggles to explain certain German customs that they find strange, such as the weekly Pegida demonstrations that have lasted for two years, and the German customs relating to toilet and washing practices. The play not only concerns cultural differences but also the loneliness and homesickness of exile. Ultimately it confronts the central problem of migration—that of longing for a sense of home in a new society. Nevertheless, Winterreise, like The Situation, seems to provide somewhat of a positive vision for the future. As the bus tour ends, Mazen sums up his experiences, which provide a kind of justification for their Exil Ensemble: theater people are the same all around the world, I right away feel home, I feel safe, it feels like it’s family. I look at my new theater family and I think I can get used to it … they are beautiful.61

Roma Armee (based on an idea by Sandra and Simonida Selimović) By contrast with Winterreise, which involved a group of actors in exile from the Middle East going on a trip around German-speaking countries, Roma Armee consists of a diverse group of Romani actors from various parts of Europe who were brought together by Ronen at the Gorki Theater. The play, which was based on an idea by two Romani sisters who act in the play and wanted to present their case for self-empowerment, was first staged in September 2017 and won the Rome XVI Europe Theatre Prize for 2017. It coincided with the rise of the far-right anti-immigration Alternative für Deutschland (AfD) party in Germany, which achieved an important position as the main opposition party in the German parliament. As the critic Yana Meerzon wrote, “this production speaks directly to the most dangerous tendencies in the post-Brexit Europe: such as rising nationalism, xenophobia and racism.”62 The actors did not go on a research trip because they came from so many parts of Europe, including Austria, Serbia, Germany, Kosovo, Romania, England

Ronen’s dramaturgy of cultural diversity  191 and Sweden. In a Brechtian cabaret-style performance, they represent a culturally complex group, speaking a variety of languages and seeking political and social unity despite their diversity. As a counter-narrative to the common prejudices and stereotyping of Romani peoples, their performance consists of songs and stories of persecution (such as sterilization and slavery) and self-empowerment. Because most documents about Romani people have been written by outside commentators rather than by Roma themselves, the play represents an innovative approach, giving a voice to those who have normally been silenced in history. It demonstrates a rich and varied cultural history of Romani people and the failure of European nations to uphold their human rights. According to Meerzon, On stage, we see the beginnings of the revolution. The Roma people of the falling apart European Union are called to stand united against the collective danger of rising neo-Nazism. The eight performers represent everything we associate with democracy. They are diverse, queer, artistic and politically conscious.63 As in other works by Ronen, the actors appear to present themselves on stage, using their own names and telling personal stories of victimization, poverty and stigmatization as well as individual success. In a metatheatrical move, the cast openly discuss what their families might think of them performing in the show, how they should be dressed on stage and what issues they should and should not raise. The small army, referred to in the title, is also a theatrical gesture to demonstrate their anger at their treatment in the past and the need for them to gain strength and marshal support from the various enclaves of Romani throughout Europe. In one scene, the actors appear as armed urban guerrillas, encouraging Meerzon to complain that the play “seemed to be somewhat belligerent, especially in its rather militaristic desire to set things right, to keep memory alive and to tell the true story.”64 Szodruch asserts that Roma Armee addresses issues of class, race and gender in a very specific way: “it is the most precise description we have because it is a very queer show. It talks a lot about economics because Roma are systematically pushed to poverty.”65 Especially as a result of the rising tide of nationalism from the far-right, the actors (who apparently use their own names in performance) regard the present moment as a turning point in their cultural survival. Lindy, a Swedish gay character, says, now is a breaking point for my group. In one generation or two we will be erased as an ethnic group. […] If we don’t break the silence, we are doomed. […] We have to strengthen our solidarity as Romani Travellers and be proud.66 They co-opt the rhetoric of right-wing groups by asserting their own blood links with other Roma, calling for unity and equality that can help them overcome their

192  S. E. Wilmer separation as a result of different language and ethnic groups, as Riah, the actress from England, sings a song claiming, “My blood is strong.”67 In Szodruch’s view, when someone from such a marginalized group dispossesses this from the right-wing, it is a total act of empowerment of visibility. Of course, when you have a certain visibility and power, you don’t need this terminology any more. But in order to make a provocation, it is good to use this terminology from such a powerless position.68 The song ends with, “My blood is strong … I will roam.”69 In a metatheatrical interlude, two non-Romani in the cast, Orit, an Israeli woman, and Mehmet, a gay Turkish man, search for appropriate roles for themselves in the play, experimenting with a stereotypical gypsy scene from Carmen. After acknowledging that they are marginalized onstage because the focus is on Roma, they ironically admit that as a Jew and a gay Turkish man, they find it hard to give up their normal social roles as victims and have to play supporting roles. As in Common Ground, where an Israeli and a German actor provided an outsider’s view on the theme of the play, Ronen’s use of an Israeli woman and a Turkish man in Roma Armee not only enhances the cultural diversity on stage but functions as a vehicle to enable a detached perspective that would encourage a critical response by the audience. As Meerzon pointed out, Of course, using another set of European Others—a Jew and a Turk—as comic fools can appear problematic, but not in Ronen’s hands. Not only she is able to recognize a stereotype and make fun of it, she is also not afraid of providing critical commentary on the dangers of commercializing the narratives of the victimhood.70 Whether Romani people throughout Europe can achieve unity and a more powerful position in society comes across as much a dream as a political possibility.

Conclusion Rather than performing a given text with an established ensemble, Ronen’s directing strategy has been to bring together actors from different countries or ethnic groups to form a cast. Her dramaturgical practice during the past ten years (2008–2018) has been to investigate a specific theme, often by taking her actors on an exploratory trip, and to rely on them to provide autobiographical material as well as invented stories to create performances that she then shapes and refines. No doubt, this strategy has had a sizable effect on the actors themselves. As we have seen, Ronen acknowledges that the rehearsals have often been emotionally demanding and painful for the actors. Nevertheless, the dramaturgical process has allowed the actors to process personal issues in the rehearsal room before venturing onto the stage with their work, making compromises where necessary when the material has been too difficult to present in public. Moreover, the practice of

Ronen’s dramaturgy of cultural diversity  193 engaging with their own personal material has provided actors from marginalized social positions with the unusual opportunity to express themselves on stage and tell their own stories. Ronen’s work frequently deals with diverse ethnic, religious, linguistic and gender identities, sometimes by exploiting them for their humorous extravagance or stereotypical behaviors, and for their conflicting attitudes, but also by exposing their complex interweaving natures. By introducing humor into problematic dissensus and contentious social discourses and by ironizing nationalistic and tribal loyalties, she opens the possibility for social change and cultural understanding, especially at a time of increasing immigration and the rise of the AfD, the far-right anti-immigration party. Another achievement in Ronen’s work is the development of an audience that, according to Szodruch, is “ready to have multiple languages on stage.”71 The population of Berlin is one-third non-native German speakers and “in two years [from 2018], the actors in the [Gorki] company will be one-third non-native German speakers.”72 Szodruch asserts the importance to have a representation of the diversity of the city on stage […] and to have role models […] The conflicts that we are talking about on stage are conflicts that the teachers are having to deal with in their classrooms.73 For example, with regard to Roma Armee, “it’s very rare that there are powerful role models for Roma in society.”74 As she points out, teachers can bring their culturally diverse students to the Gorki when they have a problem. As in a Verfremdungseffekt creating a distancing effect, dissensus strategies transform accepted social norms into something strange and enable the spectators to comprehend social and political issues differently. By “refram[ing] the world of common experience [and developing] new possibilities of subjective enunciation,”75 they enable the audience to see the possibility of becoming the other in society rather than remaining rooted in conservative or nationalist habits, or being oppressed by social convention and prejudice. As Rancière claims, “critical art intends to raise consciousness of the mechanisms of domination in order to turn the spectator into a conscious agent in the transformation of the world.”76 In a major subsidized theater in the heart of Berlin, amidst all the monumental buildings on the Unter den Linden boulevard, school children can see plays that reflect their own social and cultural issues. For the students, it is important that they can go to the theater and say, “there’s something where my story is being told. That’s amazing.”77

Notes 1 Parts of this chapter are adapted from S. E. Wilmer, Performing Statelessness in Europe (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018). 2 Jacques Rancière, Dissensus: On Politics and Aesthetics, trans. and ed. Steven Corcoran (London: Continuum, 2010).

194  S. E. Wilmer 3 Steven Corcoran, “Editor’s Introduction,” in ibid., 2. 4 Rancière, Dissensus, 143. 5 Irina Szodruch, interviewed by the author, Berlin, 23 February 2018. 6 Quoted in Christiane Lötsch, “Israeli-German Theatre: The Holocaust, Nazi and Palestinian ‘Third Generation’,” Café Babel, 30 April 2009, trans. Annie Rutherford, https​:/​/ca​​febab​​el​.co​​m​/en/​​artic​​le​/is​​raeli​​-germ​​an​-th​​eatre​​-the-​​holoc​​aust-​​nazi-​​and​-p​​alest​​ inian​​-thir​​d​-gen​​erati​​on​-5a​​​e0056​​ef723​​b35a1​​45de5​​f8/. 7 Frank Weigand, “Verharmlost die Schaubühne den Holocaust?” Die Welt, 19 March 2009, www​.w​​elt​.d​​e​/kul​​tur​/t​​heate​​r​/art​​icle3​​40747​​1​/Ver​​harml​​ost​-d​​ie​-Sc​​haubu​​ehne-​​den​H​​oloca​​ust​.h​​tml. My translation. 8 Lötsch, “Israeli-German Theatre.” 9 “Third Generation by Yael Ronen and Company,” Schaubühne, video, 1:16, accessed 30 October 2019, www​.s​​chaub​​uehne​​.de​/e​​n​/pro​​dukti​​onen/​​dritt​​e​-gen​​erati​​on​.ht​​ml​/m=​​ 311. 10 Radu Lupo, “D/B Recommended: 3G-THIRD GENERATION / Theater @ Schaubühne Berlin,” Digital in Berlin, 24 March 2010, www​.d​​igita​​linbe​​rlin.​​de​/th​​ird​-g​​enera​​tion-​​ 2010. 11 Szodruch, interview. 12 Ibid. 13 “Dritte Generation,” trailer der Schaubuhne, Berlin, 17 August 2011, www​.youtube​. com​/watch​?v​=3qeb15yF3Fk. 14 Szodruch, interview. 15 Ibid. 16 Ibid. 17 Yael Ronen and Company, “Dritte Generation” (unpublished manuscript, 2010), 27. 18 Ibid., 42–43. 19 Szodruch, interview. 20 Yael Ronen, “Yael Ronen über ‘Common Ground’,” YouTube video, 1:05, posted by kultivision, 2 June 2015, www​.youtube​.com​/watch​?v​=0hTUYEJS​_wE. 21 Ibid., 1:40. 22 Ibid., 2:42. 23 Ibid., 4:20. 24 Szodruch, interview. 25 Ronen, “Yael Ronen über ‘Common Ground’,” 2:54. 26 Yael Ronen and Ensemble, “Common Ground” (unpublished manuscript of German text and English surtitles, 2014), 40. 27 Ronen, “Yael Ronen über ‘Common Ground’,” 5:23. 28 Ronen and Ensemble, “Common Ground,” 54. 29 See Gilles Deleuze, Negotiations: 1972–1990 (New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 1995), 44. 30 Ronen and Ensemble, “Common Ground,” 52. 31 “The Situation: Play of the Year 2016,” Maxim Gorki Theater, accessed 30 October 2019, www​.gorki​.de​/en​/the​-situation. 32 Ibid. 33 Ibid. 34 Yael Ronen and Ensemble, “The Situation” (unpublished manuscript, 2015), 66. 35 Ibid., 4. 36 Ibid., 25. 37 Ibid., 15. 38 Ibid., 49–50. 39 Ibid., 22–24. 40 Ibid., 57–58. 41 Ibid., 60. 42 Ibid., 64.

Ronen’s dramaturgy of cultural diversity  195 43 Ibid., 65. 44 Ibid., 67. 45 Ibid. 46 Tobias Becker, “Migrations-Theater: In einem palästinensischen Dorf namens Neukölln,” Der Spiegel, 7 September 2015, www​.s​​piege​​l​.de/​​kultu​​r​/ges​​ellsc​​haft/​​yael-​​ ronen​​-the-​​situa​​tion-​​am​-ma​​xim​-g​​orki-​​theat​​er​-in​​-berl​​in​-a-​​10516​​40​.ht​​ml. Translated by the author. 47 Ronen and Ensemble, “The Situation,” 81. 48 Ibid., 82. 49 “Gorki Exil Ensemble,” Gorki Spielzeitheft, no. 11 (August–November 2016): 26. 50 Ibid. 51 Ibid. 52 Ibid. 53 “Wonderland,” Maxim Gorki Theater, accessed 12 February 2020, www​.gorki​.de​/en​/ wonderland. 54 Irina Szodruch (2018) mentioned to me that the play was considered for the Theatertreffen in 2018, but ultimately it was not selected. 55 Yael Ronen and the Exil Ensemble, “Winterreise” (unpublished manuscript, 2017), 27. 56 Ibid., 23–24. 57 Ibid., 27. 58 Ibid., 19. 59 Ibid., 30. 60 Ibid., 41. 61 Ibid., 42. 62 Yana Meerzon, “Roma Armee: Doing It Right! Production of Maxim Gorki Theater, Berlin,” Capital Critics Circle, 20 December 2017, http:​/​/cap​​italc​​ritic​​scirc​​le​.co​​m​/rom​​a​arm​​ee​-ri​​ght​-p​​roduc​​tion-​​maxim​​-gork​​i​​-the​​ater-​​berli​​n/. 63 Ibid. 64 Ibid. 65 Szodruch, interview. 66 Yael Ronen and Ensemble, “Roma Armee, Nach einer Idee von Sandra und Simonida Selimović” (unpublished manuscript, 2017), 50. 67 Ibid., 56. 68 Szodruch, interview. 69 Ronen and Ensemble, “Roma Armee,” 57. 70 Meerzon, “Roma Armee.” 71 Szodruch, interview. 72 Ibid. 73 Ibid. 74 Ibid. 75 Ranicère, Dissensus, 150. 76 Jacques Rancière, “Problems and Transformations in Critical Art,” in Participation, ed. Claire Bishop (London: Whitechapel, 2004), 83. 77 Szodruch, interview.

Bibliography Becker, Tobias. “Migrations-Theater: In einem palästinensischen Dorf namens Neukölln” [“Migration Theater: In a Palestinian Village Called Neukölln”]. Der Spiegel, 7 September 2015. www​.s​​piege​​l​.de/​​kultu​​r​/ges​​ellsc​​haft/​​yael-​​ronen​​-the-​​situa​​tion-​​am​ma​​xim​-g​​orki-​​theat​​er​-in​​-berl​​in​-a-​​10516​​40​.ht​​ml.

196  S. E. Wilmer Deleuze, Gilles. Negotiations: 1972–1990. New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 1995. “Gorki Exil Ensemble.” Gorki Spielzeitheft, no. 11 (August–November 2016): 26. kultvision. “Yael Ronen über ‘Common Ground’.” YouTube video, 8:02. 2 June 2015. www​.youtube​.com​/watch​?v​=0hTUYEJS​_wE. Lötsch, Christiane. “Israeli-German Theatre: The Holocaust, Nazi and Palestinian ‘Third Generation’.” Café Babel, 30 April 2009. Translated by Annie Rutherford. https​:/​/ ca​​febab​​el​.co​​m​/en/​​artic​​le​/is​​raeli​​-germ​​an​-th​​eatre​​-the-​​holoc​​aust-​​nazi-​​and​-p​​alest​​inian​​thir​​d​-gen​​erati​​on​-5a​​​e0056​​ef723​​b35a1​​45de5​​f8/. Lupo, Radu. “D/B Recommended: 3G-Third Generation/Theater @ Schaubühne Berlin.” Digital in Berlin, 24 March 2010. www​.d​​igita​​linbe​​rlin.​​de​/th​​ird​-g​​enera​​tion-​​2010. Maxim Gorki Theater. “The Situation: Play of the Year 2016.” Accessed 30 October 2019. www​.gorki​.de​/en​/the​-situation. ———. “Wonderland.” Accessed 12 February 2020. www​.gorki​.de​/en​/wonderland. Meerzon, Yana. “Roma Armee: Doing It Right! Production of Maxim Gorki Theater, Berlin.” Capital Critics Circle, 20 December 2017. capit​​alcri​​ticsc​​ircle​​.com/​​roma-​​ armee​​-righ​​t​-pro​​ducti​​on​-ma​​xim​-g​​orki-​​th​eat​​er​-be​​rlin/​. Rancière, Jacques. Dissensus: On Politics and Aesthetics. Translated and edited by Steven Corcoran. London: Continuum, 2010. ———. “Problems and Transformations in Critical Art.” In Participation, edited by Claire Bishop, 83–93. London: Whitechapel, 2004. Ronen, Yael, and Company. “Dritte Generation” [“Third Generation”]. Unpublished manuscript, 2010. Ronen, Yael, and Ensemble. “Common Ground.” Unpublished manuscript of German text and English surtitles, 2014. ———. “Roma Armee, Nach einer Idee von Sandra und Simonida Selimović” [“Roma Army: Based on an Idea by Sandra and Simonida Selimović”]. Unpublished manuscript, 2017. ———. “The Situation.” Unpublished manuscript, 2015. Ronen, Yael, and the Exil Ensemble. “Winterreise” [“Winter Journey”]. Unpublished manuscript, 2017. Schaubühne. “Third Generation by Yael Ronen and Company.” Video, 1:16. Accessed 30 October 2019. www​.s​​chaub​​uehne​​.de​/e​​n​/pro​​dukti​​onen/​​dritt​​e​-gen​​erati​​on​.ht​​ml​/ m=​​311. Szodruch, Irina. Personal interview with the author, Berlin, 23 February 2018. Weigand, Frank. “Verharmlost die Schaubühne den Holocaust?” [“Is the Schaubühne Playing Down the Holocaust?”]. Die Welt, 19 March 2009. www​.w​​elt​.d​​e​/kul​​tur​/t​​heate​​r​/ art​​icle3​​40747​​1​/Ver​​harml​​ost​-d​​ie​-Sc​​haubu​​ehne-​​den​-H​​oloca​​ust​.h​​tml.

PART V

Unfolding alternatives

9

Alternative dramaturgies informed by a Deaf and disability perspective Kaite O’Reilly

Theater could be defined as the study of what it is to be human; however, a location that is purported to be about the range of human possibilities has for too long been circumscribed and limited, both in terms of who appears on stage as well as in the audience. As a space as well as in its representations, narratives and languages, theater is often ableist, discriminating in favor of the hearing nondisabled, devaluing and excluding disabled and Deaf1 people. Although things are changing, historically theater assumes and serves a normative audience—an idealized, homogenized group with shared values who accesses the performance through one mode of communication. In the UK, this privilege is being challenged by practitioners emerging from the Disabled People’s Movement2 as well as inclusive, Deaf- and disabled-led theater companies. This is especially the case when a performance’s aesthetic is specifically created to incorporate “access” devices and therefore is shaped by “alternative dramaturgies informed by a Deaf and disability perspective.”3 The aesthetics of access does not assume a uniform sighted and hearing audience. It questions sensorial hierarchies and embraces all the possibilities of human variety, utilizing access tools such as audio description and captioning in creative ways, and always at the heart of the artistic process rather than as an ‘add-on.’ Alternative dramaturgies reconsider and reconfigure content: the narratives, who is considered the ‘protagonist,’ as well as the forms and theater languages with which material is broadcast or exchanged. Alternative dramaturgies complicate the flow and shape of the dramatic structure and how content is revealed. Utilizing an alternative dramaturgy changes the expectations of what kind of body can be onstage, in the auditorium, behind the scenes and backstage. It assumes an audience that is varied and diverse, accessing the performance through multiple channels, languages and modes of communication. In this chapter, I will discuss one recent example of my ever-evolving experimentation with access aesthetics and alternative dramaturgies informed by a Deaf and disability perspective by focusing on performances of my 2018 script, And Suddenly I Disappear: The Singapore/UK ‘d’ Monologues. I will pay particular attention to how the script’s form, content, modes of representation and process

200  Kaite O’Reilly of performance were enhanced and complicated by the interweaving of Deaf and hearing cultures, so-called mainstream and ‘crip’ cultures, and the interweaving of diverse cultural heritages between the UK and Singapore with its multiracial, quadrilingual “blend[ing … of] Malay, Chinese, Arab, Indian and English cultures and religions.”4

Context of creation Commissioned by Unlimited5 and the British Council, And Suddenly I Disappear has been described as a multilingual “reflective performative intervention.”6 The project was a dialogue and artistic exploration of what it means to be human, between UK- and Singapore-based practitioners, informed by Deaf and disabled people’s experience(s) on opposite sides of the world. As an international dialogue, the project was complex and layered, shaped by diverse cultural heritages and multiple spoken/visual languages, and only involved practitioners who identified as Deaf and/or disabled.7 As such, Dr. Sarah Meisch Lionetto, Director of Arts and Creative Industries for the British Council Singapore, considered the project “revolutionary.” In a report on the impact of the project, Meisch Lionetto described the work as a first […]. This ambitious multi-lingual, multidisciplinary piece threads together stories through a mishmash of poetry, film, movement, beatboxing, monologues, ensemble pieces and even at one point, confronting Chinese wordplay […]. It is an inventive work that overturns the conventional approaches of arts towards disability in Singapore. It gives the disabled and disenfranchised a voice through the arts. It’s a complex piece of work, intersecting current cultural policymaking, artmaking and audience development.8 The research and development period in Singapore replicated the model I originally initiated in the UK in 2009 for The ‘d’ Monologues9—a series of fictional monologues I wrote specifically (and solely) for ‘atypical’ performers, informed and inspired by 70 interviews and conversations I held with Deaf and disabled individuals across the UK from 2009 to the present day. To prepare for writing And Suddenly I Disappear, from early 2017, my collaborators in Singapore, led by Peter Sau, Lee Lee Lim and Grace Khoo, amongst others, interviewed over 40 “lives less well known,” as Sau put it10—disabled and Deaf Singaporeans across multiple racial backgrounds, cultural heritages, languages and dialects—about their experiences, attitudes and beliefs. Many of the interviewees had never before been granted the respect of having their opinions or personal stories sought out. As a result, the exchanges were often emotionally intense and transformative, in that by sharing their stories and expressing their opinions a disability consciousness was being awakened. These conversations, which I received via video and audio, were transcribed and, where necessary, translated into English. They joined my arsenal of

A Deaf and disability perspective  201 UK-based interviews, and stories from both sides of the world became the raw material that provoked and inspired the fictional monologues I wrote, reflecting the multicultural diversity and linguistic complexity of Singapore and the UK. They also shed light on being Deaf or disabled as well as on the perceptions, social attitudes, agendas, misconceptions, stigmas and barriers that empower and/or disempower the individual. Assembled, they became And Suddenly I Disappear. As the monologues were in the process of being written, but before the rehearsals began in Singapore, director/executive producer Phillip Zarrilli, my collaborators and I asked many dramaturgical and cultural questions. These included: •• •• •• •• •• ••

What are the languages of disability? How do we ‘speak’ to each other? How might Deaf and disabled experiences utilizing the aesthetics of access in spoken, projected and visual languages meet, challenge and potentially expand theater languages in live performance? How can we create equality onstage between spoken and signed/visual languages, without the latter being dominated by the ‘noisiness’ of speech? What is the dramaturgy in performances of difference, where neurodiverse atypical bodies onstage and in the auditorium engage, utilizing creative captioning, embedded audio description and spoken/spatial/visual languages? How are narrative, process and form transformed by innovative alternative dramaturgies informed by a Deaf and disability perspective?

As witnessed in the list above, when using the term ‘dramaturgies,’ I include the process(es) of creating alongside the modes of communication, i.e. not only the dramatic structures, composition, representation and narratives but also the forms, aesthetic(s) and theater languages put into play. The word ‘alternative’ marks my position as in opposition to ableist notions long ingrained in Western culture and structures that exemplify what Tobin Siebers calls the “ideology of ability,” where, “at its simplest,” preference is always given to “able-bodiedness” and where “able-bodiedness” constitutes the very “baseline by which humanness is determined.”11 Especially in terms of the Singapore context—which my collaborators insisted has had little if any history of disability activism, disability awareness or disability equality training—the first issue to be addressed in writing and creating And Suddenly I Disappear was the dominant ideology of ability, particularly regarding issues of representation onstage.

