Monday, April 1, 2002

Posted by raymon montalbetti, 4/1/02 at 12:34:43 PM.

Working Process/ 209.3: Grotowski Theory into Practice

0. Mo. (Feb. 25, 2002) / Establish group: AeRan, Cali, Sarah, Daniel, Rod, Brad, Doug Context: Little Red Riding Hood Time: Mo. & Wed. (2 hrs) 5 - 6 Sessions

1. Wed. (Feb. 27) / Begin: Establish way of work, physical & vocal & vibration. Test text & Test Body-Voice connection

2. Wed. (Mar. 6) / Physical Improv. (building ensemble & establishing characters)

3. Mo. (Mar. 11) / 3 Women: deeper text work. (establishing score)

4. Wed. (Mar. 13) / Wolf work & ritual chant Search for elements & build invisible network.

4a. (Mar. 13) / AeRan: English text

5. Mo. (Mar. 18) / Pushed to score [draft 2]

6. Wed. (Mar. 20) / Centering vibration & voice etude. Witness others.

6a. (Mar. 22) / Cali: Character object wk.

7. Sa. (Mar. 23) / Poetics of voice & objects introduced. Finding place.

7a. (Mar. 23) / AeRan: English text

8. Mo. (Mar. 25) / Group etude. Guided score.

9. Tue. (Mar. 26) / Presentation.

10. Wed. (Mar. 27) / Reflection

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Sunday, March 24, 2002

Refer to this excellent theater glossary: Performance Studies

Saturday, March 23, 2002

The New Theater Co-op presents Saskatoon with a great gift, Harold Pinter's brilliant play The Birthday Party. Directed by Susan Williamson, the cast brings an absurd drama beautifully to life. One must recognize, before even watching this event, three distinguished figures and living treasures of modern theater: Susan Williamson, Henry Woolf and Harold Pinter. Ms. Williamson has been directing for many years and her previous work with the New Theater Co-op especially the most recent Art and The Weir are a testament to her broad range and delicate touch. She herself is an accomplished and experienced actor having worked with the Royal Shakespeare Company and National Theater in London with the renowned director Peter Brook. Saskatoon audiences have appreciated her many appearances at the Shakespeare on the Saskatchewan Festival and In this piece we marvel at her capacity to fulfil both roles of actor and director. Henry Woolf has been a passionate man of the theater his entire life. Stage and film actor, director and former head of the University of Saskatchewan Drama Department, Dr. Woolf has acquitted himself as an honourable and celebrated figure. This past summer saw The New York Times critic rave about his performance, Monologue, at the Lincoln Centre Pinter Festival. Dr. Woolf has inspired many a young actor and it is difficult to determine whom had more influence on whom as he and Harold Pinter worked together in their early student days.

Harold Pinter has established himself as a major British playwright of the late 20th century by exploring the human condition with depth, compassion and imagination. His plays have spawned a theatrical phrase, the Pinter pause, as well as a chapter in theater history - the language of silence. Pinter relishes in revealing the human condition by setting characters into a simple commonplace environment and allowing them moments of pause and silence balanced with sharp articulate language to present a thoughtful parable of existence.

The New Theater Co-op offers the opportunity to meet all this living history in one place at The Birthday Party. Add four more local actors, enthusiastic to participate in this special event of theater history, and the ensemble performance reflects a depth rarely witnessed on the stage.

As we wait for the curtain to open, we face ordinary old furniture from any normal living room. Unlike the armchair on the right, the chair on the left is covered by an almost rainbow coloured sheet. It gives the feeling of an older era because, after growing up, we no longer play with rainbows but we do still cherish them and even wish under them. The older furniture seems to bear many stories just like the house of our Grandparents. Elders never stop talking and every object holds significance and history. As we await the beginning of the performance the stage greets us as if to tell a story.