Challenging the ideology of ability Within the Western theatrical tradition, disability has been configured and performed as a ‘problem’ where disability is a deficit. This notion of ‘deficit’ is shaped by the medical model of disability12 where characters with neurodiversity

202  Kaite O’Reilly and/or atypical embodiment are defined according to diagnosis or condition, invariably requiring medicalization and normalization. Disability has been used metaphorically as a vehicle to explore, explain or warn against predominantly negative aspects of human behavior. Dramaturgically, disability has often been used as an inciting incident or point of crisis—what David Mitchell and Sharon Snyder describe as “narrative prosthesis.”13 The predominant mainstream narratives of disability include ‘tragic but brave,’ ‘passing’ as nondisabled, or ‘overcoming’ an impairment that is a ‘burden’ and thereby serving as an inspiration. These dominant narratives have been rejected by many disabled artists, myself included. In contrast, informed by the social model of disability, I believe that disability, like gender, is a social construct. It is the attitudinal and physical barriers that society erects which are disabling, not the individual body itself. Alternative stories are emerging from practitioners who identify politically and culturally as disabled. These alternative stories give characters with impairments agency, subverting the traditional narratives of compliance, overcoming or disappearing from the scene through death or institutionalization. Despite these developments, negative or stereotypical representations continue onstage and in media, largely because, as Victoria Ann Lewis believes, “they fill a deep human need to define ourselves as ‘normal’ against some standard of abnormality.”14 There continues to be great entertainment value in the conventional disability narratives, which are so common on stage and in film and television dramas that audiences assume they know and understand the realities of disabled and Deaf individuals’ lives. Unfortunately, few of these narratives are informed by the lived experience of disability; therefore, misconceptions and ableist notions of difference—shaped by the medical and charity models of disability—are reproduced and reinforced. In response to these predominantly negative narratives and representations of difference that continue to circulate in theaters, I chose to create alternative fictionalized monologues, informed by disabled people’s lived experiences, in all their diversity. These transformed narratives and protagonists “answer back” to the medical, moral and charity models of disability, often subverting normative expectations, challenging the hierarchy Siebers identified, which “banishes disability” along the ideological baseline of “the lesser the ability, the lesser the human being.”15 The first full monologue in And Suddenly I Disappear, titled “Can’t Do,” speaks directly to ableist assumptions: CAN’T DO. The list of “can’t do” is very long. It’s intimidating and quite humbling, actually. It’s so long, I’m not even going to start it, except … sometimes it’s good to face your limitations—not to be in denial about your life and capabilities,

A Deaf and disability perspective  203 but to “keep it real”—it’s what they focus on in newspapers and on television—what we can’t do. It stops us from living in la-la land, fantasy, and being just like everybody else. It’s a—perhaps necessary—reminder of the true shape of the world—just as there’s poverty and super-wealth, there are those who can, and are able. And those who—well … Those of us who can’t. And I can’t do many things.16 “Can’t Do” interrogates notions of dis/ability by positioning the opening in line with ableist, medical model attitudes. The body and, by extension, the individual are defined by what the disabled body can’t do when compared to an imagined ‘norm’ or ‘ideal’—invariably a non-disabled body. The speaker contrasts two positions: “there are those who can, and are able. And those who—well … Those of us who can’t. And I can’t do many things.” By replicating ableist notions, the speaker sets up expectations of failure while simultaneously acknowledging the ‘othering’ of difference which stops “us [… from] being just like everybody else.” Once this normative position is established in the monologue, the speaker goes on to subvert the audience’s expectations about what she “can’t do”: I can’t do logarithms—I tried, at school, but … I just couldn’t see a point in the future when I would need to assume that x, y, a, and b are all positive, that the logarithm quotient rule logb(x / y) = logb(x) – logb(y) should apply to anything, that the logarithmic function y = logb(x) is the inverse function of the exponential function x = by. And don’t get me started on natural logarithms […].17 Through this comical inversion—ostensibly not being able to do logarithms yet revealing that the speaker is able to solve a complex equation—the monologue challenges clichéd narratives of disability enshrined in popular culture and representations. The monologue goes on to further challenge other clichés about disabled lives and what individuals “can’t do”: And I can’t do macramé, or basket weaving—which always surprises people, because they often think that’s what we do. Sit in sheltered day centres doing crafts—which, actually, I’d love to, but I’m too busy running a company, raising two kids and keeping my lover satisfied for that.18 According to clichéd narratives in popular representations, disabled people are not supposed to be sexual; they are not supposed to be busy, successful entrepreneurs, professional leaders and parents. They are supposed to be grateful, and inferior, the recipients of charity. All of these clichéd assumptions are exploded and parodied in this opening monologue of the performance. Finally, the speaker concludes,

204  Kaite O’Reilly And apologetic. I can’t be sorry for who I am and how I look and how that makes you feel—that’s your problem—but I can be sympathetic, and I can help you overcome your limitations and expectations of who you think we are and what we can do. I’m trained. I’m an expert. Trust me. You’re in safe hands.19 The monologue reverses the binary of dis/ability and the politics of the gaze through direct address and revealing the speaker as the expert able to assist the nondisabled spectator to ‘overcome’ their prejudice and deficiencies. Normative hierarchies are challenged and destabilized as the power relationship is reversed and the ideology of ability is inverted. When being nondisabled is no longer an aspirational state, other options and perspectives open up. “The way the actors address and confront the audience is telling a different story,”20 Nina Muehlemann reflects on a similar dramaturgical strategy in the National Theatre Wales production of my In Water I’m Weightless,21 which was an Unlimited Commission and part of the official festival celebrating the 2012 London Olympics/Paralympics. “The usual safe distance between the spectator and the stage is threatened. The spectators are, or will be, part of the disabled experience that they can see on the stage.”22 From my perspective, disability is the norm. ‘Able-bodiedness’ or being nondisabled is at best a temporary state, and the vast majority of the population will acquire impairments if they live long enough. With this opening solo in And Suddenly I Disappear, I intended to immediately establish the tone, perspective and experience that is ‘the world of the performance’—and one which is disabled, or ‘crip.’ ‘Crip’ culture is considered inclusive. It is an ‘insider’ term for disability culture which embraces and represents vastly divergent physical, sensory, neurological, intellectual and psychological differences, i.e. all the varieties of disability. Using the term ‘crip’ is an intentional political reclaiming of the derogatory term ‘cripple,’ which diminishes the individual whilst also dividing those with non-physical disabilities from the disabled community.23 It marks a state of pride and is an invitation to reimagine notions of beauty and the possibilities of human variety. ‘Alternative dramaturgy’ has much in common with ‘crip poetry,’ which, as Jim Ferris explains, provides a challenge to stereotypes and an insistence on self-definition; a foregrounding of the perspective of people with disabilities; an emphasis on embodiment, especially atypical embodiment; and alternative techniques and poetics.24 Some of the alternative techniques I use in my scripts include subverting linear narratives, conventional storytelling, the modes of communication and traditional staging of (a)typical bodies.

A Deaf and disability perspective  205

Figure 9.1  From the monologue “A Short History of Fear.” Sophie Stone (on screen) and Stephanie Esther Fan. Source: photo by William A.S. Tan.

Figure 9.2  From the monologue “What Not to Say to Someone Who Is Depressed.” Left to right: Ramesh Meyyappan, Peter Sau, Lee Lee Lim, Grace Lee Khoo and Sara Beer. Source: photo by William A.S. Tan.

206  Kaite O’Reilly

Multilayered modes of communication: Braille, spoken and visual language storytelling with creative captioning In And Suddenly I Disappear, theater languages are multiple and simultaneous, including spoken, projected and visual/signed languages used innovatively but in an accessible way. Content is fragmented and layered, and the theatrical form of the monologue is explored, not only as a solo form but also through collective/ choral work. Disability hate crime was one of the most common narratives in many of the interviews and provided a stimulus for my writing. In most conventional representations of difference, disability hate crime is invariably reduced to the experience of one ‘unfortunate’ individual. When disabled experiences of intolerance and exclusion are pathologized and individualized in media and theatrical depictions, society is let ‘off the hook.’ Utilizing multilayered processes and multiple modes of communication in And Suddenly I Disappear ensures that the stories told and performed are multiple and collective and cannot be reduced to the experience of an ‘unfortunate’ individual. When stories are transmitted in different languages and across modes of communication, the unwanted truth of intolerance toward difference is revealed in both British and Singaporean societies. In And Suddenly I Disappear, often taboo subjects, such as mental health issues, are presented in multiple voices and languages that interweave the telling of one story. The simultaneous use of creative captioning or visual language ensures access for Deaf audiences, while the visual/physical elements performed onstage are audio-described for visually impaired audience members. The interweaving of captioning, visual language and creative audio description together constitute an alternative dramaturgy that intentionally chooses not to identify, locate and section off members of the audience who may require access support by relegating them to using individual audio description headsets, or closed-captioning in individual seats. Rather, the strategy I adopt interweaves the alternative cultural performance modes into a complex simultaneity, providing a holistic theatrical experience for all present. The model I have adopted assumes a diverse audience who will not receive the material in one uniform manner; rather, the audience accesses the performance through multiple channels, languages and modes of communication. Radically, hearing and Deaf cultures are both acknowledged and given equal status on stage and in the audience. In her response to And Suddenly I Disappear, Meisch Lionetto described the radical impact of this strategy for Singapore audiences: The technical sophistication is setting new precedents in terms of audience accessibility for the performing arts in Singapore. Audio description and sign are seamlessly integrated into the piece as a natural extension of the artistic work. For the first time, audiences of all shapes, sizes and abilities can share the space with artists of all shapes, sizes and abilities.25

A Deaf and disability perspective  207

Complex simultaneity Smile 笑 is a short monologue about depression. In production, it was presented first in spoken English via pre-recorded black-and-white video, then repeated simultaneously in spoken Mandarin and Singapore/British Sign Language.26 One of the biggest changes is I no longer smile … To smile is to be human. I will not lose my humanity. I will practice smiling …. 其中一个最大的转变是我不再笑了… 笑是人类的一种行为, 我绝不允许自己丧失人性。我会练习笑。27 Prior to the simultaneous Mandarin/sign language presentation, the mediatized performer was shown in extreme close-up, forcing herself to smile. I wrote a voice-over, which was audio-recorded and played with the video. The audio recording described, in minute detail, the visual detail of the video performance, describing the performer’s pinched face and twitching muscles. As the final close-up frame of the performer’s face is frozen on the screen, the audio recording concludes, “the painful smile freezes.” With the black-and-white video image frozen on the screen, two actors walk on stage and stop on each side of the face frozen in an enlarged grimace—lit solely by the light of the video projector. The two actors repeat the monologue simultaneously in Mandarin and visual language but utilize, as appropriate, their own timing, emotions and direction. In Phillip Zarrilli’s radical staging of the scene, it becomes clear that neither language is translating the ‘other’ language, i.e. no sign language interpretation is being offered, and that the Mandarin is not a direct translation of what is being signed. The actors—one Deaf, one hearing, both Singaporean—held equal positions on stage, performing the same material, separate from and oblivious to the other. Such moments of equal bilingualism between Deaf and hearing cultures are rare in live performance, and this was a first in Singapore. The hearing majority assumes the priority of spoken language and that the visual language is there merely as translation—an access tool for the signing, Deaf minority audience. However, in this complex dramaturgy of simultaneity, notions of sensorial hierarchies and dominant cultures are capsized. Multiple languages and cultures interweave to humanize and share stigmatized material, confirming through its multiplicity that taboo mental health issues can, and indeed do, happen to anyone—as can encountering ableist, ignorant attitudes. Clichés around depression are not confined to one particular culture, as is evident in the rest of the scene. Once the actors have completed their Smile text— invariably at different moments, since the timings to deliver the same material in sign and spoken language do not ‘match’—each actor freezes, holding their forced smiles and creating a triptych of pain: the close-up mediatized smile on the screen, flanked by two ‘live’ forced smiles expressing pain. Rather than ending, the vignette expands as stage lights reveal two further figures onstage. A

208  Kaite O’Reilly projected slide announces what will follow: “What not to say to someone who is depressed” (see Figure 9.2). These new figures are oblivious to the painful tableau behind them, nor are they aware of the part they play in what becomes an increasingly uncomfortable montage. Each female performer provides a direct address to the audience. The languages used include spoken English, Welsh, Mandarin and ‘Singlish’—a variety of English spoken in Singapore that incorporates elements of Chinese and Malay, and that is in itself an example of interweaving. .”

Cheer up, love, it may never happen. What have you got to be depressed about? Smile! Look on the bright side […]. […] I tell you ah these days everyone is damn pampered Everyone is depressed You just think of people worse than you lor Poor people hor cannot be depressed 至少你不是无家可归 (at least you’re not homeless) 至少你没有生在打战的国家 (at least you’re not in a war zone) 至少你有家人支持你 (at least you have the support of your family) Eh just pull your socks up lah It’s all in your mind can You just take bus to Bishan Park and walk walk around Go and smell the trees Be uh one with nature Some more free one leh Smile and the world smile with you.28

Dismantling wholeness Phrases in Singlish, Malay, Hokkien and Tamil pepper the English text, reflecting the diversity of Singaporean language and culture. Monologues take on unexpected forms as material is spliced and shared. The text is splintered, intercutting and interrupting flow, the narratives fragmented and presented by unnamed figures rather than characters, the form reflecting the unstable, changeable nature of impairment. Nina Muehlemann has described my dramaturgical work as a process of “dismantling wholeness.”29 It is part of my longstanding commitment to ‘crip’ my scripts, thereby disrupting “hierarchies that dictate how a play should be consumed.”30 If we as an audience do not get whole characters and scenes and narratives, Muehlemann asks, can we consume it as a whole, or get something else instead? Might the overlapping, disrupted, multi-voiced and multi-channeled interweaving of languages and performance cultures in the content and structure of the text of And Suddenly I Disappear echo disability itself—disability as lived

A Deaf and disability perspective  209

Figure 9.3  Visual language, spoken text and integrated audio description. From the monologue “A Short History of Fear.” Sophie Stone (on screen) and Stephanie Esther Fan. Source: photo by Kaite O’Reilly.

experience that is not fixed or stable. Perhaps the fragmented, layered form of my dramaturgy, storytelling and access aesthetics breaks non-disabled hegemony? Might, as Muehlemann believes, my dramaturgical use of access aesthetics challenge the “allocated spaces”31 of disability within the theater?

Visual language and audio description in the aesthetics of access And Suddenly I Disappear was both disabled- and Deaf-led, for there is a striking difference between disability culture and Deaf culture. Deaf individuals (utilizing

210  Kaite O’Reilly the capital D) identify as a linguistic minority and not as disabled. However, in our practices, dramaturgies and cultures there are shared intentions. Academic Kanta Kochhar-Lindgren has written of how the practices of disability and Deaf performance parallel one another, seeking “a synthesis between activism and aesthetics, particularly in order to use performance as a site of resis­ tance to normative cultural representational and perceptual paradigms regarding the extraordinary body.”32 She believes both disability and Deaf aesthetics seek to create new public spaces for the inclusion of different sensorial frames, and “strive to shift mainstream cultural and experiential frames.”33 When developing and rehearsing And Suddenly I Disappear, I worked closely with Deaf visual language performer/director Ramesh Meyyappan on creating sections of the performance that utilized visual language, and then Meyyappan and I co-created mediatized physical and visual scores in our collaborative work with Sophie Stone, who also identifies as Deaf (see Figure 9.1). It was important that Deaf experience and culture had priority and led the creation of visual language sequences in order to create equality and balance between Deaf and hearing cultures onstage. In my own practice, I have sought to create a more flexible cross-communication mode of expression and cultural encounter that questions old hierarchies through new sensorial framing. However, interweaving Deaf and hearing, manual/visual and oral performance cultures and channels raises difficult questions about access if and when there is a scene or section of a performance in which there is extended, silent, unvoiced sign performance, whether live or pre-recorded. During these non-verbal sequences or scenes, a visually impaired audience would in effect be left in unexplained silence. As the playwright and lead artist creating And Suddenly I Disappear, I was unwilling to undermine visual language with the ‘noisiness’ of spoken audio description, especially in one specific scene, created by Meyyappan, which told physically, without words, the story of the oppression of Deaf culture by the oral majority. Meyyappan is Singaporean but chooses to live and work in the United Kingdom where British Sign Language is recognized as an official language. In Singapore, Singapore Sign Language is not. In Singapore (and indeed many places elsewhere), oralism is given precedence over the use of manual/visual languages. This denial of the Singaporean Deaf community as a distinct and equal linguistic and cultural group creates many tensions, which was a subject Meyyappan and I were keen to explore. Meyyappan called his silent, visual language scene “Invisible; or, Don’t Steal My Voice.” He starts the scene crouched on the ground, face and hands hidden in a large, hooded coat. Slowly, his fingers appear, and after some hesitation, he begins to explore the dexterity of his hands in creating images: two fingers ‘walk’ across the ground, a hand becomes a leaf ‘falling’ from a tree, which ‘lands’ on his face. The eloquence, dexterity and playfulness of visual language are celebrated as Meyyappan transforms from a huddled, hooded figure to an expansive, joyful, agile man moving fluidly through space, sculpting images in the air.

A Deaf and disability perspective  211 The scene represents a Deaf figure discovering language, culture and identity—a state swiftly reversed and contained through the appearance of two disapproving figures, who can be assumed to represent the hearing majority. Although these two new presences do not speak, the intention is clear as with increasing force and eventual violence they ‘silence’ Meyyappan’s signing hands. Initially, he defies them, breaking free from their restraining holds, but the force intensifies until he is ‘spirit-broken.’ In the closing moment, after the oppressors walk away, satisfied with their censorship, “He stands, hands and arms still, as though bound in a straitjacket.”34 Audio description takes on many forms. Occasionally, it is experimental,35 but predominantly, it is prosaic, a tool for access recounting via private audio headsets the traffic of the stage between naturalistic dialogue in character-driven dramas (i.e. “she leaves the room; he crosses to the table and takes up the bottle in his left hand”). Unusually, the audio description in And Suddenly I Disappear was broadcast to the entire audience. I had chosen not to make use of audio headsets owing to how this identifies and separates the visually impaired audience member from the wider audience, so Meyyappan’s extended silent sequence posed several challenges. I could not leave the visually impaired audience in unexplained silence during the sequence, but neither could I potentially dominate and undermine the Deaf political and cultural content of Meyyappan’s scene with spoken descriptions of all his movements for the hearing majority. After close consultation with visually impaired collaborators in Singapore36 and experimentation on the page and in rehearsals, I decided not to use audio description as an access device but to make the unvoiced visual languages accessible through using evocative soundscapes and creative audio description. This involved reinventing the visual and physical actions on stage in “Invisible; or, Don’t Steal My Voice” as a minimalist text resembling a haiku—condensed, succinct phrasing that punctuated the nine minutes of the silent sequence with evocative verbal imagery. I hoped that the similes and poetic descriptions would open up imaginative associations for the visually impaired audiences, thereby reflecting the visual, physical imagery Meyyappan presented. Building on this, in other mediatized sections of theatricalized sign language, I created audio descriptions, not as movement notation but storytelling, explored in a variety of styles suited to the visual content. This created new content, process and practice in the interweaving of theater languages and between Deaf and hearing performance cultures (see Figure 9.3). The alternative, unique somatic experiences that disabled and Deaf individuals bring can provide what Carrie Sandahl calls “doors of perception”37 to space that can radically differ from a non-disabled experience. Therefore, she believes, “a consideration of disability phenomenology and cultural practice might revolutionize the ways in which we craft theatrical space.”38 This specific process of interweaving changes both the aesthetic and process of making performance, raising questions about collaboration, hierarchies and access. Alternative dramaturgies informed by a Deaf and disability perspective offer the opportunity of radicalizing the theater in its structures, organization,

212  Kaite O’Reilly dramaturgies, processes and modes of being/telling/sharing. Through inclusive and complex, innovative interweaving, the practitioners, content and means of communicating performance cultures can be changed, and with this, perceived hierarchies and the nature of theater itself.

Notes 1 I use ‘Deaf’ with a capital D to denote those who do not consider their deafness an impairment but an essential part of their cultural and linguistic identity. Thus, ‘Deaf’ designates those who identify culturally as Deaf and as a linguistic minority. I distinguish between ‘Deaf’ and ‘disabled’ to acknowledge how the Deaf communities do not consider themselves disabled. 2 For further information on the UK’s Disabled People’s Movement, please see the following, which are introductory and indicative but by no means definitive: www​. d​​isabi​​lity.​​co​.uk​​/disa​​bilit​​y​-fac​​ts​-an​​d​-fig​​ures/​; Tom Shakespeare, “Research and the UK Disability Movement,” accessed 6 May 2020, www​.u​​ea​.ac​​.uk​/d​​ocume​​nts​/ 2​​90372​​3​/336​​5995/​​Works​​hop​+O​​ne​+To​​m​+Sha​​kespe​​are​.p​​df​/15​​46de6​​1​-a4e​​a​-4c5​​6​b08​​c​-959​​c22fd​​ff91;​ “The Disabled People’s Movement, Book Four. A Resource Pack for Local Groups of Disabled People,” published by the British Council of Disabled People, https​:/​/di​​sabil​​ity​-s​​tudie​​s​.lee​​ds​.ac​​.uk​/w​​p​-con​​tent/​​uploa​​ds​/si​​tes​/ 4​​0​/lib​​rary/​​​BCODP​​-work​​book4​​.pdf;​ Colin Cameron, “The Disabled People’s Movement,” Chapter 13 in Disability Studies: A Student’s Guide, ed. Colin Cameron (Los Angeles, CA: SAGE, 2016); “British Council of Organisations of Disabled People,” accessed 6 May 2020, https​:/​/to​​nybal​​dwins​​on​.fi​​les​.w​​ordpr​​ess​.c​​om​/ 20​​14​/06​​/1982​​-11​-b​​codp-​​e​arly​​-leaf​​let​.p​​df. 3 I introduced this term when I was Arts and Humanities Research Council Creative Fellow at Exeter University’s Drama department 2003–2006, then continued developing the approach when fellow at IRC, “Interweaving Performance Cultures,” Freie Universität Berlin, 2012–2017. 4 “About Singapore,” Singapore Expats, accessed 6 May 2020, www​.s​​ingap​​oreex​​pats.​​ com​/a​​bout-​​singa​​pore/​​about​​-sing​​apore​​.htm.​ 5 Unlimited is an arts commissioning program that enables new work by disabled artists to reach UK and international audiences. See “We Are Unlimited,” accessed 6 May 2020, https​:/​/we​​areun​​limit​​ed​.or​​g​.uk/​​?s​=Ka​​ite​+o​​%27re​​illy+​​and​+s​​udden​​​ly​+I+​​disap​​pear.​ 6 Director and executive producer Phillip Zarrilli describing the project, quoted by performer and associate producer Grace Khoo in Interim Project Report to Unlimited, 1 July 2018. 7 The Unlimited international commission was given to lead artist Kaite O’Reilly (writer/dramaturge), working with director Phillip Zarrilli and UK-based performers Sara Beer, Sophie Stone (appearing on video) and Singaporean visual language director/performer Ramesh Meyyappan. Singapore-based collaborators included lead associate director Peter Sau, performer/producer Grace Khoo, associate producer Natalie Lim of Access Path Productions, plus emerging artists Lee Lee Lim, Stephanie Esther Fam, Agnes Lim and performer/sound artist Danial Bawtham, all performing in the Singapore premiere. For the UK premiere, the emerging artists appeared on video, with UK-based Garry Robson and Macsen Mackay joining the core ensemble. The two performances differed considerably in content, tone and intention. The Singapore performance was livestreamed and is still available in documented format on HowlRound. See “Performance of And Suddenly I Disappear: The Singapore ‘d’ Monologues Kaite O’Reilly,” HowlRound Theatre Commons, streamed live on 26 May 2018, YouTube video, 1:30:51, https://youtu​.be​/vyBrlk2OqBA.

A Deaf and disability perspective  213 8 Official feedback and report by Dr. Sarah Meisch Lionetto, director of Arts and Creative Industries, British Council Singapore, for British Council and Unlimited, on the impact in Singapore of Kaite O’Reilly’s And Suddenly I Disappear: The Singapore ‘d’ Monologues, email message to author and Unlimited, 28 June 2018. 9 The ‘d’ Monologues was published by Oberon Contemporary Press in 2018, comprising richard iii redux (co-written with Phillip Zarrilli), In Water I’m Weightless and And Suddenly I Disappear. 10 Associate director and collaborator Peter Sau’s term for the individuals he interviewed. In personal emails to the author throughout 2016–2018, Sau claimed that disabled and Deaf individuals in Singapore are “invisible” and their experiences “unknown”—a prime reason for our collaboration to redress this perceived situation. 11 Tobin Siebers, Disability Theory (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2008), 8. 12 The medical model of disability is presented as viewing disability as a problem of the person, directly caused by disease, trauma or other health conditions, which therefore requires sustained medical care provided in the form of individual treatment by professionals. In the medical model, management of the disability is aimed at a “cure,” or the individual’s adjustment and behavioral change that would lead to an “almost-cure” or effective cure. The tragedy and/or charity model of disability depicts disabled people as victims of circumstance who are deserving of pity. The charity model and the medical model are the models most used by non-disabled people to define and explain disability. Cf. “Models of Disability: Types and Definitions,” Disabled World, 10 September 2010, last modified 6 December 2019, www​.d​​isabl​​ed​-wo​​rld​.c​​om​/de​​finit​​ions/​​disab​​ility​​mode​​ls​.ph​​p. 13 See David Mitchell and Sharon Snyder, Narrative Prosthesis: Disability and the Dependencies of Discourse (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2000). 14 Victoria Ann Lewis, “The Dramaturgy of Disability,” in Points of Contact: Disability, Art, and Culture, ed. Susan Crutchfield and Marcy Epstein (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2000), 94. 15 Siebers, Disability Theory, 10. 16 Kaite O’Reilly, “Can’t Do,” in The ‘d’ Monologues (London: Oberon, 2018), 140. 17 Ibid., 141. 18 Ibid., 142. 19 Ibid., 140–42. 20 Nina Muehlemann, “Interrogating Wholeness through Access Aesthetics: Kaite O’Reilly’s In Water I’m Weightless,” RiDE: The Journal of Applied Theatre and Performance 23, no. 3 (2018): 454. 21 In Water I’m Weightless was part of the Cultural Olympiad, celebrating the 2012 London Olympics and Paralympics. Directed by John E. McGrath, produced by National Theatre Wales, it was an Unlimited Commission. 22 Muehlemann, “Interrogating Wholeness,” 454–55. 23 Cf. Julie Williams, “Crip Theory,” Wright State University, accessed 6 May 2020, www​. w​​right​​.edu/​​event​​/sex-​​disab​​ility​​-conf​​erenc​​e​/cri​​p​-the​​ory. 24 See Jim Ferris, “Crip Poetry, or How I Learned to Love the Limp,” Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature 1, no. 2 (2007), accessed 13 October 2020, https​:/​/wo​​rdgat​​herin​​g​.syr​​.edu/​​past_​​issue​​s​/iss​​ue2​/e​​ssay/​​​ferri​​s​.htm​l. 25 Meisch Lionetto, email message to author, 28 June 2018. 26 Performer/visual language director Ramesh Meyyappan adjusted the language according to location: in Singapore, he used Singapore Sign Language (SgSL), and when on tour in the UK, he used British Sign Language (BSL). 27 Kaite O’Reilly, “Smile,” in The ‘d’ Monologues (London: Oberon, 2018), 161–62, Mandarin translation by Peter Sau. 28 Kaite O’Reilly, “What Not to Say to Someone Who Is Depressed,” in ibid., 163–64, Singlish and Mandarin translations by Grace Khoo. 29 Muehlemann, “Interrogating Wholeness,” 456.

214  Kaite O’Reilly 30 Ibid. 31 Ibid. 32 Kanta Kochhar-Lindgren, “Hearing Difference across Theatres: Experimental, Disability, and Deaf Performance,” Theatre Journal 58, no. 3, Hearing Theatre (2006): 420. 33 Ibid., 423. 34 Quoted from pre-recorded audio description used during the live performances (not published or replicated elsewhere). 35 Companies experimenting with audio description in the UK include Graeae Theatre Company, Extant, Elbow Room Theatre, amongst others. My Graeae commission, “peeling” (2002, published in Atypical Plays for Atypical Actors, London: Oberon, 2016), is considered one of the pioneering texts integrating audio description and exploring its potential as unreliable narrator, among other forms. 36 Involved in the project as a researcher and performer was Lee Lee Lim, a visually impaired (VI) advocate for inclusion in Singapore. 37 Carrie Sandahl, “Considering Disability: Disability Phenomenology’s Role in Revolutionizing Theatrical Space,” Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism 16, no. 2 (Spring 2002): 18. 38 Ibid.

Bibliography Cameron, Colin. “The Disabled People’s Movement.” Chapter 13 in Disability Studies: A Student’s Guide, edited by Colin Cameron. Los Angeles, CA: SAGE, 2016. Disabled World. “Models of Disability: Types and Definitions,” 10 September 2010. Last modified 6 December 2019. www​.d​​isabl​​ed​-wo​​rld​.c​​om​/de​​finit​​ions/​​disab​​ility​​-mode​​ls​.ph​​p. Ferris, Jim. “Crip Poetry, or How I Learned to Love the Limp.” Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature 1, no. 2 (2007). Accessed 13 October 2020. https​:/​/ wo​​rdgat​​herin​​g​.syr​​.edu/​​past_​​issue​​s​/iss​​ue2​/e​​ssay/​​​ferri​​s​.htm​l. HowlRound Theatre Commons. “Performance of And Suddenly I Disappear: The Singapore ‘d’ Monologues Kaite O’Reilly.” Streamed live on 26 May 2018. YouTube video, 1:30:51. https://youtu​.be​/vyBrlk2OqBA. Kochhar-Lindgren, Kanta. “Hearing Difference across Theatres: Experimental, Disability, and Deaf Performance.” Theatre Journal 58, no. 3 (2006): 417–36. Lewis, Victoria Ann. “The Dramaturgy of Disability.” In Points of Contact: Disability, Art, and Culture, edited by Susan Crutchfield and Marcy Epstein, 93–108. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2000. Mitchell, David, and Sharon Snyder. Narrative Prosthesis: Disability and the Dependencies of Discourse. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2000. Muehlemann, Nina. “Interrogating Wholeness through Access Aesthetics: Kaite O’Reilly’s In Water I’m Weightless.” RiDE – The Journal of Applied Theatre and Performance 23, no. 3 (2018): 454–66. O’Reilly, Kaite. The ‘d’ Monologues. London: Oberon, 2018. Sandahl, Carrie. “Considering Disability: Disability Phenomenology’s Role in Revolutionizing Theatrical Space.” Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism 16, no. 2 (Spring 2002): 17–32. Shakespeare, Tom. “Research and the UK Disability Movement.” Accessed 6 May 2020. www​. u​​ea​.ac​​.uk​/d​​ocume​​nts​/2​​90372​​3​/336​​5995/​​Works​​hop​+O​​ne​+To​​m​+Sha​​kespe​​are​.p​​df​/ 15​​46de6​​1​-a4e​​a​-4c5​​6​-b08​​c​-959​​c22fd​​ff91.​ Siebers, Tobin. Disability Theory. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2008.

A Deaf and disability perspective  215 Singapore Expats. “About Singapore.” Accessed 6 May 2020. www​.s​​ingap​​oreex​​pats.​​com​/ a​​bout-​​singa​​pore/​​about​​-sing​​apore​​.htm.​ Williams, Julie. “Crip Theory.” Wright State University. Accessed 6 May 2020. www​. w​​right​​.edu/​​event​​/sex-​​disab​​ility​​-conf​​erenc​​e​/cri​​p​-the​​ory.

Further reading Fries, Kenny, ed. Staring Back: The Disability Experience from the Inside Out. New York, NY: Plume, 1997. Longmore, Paul K., and Lauri Umansky, eds. The New Disability History: American Perspectives. New York, NY and London: New York University Press, 2001. McRuer, Robert. Crip Theory: Cultural Signs of Queerness and Disability. New York, NY: New York University Press, 2006. Russell, Marta. Beyond Ramps: Disability at the End of the Social Contract. Monroe, ME: Common Courage Press, 1998. Zames Fleischer, Doris, and Frieda Zames. The Disability Rights Movement: From Charity to Confrontation. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 2011.

10 Dramaturgies of in-betweenness Iranian theater and performance art since the 1970s Narges Hashempour

From a certain perspective, post-revolutionary Iran could be seen as holding a position of intense ‘in-betweenness,’ specifically in relation to certain binaries—which have resulted from at least 150 years of continuous transformation in every social, cultural and political sphere—such as traditional Shia doctrine versus modern values and norms; the Orient versus the Occident; Islamism versus secularism; and collectivism versus individualism. Being between these real and perceived binaries does not mean that each of these terms has, or has ever had, a fixed meaning within modern Iranian discourse and history. Rather, a state of permanent negotiation and conflict, as well as an intra-cultural process of interweaving, has emerged as a result of power struggles spanning multiple historical periods. The result of this permanent oscillation is a great complexity or, better, an immense paradoxical ambivalence in all cultural fields in Iran today—in family life, in politics and, of course, in the performing arts. Iran entered its modern history of in-betweenness in the nineteenth century, when Iranians began viewing the ‘self’ through the mirror image of the ‘other.’ Although the definitions of self and other in Iranian history have varied according to sociopolitical changes, here the self is mainly associated with traditional Shia culture and the other with the so-called West. However, since then, due to Iran’s position in global networks of power and knowledge, as well as to its particular, culturally and historically determined perspective, new and varied perceptions of otherness and self-identification have come into existence, which have been inevitably and permanently affected by historical changes as well as social circumstances and events, not only inside but also outside Iran. Keeping these introductory remarks in mind, this chapter consists of two parts: in the first, I focus specifically on the history of the Shiraz Arts Festival (SAF) from the late 1960s to the late 1970s as an example of ‘modern’ theater in Iran. The festival—which introduced many avant-garde forms to Iran, such as experimental theater, performance art and site-specific work—took place around the same time as what Erika Fischer-Lichte has termed the “performative turn” in European theater.1 The SAF ended with the beginning of the 1979 Revolution in Iran and since then has been considered an ‘experimental period’ in Iranian theater history—a dominant view that I aim to challenge in this chapter.

Dramaturgies of in-betweenness  217 In the second part, I introduce three examples of contemporary performances staged in Tehran in 2010, 2013 and 2014, which I either personally witnessed or with which I was involved as a collaborator. Comparing them with performances developed in the context of the SAF and describing them as part of a new and much more challenging experimental period in Iranian theater, I put forward two principal arguments: firstly, that the dominant understanding and dramaturgical practice of theater that was fostered by the SAF was mainly nostalgic, heavily text-centered and, not least, deeply hierarchical. In contrast, many young artists today—born after the 1979 Revolution—are searching for new dramaturgies that are decidedly more investigational, experiencecentered and collaborative. Their search for this utopian, new dramaturgy is these young artists’ response to their experiences of Iran’s in-betweenness. Their own in-betweenness motivates them to break with dominant norms and dramaturgical conventions and to create new perspectives, new performative strategies and new individual, performative aesthetics. Indispensable for their creative dramaturgical explorations is provoking audience members to (self-) critically reflect on collective habits of perception and social interaction, thus providing them with new possibilities for experiencing their ‘self’ in relation to ‘others.’ Secondly, I argue that while the SAF was part of a top-down strategy of innovating theater, today we can speak of a bottom-up dynamic of reformation in the Iranian performing arts. The understanding and practice of theater are now being transformed through the dramaturgical work of artists who are struggling to liberate themselves from the state theater system.

The Shiraz Arts Festival: Re-inventing performance heritages At the end of the first half of the twentieth century, during the dynamic process of Iran’s encounter with Western societies and cultures, many debates around fundamental societal questions arose. Among such questions was whether Iran should return to an ancient, pre-Islamic past—paradoxically, as a symbol of progress— and thus ignore and distance itself from its Islamic past as a symbol of backwardness. With regard to theater and the performing arts, two main events were significant: 1) the emergence of a theater based on conventions of psychological realism, originally developed in Europe, and 2) the prohibition of traditional and religious performing arts, the most significant of which was the traditional Shia passion play, Ta’ziyeh (commemorating the martyrdom of Imam Hussein at the battle of Karbala in 680 CE).2 In 1967, Iran hosted the SAF for the first time, which was subsidized and organized by the state and continued until one year before the 1979 Revolution. The festival became a platform where traditional and contemporary artists from Iran could meet artists and see works from Asia, Africa and Western countries and vice versa. In the modern history of Iran, this was the first time that theater cultures and artistic conventions from distant places came to the country, and the result has been described as “a transcendent blend of East and West.”3

218  Narges Hashempour Empress Farah Pahlavi, the initiator of the festival, commemorated this idea of ‘blending’ at a symposium held at the Asia Society in New York in 2013. She described the SAF as follows: We, of course, admired all that the West had achieved in science, technology, and the arts. We tried to learn and absorb as much of it as we could. But our idea of the future was not to be Western or to become westernized, just as it was not to be Eastern or easternized. She then recalled how the idea for an arts festival began: We approached Iranian art as a living, growing, and expanding exercise in creativity, rooted in the magnificence of our ancient and Islamic past, but free to look to the future and to breathe and to develop openly in contact with the best that the world offered. The Shiraz Arts Festival became the most famous example of this approach. Its formal purpose […] was to pay tribute to the nation’s traditional arts, raise cultural standards in Iran, ensure wider appreciation of the work of Iranian artists, introduce foreign artists to Iran, and to acquaint the Iranian public with the traditional and the latest artistic developments of other countries.4 During those years, the works of many international avant-garde directors and theater groups were performed at the festival. In 1971, Peter Brook staged the bipartite play Orghast, which involved, among others, using the language of the Avesta––the main collection of sacred texts in Zoroastrianism––and which investigated the relationship between sound and meaning.5 This was done in collaboration with the Iranian theater director Arby Ovanessian, and Iranian actors also played some roles. In 1972, Robert Wilson staged an outdoor performance, KA MOUNTAIN AND GUARDenia TERRACE: A Story about a Family and Some People Changing (see Figure 10.1).6 Both American and Iranian actors as well as nonprofessional locals performed in the production. Other directors included Jerzy Grotowski, who staged The Constant Prince, and Tadeusz Kantor, who staged Lovelies and Dowdies in 1974, which included its spectators in the action.7 Another group was Squat Theatre, which performed Pig, Child, Fire!, “an experimental play that condemned brutality and violence. To erase the space between audience and [performers], the performance was situated in the window of an empty store on a busy street and could be seen by passersby.”8 However, the mode of witnessing and reception on either side—the Iranians and the visitors from other countries—was very different for each party since it was inevitably based on their own pre-existing, dominant sociopolitical discourses. While European and American experimental directors were often fascinated by the traditional and religious Iranian performances, especially by Ta’ziyeh, many Iranians considered the newest aesthetics developed in European and American performance cultures very well suited to reflect on and perhaps even support Iran’s contemporary situation and official perception of itself. As

Dramaturgies of in-betweenness  219

Figure 10.1  KA MOUNTAIN AND GUARDenia TERRACE: A Story about a Family and Some People Changing, Haft Tan Mountain, Shiraz, Iran, 1972. Directed by Robert Wilson, Andrew de Groat, Cynthia Lubar, James Neu, Ann Wilson, Mel Andringa, S. K. Dunn and others. Texts by Robert Wilson, Andrew de Groat, Jessie Dunn Gilbert, Kikuo Saito, Cynthia Lubar, Susan Sheehy and Ann Wilson. Source: photo by Bahman Djalali.

a consequence, the festival became a symbolic platform to announce—with a hidden nationalistic vision—Iran’s entrance into a liminal situation of being inbetween East and West, within which a discourse on the “return to self”9 began to emerge. At the same time, new state policies attempted to reconcile Iran’s preIslamic and Islamic pasts, which had been neglected during the previous decades and would now become the main references for cultural identity. In order to implement and carry through this new discourse and policy, rethinking the arts, particularly theater and performance art, became one practical option. For instance, the Iranian Ta’ziyeh, which had been banned––as a religious ritual practice––in major cities when the SAF began, became––as a performative event during the festival––the center of attention for both Iranians and foreign audiences. While directors such as Brook were affected by its theatrical and performative aesthetic—which he has interpreted as an “event from the very distant past […] in the process of […] becoming present; the past […] happening here and now”10— Iranians themselves began to revitalize Ta’ziyeh: on the one hand, as a presentation of traditional Iranian performing arts heritage, and on the other, to propel it beyond

220  Narges Hashempour its ritualistic and religious context and to adapt it to the proscenium stage. For instance, in 1971, the comedian, playwright and theater director Parviz Sayyad produced Khorouj-e Mokhtar, a Ta’ziyeh revenge narrative, which he performed “with comic overtones and no martyrs”11 to provide relief after ten days of mourning. Under the influence of the SAF, a new theater movement called Kargah-e Namayesh (Performance Workshop) soon emerged with the aim of emancipating theater from conventional forms (i.e. its illusionary, realist conventions). In 1969, Arby Ovanessian and others started working in the Kargah-e Namayesh style in order to support artists who did not have any place in Iran’s conventional theater. As part of the Kargah-e Namayesh movement, many performance groups, along with numerous new playwrights, directors and actors, staged their plays at the SAF. For example, Ovanessian staged the play Pazhouheshi Zharf va Setorg va No dar Sangvareha-ye Dowre-ye Bist-o-panjom-e Zaminshenasi, ya Chahardahom, ya Bistom, Farghi Nemikonad (A Deep, Substantial and Novel Research into the Fossils of the Twenty-Fifth Geological Period, or the Fourteenth, the Twentieth, Doesn’t Matter), written by Abbas Nalbandian, a young playwright. The play was highly poetic and therefore considered to be non-theatrical and unstageable. Ovanessian remembers, “Everyone thought it couldn’t be done. I said that if I had a few days of rehearsal, I could show them that it could be done.”12 Another play was Vis o Ramin (Vis and Ramin) written by Mahin Tajadod (née Jahanbegloo). This play was based on an eleventh-century romance by Fakhruddin As’ad Gorgani and underlined “the wealth of Persian narrative poems that have rarely been exploited for their dramatic value.”13 In 1970, as part of the fourth SAF, the theme of which was “Theater and Ritual,” Ovanessian timed the performance of Vis o Ramin “to unfold with the movement of the setting sun at Persepolis, then lit a fire, a natural artifice with deep, spiritual undertones.”14 The abovementioned examples represent the huge changes taking place in Iranian theater at the time. However, the SAF and the performance pieces staged according to the dramaturgical model of Kargah-e Namayesh emerged under the shadow of an official state policy—that is, a top-down political strategy. Although they had been inspired by performances from Europe and the US—that is to say, by the so-called neo-avant-garde—the artists interpreted these performances differently in light of the discourse that the authorities in Iran were propagating. This discourse was a sentimental, romantic ‘return to self’ in which traditional heritage, including rituals, epic and mythical literature, folklore and monuments, was celebrated. The new theater works, accordingly, claimed to discover an apparently new Iranian identity in this heritage. Here is how artist and scholar Mahasti Afshar comments on one of the performances, Savari Dar-amad Rouyash Sorkh, Mouyash Sorkh … (There Appeared a Knight with a Red Face, Red Hair …), written by Mahin Tajadod (née Jahanbegloo), which was performed at the tenth anniversary of the SAF in 1979: As for the goal of cultivating indigenous traditions and making them current, Savari dar-amad … is, indeed, that: Incorporating the Younger Avesta,

Dramaturgies of in-betweenness  221 Manichean writings, classical Persian literature, Islamic mysticism, and Iranian Illuminationist philosophy as a composite expression of “Persian poetic wisdom,” it depicts the end of obscurity at the moment when, driven by greed, darkness swallows the light.15 In essence, the artists created a pseudo-traditional dramaturgy in their works that used traditional, religious, epic and ancient literature and myths nostalgically in order to bring forth a new theater in which dramatic language inspired by ancient Persian myths, literature and poetry was highly esteemed. Therefore, it is no surprise that, during this period, many new playwrights appeared on the Iranian theater scene. The new model of theater was mostly focused on the creation of highly symbolic, metaphorical dramatic texts full of wordplay and flowery language, delivered in an eloquent poetic manner to produce an inexplicable, mysterious atmosphere. This dramaturgical trend in theater is also evident in its proponents’ views of the audience’s inferior position. In one of his interviews, Ovanessian states that they did not want the audience’s taste to be imposed on them as artists; rather, they saw themselves as the elite who wanted to train a new audience and gradually accustom them to their innovative dramaturgy: Contrary to the opinion that the Kargah did not pay any attention to the audience, the opposite is true; the Kargah paid very close attention to the audience. The Kargah queried [the audience through questionnaires]. All these records––[showing] whether it appealed to the audience or not––are still available. Only, we did not cater to the audience’s taste, and that was our goal. We did not want the taste of the audience to be imposed on us. We wanted to effect a change in the relationship [between artist and audience]. We believed that this minority [i.e. the Kargah] was of enough significance that could [help it] become the majority, evolve. Schoolchildren do not know things from the beginning; they have to learn them. It cannot be said that the school should be subject to the children’s taste. We were not after mimetic theater. Contrary to what was believed—that we were imitating Europe—it was not like that, and had they [i.e. the critics] been mindful, [they would have noted that] the Kargah created a number of Iranian writers who cultivated new modern theatrical forms in Iran.16 This imperious attitude, whereby the artists saw themselves as possessing a superior “knowing mind,”17 was rooted in the belief that artists should determine the meanings that are ‘transmitted’ in performances. Hence, the actors were responsible for transmitting the meanings of the mythical and mystical texts, full of metaphors and allusions, to the spectators. The result was a wide gap between this new dramaturgy and its potential audience in Iranian society because the new performances neglected to address the rising social and political crises of that time. Perhaps this is one of the most important reasons why the SAF and the Kargah-e Namayesh were considered by various opposition groups to be aligned with the dictatorship and not a true representation of the “social antithesis”18 prevalent in Iranian society.

222  Narges Hashempour After the 1979 Revolution, theater was controlled by the newly founded Dramatic Arts Center. Realistic and naturalistic dramaturgies, which most appealed to the public’s taste, remained the dominant form for staging both religious/revolutionary and critical plays. The text—i.e. the literary work—was perceived as the main dramaturgical element of the performance. Most stages were classical proscenium arch stages and, accordingly, there was generally a clear division between the stage and the auditorium. In state theaters, mimetic-realistic theater was the most common genre of performance, although some directors attempted to stage more ‘alternative’ dramaturgies during this period, calling their works ‘experimental theater’ but basically maintaining the model of Kargah-e Namayesh. Being staged in the state theaters, the theatrical space and power structures inherent to the state system continued to have a strong influence on these ‘experimental’ performances. Thus, they never really challenged the dominant aesthetics of conventional theater. However, in the past 20 years or so, a new performative turn has emerged in the performing arts in Iran. Since then, the definition and dramaturgical practices of theater have shifted: the focus is on inventing new body languages, on experimenting with performative aesthetics and on taking over urban spaces. I will now turn to three examples, analyzing their dramaturgies—specifically their innovative use of space and language—as important sites for experimentation within this new experimental period in Iranian performance culture.

Hamid Pourazari’s U-Turn (Tehran, May 2010) I am visiting a performance by the theater director Hamid Pourazari, who was born in 1968 and is well known for working in unusual spaces with non-professional actors and people from the so-called fringes of society. The performance is called U-Turn (see Figure 10.2) and is performed by students of Amir Kabir University in Tehran—who are famous for their political activism. We buy our tickets from a car parked in front of Café Lorca. Then we get into two minibusses following a predefined route. During the ride, we hear female and male voices chatting from loudspeakers, voices belonging to people we will meet in the course of the performance. The minibusses come to a halt at a fivestory, circular parking garage belonging to Amir Kabir University. We get out and receive our itinerary consisting of numbered parking spaces. We form groups of four or five and proceed to 11 parked cars that are waiting for us, which then set off in four different directions. Over the next few hours, we are confronted with various stories inside and outside the cars and participate in events, making it difficult to say who is an actor, who is a spectator and who is a member of the public. Each of us having experienced a different version of the performance, we are all brought back to the garage, where an actress tells a story about her childhood during the Iran–Iraq War (1979–1987). She speaks into a megaphone as she leads the audience down into a tunnel, the ceiling of which gets lower and lower the further we go, forcing us to stoop in order to be able to continue. The tunnel finally opens into a courtyard outside the garage where a group of actors are banging on drums.

Dramaturgies of in-betweenness  223

Figure 10.2  U-Turn (2010). Source: photo by Soroosh Milanizadeh.

Other actors are throwing down photographs from windows: pictures of us spectators, taken by hidden cameras during the car rides. We pick up our own photos and board the waiting minibusses, which drop us at Café Lorca again. There are numerous fascinating aspects to Pourazari’s U-Turn; in this context, however, I would firstly like to focus on how and to what effect speech acts function in U-Turn as displaced iterations of authoritative speech acts from daily life and, secondly, on how words are used dramaturgically in U-Turn to trigger traumatic memories of war in order to challenge dominant historical narratives. The first point is most obvious at the beginning of U-Turn when several actors suddenly appear in the garage dressed as young paramilitaries (called the Basidj). With this moment, the actors recreate a performative situation familiar to us spectators, namely the enforcement of social and political codes of conduct through police officers and Basidjis, for example when public spaces are surrounded for moral policing or security reasons. The costumes, the aggressive movements and the authoritative ways of speaking evoke experiences from our daily lives. The performers play with this ambiguity. For instance, when a performer with a mask covering his mouth and a camera in his hand orders me to get into the car, in which three other people are already sitting, I laugh and tell him that, according to my itinerary, this is not the car I am supposed to be taking. Then, momentarily, a conversation inside the car grabs our attention. In the backseat, a young couple is fighting. A frustrated young man asks the woman, “Are you satisfied with this

224  Narges Hashempour situation now? Do you like what is happening here? Is this theater?” The young girl shouts back, “No! Stop talking.” I am unable to tell if they are actors or audience members. Suddenly, the masked performer comes back to me again and asks for my ID. I respond, “It is in my bag and it is difficult to show you.” He shouts at me, “Then how can I identify you!?” At this moment, the woman inside the car yells at him, “Don’t shout!” The man responds to her in the same tone: “Cover your hair and mind your hijab [veil], my sister!” She responds, “I am not your sister and don’t talk to me in such a loud voice!” He gets even louder: “This is my voice!” Then he orders the driver to go while trying to force me into the car. I manage to escape and run through the garage to follow my itinerary. As I waver between walking and running, I encounter other people who, I assume, are part of the performance and who instruct me and what I assume are other audience members to move in one direction or another, not to enter a specific area, not to sit or stand and so forth. At first glance, the masked performer’s speech acts and behavior seem to be reenactments of the voices of authority from daily life. However, during the course of the performance, I realize that these familiar authoritative speech acts are reenacted in a displaced manner: relocated from the specific circumstances in which they are normally uttered. Here and now in the performance, I feel safe enough to investigate their authority and question them, which I would not do in daily life. Every time the actors negotiate, aggressively, with the spectators–– forcing them to follow instructions, telling them how they should move, which direction they should go, which car they should enter or ordering them to separate from their friends––they are opening up a new space to reflect and to discuss with others, be that the performer or other spectators, and to move and behave differently. As a member of the audience, I have the right to include or exclude myself and negotiate freely in the course of the performance. This creates new modes of interaction between the performers and me. My “movements” change and “different perceptual possibilities” open up.19 These displaced authoritative speech acts do not seek to affirm those that occur in daily life, but rather to produce various affects, movements and understandings that are specific to each unpredictable performance. Therefore, in the course of the performance, I acquire the agency to react differently, defy or follow the actors’ orders, which I could not do in everyday life. I thus become aware of my own constitutive role in those authoritative speech acts, which depend on my taking certain actions and behaving in a particular way. Making me responsible for the (dis)functioning of the authoritative speech acts, the performance dramaturgically creates a space for possible resistance. The second function of speech acts in U-Turn becomes palpable when all spectators are led to the bottom floor of the garage and the young actress leads them into the tunnel. Here she begins speaking about her personal traumatic memories of the Iran–Iraq War, an event carrying strong emotional connotations for many audience members: “Believe me,” she starts her story, it was only a childish game. The knife and the vein. I’m only twelve years old. But this time, I want to end the game. Come and gather around me.

Dramaturgies of in-betweenness  225 Come, don’t be afraid. I’m the important one here. The experience of being silent at home is over now. The father who is never there … the war. Abadan: a city destroyed; it’s not a city anymore. Tehran: food rations, Khosrow. We have to leave, Aunt. Amen …. The sirens of war are wailing and the thunder of tanks and guns can be heard. We run down to the cellar, all the neighbors. My father takes a quick drag of a cigarette …. The three of us take a photo to remember. Right here in the cellar. As she leads the audience members into the dark tunnel, she tells this story in a strange manner: hiding her face, never looking up, breathing heavily, she whispers through the megaphone in her hand; and I feel as if she is whispering her traumatic memories into my ear. My own memories and associations of the war start to come back, such as when the war sirens were wailing at my high school and I was frightened; or when my friends and I in the schoolyard would trace the direction of a rocket in the sky, hoping it would not strike the area we lived in; or the image of my father listening to the news of the war on his small silver radio in a dark room while we all begged him to come with us to the basement. What happened in U-Turn, at least for me, is that, once again, I faced this historical trauma in a very personal manner—that is, feeling dissociated from the official narratives and discourses regarding the war. In the collective and official historical memory, Iran’s involvement in the war imposed by the Iraqi government (Jang-e Tahmili) is understood as an act of Defa’e Moghaddass (holy defense), not as a traumatic event. The ‘holy defense’ discourse intends not only to perpetuate wartime patriotism in the collective memory of Iranians but also to safeguard the post-1979 religious-revolutionary mission and zeal. Personal traumas and crises have no place in this official discourse. In U-Turn, however, each individual has the chance to free themselves from this official, collective memory of the war and expose themselves to their subjective trauma. My dissociation from official political norms of remembering was dramaturgically facilitated not only by the speech acts of the actress whispering her awful memories into my ear but also by the physical experience of the claustrophobic, airless tunnel space. As I listened to her voice, I could hear the sound of the drums, along with other people breathing very close to me; I could even smell them. I felt uncomfortable, anxious, as this physical feeling of distress, tension and lack of air mingled with my own painful memories of the war.

Reza Servati’s Woyzeck (Tehran, May 2013) The second production I want to discuss is Georg Büchner’s Woyzeck, staged at the Hafez Hall in Tehran in May 2013 and directed by Reza Servati, a young Iranian playwright and director (see Figure 10.3). In Woyzeck, the spectators sit facing each other. Erected between two stands for spectators, the stage is a large half-pipe, the kind you find in skateparks. At each end of the U-shaped structure are platforms, which, together with the concave part of the half-pipe, serve as the stage for the production’s striking physical acting.

226  Narges Hashempour

Figure 10.3  Woyzeck (2013). Source: photo by Reza Mousavi.