The play starts with a slice of life - the domestic breakfast. We observe Petey (George Haines) entering slowly and deliberately but we listen to Meg (Susan Williamson) prattle on and on. She serves Cornflakes as if they take hours of preparation and besides the advertising on the box promises a fresh morning. She relentlessly quizzes Petey about everything from his health, to his plans, to the weather and to the latest news. Petey is patient, generous and kind and Meg responds with brightness relieved, if not slightly disappointed, that all is well. One old couple enjoying their peaceful albeit mundane existence.

However, with the appearance of Stanley (Chris Harrow) the atmosphere changes. A tension develops. Who is he? Is he Meg and Petey≠s son? Is he a visitor? A tourist at this bed and breakfast? A tenant? He is lazy, dirty and foul. He ignores Meg's kindness taking her for granted and shows no respect. He is cruel, rude and threatening. He seems caught wasting his life away. Only the past memory of piano playing salvages any sort of meaningful existence.

The tension escalates with the entrance of two gentlemen in black suits. The director displays a wonderful wit by utilizing the size of the huge McCann (Corey Reaume) and the short Goldberg (Henry Woolf) to create an image full or irony. As our smile vanishes we question who are these men and what is their relationship? The mystery deeps as a plan is hatched to celebrate Stanley≠s birthday party despite the objections from an obviously disturbed Stanley.

Act one climaxes with an intense, interrogation scene. The black suited men, having forced Stanley to sit, shout question after question into his ear relentlessly attacking with a language expressed in breathtaking speed, rhythm, volume and disorientation. Stanleys pathetic, colourless, and lifeless existence is revealed culminating in Goldberg spitting out the declaration that Stanley is an animal. No longer humorous the black figures, even when asking childish and funny questions have transformed into almost villains demanding: "You can≠t think. You can≠t love . . . You are dead! You are dead!" Meg's drumming from off stage and her charming, naive entrance in her pink, party dress saves Stanley from seeming total degradation. A clever tableau freezes time as after intermission we return to the exact moment where we had left off.

Act two begins and is driven with a sense of nostalgia and sentimentality. Meg drinks, dances, sings and fully enjoys the birthday party. She cherishes the moment of laughter and love. Even the black suited men encourage her with kindness and respect despite an ever present foreboding which lurks beneath all the celebration. A gift is presented. Meg brings Stanley a toy drum. A drum - the symbol, in so many cultures, of the pulse of life. In a game of Blind Mans Bluff, Stanley breaks the drum plunging the stage into darkness. We hear the screaming of Lulu (Cheryl Jack), a delightful, heavily made up character, who flits in and out of the action. She appears as a counterpoint to Stanley and Meg struggling to make sense of life though not intelligent enough to move beyond melodrama and emotionalism. In the darkness we hear Stanley≠s mad laugh and then nothing. Chaotic searching, a small beam of light and ever more indecipherable utterances.

Death has come. Life is a privilege, given as a gift, just like a drum. If one can not give life meaning then what remains is a broken toy and a visit from death. Stanley is nothing more than a vegetable being carted away. Petey tries to stop the inevitable. No one can prevent death. Goldberg pays Petey, for his troubles. A brilliant Pinter moment of death paying life for the expenses. A question in reverse: What does life cost?

In The Birthday Party Pinter explores the meaning of life by watching a visitation of death. He invites us to reflect on ways of being. Birth and death are not choices. Our today, whether the celebration of the mundane or fearful escapism, is the tomorrow that dead people have dreamed. The dead have dreamt a desperate dream of a better world but have failed to live the questions of life. With irony, silence and darkness Pinter mirrors our present predicament. The New Theater Co-op presents an incredibly alive performance of a talented ensemble guided by a wise hand following the sharp commentary of a gifted playwright.

Sunday, March 10, 2002

The New Theatre Co-op . . . The Birthday Party by Harold Pinter . . . Directed by Susan Williamson . . . with a stunningly caring hand she has shaped a classic of modern theatre into a edgy parable of deceptive & poignant terror . . .