The performance’s dramaturgy can be described as a collage of nightmarish images and sounds: a huge rat enters, crawling out of the sewers into Woyzeck’s life; a bucket hangs from the ceiling, containing Marie’s unborn child, which she swings from one end of the half-pipe to the other, and from which the baby’s crying and laughing can be heard. Marie’s amplified voice resonates in the whole space: “There was a little boy who had no one on the face of the earth. Dead people … dead houses … dead birds, even his lollipops were dead.” Then a circular structure on one of the platforms turns. Woyzeck is hanging contorted inside it, and then another Woyzeck steps onto the platform, as the entire theater building vibrates from the music. Marie and Woyzeck start singing each other’s names: whispering, shouting with excitement, echoing each other, raising their voices. The other performers use their voices in strange manners too; it sounds as if theirs are distorted or amplified using multiple technical means. For example, when the Captain says, “God has lost his faith in us since we haven’t been good humans for him, since we are squirming in our own filth. Why don’t you send us some rain to clear away all this filth?” the last sentence resounds and echoes several times, suffusing the whole space, including my body. Woyzeck looks at his double on the opposite side of the half-pipe platform, cleaning the circular structure. Then he says to the Captain, “Don’t you split in two in certain hours of the day?” The central quality of Servati’s dramaturgy is the way he creates complex compositions from the interplay of all theatrical elements: space, light, costumes,

Dramaturgies of in-betweenness  227 movements, voices and sounds. In Woyzeck, all these elements come together to generate a highly grotesque reality. The text from Woyzeck has been broken up and characters have been added, such as Woyzeck’s double. The result is a text that is fragmented and obscure; the acting is far from psychologically realistic. Furthermore, the stage set has an unusual design that changes the accustomed position of the audience: they sit in two stands facing each other, with the stage between them. Thus, they not only experience the grotesque actions on the stage; they also witness these actions’ effects on the spectators sitting across from them, turning their facial/physical responses into an integral part of the performance. The physicality of the actors is characterized by bizarre movements, awkward gestures and nightmarish, almost otherworldly vocalizations. Subverting wellestablished dramaturgical norms and conventions of ‘proper’ bodily and especially verbal theatrical behavior, the actors create a highly unconventional visual and acoustic space. This distortion and estrangement call my attention to my own corporeality as a spectator, particularly when I sense the resonance of the performers’ distorted and amplified voices within my own body. Listening to their surreal speeches, the rhythm of my breathing and heartbeat changes; I sense pain, shock, disorientation and excitement in my body. In Woyzeck, the text is no longer treated as something with a fixed, unchange­ able meaning that has to be transmitted truthfully to the spectators. The sensations, affects and meanings experienced and generated by me during the performance go far beyond the text’s potential meanings. To quote Erika Fischer-Lichte, The artists did not restrict their voices to serve as the medium for language. Instead, the voice made itself heard for its own sake. […] [T]he voice’s polymorphism released a multiplicity of meaning […]. With each breath, the voice […] directed the listener’s attention to its own special qualities and expressed the subject’s bodily being-in-the-world to others.20 Servati says of his production, the erratic experience of [staging] a performance that I was after was to achieve a sort of grotesque. I mean the interweaving of horror and fantasy, tragedy and comedy; these make the audience’s reaction more complex and lead to estrangement/alienation, which is my main goal in the theater.21 In Woyzeck, the dramaturgical use of language and space does not serve to transmit or uncover the meanings of the drama; instead, words are brought forth, physically and technically supported, to affect the spectators corporeally, to make them resonate physically. Consequently, what happens in Woyzeck, to invoke the French philosopher Jean-Luc Nancy, is that meanings are generated as “resonant meaning, a meaning whose sense is supposed to be found in resonance, and only in resonance.”22 The generation process of this ‘resonant meaning’ is experienced as something happening only here and now, between bodies and minds, uncontrollably, at the same time outside and inside, bodily and cerebral, individual and

228  Narges Hashempour collective. The deeper sense of this process, which Nancy also describes as “feeling-oneself-feel,”23 is that each individual spectator can experience themselves as a resonant subject. “A subject feels,” Nancy explains, that is his characteristic and his definition. This means that he hears (himself), sees (himself), touches (himself), tastes (himself), and so on, and that he thinks himself or represents himself, approaches himself and strays from himself, and thus always feels himself feeling a “self” that escapes [s’échappe] or hides [se retranche] as long as it resounds elsewhere as it does in itself, in a world and in the other.24 In Woyzeck, the dramaturgical use of language, media and space enables spectators to feel themselves feeling a self that always “escapes” and feels highly exposed, vulnerable, weak, interdependent, uncertain, fluid and sensitive. Considering the efforts of constructing a seemingly stable collective identity, which the SAF with its performances undertook, this radical destabilization of the self happening in Woyzeck is a highly significant political process. Here, the in-betweenness of contemporary Iranian society, which I addressed at the beginning of the chapter, can be most intensively experienced and, thus, finally recognized and communally negotiated.

My experimental performance workshop (Tehran, May 2014) In May 2014, I was invited to conduct a five-day workshop at Mohsen Gallery in Tehran as part of the seventeenth Student Theater Festival. Entitled “A Window on Contemporary Iranian Theater,” the festival for the first time devoted a part of its program to performance studies. The workshop was about the creative process involved in making performance art. During the workshop, I worked creatively with participants—mainly young students—and accompanied them to performances by other artists that were taking place on the streets, in apartments, galleries, cafes and in private, non-state-funded theaters of Tehran, which are steadily increasing in number. One task I gave the workshop participants was to bring a short sentence with them. This short sentence had to address a topic, an idea or a problem that they had been thinking about. Over five days, we attempted to embody these sentences and then present them in short performances. Their brief statements led to the emergence of a variety of self-referential dramaturgies. Every day, the participants created new acoustic and visual spaces by combining different vocal expressions such as speaking in a disrupted way, crying, screaming and singing the words in an alienating manner, accompanied by a variety of gestures and movements. Every day, they also brought different objects and used them. Often, they inflicted pain and violence on their bodies. For instance, Maryam, who wrote the sentence “Everybody’s first reaction was laughter,” one day slapped her face hard and in rapid succession while conjugating the verb “to laugh.” Another day, she stood facing a white wall, repeating the term “laughter therapy” in various

Dramaturgies of in-betweenness  229 and highly odd rhythmic intonations. The other student, Pegah, who wrote the sentence “In Stalin’s time, there was a standard method of torture called ‘white torture,’” brought a mirror one day and, while gathering some pictures of different dictators around herself, stared at the mirror, then tried to smash it with her hand. Another example is Hossein, who wrote the sentence “Why not somewhere else? Why Tehran? Why does so much dirt want to be in this city?” In one of his improvisations, he performed his questions with specific gestures and body movements synchronized with breathing noises. He put on a white mask and started sweeping the floor from one side to the other while breathing fast in a disrupted yet rhythmic way. All these performances illustrate the various possibilities of embodying language and, as a consequence, the emergence of different sensational and emotional affects that are completely different from one day to the next. Thus, for me and for the students, words became a dramaturgical material to experience the reality and agency of our corporeality, through different ways of violating the body, using the voice and the space and showing emotions. Through self-referential (i.e. non-mimetic) dramaturgies, the students not only experienced what it meant to perform their physical, mental and emotional presence in a radical way; individual spectators were able to experience their own bodies in different ways, too. By challenging the existing dramaturgical norms of ‘proper’ bodily behavior and by investigating taboos, the workshop participants opened up new possibilities—for themselves and for the spectators—to explore the vulnerability of these rules, norms and taboos, on the basis of which ‘social bodies’ are modeled in gender-specific ways in Iran.

Conclusion: Different modes of interweaving The aforementioned examples of contemporary theater and performance art in Iran share experimental dramaturgical methods of staging the physical body, a fact that becomes obvious when investigating the complex effects of the dramaturgical use of language and space in these performances. These alternative dramaturgies produce a radical awareness of the bodily being-in-the-world, both for the actors and the spectators. At the same time, they are indicative of the growth of an independent theater scene in Iran that is struggling to liberate itself from the state and official theater system as the authoritative organization for theater. Therefore, this new wave of Iranian performing arts, in comparison with that of the late 1960s, illustrates a new mode of interweaving within Iranian performance culture that generates alternative aesthetic experiences in relation to the structure of power. Although both periods showed the in-betweenness of Iran at two different points in its history, how they did so was different depending on the cultural discourses they were situated in. The top-down political strategy of the late 1960s, driven by governmental policies and nationalistic ideology, resulted in the emergence of a seemingly autonomous, pseudo-traditional form that allowed artists to take refuge in nostalgic themes and forms. In fact, it strategically avoided social

230  Narges Hashempour reality and its conflicts, which would later come to a head in the 1979 Revolution. The audience, as an important element in performance, was neglected and perceived as a homogeneous and passive group. The spoken text, although more poetic and enigmatic, nonetheless remained the regulatory element in determining the meaning and effect of the performance. In contrast, the bottom-up political strategy, prevalent in contemporary Iran, evident in the works of artists who are trying to liberate themselves from the state theater system, illustrates the growing dramaturgical interest in experimenting with all the tangible elements of performance: the physical body, vocal expressions, space, sound, light, costume, etc. These diverse experiments emphasize the materiality of the actors’ specific bodily and vocal presence and the spectators’ “emotional experience of [their] own corporeality at its most sensual and simultaneously its most transfigured.”25 The performance is therefore not merely the representation of a literary work but a unique event in which the specific immediate quality of the embodied acts is dramaturgically placed in the foreground. This reconfigures the relationship between actors and spectators and creates new, much more complex possibilities for the audience’s perception. In performance, the audience is invited to experience a tension between the meanings of spoken text and the effects of embodied speech on their individual bodily presence. They are directly confronted with the materiality of the actions in the performance and thereby perceive them “according to their particular patterns of perception, their associations and memories, and the discourses in which they participated.”26 By confronting this tension, the role of the audience is transformed in the course of the performance. Both sides––performer and audience––now play an active role and are responsible for what happens during the performance. By implication, the audience is given the freedom, at least while the performance lasts, to criticize social and cultural conditions on a fundamental level. In this sense, the performative turn implies that the aesthetic always comprises a political dimension. All of these aspects ultimately represent the young artists’ dramaturgical response to their experiences of Iran’s ongoing position of in-betweenness.

Notes 1 Fischer-Lichte defines her concept as the dissolution of boundaries in the arts, repeatedly proclaimed and observed by artists, art critics, scholars of art and philosophers […]. [T]he creative process tends to be realized in and as performance. […] [A]rtists increasingly produce events which involve not just themselves but also the observers, listeners and spectators. […] [W]e are dealing with an event, set in motion and terminated by the actions of all the subjects involved––artists and spectators. […] The material status does not merge with the signifier status; rather, the former severs itself from the latter to claim a life of its own. In effect, objects and actions are no longer dependent on the meanings attributed to them. As events that reveal these special characteristics, artistic performance opens up the possibility for all participants to experience a metamorphosis. (The Transformative Power of Performance: A New Aesthetics, trans. Saskya Iris Jain (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2008), 22–23)

Dramaturgies of in-betweenness  231 According to this definition, linguistic utterances in a performance event are also performative speech acts. Their signification is in flux and depends on the materiality, corporeality and spatiality of the performance event. 2 For an overview of this development, see Narges Hashempour, “Traditional and Modern: Iranian Theatre Culture and Gender Performance” (Ph.D. diss., Freie Universität Berlin, 2013). 3 Mahasti Afshar, “Festival of Arts: Shiraz-Persepolis OR You Better Believe in as Many as Six Impossible Things before Breakfast,” Asia Society, accessed 10 May 2017, http:​/​/asi​​asoci​​ety​.o​​rg​/fi​​les​/u​​pload​​s​/126​​files​​/Fest​​ival%​​20of%​​20Art​​s,​%20Shi​raz​Persepolis​.pdf. 4 Farah Pahlavi, “Her Majesty Shahbanou Farah Pahlavi’s Address at the Symposium for the Festival of Arts, Shiraz-Persepolis, Held at the Asia Society-New York on October 5, 2013,” Asia Society, accessed 12 March 2020, https​:/​/as​​iasoc​​iety.​​org​/f​​iles/​​uploa​​ds​/ 12​​6file​​s​/Oct​​_5​-13​​%20HM​​FP​%20​​Remar​​ks​%20​​A​sia%​​20Soc​​iety.​​pdf. 5 Brook writes, If you go into the text knowing in general what it is about and take a word, two words, a dialogue, with your imagination open to the words, the more you experience the sound the more you experience what went into making it, and hence the experience of the person who went through it. Suddenly, mysteriously, those sounds become words, words so strong, alive and vibrant, affecting our imagination through our sound and movement: suddenly we find all our feelings flowing with the words. This is true of Aeschylus and of Orghast. (Albert Hunt and Geoffrey Reeves, Directors in Perspective: Peter Brook (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 157) 6 See Asia Society, “Excerpt.” 7 Afshar, “Festival of Arts.” 8 Ibid. 9 The definition of “self” in Iranian history has varied according to sociopolitical circumstances. Iran’s encounter with European culture in the late nineteenth to early twentieth century resulted in a shift in Iranian self-perception over the course of modernization. This mode of perception generated a new mode of self-identification. With the growth of nationalism, two dominant opposing factions were formed: The first, known as the “modernists,” perceived Iranian history after the Muslim conquest of Persia and the subsequent dominance of Arab culture and language as a history of backwardness, while at the same time, Iranian pre-Islamic history, which had a kinship with European history, became a model on which to base future progress. The second faction, known primarily as the “anti-modernists,” was mainly rooted in religious groups and the clergy. In the modernists’ mode of perception, a new definition of identity was formed primarily by taking recourse to written sources. Thus, many significant aspects of the knowledge, traditions and institutions as well as performance forms belonging to Shia Islam were eclipsed by the modernists’ identity discourse. From the late 1960s, partly as a result of social changes, a new discourse began to form that was mainly concerned with returning to some form of “original” Iranian identity or self. This discourse was primarily a state policy to interweave Islamic and pre-Islamic pasts while, at the same time, absorbing some aspects of what was viewed as progressive Western culture. Coincidently, a new revolutionary-religious discourse of “return to self” began to evolve, which was radically against the imposed Western visions and models, on the one hand, and the Pahlavi government’s policies on the other. See Hashempour, “Traditional and Modern,” 138–55. 10 An event from the very distant past was in the process of being “re-presented,” of becoming present; the past was happening here and now, the hero’s decision

232  Narges Hashempour was for now, his anguish was for now and the audience’s tears were for this very moment. The past was not being described nor illustrated, time had been abolished. The village was participating directly and totally, here and now in the real death of a real figure who had died some thousand years before. The story had been read to them many times, and described in words, but only the theatre form could work this feat of making it part of a living experience. (Peter Brook, There Are No Secrets: Thoughts on Acting and Theatre (London: Methuen Drama, 1993), 41) 11 Afshar, “Festival of Arts,” 17. 12 ‫خانم خجسته کیا […] از من برای داوری اولین دوره مسابقه منایشنامه‌نویسی جشن هرن‬ ‫ منت عباس نعلبندیان — پژوهشی ژرف و سرتگ و نو … — در‬.‫دعوت کرد‬ ‫ اکرثا می‌گفتند که نوشته تئاتری نیست و‬.‫ مطرح و خوانده شد‬،‫جلسه هیات داوران‬ ‫ برای اثبات نظرم یک هفته آن‬.‫ من نظر دیگری پیشنهاد کردم‬.‫با آن موافق نبودند‬ .‫را مترین کنم تا ببینید که تئاتر است‬ Ms. Khojaste Kia […] invited me to join the jury of the first playwriting competition in the Arts Festival. The text by Abbas Nalbandian––A Deep, Vast and Novel Research …––was chosen and read at the jury’s meeting. Most members were of the opinion that it was not a theatrical text and did not wish to accept it. I thought otherwise; to prove it, I would rehearse it for a week so that they would see that it is [a text for] the theater. (Arby Ovanessian, “Chegune Kargah-e Namayesh dar Theatr-e Iran Gostardeh Shod,” interview by Maryam Mansouri, Tajrobeh, no. 19 (February 2013): 96, my translation) 13 Afshar, “Festival of Arts,” 19. 14 Ibid. 15 Ibid., 27. 16 ‫ درست بالعکسه؛ کارگاه خیلی دقیقاً به‬،‫بر خالف این انعکاسی که کارگاه به متاشاگر منی‌پرداخت‬ ،]‫ متام سوالها رو کرده [منظور پرسشنامه‌هاییست که به متاشاگران می‌دادند‬.‫متاشاگر می‌پرداخت‬ ،‫ تنها چیزی که نبود‬.‫ هست‬،‫ [اینکه آیا] موافق متاشاگره یا مخالف متاشاگره‬،‫متام برنامه‌ریزی‌هاش‬ ‫ ما سلیقه‌ای رو از متاشاگر منی‌خواستیم به ما‬.‫ما تابع سلیقه‌ی متاشاگر نبودیم و این هدف ما بود‬ ‫ ما معتقد بودیم که این اقلیت [منظور‬.‫ ما می‌خواستیم در یک رابطه‌ای تحولی پیش بیاد‬.‫تحمیل بشه‬ ‫ بچه هایی که تو‬.‫ تحول پیدا بکنه‬،‫گروه منایشی است] معنایی داره که می‌تونه تبدیل به اکرثیت بشه‬ ‫ منیشه گفت که مدرسه باید تابع‬.‫مدرسه میرن از اول چیزی منیدونن؛ باید یه چیزی رو یاد بگیرن‬ ‫ برخالف اونچه که فکر میکردن ما از اروپا داریم‬.‫ ما دنبال تئاتر تقلیدی نبودیم‬.‫سلیقه‌ی بچه‌ها باشه‬ ،‫ کارگاه تعدادی نویسنده‌ی ایرانی بوجود آورده‬،‫ اگر دقت کرده باشن‬.‫ اینطوری نبود‬،‫تقلید میکنیم‬ .‫تعدادی نویسنده‌ای که سبک‌های جدید تئاتری در ایران باب کردن‬ (“Tamasha: Kargah-e Namayesh, dar Goft-o-Goo ba Arby Ovanessian,” YouTube video, 57:08, posted by BBC Persian, 27 March 2014, www​.youtube​.com​/watch​?v​=pV22N1RdHh0, my transcription and translation) 17 See Jacques Rancière, The Ignorant Schoolmaster: Five Lessons in Intellectual Emancipation, trans. Kristin Ross (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1991), 6–7. 18 I am referring here to Adorno’s statement: “Art is the social antithesis of society, not directly deducible from it.” See Theodor W. Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, ed. Gretel

Dramaturgies of in-betweenness  233 Adorno and Rolf Tiedemann, trans. and ed. Robert Hullot-Kentor (London: Continuum, 2002), 8. 19 Fischer-Lichte, Transformative Power of Performance, 107–8. 20 Ibid., 128. 21 ‫ یعنی کنار هم‬.‫از سوی دیگر تجربه غریب یک اجرا که من به دنبالش بودم رسیدن به نوعی گروتسک بود‬ ‫ اینها واکنش متاشاگر را پیچیده می‌کند و باعث آشنایی‌زدایی‬،‫ تراژدی و کمدی‬،‫نشسنت وحشت و فانتزی‬ .‫می‌شود که دغدغه اصلی من در تئاتر است‬ (Reza Servati, “Goft-o-Goo ba Reza Servati, Kargardan-e Namayesh-e Ajayeb-ol-Makhloughat,” interview by Alireza Naraghi, Jamejam Online, 5 April 2011, http:​/​/jam​​ejamo​​nline​​.ir​/o​​nline​​/ 6709​​08192​​24​513​​1232, my translation) 22 Jean-Luc Nancy, Listening, trans. Charlotte Mandell (New York, NY: Fordham University Press, 2007), 7. 23 Ibid., 8. 24 Ibid., 9. 25 Fischer-Lichte, Transformative Power of Performance, 127. 26 Erika Fischer-Lichte, The Show and the Gaze of Theatre: A European Perspective (Iowa City, IA: University of Iowa Press, 1997), 238.

Bibliography Adorno, Theodor W. Aesthetic Theory. Edited by Gretel Adorno and Rolf Tiedemann. Translated and edited by Robert Hullot-Kentor. London: Continuum, 2002. Afshar, Mahasti. “Festival of Arts: Shiraz-Persepolis OR You Better Believe in as Many as Six Impossible Things before Breakfast.” Asia Society. Accessed 10 May 2017. http:​/​/asi​​asoci​​ety​.o​​rg​/fi​​les​/u​​pload​​s​/126​​files​​/Fest​​ival%​​20of%​​20Art​​s​%2C%​​20Shi​​raz​P​​ersep​​​olis%​​20196​​7​-77.​​pdf. Asia Society. “Excerpt: How Robert Wilson Once Staged a Play in Iran that Lasted 168 Hours.” 2 October 2013. http:​/​/asi​​asoci​​ety​.o​​rg​/bl​​og​/as​​ia​/ex​​cerpt​​-how-​​rober​​t​-wil​​son​o​​nce​-s​​taged​​-play​​-iran​​-​last​​ed​-16​​8​-hou​​rs​#4. BBC Persian. “Tamasha: Kargah-e Namayesh, dar Goft-o-Goo ba Arby Ovanessian.” [“Tamasha: Performance Workshop, in Discussion with Arby Ovanessian”]. YouTube video, 57:08. 27 March 2014. www​​.yout​​ube​.c​​om​/wa​​tch​?v​​=pV22​​​N1RdH​​h0. Brook, Peter. There Are No Secrets: Thoughts on Acting and Theatre. London: Methuen Drama, 1993. Fischer-Lichte, Erika. The Show and the Gaze of Theatre: A European Perspective. Iowa City, IA: University of Iowa Press, 1997. ––––––. The Transformative Power of Performance: A New Aesthetics. Translated by Saskya Iris Jain. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2008. Hashempour, Narges. “Traditional and Modern: Iranian Theatre Culture and Gender Performance.” Ph.D. diss., Freie Universität Berlin, 2013. Hunt, Albert, and Geoffrey Reeves. Directors in Perspective: Peter Brook. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. Nancy, Jean-Luc. Listening. Translated by Charlotte Mandell. New York, NY: Fordham University Press, 2007. Ovanessian, Arby. “Chegune Kargah-e Namayesh dar Theatr-e Iran Gostardeh Shod” [“How Kargah-e Namayesh Expanded in Iranian Theater”]. Interview by Maryam Mansouri. Tajrobeh 19 (February 2013): 96.

234  Narges Hashempour Pahlavi, Farah. “Her Majesty Shahbanou Farah Pahlavi’s Address at the Symposium for the Festival of Arts, Shiraz-Persepolis, Held at the Asia Society-New York on October 5, 2013.” Asia Society. Accessed 12 March 2020. https​:/​/as​​iasoc​​iety.​​org​/f​​iles/​​uploa​​ds​/ 12​​6file​​s​/Oct​​_5​-13​​%20HM​​FP​%20​​Remar​​ks​%20​​As​ia%​​20Soc​​iety.​​pdf. Rancière, Jacques. The Ignorant Schoolmaster: Five Lessons in Intellectual Emancipation. Translated by Kristin Ross. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1991. Servati, Reza. “Goft-o-Goo ba Reza Servati, Kargardan-e Namayesh-e Ajayeb-olMakhloughat” [“An Interview with Reza Servati, Director of The Freaks”]. Interview by Alireza Naraghi. Jamejam Online, 5 April 2011. http:​//​jam​​ejamo​​nline​​.ir​/o​​nline​​ /6709​​08192​​245​13​​1232.

PART VI

Tailoring textual material

11 Learning with broken words Directing Plastic Rose by Shogo Ota with collaborative dramaturgy Peter Lichtenfels

As a theater director, I have become more and more aware of the way that cultural expression, communication and understanding in theater is rooted in the actor’s embodying of the text. What this means to me is that a dramaturge committed to intercultural performance needs to focus not only on matters of different cultural and social ideas and concepts, but also on culturally specific performative elements and the internal resources of the actor that cluster around the use of rhythm, sound, speech and spatial and temporal relations. I would like to clarify here that I am using the word ‘dramaturge’ to refer to the kind of ‘directing’ to which I am committed. Unlike the director in ‘director’s theater’—so dominant in Western theater for the past few decades—my directing has always been collaborative, although rarely with an ensemble, responding inclusively to designers, actors, technicians and audience communities. This has meant that my directing has overlapped with how today’s dramaturges often work, and indeed the term ‘drama­turgy’ is being recuperated widely to refer to this kind of collaborative directing.1 I use ‘director’ and ‘dramaturge’ interchangeably throughout this chapter. I have been directing professionally for over 50 years, and until recently, the scripts I have worked with have been in English, even when they were originally written in another language. I am not a native English speaker, having been born in Germany and surrounded, for most of my childhood, by German speakers. This has contributed significantly to the dramaturgical work that defines my directing, attending as it does mainly to the massive connotative fields of words, their etymologies, the interplay of various interlanguage grammars and the use of timbre, pitch, resonance, stress and other elements in the ways that people use language to touch others. In this chapter, I explore some of these aspects of language and speaking that have come into focus while directing work by the Japanese writer/ director Shogo Ota. The research here draws mainly on my first and third productions of Ota’s Plastic Rose, one in 1994 that I co-developed with Ota, which specifically addresses intercultural acting, and one in 2014 that I took to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. The research also draws on videos of productions directed by Shogo Ota, and videos of the productions I have directed. Ota himself had an intercultural outlook. One of the more influential new drama directors of the 1960s onwards in

238  Peter Lichtenfels Japan, he was invited by Tadashi Suzuki to the first Togo Festival in 1982, along with Shuji Terayama, Meredith Monk, Peter Brook, Tadeusz Kantor and Robert Wilson. The underlying principle of Ota’s plays and productions was “quietude,” or what he also termed as “the power of passivity.” His understanding of “passivity” refers to the making of aesthetic distance.2 He also frequently used nonJapanese elements such as Western classical music. He cared about having his plays seen outside of Japan, and in the 1980s, Ota toured to over 30 countries with his often sparsely verbal plays such as Water Station, which were arguably more accessible to non-Japanese speakers. Yet, while the lack of dependence on a more conventional verbal script may have made it easier to tour his productions, Ota’s bare words constantly experiment with embodied language, and it is this aspect that draws me to his work. There are many performative elements that cluster around theatrically enacted words and how they make us feel and what they make us do. These elements are recognized as important in intercultural work but are rarely discussed in detail, or consistently enough, to begin to be able to consider them in academic or professional work. For example, in a theater tradition such as Noh, a Japanese actor will generate a significantly different affect with their way of speaking to a Western actor trained in Noh. This is probably because the training, while superficially the same, will not be embedded in the lived experience of each actor in the same way. As a director/dramaturge who has worked with theater professionals from many parts of the world, I am familiar with this kind of significant difference and how it can play out in a production. For example, when working with the Russian director Yuri Lyubimov on Hamlet at the Leicester Haymarket Theatre (1989–1990), it became apparent that because of the definiteness of the Russian language, his way of directing sounded authoritative—what actors must do, rather than a more collegial might do. Whereas English actors used an indefinite language to explore the probable—the maybe, the perhaps, and all those modal verbs in English—to an English ear, Lyubimov sounded aggressive, and to a Russian ear, the actors sounded indecisive. When we began to understand that it was a question of language and not intention, each began to enjoy working with the other. In my limited experience with Japanese, Chinese and a few other Asian traditions, the training focuses on responding to the things around the actor. A quick look at a 1981 video of a production of Ota’s Sand Station, with both German and Japanese actors, is useful here.3 The German actors play with each other, while the Japanese actors play their reactions to each other into touch, so there is space for the audience members to put themselves in. The Japanese actors are trained to develop a soft peripheral look, and their faces remain relatively still but are expressive because the moving body makes them expressive. The German actors keep their eyes fixed and their faces still within the context of a rigidly held body. When the German actors go onto the ground or get up, they have to use their hands rather than respond to the impulse of the backbone. But the impulse of the backbone through the body into the hand or face or hips is central to Japanese movement on stage.

Learning with broken words  239 The result in that production is that the Japanese actors seem to have a synchronicity with the sand, while the German acting loses its elemental quality and becomes about relationships between people rather than between people and the earth. Possibly because Western actors were at the time not usually trained to act without words, there was an energy about corporality in the German acting so that when two or more people met, their energy was met as one individual to another. When the Japanese actors were interacting on stage, they did not ‘meet’ each other, even when they were in proximity. Instead, they seemed to have a wider understanding of a community of energy that may have come from their extensive training in acting with no voice. When I came to Plastic Rose as a dramaturge, I did not want to impose onto the landscape of the script but to find a sense of that synchronicity with the elements. There is a reluctance to talk about this kind of difference, as if it is too essentializing and reduces the actor to identities made in the world of languages, nations and regions. But for a dramaturge, these are some of the elements that make a production take on a particular tenor or color or help generate a particular affect. They are the subliminal tools of the trade, the internal resources that each actor knows how to draw on but could not often tell you how or why. With Ota’s plays not only have I had to work out how to engage Western-trained actors in a text that initially depended on Japanese-trained actors’ bodies, but also how to engage those actors in unconventional dramatic scripting. This chapter analyzes the challenges to dramaturgical work with the actor, the director and the audience of a Japanese play produced by US actors at locations in Japan, North America and the United Kingdom.

The story In 1994, Shogo Ota and I were commissioned to direct two separate productions of his play Plastic Rose—I in California, and he in Japan. We then took each production to the other’s theater, with Ota’s production playing in tandem with mine in Davis, then my production playing in tandem with his in Kyoto. The only thing agreed upon beforehand, for practical reasons, was building an identical set. At the same time, what we did have in common was that we were both directors committed to collaborative directing.4 In 2014, I took a completely different production of Plastic Rose to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. In many ways, my reflections on ways to approach intercultural directing and dramaturgy were significantly expanded between these two experiences by my reading and working with the texts of Zeami—whose Noh theater and Daoist approaches were influential for Ota—and by my recent and far more extensive experiences with directing in Asian theater. Ota was apparently “fascinated” (according to his translator Keyo) to see the California production, which took the play’s time and slowed it down, while Ota’s cast performed theirs in “street time.”5 The main dramaturgical difference was that Ota’s actors had the characters drooling and perspiring with the anxiety and pressures of the ‘insane.’ In contrast, my decision was to take the characters as

240  Peter Lichtenfels reasonable, trying to reach each other through their disturbances. Ota also attended to this interesting disjunction/conjunction but in different ways: for example, the women in his company wore dresses in layers, never trousers, and they undressed in layers, whereas the men had overcoats over underwear, with no middle layers. Both of us were shy to talk about the process of our directing, but after Ota had watched several performances of the California production, he responded with three things: first, he commented that there was no ‘intermission’ as asked for in the text, but an ‘interval’—this may have had something to do with not taking the audience out of ‘slower time’; second, he noted that in contrast to Western classical music such as by Schubert, which he used for the ‘entrances’ of the characters, we had used Gorecki’s Symphony of Sorrowful Songs for the characters’ entrances and throughout the first long scene. The third comment Ota made during a long conversation with me in Japan was to give me a number of his plays and ask me whether I would direct them. Ota’s scripts are spare of words though rich in texture.6 When I first began working on Plastic Rose, it was not easy, in an immediate sense, to know what the play is doing. I viewed a video of Water Station and read his Station Plays (Water Station, Sand Station, Earth Station), which are famous for their lack of spoken words, a lack that resists understanding and underlies the way that objects in the plays also resist understanding. Because of the resistance of objects and language, the audience/reader cannot know but can witness—‘witnessing’ being the waiting for the moment to happen when the object can be sensed. The Station Plays resist meaning, character and narrative, and depend on word-silence.7 The people in the plays are ‘on a way,’ and as they pass us by, we cannot know them. Structurally, the scripts consist of series of scenes with little linearity. Yet, while the individual characters seem often just to be waiting, there is a choral wholeness to their presence on the stage. What they are waiting for is already present and they just need to apprehend it. Each brings a sense of what it is like to be an individual, yet each questions that individual ‘feeling’—possibly asking if we can imagine a different kind of individual. In the Station Plays, the script lets us know whether the character is a man or a woman, but we never know their names, so the audience cannot get lost in the condition of their histories/moods/biographies. Instead, we follow the element of the play: Sand, Water or Earth. These plays become ‘a learning’ in how to sense an object despite not being able to know it in conventional ways or as we believe we know it. In Zen Buddhism, with which Ota was deeply familiar, the Earth is about being rooted and growing downward. Water is about flow, new life, conducting. It always goes to the lowest place and is related to humility, growth and stillness. Fire rises, as steam or air. It can signify excess, courage or pride and is both essential for life and consuming of life. Metal is about transformation. It can be brittle or flexible, solid or liquid, cool but fast-heating, withstanding and absorbing vibration. And Wind is quite simply what is around you in the cosmos that affects the nature of the planet. Ota is intensely aware of objects and people and their elemental relationships. In Sand Station, he fills the center of the stage with sand that holds up and then buries a table. In Water Station, people leave the

Learning with broken words  241 things they carry on their backs, and these objects become a mountain where a man sits brushing his teeth. In Earth Station, people climb this mountain of castoff human objects, pick things up and cast them off as they climb higher. All these objects go back to nature, yet we—the actors and audience members—are still there, looking at stars with each other. The scale of the Station Plays is the size of the stars in the sky, but there is a group of plays that does things rather differently, including Plastic Rose.

Plastic Rose Plastic Rose is on the surface far less elemental and deals far more with words. It is set in a hospital for the ‘insane.’ There are 17 people in the cast, but the script largely plays out in scenes with just two people, though many of the characters remain onstage. It could well be a Station Play, but the characters are forced to reside: they are not on a road but fixed in a place. This is after all about plastic, which is not an element in the aforementioned sense. For Ota, whose work is permeated with literal expressions of Zeami’s commentary on performers and performance, the choice of ‘plastic rose’ as a central figure is significant. The ‘flower’ is a core Zeami image, and to express your flower, the beauty of the flower, is at the most beautiful just before it sags into the weight of death. But you cannot do this with a plastic flower, even though a character in the play waters it and treats it as if it has a life. In this play, ‘residents’ can look out through a window at the everyday outside world of cars passing by, trees and the change of light, and we see them going about their daily life: sleeping, listening to the radio or needing to go to the toilet. The characters only ‘pass through’ when they connect to the elements, one noteworthy moment being when they look at a full moon through an open doorway. And although there are 17 people onstage, it is the two-hander/three-hander scenes that carry the text. These more intimate scenes occur in passing-through places such as hallways, stairways and doorways, therefore potentially sensing, in that moment of moving from one place to another, a temporary elemental ground needed for survival or existence. The people stuck in this non-elemental, plastic ‘station’ are stuck in death, even in suicide, rather than being able to pass through, and they use words, whereas the elemental Station Plays are nonverbal. People like Ota’s silences because it seems easier for them to find space in them, but I would argue that the ways he uses words give more space. How Ota creates space and imagination using words is much more interesting than creating space with the use of the body alone. He once said that if we put the words we speak every day side by side, we speak two hours’ worth out loud a day and the rest is silence, yet the activity of our monologue within ourselves continues. Ota’s text for Plastic Rose scores voices with broken words. The words that are used ask for work that depends on breaking the “adequacy” of words—the idea that if they did a better job, they would become adequate to the reality of an object. But by “broken words,” I am thinking not only of a philosophical approach to the adequacy of words but of material and sensorial ways in which they make an actor, and an audience member, feel.

242  Peter Lichtenfels A dramaturge working on an Ota text deals with incomplete sentences, phrases that are phasing in and phasing out, arriving in their own life, coming to a felt presence and then fading. In Plastic Rose, the actor and the audience member are faced with the stuttering materiality of words. For example, we are told in stage directions for Scene 5 that the part of Man4 is literally a stammerer, “the kind in which sounds are stuck in the throat […with a] twisting of his body and the holding of his breath,” so that when his words break down into sounds, even into the noise of a line such as “ki…ki…,” there is a physical sensation. In the same scene, we are told that Woman5 “is suffering from a yawning disease […]. Judged by our ideas about yawning, her yawn can result in painful misunderstanding.” The text is filled with misunderstandings. For example, you think you are in one sentence and suddenly you find instead that you are in the next one. And at times, words are used to materially construct an event: for example, the line “let’s take off our shoes.” What the actor and the audience feel is through the words constructing the action, the action is the words. The words do not come out of the action but are the action. As Toni Morrison says, words do.8 There are awkward silences in Plastic Rose, but Ota focuses on breaking up words, making strange the words that people normally use because he rejects the idea that people can really know the reality of objects. The breaking of words is key for me as a director, partly because words are the one thing that most people think they can ‘do.’ They don’t think they can necessarily dance, or create fashions, or make toothbrushes, but they do think they make their own words. Part of the work of a director in any play is to break the adequacy of words, which then makes space for the audience to dream. Ota uses familiar everyday words, and it is these that he takes apart—even as the words remain anchored in the everyday so that we can experience their sensory field. My focus as a dramaturgical director is to use the broken words to attract the audience into the process of what Ota does. The question for me becomes, ‘What are Ota’s broken words doing to or with his audience?’ for this is the clue to his work.

Acting Ota Most actors trained in European and American traditions focus on learning how to build and react to character. However, Ota’s works use the actor’s training to focus on responding to things around the actor. Zeami’s comments on deportment note that the performer’s body needs to be more restrained in its motion than the emotion behind it; the body then becomes the substance, the emotion its function.9 The actor does not build character to ‘create’ emotions in the audience; an engaged audience has to do this for itself. In one way, the actor is an object like any other object onstage. For example, in Plastic Rose, two women steal high-heeled shoes from the nurse’s area, and the shoes become treasured objects through which we get to know about these women. For Zeami, the most expressive parts of the body are the spine, hands and feet,10 and one has to ask, ‘What does the body of the actor do to hold all these things close to each other, to focus on these parts of the body rather than on a biography?’ Perhaps there is an association present between

Learning with broken words  243 the shoes and their bodies: the ‘crazy’ woman is removed and brought back from the nurse’s area just like the shoes, and just like the shoes, the ‘insane’ people in this ward area cannot be known. They too are objects, are being objects in a way that resists society’s ability to cope with them. A dramaturge working on one of Ota’s plays needs to find ways to direct the actor that will make this shift from known character to not-known object occur. One doesn’t want to impose onto the landscape of the script but to have a sense of synchronicity with the elemental. One of the first areas to address is how the body of the actor fills the stage space. Dramaturgical strategies have to get the actor away from a totalizing attention to their own body that seems to telegraph that it does not matter whether they are in a field or a desert. Acting that is fixated on the body in this way can do interesting things: for example, jumping around into different patterns, switching partners and sexes, and so on, but these often generate relationships that are unique between people—usually in the modern sense of ‘human qualities’—not between people and the earth, or their more particular environment. Such acting usually leads to a charged corporality so that when actors meet, their energy meets in highly individual ways. Their bodies impose a specific use of space on what is around them. Actors of Ota’s texts need training so that when they are on stage, they do not meet each other in this individualistic way, even when they are in proximity. They each need to learn to interrelate with what the other is doing but more in the sense of the qualities or elements in the environment as a whole. They have to build a community of energy.11 For a director, this keeps the actor’s body as an object so there is space for an audience to sense their body. It keeps the body doing much less explicit work, which leaves the audience sensing that there is more going on that needs attending to. Ota’s works also ask for the actor’s attention to scoring. This is particularly important for a script with fewer words than conventional Euro-American plays. The actor needs dramaturgical devices to encourage no-vocality, or else the actor just ‘carries out the script.’ Directing Ota’s plays requires an ability to generate scores that leave the actor to work things out and be less dependent on the director to ‘give’ them something. When actors receive explicit direction, they do create something, even a collective score among several of them. But there is a tendency to count off parts of the score, ‘this, and this, and this’ very precisely but not to feel their way from one moment to the next. Actors counting off the score will do ‘this’ and then forget it and go on to the next ‘this.’ They do not let things drift, and actions do not finish of themselves; the actor simply stops them so that the movement is more staccato rather than flowing. I will discuss some of the scores we created in Plastic Rose, which are clear but do not encourage the ‘counting.’ In a text with fewer than normal words and many words that are broken, movement scores onstage become key. One of the first aspects one notices from watching videos of Ota’s work is that the actor has to develop a suppleness that allows them to go to the ground, and instead of pushing themself up with their hands, they can use the impulse and flexibility of the backbone to rise. Zeami calls the heart the organ that is connected to the ‘bone’: it is the spine’s source of richness.12 An

244  Peter Lichtenfels impulse of movement has to come from that central place and generate expression in the hand or the face but feel as if it comes from the backbone. Ota’s Noh training is evident in the pace of many actions onstage in, say, Water Station, in which he asks the actors to move at the pace of two meters every five minutes—as if that is the speed of everyday movement, they are totally present moving in this slower time. The trained slowness generates a dense field of sensation so that the actor’s work is shared; it is reality. They are deeply sentient about any movement, even if it is from everyday life, such as sitting or squatting. Half the time in rehearsal for Plastic Rose, the dramaturgical focus for our work probably looked like a taiji class as the actors trained for this kind of intense physical presence. A key dramaturgical device for generating a non-individualistic sense of character has always been the mask as a score, and in Japanese theater, as is well known, the natural face is often used as a mask, with and without makeup. Zeami speaks about skin as an organ of sight, permeated by the quality of the beauty of the voice.13 Most Euro-American acting traditions teach the actors to look at each other as if they are ‘doing drama,’ for example, agreeing that ‘you are hurting me’ and going on to do an event with active motion in the eyes. But when the actor does not move their eyes, there is a different kind of potential for ‘looking,’ a soft staring and being absent in the face, which builds presence through the eyes. This is similar to, but not the same as, peripheral vision. If you are present in the eyes, they can pour forth a sense of indeterminate purpose so that something happens in the ecology of the stage—whether generating a deep affect or just to get someone moving. If the eyes in the mask lack that looking, they become holes or orifices that do not reflect. Yet if the actors onstage can achieve it, you can generate a loop of energy that is moving not in a specific direction but is just an active looking, as if waiting for something to happen. The eyes become a passageway rather than a direction. Rather than painting pictures, they acquire more internal or resonant qualities. And when we do not seek to see a specific event, something else will happen, something we cannot determine—which can galvanize both the actors and the audience. This kind of looking score is connected to scoring that is a way of listening. The silences, breaks, hiatuses, hesitations and pauses in Ota’s texts mean that the dramaturge has to find ways for the actor to actively listen to the environment they are in. Zeami comments that the voice is the initial vibration that goes into the flesh to make movement, and the flesh is an organ that listens and creates patterns of the stage dance through what it hears.14 Whenever an actor was in a dialogue in Plastic Rose, as well as speaking, they were quite precisely listening, or not listening, or listening ‘as well.’ They were constantly listening to the field of sound and the resonance and dissonance around them. It might be listening to a bear, or the wind, but it is always changing, and in that change, the actor is always discovering and finding new ways to discover what is happening. We found this kind of listening fundamental to keeping an ongoing rhythm in Plastic Rose. We also found that it is closely related to the activity of waiting, which occurs throughout the play, partly as actors witness the two-handed dialogues by others and partly as they wait for the moment when the training in holding the body, forming scores,

Learning with broken words  245 moving, looking and listening makes sense—‘waiting’ literally creates the sensory field in the stage environment that the actor can inhabit.

Directing Ota For a director who always works as a dramaturge—in the sense of generating collaborative ways of inhabiting the text—my productions of Plastic Rose have grown out of rehearsal experience of the text of the play as sequences of broken words, and of broken scores for action. Ota should not be confused with, say, a Samuel Beckett, who uses and re-uses language and action so that it becomes reductive or circular. What Ota is concerned with, from my perspective as a practicing director, is the way we keep on keeping on because that is our condition. It could be linear or circular, but wherever you go, you keep on keeping on. In Plastic Rose, the issues arise around people who can do what most people do— talk into a recorder, eat toast, sit on chairs, read books—but whatever tools we have, objects we use, he is/we are capable of dispossessing us/ourselves of them. Like the characters in the play who are considered not to fully function as humans, the objects are not integral to who we are; they do not amplify us or make us more present. Once they are gone, we are still alone. Although people are taught to know how to use a toaster, read the news or go to school, as soon as they learn to make a connection, usually as soon as they speak, Ota’s texts break the learned connection down. This happens also with language: people try to communicate, whether it is inside the mental asylum of Plastic Rose or elsewhere, but in saying something to each other, words become elliptical, halted, broken, but an energy keeps on going as if they are making a connection. Breaking words releases energy, sustains us and helps us break through. Ota’s broken words are different from defamiliarization, the broken/breaking gesture of Brecht’s gestus. When Brecht breaks a gesture, it is to alert the audience to a social reality that they would rather ignore and hold them there a long time—the time of the play—so they have to feel it and recognize they are affected by it. Defamiliarization, working with false consciousness, which covers all our actions and allows us to remember to forget, disrupts this and reminds us to remember those we exploit, and to possibly change society. In contrast, Ota’s broken words wake us up to the potential of the word as an object. It is not about saying ‘this word has a social meaning and could instead have that other one’ but about beginning to sense the qualities of the word as an object in itself. When someone gets stuck with a sound in a part of their body, it is an object. Ota uses words in his plays but draws attention to the difficulty of these words in acting. When I started directing Plastic Rose, reading the spare script, I did not know what this play was or was not about. But after waiting for some time (and a director/dramaturge needs to wait just as does the actor) with the play’s script, I realized my task was to do what the play literally asks us to do. It is difficult to know what will happen when you do this, but something that ‘happens’ takes you somewhere else than the ‘what happens’ of everyday life, somewhere that quietens the social sound. Once I literally did what the script said, the words and

246  Peter Lichtenfels actions started talking. The words would be coming out, no one of them making sense in itself, but then it would arrive at something, get a direction, go back into something—as if it were passing through a moment. My task as director/dramaturge then became one of not letting the actors get into the forms of the words, of insisting on the brokenness of words, the breaking of words, of gestures, of movements—so that they can never be thought of as adequate or inadequate as a connection to ‘reality’ but always necessarily broken. Breaking the words insists on their physicality, reminds us that we cannot know them fully. Examples of this kind of directing included some of the following moments: there is a scene with two characters, one man and one woman; they are talking. The scene starts with the woman’s language and shifts to the man’s language; in other words, her words suddenly emerge as words that he is speaking. The dramaturge has to ensure that the actors play this scene so the audience does not know that the structure has flipped from hers to his. It is not a ‘meeting’ where there is a specific exchange, but an ongoing flow in which the words seem to decide to move from one to the other. During another scene, one character uses an R. D. Laing quotation at the start of Act 1 and at the start of Act 2: “I can never get what I want.” The actor speaks it twice, each time, and the work of the dramaturge is to get the actor to say it as if they need to say it rather than as if it is simply a banal replication of a phrase. This is a difficult challenge, for an actor has to speak whatever those words are and follow whatever they contain in each repetition, for that is where those words need to be. There are also scenes where there literally are no words but which acquire a form through action: for example, the choral form where the entire cast looks at a tree through a window and the score has to make each different yet flowing together; or through silent forms such as characters having kissed, when there was no kissing, and yet their claim to have kissed needs to affect us wordlessly. Here the dramaturge’s work is to make real the effect— that silence makes words do. The director’s work is to keep the broken words disrupting the actor’s and the audience’s ability to make sense/create meaning. They have to sense them, so the social forms the words carry become gateways not to the personality of a character but to the actors as objects with a material presence one cannot know. The director also has to be aware of the social forms in movement and in visual image and be able to generate a score that will disrupt their tendency toward fixed meanings. For example, in one scene, a man is on his back drinking from water taps in a large sink. He is curled up like a fetal body, so the tap becomes a teat giving milk. The image is not realistic but can tend to become so, acquiring a fixed form. In my second production of Plastic Rose in Manchester, the designer suggested a hose on the end of the faucet tap, which in the scene between two men talking, suddenly became a penis. The task for the dramaturge is to ensure that this action is neither teat nor penis—possibly that it is both—but more, that it generates a space that the audience needs to fill. There are many places in Plastic Rose where the use of costume can reduce to conventional forms, especially around shoes. Actors often take them off but keep holding them, and this action has to stay alive. At times even the rhythm of stage movement can acquire the sense of

Learning with broken words  247 a replicated form, such as going to the window or watering the plastic rose, and at these times I turned to the disjunction between slow movement in the character’s present time and the sense of a different speed in audience time to keep the rhythm generating. With Plastic Rose, one of my main questions as director was how much of all this disruption can the audience’s body take on? Ota extends a moment of very little activity for a very long time. Yes, we could make sure the actors were open to what might happen; indeed, the whole staging has to be open to what its environment releases. And yes, I could deal with time by dealing with space, creating ‘intervals’ in which the moment has to wait. But it was challenging to make the words wait, to listen for words that do not arrive. This continual disjunction between the world of the play and the possible world of the audience was so that there could be a connection between those two worlds, based on making it impossible for objects to make sense, so that we had to sense and not know them. This was where the text of Plastic Rose led me as a director dealing with a text from a completely different cultural training in the theater: because the audience cannot latch on to something, it creates a space where they cannot fill it in and instead have to learn to ‘be in the space’ they cannot consume, and learn to wait for what happens. They experience their body as a different kind of container that takes them away from the idea of individual personality. Moreover, they are baffled, perplexed and do not know what to do about all this.

Audiencing Ota As a director, the kind of acting and dramaturgy Ota asks for is focused, for me, on what happens to the audience. To honor the objects, be they people, things or animals, neither the director/dramaturge nor the actors can ‘give’ the audience the objects: only the sensory qualities of the objects, the elementals. As a director, I cannot give an audience the feeling of a Japanese play, but I can become informed about some of the elements in that theater tradition and open the stage, its actors and technicians to what can happen if we allow some of that training to inform our work. In generating this space for the audience I was aware, as a dramaturge, of the way the text slows you down, and as an audience member, you either fight it and leave or embrace it. In rehearsal, it became apparent that by slowing things down, we began to see/feel other things. But the street time we come from can be overloaded with sound, speed and our own internal rhythms, and when an audience member comes to watch a play that has been slowed down, it can seem as if nothing much is happening. A Western audience has not usually had the experience of this kind of slowing down. Added to this, characters in Ota’s plays do not carry out narrative actions—such as mending a car or having clashes over ambition or power—they walk and talk. Yet, in that absence of the narrative, the play creates space for the audience to dream about what is happening, to which they can bring their own stories or internal monologue to. Working on Ota’s texts has helped me come to the realization, as a dramaturge, that there is a connection between the speed, the slowing down, the absence

248  Peter Lichtenfels of activity and the becoming aware of activity in your mind and body as an audience member. You become aware of your body rather than the activity covering the sentience of the body. Something ‘happens’ that quietens the social sound and makes us aware of our own corporality. Onstage and off, we witness, make a rhythm or a community out of listening. The audience becomes a chorus waiting for the moment to inhabit the sensory, with no meaning to hold on to, no ‘sense,’ just sensing.

Conclusion Working on Ota’s Plastic Rose gave me the opportunity to learn culturally different ways to give space to an audience and to place the self in a different way. Inhabiting the broken words let us make differences between the actors’ voices, so the audience members could place themselves within those differences. The Ota plays teach us a way of getting into contact with the self, of feeling connected with the corporality of self, and that is an interesting place to be. It makes you imagine, allows you to breathe. The demands of the world fall away, yet it is intensely present. You are here but not here, not here as you usually are. Ota’s plays are clear about what they are doing, and the way he attracts you is because you want to join in on what he does. His texts are quiet, quietly breaking words, costumes, movements, props to get his imagination for the audience’s dream onto the stage. This unshowiness is unusual. His quietness is why Ota’s plays come to life, and I have found that whatever he sets up in his plays is still working.

Notes 1 See Magda Romanska, ed. The Routledge Companion to Dramaturgy (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2016); see the extensive discussions on collaboration and dramaturgy throughout this book. 2 Mari Boyd, The Aesthetics of Quietude: Ota Shogo and the Theatre of Divestiture (Tokyo: Sophia University Press, 2006), 3. 3 Shogo Ohta, Suna no Eki [The Sand Station], a Japan–Germany collaborative work, DVD produced by Koyto Performing Arts Center, distributed by Performing Arts Network Japan. 4 Robert K. Sarlós and Shogo Ohta, “Tenkei Gekijo (Tokyo): ‘Water Station’,” The Drama Review 29, no. 1 (Spring 1985): 135. 5 This is another indication of Ota’s different attitude to Plastic Rose, since his other station plays tend to slow time radically. See Ellen Orenstein, “Shogo Ohta’s Slow Tempo and Silence in ‘The Water Station’,” Theatre Forum 28 (Winter—Spring 2006): 37–42. 6 See Laurence Kominz, “Review of The Voyage of Contemporary Japanese Theatre, by Senda Akihiko,” Asian Theatre Journal 17, no. 2 (Fall 2000): 298. 7 See Ota’s note on silence in The Water Station in Shogo Ohta, “The Water Station,” trans. Mari Boyd, Asian Theatre Journal 7, no. 2 (Autumn 1990): 150–1. 8 Toni Morrison affirms that “we do language” in her Nobel Prize acceptance speech 1993; see Toni Morrison, “Nobel Lecture,” 7 December 1993, www​.n​​obelp​​rize.​​org​/ p​​rizes​​/lite​​ratur​​e​/199​​3​/mor​​rison​​/lect​​ure/. 9 Zeami, On the Art of the Noh Drama: The Major Treatises of Zeami, trans. J. Thomas Rimer and Yamazaki Masakazu (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984), 71–73.

Learning with broken words  249 10 B. Prabath, “A Comparative Study of the Contemporary Actors Training Process in NOH and Kutiyattam” (Ph.D. diss., University of Hyderabad, 2011), 124–72. 11 Jeungsook Yoo, “Moving ki in Inner and Outer Space: A Korean Perspective on Acting Process in The Water Station,” Contemporary Theatre Review 17, no. 1 (2007): 83. 12 Zeami, Art of Noh Drama, 69–71. 13 Ibid., 70. 14 Ibid., 77–82.