. . . brilliant Pinter . . . the cliche, language of silence, made visible by the controlled and imaginative voice of the actor. . . each moment, the actions shatter our illusions (delusions) that we can celebrate the mundane daily existence . . . beat a drum, dance a waltz, play blind man's bluff, sing an irish song/ a happy one, make a toast . . . our glasses will be aschew and in the end broken . . . happy birthday . . . celebrate . . . birth ? ? ? death

. . . brilliant Pinter . . . scene after scene gnaws at the borders of our attempts to construct meaning. The entire cast flawlessly touches Pinter's claustrophobic, almost archaic and ancient, soulscape with moments of intensity that open into the heart with an ease and immensity.

. . . "the nerves break" as each word is mercilessly articulated with a passionate cadence and cruel laugh . . . The characters jostle and juxtapose in complex relationships ranging from the recognizably banal to perpetually mysterious . . .

. . . the insignificant to sit or not to sit . . . relentless interrogation . . . thoughts repeated . . . meanings twisted . . . questions dissolving without resolution . . . the actors weave a seamless web of precise actions of existential angst that emotionally permeates like a cold cup of tea . . . and we laugh at ourselves, moved by the humour - whether subtle & nuanced or bizarre and outrageous . . .

. . . Plunged into darkness the voices pierce and startle, echoing chaotically against all hope and reason . . .

Thank you Henry and Susan for sharing your skill, knowledge and wisdom. Your lights are a beacon for us all.

Monday, March 4, 2002

VII

Order and harmony in the work of each actor are essential conditions without which a creative act cannot take place. Here we demand consistency. We demand it from the actors who come to the theatre consciously to try themselves out in something extreme, a sort of challenge seeking a total response from every one of us. They come to test themselves in something very definite that reaches beyond the meaning of "theatre" and is more like an act of living and way of existence. This outline probably sounds rather vague. If we try to explain it theoretically, we might say that the theatre and acting are for us a kind of vehicle allowing us to emerge from ourselves, to fulfill ourselves. We could go into this at great length. However, anyone who stays here longer than just the trial period is perfectly aware that what we are talking about can be grasped less through grandiose words than through details, demands and the rigours of work in all its elements. The individual who disturbs the basic elements, who does not for example respect his own and the others acting score, destroying its structure by shamming or automatic reproduction, is the very one who shakes this undeniable higher motive of our common activity. Seemingly small details form the background against which fundamental questions are decided, as for example the duty to note down elements discovered in the course of the work. We must not rely on our memory unless we feel the spontaneity of our work is being threatened, and even then we must keep a partial record. This is just as basic a rule as is strict punctuality, the thorough memorizing of the text, etc. Any form of shamming in one's work is completely inadmissible. However it does sometimes happen that an actor has to go through a scene, just outline it, in order to check its organization and the elements of his partners' actions. But even then he must follow the actions carefully, measuring himself against them, in order to comprehend their motives. This is the difference between outlining and shamming. An actor must always be ready to join the creative act at the exact moment determined by the group. In this respect his health, physical condition and all his private affairs cease to be just his own concern. A creative act of such quality flourishes only if nourished by the living organism. Therefore we are obliged to take daily care of our bodies so we are always ready for our tasks. We must not go short of sleep for the sake of private enjoyment and then come to work tired or with a hangover. We must not come unable to concentrate. The rule here is not just one's compulsory presence in the place of work, but physical readiness to create.