Bibliography Boyd, Mari. The Aesthetics of Quietude: Ota Shogo and the Theatre of Divestiture. Tokyo: Sophia University Press, 2006. Kominz, Laurence. “Review of The Voyage of Contemporary Japanese Theatre, by Senda Akihiko.” Asian Theatre Journal 17, no. 2 (Fall 2000): 296–300. Morrison, Toni. “Nobel Lecture.” 7 December 1993. www​.n​​obelp​​rize.​​org​/p​​rizes​​/lite​​ratur​​e​/ 199​​3​/mor​​rison​​/lect​​ure/. Ohta, Shogo. “Suna no Eki” [“The Sand Station”]. Disc 2. Shogo Ota Selected Theatre Works. Kyoto: Kyoto Performing Arts Center. Distributed by Performing Arts Network Japan, 2008. ———. “The Water Station.” Translated by Mari Boyd. Asian Theatre Journal 7, no. 2 (Autumn 1990): 150–83. Orenstein, Ellen. “Shogo Ohta’s Slow Tempo and Silence in ‘The Water Station,’” Theatre Forum 28 (Winter–Spring 2006): 37–42. Prabath, B. “A Comparative Study of the Contemporary Actors Training Process in NOH and Kutiyattam.” Ph.D. diss., University of Hyderabad, 2011. Romanska, Magda, ed. The Routledge Companion to Dramaturgy. London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2016. Sarlós, Robert K., and Shogo Ohta. “Tenkei Gekijo (Tokyo): ‘Water Station’.” The Drama Review 29, no. 1 (Spring 1985): 131–38. Yoo, Jeungsook. “Moving ki in Inner and Outer Space: A Korean Perspective on Acting Process in The Water Station.” Contemporary Theatre Review 17, no. 1 (2007): 81–96. Zeami. On the Art of the Noh Drama: The Major Treatises of Zeami. Translated by J. Thomas Rimer and Yamazaki Masakazu. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984.

12 The emergence of co-dramaturgy Arthur Miller, Satyajit Ray and Thomas Ostermeier encounter Ibsen Kamaluddin Nilu

Many literary scholars and critics consider Henrik Ibsen’s An Enemy of the People (1882) among his weaker plays; nevertheless, it is one of Ibsen’s most popular and frequently performed works in the world today. When brought to the stage, it has proven to be a play with contemporary relevance both in the West and in other parts of the world.1 This apparent contradiction made me curious to explore the power of Ibsen’s text and how directors and dramaturges have used it. The focus of this chapter will be on how Ibsen’s play has been interpreted in transculturation processes. My argument is that through such processes Ibsen’s text has been transformed from a rather ideological play embedded within a clearly defined sociocultural context into a larger, more flexible and contemporary political paradigm. The fact that three of the most successful and creative personalities within the fields of theater and film have chosen to work on Ibsen’s An Enemy of the People says a lot about the power and strength of the play: Arthur Miller, one of the greatest playwrights of the twentieth century; Satyajit Ray, an Academy Awardwinning filmmaker and screenwriter; and Thomas Ostermeier, a prominent contemporary German theater director of international standing. The exploration will mainly be based on their artistic works. The focus will be on how they—Miller, Ray and Ostermeier—have found different ways of molding and reinterpreting Ibsen’s text within their own political contexts. I will argue that Miller’s adaptation strengthened An Enemy of the People as a political play within the spatiotemporality of the United States of the 1950s. Staged against the backdrop of the McCarthy-era United States, Miller’s adaptation maintains a strong focus on the conflict between the authorities and individual freedom of expression. In the film Ganashatru from 1989, the Indian filmmaker Satyajit Ray fused Ibsen’s text with Miller’s adaptation through a process of transculturation, which aimed at adapting the play to India’s sociopolitical conditions and cultural conceptions prevalent in the 1980s, particularly in West Bengal. Ray focused on “temple politics”— how water becomes part of the local economic and political power game in the name of religion. The metaphoric dimension of this screenplay can be seen as a strong political expression against the Hindu fundamentalist party, which gained substantial strength in the Indian parliament after the 1989 general elections, as well as a satire of the communist-led Left Front, which had ruled the state of West Bengal since 1977. Thomas Ostermeier and Florian Borchmeyer developed

The emergence of co-dramaturgy  251 a new form of dramaturgy for An Enemy of the People in 2012, characterized by a combination of fixed and open dramaturgical modes, as will be explained later. This allows for the partial adjustment to country-specific political contexts by continually re-negotiating the playscript with the help of audience participation. Ostermeier and Borchmeyer transformed Ibsen’s text into a new reality that Ostermeier has called “new realism.”2 I will investigate the contemporaneity of this new playscript by focusing on the conditions and ethics in a world tied up with a political-economic system characterized by an imbalance of power and control. My view is that their dramaturgy, which I term ‘co-dramaturgy,’ facilitates global-local dialectics through a process of democratization.

The interweaving process: Time and space In my understanding and experience as a theater director, the notion of ‘interweaving cultures’ is a useful theoretical roadmap for exploring cases in which a text from one culture and time period is used in other settings. To me, the core of this notion is ‘cultural translation’ or ‘transculturation,’ i.e. the process of making a text meaningful to audiences unfamiliar with the time/place in which and/or for which the text was originally conceived and created. The notion enables an open space for debates on human existence within a specific setting and sometimes within a globalized world. It involves the merging and converging of sociocultural materials through a political process. As Diana Taylor argues, “Transculturation affects the entire culture; it involves the shifting of socio-political, not just aesthetic, borders; it modifies collective and individual identity; it changes discourse, both verbal and symbolic.”3 The diversity of productions of An Enemy of the People serves as a useful example to explore questions of how the process of adaptation involves diverse facets of societies and cultures, and how the specific transformative process absorbs discourses on political notions in a new textual corpus. In this regard, Homi Bhabha’s explanation of Goethe’s view on cultural performance is relevant: [C]ultural performance is not what world literature is but what it does; more textual process than literary object, it is an attempt to free it from its traditional national-cultural entitlements and to focus on the cultural enactments that result from the translational pressure of the textual play of absorbed foreign elements.4 Further, it is important to keep Erika Fischer-Lichte’s emphatic reminder about the non-static nature of societies and cultures in mind: “The process of weaving is not necessarily smooth or straightforward. […] the phrase captures far more accurately culture’s inherent processual nature with its continuous production of new differences.”5 The decontextualizing process of encountering is all about transportation, displacement and replacement through a process of negotiation. It is a game between the co-existence of elements, the loss of elements as well as the inclusion of new

252  Kamaluddin Nilu elements and materials. It is a political process. What I term ‘politics in aesthetics’ is the sensible selection and distribution of elements and materials along with their reasoning through this process.

The power potential of An Enemy of the People The reason why An Enemy of the People can be used in diverse contexts is that Ibsen’s text contains a range of political issues and metaphors that can be emphasized and reinterpreted to different degrees in order to reflect various sociopolitical and cultural conditions. In other words, the openness of the play provides an opportunity for playwrights and theater and film directors alike to focus on those aspects of the play that seem most relevant to them in their respective settings. The political issues at the heart of An Enemy of the People are still widely prevalent. Some are related to the social and economic structure of society, such as economic interests, social stratification and taxation and others are about certain groups within that structure, such as the role of bureaucracy and the media as well as middle-class life. Other issues stem from the fragile ideological foundation of society, such as hypocrisy, double standards, misuse of power, corruption and blackmailing. Finally, there are issues dealing with the status and role of the individual, such as freedom of expression, the victimization of dissidents and whistle-blowing. An Enemy of the People also contains several key conflicts, notably individual versus authority, self-interest versus the common good, majority versus minority, economy versus politics, ideology and values versus behavior and truth versus lies. The plot centers on two brothers, Dr. Thomas Stockmann and Peter Stockmann, who is the town’s magistrate. He is also the chairman of the board of the local baths, the town’s main source of income. Dr. Stockmann is employed at the baths. Whereas Peter Stockmann represents the establishment and social stability, his younger brother represents ideals and the search for truth. The narrative conflict of the play is related to contaminated water. It is a strong metaphor, reflecting the social and political disorder—or pollution—of society. This was strongly emphasized by Ostermeier, who was intrigued by “the metaphoric dimension of the waters that pollute our community.”6 An Enemy of the People is thus usually staged as an adaptation with a particular political message. As the works to be discussed will show, the ambiguous and multifaceted content and different layers of Ibsen’s text endows it with an enormous capacity to be adapted in different regions of the world and to suit a diversity of political agendas. Adaptations and their theater practice have dramaturgically transformed Ibsen’s text from an idealistic social play into a political one of enduring relevance.

Miller: Protecting political minorities in times of crisis In his adaptation from 1950, Miller transformed An Enemy of the People into contemporary everyday language and trimmed the dialogue in order to focus on

The emergence of co-dramaturgy  253 what he in his Preface identifies as the play’s central theme, notably “the question of whether the democratic guarantees protecting political minorities ought to be set aside in time of crisis.”7 Miller continues, “[T]he play is concerned with the inviolability of objective truth. Or, put more dynamically, that those who attempt to warp the truth for ulterior purposes must inevitably become warped and corrupted themselves.”8 Miller’s story takes place in Norway during the same time period as the original Ibsen text. However, it is clear that the American context of McCarthyism heavily influenced his adaptation. It is well known that in the period roughly from the late 1940s to the late 1950s, there was an intense anti-communist sentiment in the United States, giving rise to many committees and panels in federal, state and local governments as well as private agencies looking into indications of ‘un-American activities.’ During this time—often referred to as the McCarthy era after Joseph McCarthy who, as a US Senator, was the chairman of the Government Operations Committee and its Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations of the US Senate—thousands of Americans were accused of being communists or communist sympathizers and became the subject of aggressive investigations and questioning. Many people suffered loss of employment, destruction of their careers and even imprisonment. McCarthyism was supported by a variety of groups and seems to have had widespread popular support. In 1947, the major studios in Hollywood issued a statement saying that they would not knowingly employ a communist or member of any party or group that advocated the overthrow of the government. This marked the beginning of the unofficial Hollywood blacklist, with similar blacklists in many other fields. Arthur Miller was one of many famous blacklisted individuals. Miller’s adaptation of Ibsen’s play has a strong focus on political issues that typically existed in the United States during the McCarthy era. In Miller’s own words, “I decided to work on An Enemy of the People because I had a private wish to demonstrate that Ibsen is really pertinent today, that he is not ‘old-fashioned’.”9 It is my assumption that Miller adapted An Enemy of the People as a broadside against McCarthyism because the prevailing situation did not permit him to write his own play on the political suppression of the time. It is interesting to note in this regard that in Miller’s adaptation Captain Horster explicitly cites freedom of speech as his motive for offering his house as venue for the public meeting: Billing: […] Why are you lending your house for this? I never heard of you connected with anything political. Horster: [standing still] I’ll answer that. I travel most of the year and— did you ever travel? Billing: Not abroad, no. Horster: Well, I’ve been in a lot of places where people aren’t allowed to say unpopular things. Did you know that? Billing: Sure, I’ve read about it. Horster, simply: Well, I don’t like it. [He starts to go out].10

254  Kamaluddin Nilu In terms of the structure of the play, Miller transformed the five acts of the original into three, without omitting any scenes from the original acts. He merely adjusted the structure so that Act 1 corresponds to Acts 1 and 2 in Ibsen’s text, divided into two scenes; Act 2 corresponds to Ibsen’s Acts 3 and 4, divided into two scenes; and Act  3 corresponds to Act 5 in Ibsen’s text. With regard to content, Miller removed or changed dialogue that he felt blurred the key messages of Ibsen’s text. One crucial change is that he removed all references to ‘aristocracy.’ As Miller explains, In light of genocide, the holocaust that has swept our world on the wings of the black ideology of racism, it is inconceivable that Ibsen would insist today that certain individuals are by breeding, or race, or “innate” qualities superior to others or possessed of the right to dictate to others.11 Another important outcome of the encounter between Miller and Ibsen’s text is that Ibsen’s phrase “The majority is never right” in Act 4 is rewritten by Miller as “[t]he majority is never right until it does right.” Thus, in Miller’s version, Dr. Stockmann argues, Was the majority right when they stood by while Jesus was crucified? Was the majority right when they refused to believe that the earth moved around the sun and let Galileo be driven to his knees like a dog? It takes fifty years for the majority to be right. The majority is never right until it does right.12 Similarly, the closing dialogue in Ibsen’s text, “The strongest man is the one who stands most alone,” is altered, expressing the lonely path of those seeking truth. The play ends with Dr. Stockmann saying to his family and to Captain Horster, while an angry crowd can be heard outside: “But remember now, everybody. You are fighting for the truth, and that is why you’re alone. And that is what makes you strong. We’re the strongest people in the world … and the strong must learn to be lonely.”13 Regarding the scene taking place in the newspaper office (Act 3 in Ibsen’s text and Act 2, Scene 1 in Miller’s), I would like to mention two important adjustments that Miller made: first, in order to prevent Dr. Stockmann’s article from being published, Peter Stockmann’s reference to his brother is elaborated and sharpened, with the intention of creating a strong suspicion about Dr. Stockmann’s motives and character. Clearly, this has a parallel in the suspicion towards political dissidents during the McCarthy era and also remains relevant today, as the same kind of tactic is employed by authorities in many countries. The consequences of upgrading the baths as per Dr. Stockmann’s wishes is directly related to his personality: It [increased taxes] happens to be a fact. Plus another fact—you’ll forgive me for talking about facts in a newspaper office—but don’t forget that the Springs will take two years to make over. Two years without income for

The emergence of co-dramaturgy  255 your small businessmen, Mr. Aslaksen, and a heavy new tax besides. And all because—his private emotions come to the surface; he throttles the manuscript in his hand—because of this dream, this hallucination that we live in a pesthole!14 After Hovstad argues that Dr. Stockmann’s article is based on science, Peter Stockmann continues to characterize his brother: This is based on vindictiveness, on his hatred of authority and nothing else. This is the mad dream of a man who is trying to blow up our way of life! It has nothing to do with reform or science or anything else but pure and simple destruction! And I intend to see to it that the people understand it exactly so!15 Second, in connection with Petra’s refusal to translate a novel, Miller highlights the dubious role of the media by making the dialogue between Petra and Hovstad stronger and more direct. In Miller’s version, it is made explicit that the novel deals with supernatural issues, a topic presumably contrary to the newspaper’s liberal character as well as to Hovstad’s personal belief as a ‘freethinker.’ Petra vehemently points out that what is published is a matter of following one’s own principles. The double standard of the newspaper becomes clear through Hovstad’s reply to Petra: “Yes, Petra, but this is a newspaper, people like to read that kind of thing. They buy the paper for that and then we slip in our political stuff. A newspaper cannot buck the public.”16 This change highlights the opportunistic role of the newspaper, which is also a key issue in Ibsen’s text. This part of Miller’s adaptation serves as a satire of the liberal media of the time. The description continues to mirror the role of the so-called progressive media today, a point also taken up by Ray in his film (see later discussion). Miller also substantially rewrote the public meeting scene. There is a new inner storyline implying that Peter Stockmann, as a representative of the authorities, has been given the political role of Mayor and that declaring Dr. Stockmann as an enemy of the people is done through an ‘open’ vote. Dr. Stockmann’s character is more resolute and less emotional in this version. He thus emerges as a smarter type than the somewhat fanatic and comic figure that Ibsen portrayed.17 In this way, Miller establishes Dr. Stockmann as a stronger protagonist than Ibsen did. The public meeting scene is easily recognizable as a comment on McCarthyism. Many of the elements of that period are present in the scene, and the entire meeting is conducted in a pseudo-democratic atmosphere. The scene thus invokes associations with the hearings on ‘un-American activities.’ The following comparison between the situation in the McCarthy era and the public meeting scene in Miller’s version can serve as an illustration of this relationship: ··

The central theme of the McCarthy era was the notion of ‘un-American’— that is, anti-government—views and activities. Similarly, the themes of the public meeting are Dr. Stockmann’s anti-authority and anti-community views and behavior.

256  Kamaluddin Nilu ··

··

··

··

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The obsession with detecting ‘un-American’ views and activities during the McCarthy era meant that freedom of expression was curtailed. Likewise, in Miller’s version, Dr. Stockmann is not granted permission to speak about the contaminated water. This happens at the behest of the authorities, as the Mayor proposes, “Mr. Aslaksen, I move that Doctor Stockmann is prohibited from reading his report at this meeting!”18 During the McCarthy era, trials were often not fair, and the outcomes of the trials were frequently predetermined, as indicated by the fact that many verdicts were later overturned, dismissals declared illegal and extra-legal procedures disputed. In Miller’s version, there are a number of clear indications that the outcome of the meeting has been prearranged: Peter Stockmann, the Mayor, controls the meeting from the very beginning with the support of Aslaksen, Hovstad and the crowd. The Mayor and Hovstad arrive at the meeting together with their supporters. Furthermore, Peter Stockmann plays a dominating and polarizing role, and he establishes the rules of the game from the very beginning of the meeting. In the same way as blacklisting was a common weapon against dissidents and the hearings on ‘un-American activities’ concluded with a verdict, the resolution declaring Dr. Stockmann an enemy of the people is, in Miller’s version, voiced along similar lines: “The people assembled here tonight, decent and patriotic citizens, in defense of their own town and their country, declare that Doctor Stockmann, medical officer of Kirsten Springs, is an enemy of the people and of his community.”19 During the McCarthy era, it could prove fatal to have the ‘wrong’ contacts or opinions, as this could lead to suspicion about ‘un-American’ views and behavior. Miller has the participants vote openly on the resolution so that those supporting Dr. Stockmann can easily be identified. Moreover, after Dr. Stockmann is declared an enemy of the people, Aslaksen issues a strong warning against being in contact with Dr. Stockmann: “In the future, all dealings with him by decent, patriotic citizens will be on that basis.”20 Both during the McCarthy era and in the Mayor’s speech at the public meeting, “crisis” is used as the argument for setting democratic rights aside. In the United States during the period in question, the crisis was the Cold War. In Miller’s version, a likely economic crisis in the local community is used as an argument for not allowing Dr. Stockmann to present his report. As Peter Stockmann says in his address at the meeting, Now there are a number of people here who seem to feel that the Doctor has a right to say anything he pleases. After all, we are a democratic country. Now, God knows, in ordinary times I’d agree a hundred percent with anybody’s right to say anything. But these are not ordinary times. Nations have crises, and so do towns. There are ruins of nations, and there are ruins of towns all over the world, and they were wrecked by people who, in the guise of reform, and leading for justice, and so on, broke down all authority and left only revolution and chaos.21

The emergence of co-dramaturgy  257

Religion versus science in Satyajit Ray’s cinematic adaptation Satyajit Ray’s film Ganashatru22 [Enemy of the People] is a contemporary Indian version of Ibsen’s An Enemy of the People. The conflict between religion and science is at the center of this transcultural adaptation. The split occurs between those who believe that sanctified temple water cannot be harmful and the character of Dr. Stockmann (here called Dr. Ashoke Gupta), who discovers that an outbreak of jaundice in the community is caused by contaminated temple water. In the public meeting, Dr. Gupta is challenged by his brother, the intention being to attack him in the name of religion in order to create anger against him among the public: Chairman: Do you consider yourself a Hindu? Dr. Gupta: Of course I do, but there are certain Hindu religious customs that I do not follow because of my scientific training. But I definitely call myself a Hindu. Chairman: Do you go to the temple? Have you ever been to the temple? Dr. Gupta: No, I haven’t. For the same reason—because I do not feel the necessity to go there. But I am not saying that you should never drink holy water. You should wait until it is decontaminated.23 Ray’s Ganashatru is partly based on Ibsen’s text and partly on Miller’s adaptation, the latter serving as a reference for the portrayal of Dr. Gupta and for the public meeting scene, although no formal vote is conducted. Ganashatru is Ray’s only film based on a non-Indian source. The film is heavily dialogue-based and is reminiscent of a chamber play. Most of the scenes are shot in close-up, and when medium or long shots are used, several characters are shown within the same frame. Undoubtedly a conscious choice on Ray’s part, it brings into sharper focus the political message and allows viewers to focus on it. It is also important to note that no background music was used for this film but merely some well-chosen sound effects. In accordance with Ibsen’s scene descriptions, the action all takes place indoors except for two brief shots showing pilgrims washing their hands at the Hindu temple. Although Hindu temples are always thought of in conjunction with images of gods and goddesses and with rituals performed in a colorful atmosphere with music, Ray does not show real temple life in the film. I see three reasons for this: first, he did not want to draw the attention of the viewers away from the main subject of the film—contaminated water; second, his personal belief as an atheist influenced the way he made the film; third, he uses a montage as background for the public meeting scene consisting of headless and incomplete images of the goddess Durga.24 The latter is a very strong metaphor for an imperfect society and its beliefs, an approach that, in my view, can be felt throughout the film. Since Ray uses the fragmented images of Durga to convey his message, it would have been inconsistent to at the same time present images of bustling and unblemished temple life. Ray’s adaptation moves the setting to contemporary India, specifically to the town of Chandipur in West Bengal in the 1980s. Although largely loyal to Ibsen’s text, Ray’s version does feature some major changes.

258  Kamaluddin Nilu Regarding the characters, Peter Stockmann/Nisith has become Dr. Gupta’s younger brother. The reason is the role seniority plays in Bengali society, implying that it would be difficult for Dr. Gupta to oppose his brother if he would have been older than him. Furthermore, Nisith Gupta is the elected chairman of the municipality, in other words, a politician, just as in Miller’s adaptation. The character of Billing, called Biresh in Ray’s version, has been transformed into an honorable and noble character who sticks to his principles. Moreover, several secondary characters have been eliminated and a couple of others added. The most important new character is Ronen. He is a young, progressive man who frequently visits the home of Dr. Gupta and his family. Ronen is the one who mobilizes support for Dr. Gupta at the end of the film. Another important change, clearly motivated by the communist dominance in West Bengal, is that the local newspaper is run by Marxists. There is also extensive use of symbolism in the form of clothes and props to firmly root the characters within the particular West Bengal setting. One prop worth mentioning is the cigarette. On the Indian subcontinent, smoking in front of elders or social superiors is considered disrespectful. In the newspaper office scene, when the Chairman understands that the newspaper people would likely go along with him, he smokes in front of Dr. Gupta, his elder brother. This is clearly an expression of power and a sign of disrespect. In terms of the plot, Ray’s film opens with Dr. Gupta phoning the local newspaper to warn them about the risk of an epidemic. There is no final confrontation between Dr. Gupta and his brother, merely a brief phone call in which the doctor learns that he will be fired unless he withdraws his previous statement. The major intervention, however, occurs in the last scene. While Miller in this scene shifted the focus from the individual to the collective and ended on an optimistic note, Ray chooses an unambiguously happy ending. Dr. Gupta goes from deep despair to sudden triumph when a series of positive occurrences reverses his previous setbacks. Biresh comes to Dr. Gupta’s home and announces that he has resigned from the local paper. He offers to publish Dr. Gupta’s article in a Calcutta newspaper. Ronen, who arrives with Biresh, reveals that Dr. Gupta’s article will be printed as a pamphlet and distributed door to door. Simultaneously, a group of progressive young people is heard outside, chanting “Long live Dr. Gupta!”25—a type of political slogan adapted from China (“Long live Chairman Mao!”), which was commonly used in communist-ruled West Bengal, and which in this context suggests that the young people declare him a political leader. The film ends with Dr. Gupta joyfully proclaiming, “I am not alone—though I may be an enemy of the people, I have many friends.”26

Ostermeier: The primacy of the economy and co-dramaturgy Florian Borchmeyer’s reconstructed text, directed by Thomas Ostermeier for the Schaubühne and premiered in Berlin in 2012, differs from the adaptations by Miller and Ray in two major yet interconnected ways: firstly, the underlying focus in this version lies on the economy’s role in society—its impact on

The emergence of co-dramaturgy  259 individual human relationships and on sociopolitical life. The conflict of politics versus the economy is here prioritized over other conflicts in Ibsen’s original text. This might not be surprising, as Ostermeier is an exponent of the genre of ‘new realism.’ Secondly, the reconceptualization of Act 4 as will be explained further on allows for a flexible dramaturgy, opening up the possibility for spontaneous dialogue between the audience and the actors in the public meeting scene. The act thus enables and fosters continuous and unpredictable change, and the specific movement of the plot and its particular conflicts vary according to different cultural-geographical contexts as well as the associations and experiences of individual spectators. This openness and its concomitant democratic process provoke audiences to create a theater of change by establishing a link between the sociopolitical space and the artistic one. When Ostermeier decided to stage An Enemy of the People, he wanted to explore, as one interviewer puts it, “how people live in a society that privileges economic relations above personal ones.”27 The notion of the prevalent economic system as the source of social crisis and the major force behind human existence is clearly manifested in the speech that Thomas Stockmann gives in the public meeting: “the economy is not in crisis; the economy is the crises.”28 In his speech, Stockmann also provides a clear answer to the question of its impact on human existence: “How do we as community live? In a state of mass personalization. We experience the individualization of all conditions—life, work, even misery.”29 In my view, this very impact also explains why the ending in the recreated text is unresolved, somewhat abrupt and without a clear-cut message or thrust: “MRS. STOCKMANN and STOCKMANN sit on the chairs and drink beer. Eventually, they look through the shares. Look at each other. Black out.”30 As Ostermeier explains, This production is about my friends, about myself, about us, you know, vegetarian, politically informed, online, always a bit angry, upset with political scandals, corruption …. But when it truly comes to doing something, what do we do? What action do we take? So the end of the play in our version is where we are standing politically at the moment.31 In their production, Ostermeier and Borchmeyer are only partially loyal to Ibsen’s text. They left in themes such as pollution, the influence of money and corruption, self-interest, freedom of expression and the diabolical and paradoxical role of the media. The same applies to the premise of the play, its basic conflicts and relationships. However, in order to make the playscript contemporary, they took enormous liberties to renegotiate and reconceive the source text, not only by adapting the temporal and spatial setting but also by carrying out some major interventions. Firstly, Ostermeier and Borchmeyer create a pervasive theatrical atmosphere, which reminds me of Shakespeare’s famous phrase “The whole world—theater, and the people in it—the actors.” This break with Ibsen’s realistic mode can be seen throughout the entire mise-en-scène. From the very beginning, the illusion

260  Kamaluddin Nilu of the fourth wall is broken through the use of projections and the characters coming together as a live band to perform Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy.” Another important element is the use of wall drawings as part of the scenography. At the beginning of the fourth act, this theatricality element is explicitly addressed in Stockmann’s dialogue: “(To the audience). Good evening, I’m very sorry. We had to improvise on this. Could we have the lights in the auditorium, please? (House lights up.)”32 Secondly, Ibsen’s nineteenth-century, middle-aged, bourgeois characters are transformed into contemporary middle-class men and women in their thirties. Borchmeyer explains their decision to reduce the age of the protagonists: We wanted to address the very specific situation of the generation that was politically socialised after 1989: those who had not been brought up any more within the rather strict political categories of previous generations. […] Symptomatically for this generation, it takes nowadays only a very small step from a rather big-mouthed proclamation of “political engagement” to the total retreat into private life. And that is what we wanted to talk about with this play.33 Thirdly, fundamental changes have been made to the character line-up. One radical decision was to merge the wife of Dr. Stockmann and their grown-up daughter Petra into one female protagonist. The result is that the new Mrs. Stockmann is a more complex character, bringing together the contrasting attitudes and characteristics of the two Ibsen characters, and hence also the tension that their different outlooks embody. Through this intervention, they manage to represent Mrs. Stockmann and her relationship with her husband in ways that are more typical for contemporary society and especially its young generation.34 Also, Captain Horster has been removed from the cast; my assumption is that this was done to keep the focus on fewer and more complex characters. Fourthly, although the dramatic structure of five acts is maintained, Acts 4 and 5 have been reconceived, mainly through the inclusion of additional literary sources—that is, intertextuality. Borchmeyer explains, [T]he first three acts remain very much original Ibsen, we made more changes in the fourth and fifth acts. Stockmann’s speech in Act IV sounded too dated, and at the same time Thomas brought in this political pamphlet called The Coming Insurrection. It is brilliantly perceptive and rhetorically masterfully composed, yet in its reductive political argument—which does not for a moment consider the option of political change or revolution but advocates “eradicating the rotten roots” of society—it seemed to us to perfectly reflect a contemporary, twenty-first century Stockmann.35 The Coming Insurrection is used extensively in the last two acts, to the point that it may deserve the status of a source text parallel to Ibsen’s. Beginning with the

The emergence of co-dramaturgy  261 projection that opens the play and declares a clinically dead civilization, excerpts from this pamphlet form the point of departure: I AM WHAT I AM. The slogan of a multi-national sneaker manufacturer is not simply a lie, not simply an advertising campaign, but a military campaign, a battle cry against everything that exists between people; against everything that is fluid without definition; against everything that invisibly connects us; against everything that prevents utter desolation; against everything that ensures that we exist and that the world doesn’t look like a superhighway, an amusement park or a cookie cutter suburb: pure boredom, orderly, functional, without any desire, icy, empty space.36 In his analysis of the theater production, Frode Helland considers this text to express the alienation of human beings, presumably in a Marxist sense: This quotation opens the performance and introduces one of its central topics: that the individual at its core is under pressure from commercial forces that are transforming every relation into a relation between things—the result being an overwhelming alienation.37 The same text from the pamphlet is used in Act 4 when Dr. Stockmann elaborates his claim that “[t]he cripple is the model citizen of the future.”38 The interweaving of the pamphlet with Ibsen’s text serves to establish the political foundation of the play and to strengthen Dr. Stockmann as a political voice. Further, my reading of the playscript’s intertextuality is that to some extent it also draws on Miller’s text, particularly via the reference to challenges “in times of crisis,”39 although the interpretation of ‘crisis’ is different in each case: for Ostermeier and Borchmeyer, the core is the capitalist mode of the economy, whereas for Miller, it is the suppression of freedom of speech during a political crisis. Fifthly, the use of music serves at least three purposes: it adds to the intertextual approach by proving supplementary text via lyrics and thus provides an extra layer to the modes of communication in the play. Further, the music serves as a Brechtian Verfremdungseffekt (estrangement effect), allowing audiences to reflect on what motivates the characters’ actions. Finally, it is a practical device to provide time for changing scenes. Sixthly, instead of adhering to Ibsen’s specific location, Ostermeier and Borchmeyer embed the textual body within a larger vernacular cosmopolitanism as is prevalent in Europe today. As Ostermeier mentioned in a discussion with Gerhard Jörder: “This milieu in which An Enemy of the People is set […], you find not just in Berlin, in Prenzlauer Berg, but in every metropolis of the Western world.”40 Clearly, this—along with the decision to focus on contemporary, middle-class characters in their thirties— required a substantial modernization of the language. According to Ostermeier, this “is fed by an observation of reality—and from the thesis that social relations and the way feelings are expressed change fundamentally with every generation.”41

262  Kamaluddin Nilu This dialogue illustrates the degree of language adjustment: Stockmann: Assholes! And if I don’t buy into your little game, you’ll hunt me down. Aslaksen: The truth is always relative. Stockmann: Fuck off. Hovstad: You know where you’ll end up? Stockmann: I said: Fuck off.42 In order to embed the text within ‘new realism’ and develop their innovative dramaturgy, Ostermeier and Borchmeyer had to break with numerous conventions, as should be clear from my analysis. I consider these changes to be more fundamental and pervasive than those made by Miller and Ray, for example if we consider that the actors participated actively in the development of the playscript. Yet another novelty is what I would call ‘co-dramaturgy,’ which sets the framework for the innovative, open dramaturgy in Act 4 emerging through the interplay between spectators and actors in the public meeting scene and based on a fluid shifting between materiality and semioticity. The lack of local specificity facilitates this approach. It remains a democratic and creative process, a playful negotiation, where the audience as well as the artists are granted the space to navigate what is happening without interruption or manipulation by others. In the words of Borchmeyer, “As in our version, it engages with the actual audience, we had no idea where this scene would lead us to.”43 As I understand it, the intention behind this form of co-dramaturgy is to create a public forum for an open dialogue based on relevant contemporary issues wherever the play is performed. The thrust of this co-dramaturgical action is not only to bring forth a new aesthetics but also to ensure political relevance and thereby potential social action—it implies political engagement. As Ostermeier has said about his approach to theater: “[W]e have once again to tell stories that are about the here and now, that deal with social and political reality.”44 The intention behind co-dramaturgy appears to have also worked in practice. Reflecting on the experience of staging the performance in different parts of the world, Ostermeier summarizes, When we’re on the road with An Enemy of the People in Canada, in the USA, in Australia, South America, we always notice how this play, which relates an entirely concrete political story, can be transferred to local social realities or local conflicts in those countries.45 He further elaborates on its relevance to our times: Yes, An Enemy of the People is the first play about a whistle blower— long before the term even existed. In New York it was clear to everyone in the audience that Dr. Stockmann was a figure like Bradley Manning,46

The emergence of co-dramaturgy  263 Edward Snowden or Julian Assange. Because the play simply addresses the question, how much power does the truth have in a completely economized society, one that is subject to media manipulation? Does it have any chance at all?47

Conclusion As demonstrated in this chapter, Ibsen created a text of great openness and democratic potential through the portrayal of political issues and the use of a range of political metaphors. This approach has enabled numerous practitioners from around the world to engage with and, through the democratizing process of transculturation, dramaturgically transform the playscript into performances resonating with the political concerns of audiences in their respective countries. Miller’s and Ray’s adaptations, for instance, offered commentaries on the political crises in the United States and India at the time, while also allowing their audiences to experience Ibsen’s original text anew. Ostermeier and Borchmeyer, however, have taken this conception of dramaturgy one step further: through their innovative form of co-dramaturgy, they not only shed light on the political issues of their time and generation like Miller and Ray, but they also managed to create a space for political action by bringing people together and enabling an engaged, democratic encounter of audience members with each other and with the performers. By expressing their feelings, opinions and ideas on contemporary politics, the performance itself becomes a political act and a transculturation wherever it is performed. Still, we must ask ourselves whether a single political act suffices or whether it should be followed by sustained action or indeed activism beyond the space of the theatre? While Miller’s and Ray’s versions seem to want to stimulate spectators to take a political stance outside of the performance and in their respective sociopolitical realities, suggesting that the theatre itself can inform but cannot solve these larger issues affecting the community, Ostermeier, by opening the last act of his play to his audiences, turns the theatre space itself into a potential site for political debate and real change. Yet the question remains whether Ostermeier’s co-dramaturgy, unlike Miller’s and Ray’s, thus inadvertently absolves its audiences of their political responsibility beyond the performance space and in society at large, since on the face of it the political action already takes place at the end of the play, or whether it functions as an effective reminder to the spectators to make themselves heard once they leave the theatre in order to actively help bring about the changes they want to see happen in society.

Notes 1 The contemporary relevance of An Enemy of the People is reflected in the many and diverse adaptations that theater and film directors have made in different parts of the world. The play is not only staged within the context of mainstream theater but also as political theater (especially outside the West) in the form of street and community theater. The following examples serve to illustrate the broad range of productions: in

264  Kamaluddin Nilu 2006, Tara Arts in London, under their Education Resource Pack, staged a production directed by Jatinder Verma and addressing the Asian community in particular. The setting of this adaptation was British colonial India. In India, many beliefs and rituals center around water. In this production, pollution was used as a metaphor for modernity, and a central issue was how a custom-bound society feels ‘polluted’ by new, scientific ideas. In Japan in 2006, Yoji Sakate directed an adaptation for Rinkogun Theater Company to reflect Japanese sociopolitical conditions. The director said that he found An Enemy of the People well suited to portraying the situation in presentday Japan, where a loss of agency on the part of the citizens in the face of corruption scandals is a widespread problem, coupled with the close connection between social and political power and law enforcement. It is interesting to note that in this production Dr. Stockmann was a woman. Mr. Sakate explained that many of the leaders of citizens’ campaigns are women, including the leader of the Social Democratic Party, and that he wanted the production to be in tune with the contemporary political climate. The Strawberry Theatre Workshop in the United States staged a production of An Enemy of the People (directed by Greg Carter in 2007) in Miller’s adaptation from a feminist perspective. In this production, Dr. Stockmann was a woman, too, with a strong emphasis on the brother–sister relationship. The production was based on the premise that the will to capital is masculine, while the will to knowledge is feminine. In the Norwegian film En folkefiende directed by Erik Skjoldbjærg (2005), Ibsen’s text was modernized and the setting moved to present-day Norway. In this film, spring water comes in bottles and the conflict related to economic interests is at the center, along with how economic power controls the entire community, including the police. When considering the relevance of a play, it is also important to look at how the critics and the audience received it. In 2006, the Norwegian theater director Kjetil Bang-Hansen directed An Enemy of the People for the Shakespeare Theater Company in the United States, which was received by critics and audiences as an allegory of contemporary American politics, with traits of President Bush in Peter Stockmann and of Al Gore––in his capacity as an environmentalist––in Dr. Stockmann. 2 See Peter M. Boenisch and Thomas Ostermeier, “Ostermeier Writings [1]: Towards a New Realism,” Chapter 2 in The Theatre of Thomas Ostermeier (New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2016). 3 Diana Taylor, “Transculturating Transculturation,” in Interculturalism and Performance: Writings from PAJ, ed. Bonnie Marranca and Gautam Dasgupta (New York, NY: PAJ, 1991), 61. 4 Homi K. Bhabha, “Epilogue: Global Pathways,” in The Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures, ed. Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost and Saskya Iris Jain (New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2014), 263. 5 Erika Fischer-Lichte, “Introduction: Interweaving Performance Cultures—Rethinking ‘Intercultural Theatre’: Toward an Experience and Theory of Performance beyond Postcolonialism,” in The Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures, ed. Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost and Saskya Iris Jain (New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2014), 11. 6 Boenisch and Ostermeier, Theatre of Thomas Ostermeier, 83. 7 Arthur Miller, An Enemy of the People, Adapted from Henrik Ibsen (London: Nick Hern, 1989), 8. 8 Ibid., 9. 9 Ibid., 7–8. 10 Ibid., 82. 11 Ibid., 10. 12 Ibid., 94–95. 13 Ibid., 124–25.

The emergence of co-dramaturgy  265 14 Ibid., 74. 15 Ibid., 74–75. 16 Ibid., 69. 17 In Miller’s version, the play is thus stripped of the comic elements of the original, which seem to have confused Ibsen himself regarding the genre of the play. Ibsen wrote to his editor: “I am still a little uncertain whether to call it a comedy or simply a play: it has much of the character of a comedy, but there is also a serious basic theme.” Henrik Ibsen, quoted in Michael Meyer, Ibsen (London: Cardinal, 1992), 519–20. 18 Miller, An Enemy of the People, 90. 19 Ibid., 97. 20 Ibid. 21 Ibid., 89. 22 Ganashatru, dir. Satyajit Ray (1989; New York, NY: The Criterion Collection, 2014), YouTube video, 1:39:37, https://youtu​.be​/6SMZw8fPq1M. My translation. 23 Ibid. 24 Durga, identified by various names, is a principal and popular Hindu goddess, in particular in West Bengal. She is the warrior goddess, whose mythology centers around combating evils and demonic forces that threaten peace, prosperity and good dharma. She is the fierce form of the protective mother goddess, willing to unleash her anger against wrongdoings, violence and destruction. 25 Ganashatru, dir. Satyajit Ray. 26 Ibid. 27 Simon McBurney, “Ibsen Meets Snowden: Thomas Ostermeier on An Enemy of the People,” Guardian, 24 September 2017, www​.t​​hegua​​rdian​​.com/​​stage​​/2014​​/sep/​​24​/ th​​omas-​​oster​​meier​​-inte​​rview​​-thea​​tre​-i​​bsen-​​enemy​​-of​-t​​he​-pe​​ople. 28 Florian Borchmeyer, “An Enemy of the People,” trans. Maria Milisavljevic (unpublished manuscript, 13 May 2014), 71, English draft 1.8, Post-Workshop-Draft. 29 Ibid., 69. 30 Ibid., 88. 31 Thomas Ostermeier, quoted in “Ibsen Meets Snowden.” 32 Borchmeyer, “An Enemy of the People,” 66. 33 Florian Borchmeyer, “The Dramaturg’s Work: Florian Borchmeyer,” in Boenisch and Ostermeier, Theatre of Thomas Ostermeier, 80–81. 34 See Borchmeyer’s description of the decision to merge the two female characters in ibid., 79–80. 35 Ibid., 81. 36 Borchmeyer, “An Enemy of the People,” 3. 37 Frode Helland, Ibsen in Practice: Relational Readings of Performance, Cultural Encounters and Power (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 34–35. 38 Borchmeyer, “An Enemy of the People,” 69. The dialogue is apparently borrowed from Peter Sloterdijk’s book Du mußt dein Leben ändern (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2009). 39 See Borchmeyer, “An Enemy of the People,” 67; Miller, An Enemy of the People, 89. 40 Thomas Ostermeier, quoted in Gerhard Jörder, Backstage: Ostermeier (Berlin: Theater der Zeit, 2016), 88. 41 Ibid., 120. 42 Borchmeyer, “An Enemy of the People,” 87. 43 Borchmeyer, “The Dramaturg’s Work,” 82. 44 Ostermeier, in Jörder, Backstage: Ostermeier, 50. 45 Ibid., 85. 46 Now Chelsea Manning. 47 Ostermeier, in Jörder, Backstage: Ostermeier, 86.

266  Kamaluddin Nilu

Bibliography Bhabha, Homi K. “Epilogue: Global Pathways.” In The Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures, edited by Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost, and Saskya Iris Jain, 259–75. New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2014. Boenisch, Peter M., and Thomas Ostermeier. The Theatre of Thomas Ostermeier. New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2016. Borchmeyer, Florian. “An Enemy of the People.” Translated by M. Milisavljevic. Unpublished manuscript, accessed 13 May 2014. Hard copy. ———. “The Dramaturg’s Work: Florian Borchmeyer.” In The Theatre of Thomas Ostermeier, edited by Peter M. Boenisch and Thomas Ostermeier, 79–82. New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2016. Fischer-Lichte, Erika. “Introduction: Interweaving Performance Cultures—Rethinking ‘Intercultural Theatre’: Toward an Experience and Theory of Performance beyond Postcolonialism.” In The Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures, edited by Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost, and Saskya Iris Jain, 1–21. New York, NY and London: Routledge, 2014. Helland, Frode. Ibsen in Practice: Relational Readings of Performance, Cultural Encounters and Power. London: Bloomsbury, 2015. Jörder, Gerhard. Backstage: Ostermeier. Berlin: Theater der Zeit, 2016. McBurney, Simon. “Ibsen Meets Snowden: Thomas Ostermeier on An Enemy of the People.” Guardian, 24 September 2017. www​.t​​hegua​​rdian​​.com/​​stage​​/2014​​/sep/​​24​/ th​​omas-​​oster​​meier​​-inte​​rview​​-thea​​tre​-i​​bsen-​​enemy​​-of​-t​​he​-pe​​ople. Meyer, Michael. Ibsen. London: Cardinal, 1992. Miller, Arthur. An Enemy of the People, Adapted from Henrik Ibsen. London: Nick Hern, 1989. Ray, Satyajit, dir. Ganashatru. 1989; New York, NY: The Criterion Collection, 2014. YouTube video, 1:39:37. https://youtu​.be​/6SMZw8fPq1M. Sloterdijk, Peter. Du mußt dein Leben ändern. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2009. Taylor, Diana. “Transculturating Transculturation.” In Interculturalism and Performance: Writings from PAJ, edited by Bonnie Marranca and Gautam Dasgupta, 60–74. New York, NY: PAJ, 1991.

Coda Performers and time: The five stages of waiting David Moss1

Waiting: in the dressing room to start to get ready to do to know what I can do to go beyond in Berlin to be buoyed up to be in doubt to be sure to be certified to be allowed

268  David Moss for it for something like always to be inspired for a chance for another chance for forgiveness for what feels like forever by the side of the stream when it hurts to wait because it hurts for egos to mesh in the necessary order for a composer to speak to the conductor

for wonder in Bakersfield because that’s the way it is for a door to open for a yes for a nod for a touch for a look for the moment for the right moment for the perfect moment for everyone all the time impatiently

Coda  269 for everyone all the time on line momentarily while everything is on the line while the ball is in the air in Barcelona for the winning hand for sleep to come until something happens so something happens to find the entrance to hit the beginning is complicated is for others is not meant for animals

to enter to re-start to hit the mark for a friend in Beijing for the water to boil for the sound to check for the toast to pop up for the coffee to cool for the right person for a reason for more than you can think of to be paid because you deserve to is for guilty people

270  David Moss is for people who are too happy in Basel is for pessimists was the worst is always for pessimists in Barranquilla is the world’s long ending for passport control to be allowed in for the dice to stop rolling for the meds to kick in for the pain to stop to grow up for the baton to descend

in Battambang but could be meditating to land to reply hopelessly hopefully neutrally scared around wisely room all over again in Beirut to kill time

Coda  271 for a second for it to be over for the other shoe to drop for the perfect wave for the first sip of coffee in the wings and seeing on somebody on you, hand and foot is part of the process of becoming for what’s worth waiting for will end for tomorrow never ends in Bangalore unleashes everything for your ship to come in for the sound-check to end in vain is both passive and passionate is not merely hoping a lifetime in Bucharest makes certain wines better is not always a bad thing and watchful game list by doing could be the start of something good

272  David Moss but should be creative in Burnaby for an idea ‘s not a bad idea to control as manipulation of others to give to get a crack at it it out in vain for a diagnosis for a pat on the back in Banbacho to be found out your turn and wishing for the light to change for enlightenment for the 3-minute warning to go on stage for the show to start for the music to play to be entertained in Bakers Swamp to learn something to be surprised for the taxi after the concert for the next gig for the sun to rise on Broadway as always

until the cows come home

Coda  273 Waiting, like a good sauce, can be reduced and condensed into five main stages:

1. Waiting to find it (life’s work, I mean) 2. Waiting to be (one with) it 3. Waiting to be wanted 4. Waiting to do it 5. Waiting for renewal

I propose that everyday and/or professional performers in many geographical/ cultural regions go through these five stages of waiting the very first time in order, beginning at that relatively early time of life when they start the search for a personal paradigm. After this initial burst of linear self-definition, the stages repeat throughout life in mixed and overlapping waves. As a performer, singer, soloist, improviser and ensemble member, having performed in some 5,000 events in a 48-year span, my TWT (Total Waiting Time) has been considerably longer than my TPT (Total Performance Time); see the following graph:

I’ve often wondered what my waiting, and the waiting of others, means. How has it determined and reshaped our work, music life in general, and the field of performance as we have known it from ca. 1750 until today?

274  David Moss For the performer, one of the most universal and significant forms of waiting is the time just before a concert/performance/event when one is given a waiting room, or place, known as the dressing room or garderobe (more literal translation: a storeroom, a broom closet), Umkleidekabine (‘changing’ room—nice idea!) or greenroom (signifying growth, perhaps?) in the minutes/hours/days before an event. It can be a solo room (i.e. you’re alone); a group room (i.e. you’re with your group members or unfamiliar others); a single-gender room for performing groups; an ensemble room (i.e. mixed male/female for very large groups); or an unnamed public space in which you inhabit, if you’re lucky, a ‘holding area’ surrounded by strangers. Stage 4: Waiting to do it describes an experience of this semiprivate time before a performance begins.

Stage 4: Waiting to do it Why do it? Why perform? Why get up in front of people who are waiting for something? I think about this almost every day. I ask myself, “Is it worth it? What if I stop? What does it mean to me and why torture myself always trying to make something other, better, more right, more beautiful, more surprising, more true, mysterious yet revealing some unknowns?” So, I sit in a room, a dressing room, a garderobe, 60 minutes before a performance, before five thousand performances, let my mind wander, my hands touching surfaces, my thoughts bouncing between how to begin the show, and please, can I have 30 seconds of pleasure tonight beyond the usual menu of my ideas! In the dressing rooms, I find white, dirty, gray, concrete, plaster walls with or without windows, which look out over parking lots, and heaters that either never go on or are boiling; a long table with blindingly lit mirrors; a high shelf above the table with the names Marco, Heinrich, Koichi, Dmitri, Francois, Boris scribbled on its edge, and above each name is a pile of clothing, either fresh and folded or bunched up and dirty, and my eye searches for the clean towel, unopened water bottle and unused glass that mean someone knows that I’m here now and might need these things (in opera houses and theaters, there’s almost always nothing, and at festivals and smaller arts spaces, there usually is something). By then, I’m ready to hang my clothes, but there are no hangers, or there’s a closet, but it’s locked and I have no key, and so I sit in one of the two curved plastic or hard-cornered wooden school-chairs (50% with broken backs) and change my clothes, draping everything on the chairs when I’m done, and wonder what I should do with my wallet, keys and phone, all the while knowing that: about 60% of the time, I have to take them with me on stage; 30% I put them in my backpack and bring that backstage; 10% I have a key to lock the dressing room and leave them there. And then it’s about 15 minutes before 8 p.m., showtime. I usually ask them to tell me when to start, or I wait for someone to say “five minutes” or “now,” one way or the other. So, I relax my shoulders and think that it’s their place, not my responsibility (hah!)—and if they want me to play, someone will eventually arrive

Coda  275 and say something (although sometimes no one ever appears back here, and looking at my watch, I decide myself, finally, to go on stage and begin). In any case, I take a drink of water, and 17% of the time, I begin to write a tonight’s haiku, you know, like: “rain on shoes, tap tap tap, I remember now, all this is my weather.” Or 33% of the time, I do a ten-minute breathing meditation until 50% of the time I’m interrupted by a young person I’ve never seen before (and will never see again) asking, “Is everything all right?” Both of us know that she has no idea what ‘everything’ means, and I have no idea what ‘all right’ is at this moment (and if something wasn’t right, it couldn’t be fixed by this person) and then she/he disappears after I say, “Fine”; and 15% of the time, I search my backpack for a throat lozenge, and 10% of the time, I wander the halls nearby looking for something to grab my mind and form a memory for the performance to return to; and about 5% of the time, I mentally move through my body and physically register what’s flexible or sore; and about 7% of the time, I sit there in a pretty good approximation of Zen mindlessness, happy as a clam. And at some point around 8 p.m., I think that the only person I’ve said more than ‘fine’ to was the sound person named Blinky, Margit, Zero, Marxy, and that will probably be the only meaningful conversation of the day. Some part of my mind registers that as “okay, even good” because it makes sense; it’s part of the ritual, the preparation, the cutting-off from the rest of my—and everyone’s—life, except for the intrusions of a pop song playing in a car in the parking lot below, or in someone’s office above me—like maybe James Brown (nice!) or Abba (no thanks)—or a hummed personal song fading down the hallway (odd!). Or maybe a home-headed gaggle of soon-to-be-partying workers going through the back of the theater, and that triggers a cascade of associations: from how to use those sounds to begin, reference or end the show, or talk about the event as a pre-frame, or “here I am alone again,” or “exactly how the hell should I begin this gig?” But after all, I’m an improviser, right? So I’m allowed to worry…. Through all those thoughts, all this time, I’m really waiting to go out THERE, to get through the dark space into the light. The light of doing it is cross-fading into the present in my mind, and that light of doing it is powerful, seductive and thrilling in its embrace of life before hierarchies game creating time making structure building temporary trickster of past/future/present Soon I’ll only be minimally controlled by the habits and roles of everyday life. Like a dog that sits around sleepily, being petted and scratched but suddenly leaps away, energized, no reason offered—there are certain stimuli that can’t be resisted and are there not to be resisted…. All of this mental activity before is simply the prelude, the contrast, the false-positive anomaly in the background and the neurotic home turf where I

276  David Moss can hit my head against the wall because it feels so good when I stop—and then, timelessly, I’m heading toward that field of surreal expectation where the power wells up. It’s out there somehow both with and beyond the now impatient audience, these individuals I can’t ever control who await something. Amazing! They know almost nothing about me and yet they expect something. What is waiting for them around their own corner? Truthfully, at that moment, I don’t care—because I am the ‘vampire’ they’re visiting and I do feed on the knowledge that they have stored up potential energy for just this moment of giving it all up as a soon-to-be tribe. They are sitting there for me to reveal something that was not there before and may never be there again. Indeed, they’re betting their 15 euros that I’m at least as good as a rented DVD and popcorn. It’s during these pre-show hours that I feel a uniquely generated ‘information wave’ from the future, pushing more and more into my present until it fully inhabits the present moment when that wave and I are both on stage together, full of each other—risk-based, conjuring and unpredictable. It sounds unrealistic? Then think about it like you’re training for a physical sport, say a ten-kilometer run, and naturally, the training time has expanded to include every part of your life. Even while reaching across the dinner table to get the saltshaker, you feel your muscles in their readiness or balking state, and you decide more/less oxygen is needed. Then the race—the actual onrushing moment, the event that has been in the future for the last three months—is finally blowing across the hairs of your arms. And at the infinite moment before/after the starting gun, you are gone gone gone baby, because the body takes over and seizes your eyes, devours your mind and all control systems, and adjusts them for maximum performance at this particular air/sun/earth/track/body-next-to-you moment. This is exactly why you exist. When I play, my body takes the unexpected gift of full power briefly and then juggles it between physicality, mental states and the perceivers out there—and that is a gorgeous thing to feel. When I perform, I’m living in the world of playfull-ness, using an audience’s propelling expectational energies and my desire for something mysterious but experience-able to fuse some news. Mind reports in: Now we’re gonna do this thing together and when it’s over, it will be not so easy to talk about which sounds like I’m talking about the ineffable, yes, but twisted into another dimension that is not encircled by attempts at definition because there’s no known way to start or end this thing that creates itself from my memories and muscles and your presence … it wipes away tomorrow and builds a new language with an undeniable grammar But someone just yelled, “Cinque minuti, signor Moss.” So my lizard brain and sapiens mind begin their epic battle: breathing slows, purpose is refined; I fill my chest and push back my shoulders; open my mouth as wide

Coda  277 as it will go and move my jaw from side to side; find the moment when air activates voice. Oh! What’s in my pockets!? Do I have my backstage flashlight? I don’t want to trip over a sandbag now. And which things did I forget to do at my table after the soundcheck? Electronics plugged in, books marked, micro ready? Surely surprises await there. And does that fellow human on the soundboard remember that I said, “Never change the monitor speaker level, no matter what happens”? Body reports in: Damn, lower back is in throbbing pain because of that curved/broken plastic chair, and throat is dry And okay, 300 seconds have blasted by and I’m walking around the curtains, through the door onto the stage for 17, 200, or 2,000 people ex-pec-tat-ing like crazy… Senses report in: I feel like a curious, very hungry young amoeba probing the energy field of waiting sustenance, knowing deeply in my ONE cell that soon I will bump into, be attracted to, and have (!) the substance/essence I need to begin I sit at my table and it all blasts into beginning. And because nothing exists in isolation and everything influences everything else, this is when Stage 4 co-mingles and crossfades into the stage-less Doing It (with Stage 5: Waiting for renewal forming in the wings) I’m a follower of fingers, pressure, texture, change and air now, beginning to conjure, to murmur, to count ingredients, to look for the tool, to juggle, invent gravities: the hammer, pencil, tone, density that fits exactly into that bright thing in front of me, that bright thing, that bright thing, what the hell is that bright thing? It’s the inescapable. It’s the bucket dropping down into the well where life is. It’s the “stuff” of our space/time that my muscles and mind are unable to resist. Yes, I still have choices, decisions to make here, but the elemental structure builds so quickly out of nothing: and suddenly forms exist, memories move into new hierarchies, and the future whelms over into the past, which was actually the other way around for most of these words I’m writing/reading. It’s my very own version of “ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny.” If this sounds a bit magical, impossible, even irrational, then allow me to clarify by breaking all event/things down into what I call the circus of hoods: childhood, neighborhood, adulthood, falsehood, brotherhood, livelihood, could and should, would and good, which generates/are generated by the following

278  David Moss dichotomies: function versus making, playing versus banking, attempting versus securing, imagining versus building, exploring versus fitting, etc. This opening and conjoining of hoods, this revelation (rev-elation) is a magical part of performance—when the invisible weight and feel of memory/ responsibility on our shoulders and minds are nudged and transformed into ‘play-time.’ Meanwhile, time’s attacca drums the shape of the performance into active memory. Mind reports in: it feels like 30 minutes just happened; now to carve the last 20 minutes … it’s 50 minutes already and I still want to sing that melody I touched on at the start But the piece isn’t over yet because I can feel my left hand reaching for something—drawn to the need to begin a straighter, edged movement, not a loop or a drone but harder cliff-edged movements. Where to go from here? And then, clearly, there’s only one path to that hammock on the beach with an espresso on the table, with the trees and the waves doing the n/ever-changing tango. Time reports in: Okay, pull back a moment, remember the meta-structure you’ve made, listen to the layers, then match them to a face or two in the seats in front of you with a curved lip, angled head, a long-fingered hand on a knee, an in-breath, or if I can’t see anyone cause the lights are too bright, then stare up into the light and dazzle myself and lean a little bit too much to the right so that suddenly both hands have to shoot over to the snare drum there to keep me from falling and a short repeated hum begins that gets an echoed tap on the drum and it needs a bagpiper in the distance maybe 100 years away pointing to the sky as something angled takes slowly off between those buildings and … you see what I mean? It can go everywhere: into the woods, water, heliographed signals, Morse code, or scratching with graphite dust on paper; is it a secret note? To whom? Doesn’t matter, I can crumple it up and slide it into my breast pocket and that act of sliding on the fabric of my shirt makes a rhythm that jumps into and with a story or a line of words moving into action, then stillness, confusion, a friction-filled silence, and mental echo, yours and mine fading away and we look at each other over the silence. Mind reports in: Okay, David, done, not bad, remember minute 14, and work on minute 31 to make it better, don’t relax yet!