Saturday, March 2, 2002

First Night, or Ubu Unleashed Excerpt from The Banquet Years by Roger Shattuck December 11, 1896, the opening night, is worth describing in detail. There had been nothing like it since the wild premiere of Victor Hugo's Hernani in 1830, when Theophile Gautier and Gerard de Nerval carried the day for romanticism by highly organized demonstrations. Before the curtain went up, a crude table was brought out, covered with a piece of old sacking. Jarry appeared, looking dead white, for he had made himself up like a streetwalker to face the footlights. Nervously sipping a glass of water, he spoke in his flattest, most clipped tones. For ten minutes, he sat in front of the explosive crowd, thanking the people who had helped in the production, referring briefly to the to the traditions of the Guignol theater, and mentioning the masks the actors would wear and the fact that the first three acts would be performed without intermission. He concluded in a more properly Ubuesque vein. "In any case we have a perfect decor, for just as one good way of setting a play in Eternity is to have revolvers shot off in the year 1000, you will see doors open on fields of snow under blue skies, fireplaces furnished with clocks and swinging wide to serve as doors, and palm trees growing at the foot of a bed so that little elephants standing on bookshelves can browse on them. "As to the orchestra, there is none. Only its volume and timbre will be missed, for various pianos and percussion will execute Ubuesque themes from backstage. The action, which is about to begin, takes place in Poland, that is to say: Nowhere." In these earnest nonsense lines Jarry was already insinuating that the play is more than it appears, that the true setting of farce is (like Poland, a country long condemned to the nonexistence of partition) an Eternity of Nowhere, and that contradiction is the mode of its logic. The speech did not exactly insure a sympathetic reception. Jarry vanished with his table; the curtain went up on the set -- the handiwork of Jarry himself, aided by Pierre Bonnard, Vuillard, Toulouse-Lautrec, and Serusier. Like every other feature of this performance, the set had been described countless times. Arthur Symons, one of the few Englishmen present at this "symbolist farce," as he calls it, recalled every detail. ". . . the scenery was painted to represent, by a child's conventions, indoors and out of doors, and even the torrid, temperate, and arctic zones at once. Opposite you, at the back of the stage, you saw apple trees in bloom, under a blue sky, and against the sky a small closed window and a fireplace . . . through the very midst of which . . . trooped in and out the clamorous and sanguinary persons of the drama. On the left was painted a bed, and at the foot of the bed a bare tree and snow falling. On the right there were palm trees . . . a door opened against the sky, and beside the door a skeleton dangled. A venerable gentleman in evening dress . . . trotted across the stage on the points of his toes between every scene and hung the newplacard on its nail." (Studies in Seven Arts) Gemier, swollen and commanding in his pear-shaped costume (but without a mask, despite Jarry's campaign), stepped forward to speak the opening line -- a single word. He had not known how to interpret the role until Lugne-Poe had suggested he imitate the author's own voice and jerky stylized gestures. The midget Jarry truly sired the monster Ubu. In a voice like a hammer, Gemier pronounced an obscenity which Jarry had appropriated to himself by adding one letter. "Merdre," Gemier said. "Shite."

It was fifteen minutes before the house could be silenced. The mot de Cambronne had done its work; the house was pandemonium. Those who had been lulled by Jarry's opening speech were shocked awake; several people walked out without hearing any more. The rest separated into two camps of desperately clapping enthusiasts and whistling scoffers. Fist fights started in the orchestra. The critics were on the spot, their reactions observed by both sides. Edmond Rostand smiled indulgently; Henry Fouquier and Sarcey, representing the old guard, almost jumped out of their seats. A few demonstrators simultaneously clapped and whistled in divided sentiments. Mallarme sat quiet, waiting to see more of the "prodigious personage" to whose author he addressed a letter the following day. Jarry's supporters shouted, "You wouldn't understand Shakespeare either." Their opponents replied with variations on the mot of the evening. Fernand Herold in the wings startled the audience into silence for a moment by turning up the house lights and catching people with their fists raised standing on their seats. The actors waited patiently, beginning to believe that the roles had been reversed and they had come to watch a performance out front.

Finally, Gemier improvised a jig and sprawled out on the prompter's box. His diversion restored enough order to allow the action to proceed to the next "merdre," when the audience took over once more. The interruptions continued for the rest of the evening, while Pere Ubu murdered his way to the throne of Poland, pillaged the country, was defeated by the king's son aided by the czar's army, and fled cravenly to France, where he promised to perpetrate further enormities on the population. The story of Ubu Roi is no more than this. Pere Ubu and Mere Ubu use language more scatological than erotic, and Rachilde maintains that the audience whistled because they "expected this Punch and Judy of an Ubu to function sexually" and were disappointed. The curtain rang down that night and the next on the only two performances of Ubu Roi until it was revived by Gemier in 1908. For the Theatre de l'Oeuvre it was the catastrophe that made it famous.

American Repertory Theatre This page updated December 18, 1996 webmaster@amrep.org

Friday, March 1, 2002

Grotowski V

An act of creation has nothing to do with either external comfort or conventional human civility; that is to say working conditions in which everybody is happy. It demands a maximum of silence and a minimum of words. In this kind of creativity we discuss through proposals, actions and living organisms, not through explanations. When we finally find ourselves on the track of something difficult and often almost intangible, we have no right to lose it through frivolity and carelessness. Therefore, even during breaks after which we will be continuing with the creative process, we are obliged to observe certain natural reticences in our behaviour and even in our private affairs. This applies just as much to our own work as to the work of our partners. We must not interrupt and disorganize the work because we are hurrying to our own affairs; we must not peep, comment or make jokes about it privately. In any case, private Ideas of fun have no place in the actors calling. In our approach to creative tasks, even if the theme is a game, we must be in a state of readiness - one might even say " solemnity". Our working terminology which serves as a stimulus must not be dissociated from the work and used in a private context. Work terminology should be associated only with that which it serves.

A creative act of this quality is performed in a group, and therefore within certain limits we should restrain our creative egoism. An actor has no right to mold his partner so as to provide greater possibilities for his own performance. Nor has he the right to correct his partner unless authorized by the work leader. Intimate or drastic elements in the work of others are untouchable and should not be commented upon even in their absence. Private conflicts, quarrels, sentiments, animosities are unavoidable in any human group. It is our duty towards creation to keep them in check in so far as they might deform and wreck the work process. We are obliged to open ourselves up even towards an enemy. "

Monday, February 25, 2002

Grotowski IV

An actor can only be guided and inspired by someone who is whole-hearted in his creative activity. The producer, while guiding and inspiring the actor, must at the same time allow himself to be guided and inspired by him- it is a question of freedom, partnership, and this does not imply a lack of discipline but a respect for the autonomy of others. Respect for the actor's autonomy does not mean lawlessness, lack of demands, never ending discussions and the replacement of action by continuous streams of words. On the contrary, respect for autonomy means enormous demands, the expectation of a maximum creative effort and the most personal revelation. Understood thus, solicitude for the actor's freedom can only be born from the plenitude of the guide and not from his lack of plenitude. Such a lack implies imposition, dictatorship, superficial dressage.

Sunday, February 24, 2002

Saturday, February 23, 2002 Mump and Smoot hilarious and amazing Just for the Flux of it By STEVE TILLEY -- Edmonton Sun