Coda  279 Audience reports in: Were you singing to me? (Hi, liked your smile over there during the show) Intense, thanks, what do you call this music? (thanks a lot, good to see you, it’s just my music) Are you going out to eat? (smiled no and a headshake) No? Okay, see you next time. Marxy the sound-woman reports in: Everything okay, monitors steady like a rock? (a smiled yes and a handshake) Good—I gotta go, leaving the work light on so you can pack up, so just pull the door shut behind you when you leave. Good show, ciao! Room reports in: You are totally alone here now and it’s over I look around the empty theater. It felt fairly good tonight. I loved minute 14, have to remember it for the next time. Minute 31 was not quite balanced, so I’ll work on both of these and write their secrets in my journal while I’m waiting for the train tomorrow. It feels good in the dimmed theater now—it was just a room, then it was our room, now it’s my room, filled with the resonance and history of this concert, at least for one night anyhow. It’s really quiet now. I look at each instrument, object, electronic box and book. Some of them I’ve carried with me for 30 years. I stroke or press or even smell their scents for a moment as I re-pack them in the right spot in the road-case. They are the physical residue, the installation of time, the traces of my performance years, more clear and articulated than memories or wishes. Dressing room tries to report in … But I’m not waiting in it anymore. I grab my clothes and backpack and get out of it as fast as I can. It’s an old tin can for me now, and it’s already in my recycling bin. I carry everything through dark backstage hallways to the employees’ door. Even the Pförtner /concierge/watchman is gone. I know that once I open the door it will lock shut behind me, and this concert will exist only in x-memories, with y-pleasures for z-time. I go outside. I wait for a taxi to arrive. Back at the hotel; two trips in the tiny elevator with my cases; fall on the bed and look for a snooker match on TV. I want to dive into other hypnotic geometries and feel the clacks of the balls vector me into sleep. So that I can do all this again, somewhere, and make it new: tomorrow…

280  David Moss

Note 1 The photos (and the graph) included in “Performers and Time: The Five Stages of Waiting” have the following credits (in order of appearance): Figure 13.1a (p. 267): Five surfers waiting. Photo by Sam Wermut (on Unsplash, https://unsplash​.com​/photos​/35muyqODIHA); Figure 13.1b (p. 268): David Moss. Photo by Jonathan Saretz; Figure 13.1c (p. 269): Photo by David Moss; Figure 13.1d (p. 270): Photo by David Moss; Figure 13.1e (p. 271): Photo by David Moss; Figure 13.1f (p. 272): Photo by David Moss; Figure 13.2 (p. 273): Graph by David Moss; Figure 13.3 (p. 280): Photo by Kristen Beever (on Unsplash, https://unsplash​.com​/photos​/Tj5wOBZQwTI).

Index

abstraction 56, 87, 102 activism 88, 101, 201, 210, 222 aesthetics 48, 70, 74–75, 81, 85, 117–18, 162–63, 217, 222, 262; aesthetics of access 199, 201, 209–10; aesthetics of remediation 81; aesthetics of singularity 158, 169–70; dramaturgical aesthetics 2; Noh aesthetics 70, 74–75; performative aesthetics 217, 222; post-dramatic aesthetics 162; traditional aesthetics 85; transformative aesthetics x affect 39, 71, 99, 106, 157, 224, 227, 229, 238, 239, 244, 251; affective 17, 53, 55–56, 87, 106, 158, 168 African American performance 102 Afshar, Mahasti 220 agility 64, 72 aging 63–65 Amine, Khalid 53 anonymity 168–70 anthropology 53, 101 archival material 16, 63, 65–66 Aristotle 1–2 Artaud, Antonin 6 Ashikawa Yoko 83 Asia Society, New York 218 Asian Dramaturgs’ Network (ADN) 118 attention 19, 63, 74–75, 83, 85, 87, 100, 105, 118, 219, 221, 227, 243, 245, 257 audience 47, 50–52, 55, 58, 64–70, 72–74, 86, 102, 105, 107, 114–16, 119, 121–22, 125–26, 160–66, 168, 176–77, 179–81, 185–88, 199–200, 206–11, 218, 221–22, 224–25, 227, 230, 237–48, 259, 262, 276, 279 audio description 199, 201, 206, 209–11 autobiographical 160, 164, 181, 184, 188, 190 autobiography 176

Bal, Mieke 158 Barba, Fabian 69 Bardon, Geoffrey 38 Bar-On, Dan 179–80 Barthes, Roland 51 Baryshnikov, Mikhail 64 Bates, Daisy 36–37 Beard, Mary 103 beauty 6, 65, 72, 87–88, 119, 204, 241, 244 belonging 103, 115, 119, 158, 176, 222 Bennett, Jill 99 Berger, Knut 180 Berliner Ensemble 104, 161 Bhabha, Homi K. 4, 21n20, 251 Bharucha, Rustom 55 Bierbichler, Josef 164 Bildung 5, 157, 169 Bildungsbürger 159, 161, 164, 170 Bing, Suzanne 7 Bishop, Claire 75–76n3 Black feminist critique 17, 97 Black voice 100–104 Black women 105–6 Blackness 16, 97, 109, 110n5 Bleiberg, Laura 86–87 Borchmeyer, Florian 250–51, 258–62 Bormann, Niels 179–80 bourgeois 5, 157, 168–69, 260; bourgeoisie 160 Braidotti, Rosi 97–98 Brandstetter, Gabriele 50–51, 58n23 Brecht, Bertolt 7–8, 103–4 Brook, Peter 12–13, 219 Brown, Arvin 121–22 Browning, Lorelle 126–27, 129 Bruguera, Tania 55 Bućin, Dejan 183 Buddhism 240

282 Index Butler, Judith 98–99 butoh 80–82, 85; radical artistic communities 82–84 canonization 103, 151 Caprioli, Cristina 47, 52, 59n35, 59n40 Catholicism 162 Catterson, Pat 64 Centonze, Katja 87 Charmatz, Boris 63 Chemers, Michael 20n3 Chen Yu-jun 129 Choreo_Drift project (2014–2015) 47–48, 50–54 choreography 47, 50–51; choreographical 55 chorus 248 Choy Ka Fai 83 city theater 17, 157, 159–61, 165 Classic Stage Company (CSC) 97 Coates, Emily 64 Cochrane, Bernadette 2, 118 Collard, Neville 31–32, 34–36, 38–40 colonialism 11, 12, 52–53, 55 composer, composing 138, 149, 151 Conceison, Claire 115, 121, 128 confessionary theater 183 conflict 14, 16, 107, 114–15, 118, 122, 159, 163, 169, 184–87, 193, 250, 252, 257, 259, 262 Congolese war 97, 101–2 Copeau, Jacques 7 corporeal 50, 55, 69, 87–88, 103; corporeality 54, 85, 106, 227, 229–30 costume 6, 8, 72, 84–86, 125, 223, 226, 230, 246 Crimp, Douglas 64 ‘Crip’ 204 crisis 85, 88, 124, 159, 161, 165, 252–53, 256, 259, 261 cultural analysis 158 cultural politics 99 cultural production 98, 109, 115–16, 120, 130 dancing museum 63 Dante 30–31, 38 Daoud, Kamel 163 Dawson, Jenny 31 Deaf and disability perspective 199; challenging ideology of ability 201–5; complex simultaneity 207–8; dismantling wholeness 208–9;

multilayered modes of communication 206; And Suddenly I Disappear: The Singapore/UK ‘d’ Monologues (O’Reilly) 199–205; visual language and audio description 209–11 death 38, 84–85, 87, 104, 106, 202, 241 deconstruction 53; deconstruct 129 Dercon, Chris 165 Derrida, Jacques 88 dialog 49, 116, 117, 127, 151, 164, 180, 182, 188, 200, 211, 244, 252, 257, 259–62 Diebold, Bernhard 104 digital 65–66, 101 dismantling wholeness 208–9 dissensus 176–77 Do Doan Chau 126 Doan Hoang Giang 126 documentary theater 176 Dössel, Christine 165 Douglas, Hillary 127–28 dramaturge: bicultural dramaturge 17, 116–22, 128; dance dramaturge 49 dramaturgical, dramaturgical research 101 dramaturgy: affirmative dramaturgy 16, 97–100, 102, 105–6, 108–9; alternative dramaturgy 199, 204–206; anti-mimetic dramaturgy 6; bilingual bicultural dramaturgy 128; co-dramaturgy 18, 250–51, 258–63; collaborative dramaturgy 237; concept of dramaturgy 1, 3, 14, 23n53; cross-cultural dramaturgy 29; dance dramaturgy xii, 48, 63; diagrammatic dramaturgy 16, 49, 55; documentary dramaturgy 90; dramaturgy of aging 16, 75; dramaturgy of cultural diversity 17, 176, 187; dramaturgy of detachment 6; dramaturgy of hauntology 6, 82; dramaturgy of hesitation 39; dramaturgy of interweaving/interwoven dramaturgy 5, 9, 11, 22nn29, 32; dramaturgy of simultaneity 207; environmental dramaturgy 36–37, 40; institutional dramaturgy 160–64; language-conscious dramaturgy 18; new media dramaturgy (NMD) 16, 80–82; non-literary, nonpsychological, non-mimetic dramaturgy 6; open dramaturgy 262; postmodern dramaturgy 83; pseudo-traditional dramaturgy 221; relational dramaturgy 35; spiritual dramaturgy 15, 33, 38–39, 41

Index  Eckhardt, Ulrich 138 ecology 109, 244; ecological 29, 31, 98 Egan, Miv 31 Einfühlung 99 empowerment 29, 187, 190–92 ensemble(s) 158, 164, 166; Altenburg ensemble 166; Berliner Ensemble 104, 161; Exil Ensemble 187–90 Epstein, Amit 177–78 Erpulat, Nurkan 158 eschatology 34 estrangement effect 176, 261; see also V-effect; Verfremdungseffekt ethical 48, 99, 106; ethics 39, 48, 251 ethnography 17, 176 exhibition 63, 65–69, 73–74

283

hauntology 16, 82, 89 haunting 85 hegemony 52, 55–56, 59n38, 157, 209; Western hegemony 53 heritage 30, 115, 125, 153, 220 Herzfeld, Michael 40 Hijikata Tatsumi 108–11, 113, 116 Hill, Sandra 31 Hillje, Jens 158–59 Hoffbauer, Patricia 64 Homosexuality 179 Hu Shi 11 huaju 10 human rights 47, 58n23, 191 humor 17, 121–22, 126, 152, 176, 179, 185, 193

Geisenheyner, Max 104 geography 34 gestus 103, 108, 245 Getty, the 65–66 globalization 13, 14, 17, 101, 119, 157, 162–64, 166, 168–69 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 4–7, 14 Gordon, David 70 Gordon Craig, Edward 6 Gorki Theater, Berlin 187–88; see also Maxi Gorki Theater Gosselin, Julien 165 Gottsched, Johann Christoph 151 Grotowski, Jerzy 218 Grütters, Monika 168

Ibsen, Henrik 9–11, 250 identification 17, 37, 99, 102, 106, 161, 162, 176–77, 216, 231n9 ideology of ability 201–5 Ihering, Herbert 7 Iina Naoto 85 image 50, 66, 87, 159, 216, 225, 246; imagery 138, 159, 169, 211 immigration 176, 186, 193; antiimmigration 188–90 improvisation 229 imyeon 2 in-betweenness 216, 229–30 Indian People’s Theatre Association (IPTA) 11 indigenous 10, 15, 22n32, 29, 220 inequality 157 Ingold, Tim 53–54, 58n33 injustice 17, 98, 102, 105–6 installation 47, 50, 58n22, 89, 114, 279 institutional dramaturgies 158, 164 interdependency 98–99; interdependent 98, 99, 101, 102, 106, 228 intermediality xii interpretation 15, 29–31, 35–39, 114–15, 121, 125, 128, 149 intervention 98, 117, 258–60 interweaving 48–49, 57n11, 208, 229–30, 251–52 Isherwood, Charles 100–102 Ito, Karen 119

hana 87 Hanako 7 happening 64, 228, 231n10, 244, 247, 262 Harrell, Trajal 83

Jacobs, Monty 104 Jameson, Fredric 169 Jatahy, Christiane 13 jingju 123–25 jiuju (old drama) 10

fake 68, 168 Falk, Norbert 104 flow 49, 65, 114, 116–18, 128, 199, 208, 240, 246 flower 65, 66, 68, 75, 87–88, 241 Fo, Dario 150 focalization 158–62, 164, 169 folklore 163, 167, 220 Foster, Georg 6 Francis of Assisi 150; see also Saint Francis Freie Universität Berlin xv, 2, 15 freies Theater (free theater) 162

284 Index Jjyō Gekijō (Free Stage) 9 jo-ha-kyū 2 Kalidasa 6 Kamimura Megumi 70 Kantor, Tadeusz 218 Kargah-e Namayesh (Performance Workshop) 220 kata 86, 89 Kawaguchi Takao 80–83 Kawakami Otojirō 7, 9 Keng Yi-wei 114 Khadra, Yasmina 163 Kim, Susan 121–22 kinesthesia 47; kinesthetic 40 Kochhar-Lindgren, Kanta 210 koken 72, 75 Koohestani, Amir Reza 163 Krämer, Sybille 49–50 Kulick, Brian 97, 107 Kuning Zai 114 landscape design 15, 33 Langhoff, Şermin 158–59 Law Miu Lin 116, 128–29 lecture 47–53, 55, 59n35, 167, 188 Lehrstücke (teaching plays) 176 Lei, Daphne 120, 123–24, 128 Lepecki, André 55 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim 1, 20n3 Lévi-Strauss, Claude 74 Lewis, Kecia 100–101 Lewis, Victoria Ann 202 Li Shutong 10 libretto 19, 148–52 Lilienthal, Matthias 162–66 Lim How Ngean 118 liminal, liminality 48, 49, 57n11, 187, 219 Liu Siyuan 9, 22n29 liveness 80–81, 90 Long Wharf Theatre, Connecticut 17, 120, 122 Lupo, Radu 179 Lyubimov, Yuri 238 Macintyre, Ken 31 Mahler, Anna-Sophie 164 makeup 12, 84–85, 244 marginalization 98 Maro, Akaji 83 Marshall, Jonathan 85, 89 Marthaler, Christoph 164 masculinity 17, 97, 100, 103–4, 264n1

Massumi, Brian 56 material 16, 19, 30, 50, 99, 103, 105, 108, 109, 150, 174, 179, 181–84, 199, 201, 206–8, 230n1, 241; materiality 51–53, 56, 97–98, 105–6, 108, 109, 230, 242, 262 Matsui Sumako 10 Matt, Peter von 151 Maxim Gorki Theater, Berlin 158–61, 169; see also Gorki Theater, Berlin May Fourth Movement (1919) 11 Mbembe, Achille 13 McCarthy era 252–56 mediality 53 mediator 117, 126, 164 Meerzon, Yana 20n2 Mei Lanfang 7 Meisch Lionetto, Sarah 200, 206 memory 83, 85, 87–90, 178, 191, 225, 275, 278 Meyerhold, Vsevolod 6, 7 Meyyappan, Ramesh 210–11 Mican, Hakan Savaş 161 migration 13, 76n3, 158, 165, 190 Miller, Arthur 250 mimesis 86; anti-mimetic 6; mimetic 221, 222; post-mimetic 118 misappropriation 97 mise-en-scène 259 Mitchell, David 202 models of disability 202; medical 201–3; moral 202; social 202; tragedy and/or charity 202–3 Molière 4 Mondialisation 157, 169 monolingualism 151 Morrison, Toni 242 Muehlemann, Nina 208 Mullarkey, John 55 multitude 14, 15, 169 Munich Kammerspiele 162–66, 169 Munn, Nancy 37 Myers, Fred 41 Nalbandian, Abbas 87–88 Nancy, Jean-Luc 51, 157, 228 Nannup, Noel 31 narrative 17, 18, 33–34, 37, 41, 125, 158, 176, 182, 192, 199, 201–4, 206, 208, 225, 240, 247, 252; counter-narrative 191; folk narratives 116; historical narratives 29, 223; parallel narratives 180, 183; political narratives 59n40, 103; revenge narrative 220

Index  nation 3, 4, 6, 13, 29, 102, 157, 170 Nause, Allen 126–28 Nazi 168, 180, 189 neo-Nazi 191 New Materialism 80 new media dramaturgy (NMD) 16, 80–82 new realism 251 New York African Theatre Company (AFC) 102 New York Times 100, 102 Newski, Sergej 19, 148 Nishioka, Juri 70 Noah, Mordecai 102 Noh 238 objects 55, 86, 98, 241–43, 245, 251; demonstration object 103 Ohno Kazuo 80–83, 87 Okada Toshiki 164 Ontology 99 opera 3, 123–24, 148, 151–52 Osanai Kaoru 9 Oschatz, Julia 161 Osore Zan 84 Ostermeier, Thomas 250–51 Ota Shogo 237–42 otherness 86, 216 Ovanessian, Arby 218, 220 palimpsest 51, 53 pansori 2, 3 parapolis 159, 162; para-polis 157; parapolitical 169–70 Parsi theater 11 participation 16, 47, 52, 56, 71, 73–75, 83, 90, 101, 158, 162, 251; participatory 47, 49, 68, 75 patriarchy 104 Paxton, Steve 70 Pegida 167, 188–90 Pergamon Altar 160 Pewny, Katharina 20n2 photography 69 Phuon, Emmanuèle 68–72, 77n35, 77n36 Pinkins, Tonya 16, 97, 99–102, 105–10 playwright 17, 19, 148, 152, 159, 166, 210, 220 Ponifasio, Lemi 13 populism, populist 167–69 post-dramatic 56, 81, 162 postmigrant 158–59, 161–62 postmodern 16, 63–64, 69–71, 73, 75, 81, 83, 87, 169

285

Pourazari, Hamid 222–25 power relations 98, 105, 120 precarity 99, 102; precarities 105 Progressive Writers’ Association of India (PWA) 11 puppet 84, 161 Quaas, Richard 165 queer 161, 191; queerness 159 quietude 238 Racine, Jean 4 Rainer, Yvonne 63–65 Rancière, Jacques 73, 176 Ray, Satyajit 250 reception 4, 10, 16, 80, 83, 99, 102, 115, 121, 218 reconstruction 66–67, 87 reenactment 80 refugee 167–68, 187 rehearsal 68, 70, 72, 114, 116, 118, 121, 125–27, 129–30, 177, 179, 192, 220, 244–45, 247 Reinhardt, Max 7 religious 13, 71, 87, 88, 149, 186–87, 193, 217–22, 225, 231n9, 257 repertoire 4–6, 13, 70, 88, 148, 162, 167 repetition 30, 36, 52, 58n22, 246 resistance 51, 58n23, 105, 108, 162, 166, 167, 210, 224, 240; resistance writing 51 Ricoeur, Paul 36 ritual 39, 88–90, 219, 275 Roberts, Dorothy 105 Robinson, Ayelet 180–81 Roes, Michael 138 Romani 176, 190–92 Romanska, Magda 2 Rommen, Ann-Christin 125 Ronen, Yael 176 Rossellini, Roberto 150 Rüping, Christopher 165 Saint Francis 148–51; see also Francis of Assisi Salzmann, Sasha Marianna 159–61 Sankai Juku 83 Sayyad, Parviz 220 scenography 260 Schaubühne, Berlin 158, 161, 176–78, 258 Schiller, Friedrich 5 Schneider, Rebecca 88 Scolnicov, Hanna 119

286 Index Sehgal, Tino 63 seigeki (correct theatre) 9 Servati, Reza 225–28 set design 33 Shanghai People’s Art Theatre 17, 120 Shanghai Theatre Academy 117 shingeki (new theater) 9–10 shinpa 9–10 Shiraz Arts Festival (SAF), Iran 216–22 shite 70, 72 Shunjuza, Kyoto Art Theater 65–67, 75 Siebers, Tobin 201 sign language 210 Silvers, Sally 64 slavery 105 Snyder, Sharon 202 solo 64, 81, 84, 124, 125, 139, 204, 206, 274 Somekh, Sasson 138 Souad, Fatma 159 spectator, spectatorship 63, 69, 73 speculation 35, 49 Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty 116 Spring Willow Society, Tokyo 10 Squat Theatre 218 stage manager 67, 72 Stalpaert, Christel 69 Stanner, W. E. H. 33 Station Plays 240 Stengele, Bernhard 166–68 Stone, Sophie 210 storytelling 12, 15, 35, 38, 121, 204, 206, 209, 211 Strehlow, T. G. H. 33–34 Student Theater Festival, Iran 228–29 subliminal 127, 239 Suzuki Tadashi 12–13 Szodruch, Irina 177–82, 191–92 Ta’ziyeh 217, 220 Tairov, Alexander 6–7 Tajadod (née Jahanbegloo), Mahin 220–21 Takabayashi Koji 70–71, 73, 75 Takiguchi Ken 118 Tan, Amy 121 Taussig, Michael 86 Taylor, Diana 88 temporal 70, 81, 88, 109, 237, 259; temporality 50, 56, 101 Téné Ouelgo 166 Terada Misako 70, 73 Terkessidis, Mark 158

textuality: intertextuality 260–61; metatextuality 86 Theater Altenburg 166–69 Theater der Welt (Theater of the World) 12–13 Theater institution 157–58, 160–62, 164–65 Theatertreffen 158, 161, 181, 184 theatrical production 80, 98, 101, 106, 181 therapy 176; group therapy 178–82, 187; laughter therapy 228 Thirty Years’ War 16, 97 Tholl, Egbert 165 transculturation 250–51, 263 transformation 1, 34, 53, 164, 193, 216, 240; transformative 48, 69, 82, 200, 251 translation 20n3, 39, 51, 56, 115–17, 119, 121–22, 124, 126, 128, 130, 135, 138, 148, 207, 251 trauma 178–79, 213n12, 225; traumatic 179, 184, 186, 223–25 Trencsényi, Katalin 2, 118 Tsubouchi Shōyō 10 Tsutsui Tokujiro 7–8 Tynan, Kenneth 104 uncanny 37, 83–84, 86, 90–91, 182 Van Kerkhoven, Marianne 56 V-effect see estrangement effect; Verfremdungseffekt Verfremdungseffekt see estrangement effect; V-effect Vietnam America Theater Exchange (VATE) 125 violence 37, 40, 47, 101, 106, 184, 211, 218, 228 visual language 206–7, 209–10 vocal travesty 102 voice 2, 47, 99–104, 107, 127, 150–52, 163, 191, 200, 207, 210–11, 224–27, 229, 244, 261, 277 Volksbühne, Berlin 104, 162, 165 Walley, Richard 38 Wang An-chi 123 Watermill Center, New York 123 Weaving Politics symposium 47–48 Wei Hai-min 123–25 Weidlinger, Tom 120 Weigel, Helene 99, 103–4 Weimar Theater 4–5 Weise, Christian 161

Index  Weltliteratur (world literature) 4 wenmingxi 10–11 white gaze 97 Wigman, Mary 69 Wilson, Robert 12, 123–25, 218–19 Wood, Catherine 68–69 xenophobia 167 xinju (new drama) 10 Yeats, William Butler 7 Yoruba traveling theater 12

Yu Luosheng 121–22 Yvonne Rainer Collection 66 Zarrilli, Phillip 201, 207 Zeami Motokiyo 75, 239, 242, 244 Zeffirelli, Franco 150 Zeng Xiaogu 10 Zhang Fang 121 Zheng Zhengqiu 10 Zielinski, Siegfried 38 Zoungrana, Paul 166 Zuckmayer, Carl 167

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