EDMONTON -- Outside the doors to the Roxy Theatre, a sign warns that the production of Mump and Smoot in Flux uses strobe effects, smoke and flash-pot explosions. It should also warn that people sitting in the front row may be paddled in the head, that you must not go to the bathroom without asking permission, and that no matter how comic Mump and Smoot's antics might seem, the emotionally frail should think twice before entering. One does not leave a Mump and Smoot show unaffected, either with a stomach sore from laughing or a head full of comically nightmarish images of gore. Mump and Smoot in Flux, playing at the Roxy through March 10, is the latest full-length show from Toronto-based, internationally recognized horror clowns Mump (Michael Kennard) and Smoot (John Turner). Flux is in the same vein as previous Mump and Smoot Fringe festival faves like Something Else and Tense, but this one focuses on the give and take in the relationship between the sometimes stern and paternal Mump (he's the one with the single long horn) and the childlike but defiant Smoot. Flux could also be called Mump and Smoot Go Camping - Again or maybe The Boolawa Witch Project, since it sees the duo on what was probably intended to be a relaxing outing in the woods on their home world of Ummo. That is, until their adventure takes a slightly darker turn when Mump warns Smoot about the Boolawa, a ferocious forest animal/spirit that will attack unwary campers. Play dead and don't look it in the eyes, he says. Well, "says" is a relative term. As with all Mump and Smoot shows, the characters speak their own Ummonian gibberish. But coupled with facial expressions, body movements and vocal inflections, it becomes for the audience an almost Star Trek-ian sensation of being able to perfectly understand an alien tongue (with the odd English word thrown in when needed). The other consistent magic of Mump and Smoot is their connection with and awareness of the audience. Several times in Thursday's opening-night performance, they would halt a scene - without breaking character - and react to some audience stimulus. When a woman sitting near the front foolishly got up about 20 minutes into the show to go to the bathroom, Mump and Smoot pursued her into the Roxy's lobby, brought her back to her seat and instructed her to raise her hand and ask for permission before going pee - to the audience's utter delight. As well, during a dramatic and surprisingly heartfelt monologue by Smoot, a man walked out of the theatre and was again pursued. When Smoot returned to the stage and had the audience remind him where he was ("Smoot iz Smoot" - a Shakespearean sentiment if ever there was one), he resumed his monologue in mid-delivery as though someone had thrown a switch. Hilarious, and amazing. Aside from their antics and audience interaction, Mump and Smoot want us to see the changing dynamic of their relationship over the course of their adventure, perhaps to see the parallels in our own lives. At the end, they face an eye-popping confrontation that must not be given away here, and the event is not only shocking as all hell, it eventually brings the story arc to an almost mystical but emotionally satisfying conclusion. Only a bit of slow pacing towards the beginning and the odd technical glitch detracted from the show's overall impact. Mump and Smoot are a national treasure, and that they chose to debut Flux in Edmonton speaks not only to their close relationship with Theatre Network and the Roxy, but to their devoted fan base here. See this show and understand why.

Saturday, February 23, 2002

Grotowski: Statement II

Why do we sacrifice so much energy to our art? Not in order to teach others but to learn with them what our existence, our organism, our personal and unrepeatable experience have to give us; to learn to break down the barriers which surround us and to free ourselves from the breaks which hold us back, from the lies about ourselves which we manufacture daily for ourselves and for others; to destroy the limitations caused by our ignorance and lack of courage; in short, to fill the emptiness in us: to fulfill ourselves. Art is neither a state of the soul (in the sense of some extraordinary, unpredictable moment of inspiration) nor a state of man (in the sense of a profession or social function). Art is a ripening, an evolution, an uplifting which enables us to emerge from darkness into a blaze of light. We fight then to discover, to experience the truth about ourselves; to tear away the masks behind which we hide daily. We see theatre - especially in its palpable, carnal aspect - as a place of provocation, a challenge the actor sets himself and also, indirectly, other people. Theatre only has a meaning if it allows us to transcend our stereotyped vision, our conventional feelings and customs, our standards of judgment - not just for the sake of doing so, but so that we may experience what is real and, having already given up all daily escapes and pretenses, in a state of complete defenselessness unveil, give, discover ourselves. In this way - through shock, through the shudder which causes us to drop our dally masks and mannerisms - we are able, without hiding anything, to entrust ourselves to something we cannot name but in which live Eros and Charitas.

Friday, February 22, 2002

Is there really a new art?

Rough notes on a new kind of art

it's light (i.e. not heavy)
while frequently site-specific, it also travels easily (and often) from place to place
in doing so, it takes on quantum characteristics
it's ambient (you can concentrate on it, or not)
it can be a meditative art, both in the viewing and in the making
it can be often (though not necessarily) repetitious
its main elements are often intangible: light and sound
it's impersonal
it seeks clarity
its model: (electric, ever-shifting, lightning-fast) neural networks; its loci: the synapse
(from Subterranean Feb 2002)

Thursday, February 21, 2002

Statement of Principles - Jerzy Grotowski

I

The rhythm of life in modern civilization is characterized by pace, tension, a feeling of doom, the wish to hide our personal motives and the assumption of a variety of roles and masks in life (different ones with our family, at work, amongst friends or in community life, etc.-). We like to be "scientific", by which we mean discursive and cerebral, since this attitude is dictated by the course of civilization. But we also want to pay tribute to our biological selves, to what we might call physiological pleasures. We do not want to be restricted in this sphere. Therefore we play a double game of intellect and instinct, thought and emotion; we try to divide ourselves artificially into body and soul. When we try to liberate ourselves from it all we start to shout and stamp, we convulse to the rhythm of music. In our search for liberation we reach biological chaos. We suffer most from a lack of totality, throwing ourselves away, squandering ourselves. Theatre - through the actor's technique, his art in which the living organism strives for higher motives - provides an opportunity for what could be called integration, the discarding of masks, the revealing of the real substance: a totality of physical and mental reactions. This opportunity must be treated in a disciplined manner, with a full awareness of the responsibilities it involves. Here we can see the theatre's therapeutic function for people in our present day civilization. It is true that the actor accomplishes this act, but he can only do so through an encounter with the spectator - intimately, visibly, not hiding behind a cameraman, wardrobe mistress, stage designer or make-up girl - in direct confrontation with him, and somehow " instead of" him. The actor's act - discarding half measures, revealing, opening up, emerging from himself as opposed to closing up - is an invitation to the spectator. This act could be compared to an act of the most deeply rooted, genuine love between two human beings - this is just a comparison since we can only refer to this "emergence from oneself" through analogy. This act, paradoxical and borderline, we call a total act. In our opinion it epitomizes the actor's deepest calling.

Sunday, February 17, 2002

Scribblings after a dialogue with an actor the day after closing night:

the more I gave, the more I had to give, like some endless source

not really giving energy but my spirit - light

I hold a different colour & can I share what I hold

I enter the core of the space which is a creative place

a fullness of reaction, a kind of knowledge, opening myself

now I must close to live the life again

changed and richer for the experience

borrowed the gyre graphic from Visible Darkness: (he called it cheesy but I remember a Lou Reed quote: My shit are other peoples diamonds).

play with this / replace objective - subjective with audience - actor ...

play with more terms: energy /spirit /concentration /presence

the creative space
physicalization /fullness of reaction ...

find new terms & if you need more sources visit Grotowski at wood s lot

Friday, February 15, 2002

a delightful 21st Century theatrical adaptation of Ovid's Metamorphoses - metAmorfine - presenting the idea & concept of transformation through the physicalization of water, sex, drugs, music, and the apocalyptic and mundane events of life.

. . . from the director Neil Cadger: " . . . Truth is in continuous Transformation."[22.Kundalini, symbol 89. Transformation]" . . . My first concern was to try and find a way to allow the ideas to evolve, while working on things like rhythm and choral speech which obviously have to be done daily. Order and anarchy mingling inextricably. And now, just before the premiere I' m trying to take it further, changing, rearranging, looking for new shapes and frequencies. . . . ."

after the show articulating my feelings. . . akin to an intensely interactive google search . . . following seemingly random but intricately woven together facts, images, associative links . . . constructing a linear but deeply textured experience . . . mingling, looping, fragmenting the performers played with contrasting hues of alienation & ecstatic dance dipping into pools of ironic pleasure . . . Thank you Neil . . . Thank you cast of 17 wonderful actors and a musician. Much joy and discovery in the week to come.

Saturday, January 19, 2002

The Image Janus Head Editorial When we are open to an image, the image strikes us, moves us as an other, pulling us toward it while we draw it near. To speak of a relationship between the image and ourselves in terms of spatiality may sound odd. How can one draw near to an image when it is only a mere epiphenomenon of imagination? Yet to speak of an image already cut off from embodied engagement with the world-- with things and others-- is already to have engaged with an image that has been severed from its residence in the world. Images can wander, homeless, vagrant forms, outlines with little depth or feeling.

. . . more