Scraps n Bones from ‘Dogs, Wolves, Coyotes’
Though included in the program to ‘Dogs…’ which premiered at the English Theater Berlin on April 29, 2007, I also thought this would be the appropriate forum to share and talk about these ideas. Though specific to this piece -i.e. Dogs-, I believe nonetheless that these ‘guidelines’ are sound and could be interesting for other productions.
expect more theater related entries in the future.
without further ado…
A note to the actors:
In a way, the text should be read and performed as if you’ve never seen it before, as if it were alien to you, as if anything that was ‘dramatic,’ seemed foreign, cold, unprecedented. But I’m not interested in b.b. and the slavery to rationality. These were interesting ideas but boring experiences.
Another way of looking at it: try to separate your voice from your body; separate your understanding from your expression of your understanding. Try not to allow the words to affect you as a person, as a body -or if they do, become aware of that moment and check yourself, find out what it means, why it affects you, when.
Another way to look at this problem is to say, like Henri Chopin, the ‘body is a sound factory.’ Your body, your voice, is a sound factory, a machine, a tool, an instrument. Your whole body as one instrument or machine, your voice as one amongst them, that usually serves a specific function -namely, expressing another machinery, the ‘mind.’ But for us, the voices, the actors as voices as instruments function like violins -there’s nothing emotive about a violin; a violin is wood and glue and lacquer, etc. (If it helps, think of an instrument you can’t hear in your mind’s ear, like the ‘long string instrument’). If the violin isn’t emotive, then it’s the player who adds the emotion, who brings out the violin’s capabilities for staccato, for drones, for polonaises. Don’t let your rationality be the player, instead let your sense for music be the maestro, let the internal rhythms of the words and sentences take hold.
Maybe you’re asking, why separate the body from the voice?
There are I believe a couple of ways to answer this question. One is rather personal. When I had my scoliosis surgery (one of the milestones of my life thus far, and something which informs this text in many different ways) my vocal chords were permanently damaged due to problems with my breathing tube. Consequently, for many months thereafter, I felt like my voice wasn’t my own: it was scratchier, weaker, slower. Though the procedure and the pain made me very aware that I am only my body, I also felt like certain parts of me weren’t my own. My feet seemed worlds away, my control over my arms when grabbing things not my immediate vicinity felt like trying to untie the Gregorian knot. And then of course there was this strange voice, which matched up well enough with what I thought I was saying, so I just assumed it to be my own. This left a really strong impression on me and to be honest, my understanding of the text is very much informed by this. About how things can seem very strange, match up and yet still leave room for uncertainty. In a way, this play deals with handicaps of a different sort.
Another reason to approach the text as suggested is theatrical: when you consider yourself as voice as an instrument and not as a personification of a worldview, you’re less inclined to internalize it, to let it affect your body (the larger machinery). The normal scheme looks like this: the words affect the brain, and their meaning then has some emotional aspect which is then conveyed through the voice and other physical processes. I’m saying look at it like this: the words affect the brain with their meaning. The voice then takes these words, strips them of their immediate meaning and performs them, musically. The rest of the body then is free to convey it’s own functions based on this music. If this scheme is taken, your attitude changes, your words are acknowledged as material, as waves crashing on the shore. No consecutive wave breaks at exactly the same point, in the same way with the same consequences.
Similarly, each thing a voice-instrument says will ebb and flow differently, will awaken other (dead) voices-instruments, other body parts. It will set off a sequence. A sequence and not a response.
The question then is, does the voice try and directly express the ‘mind’ or something else? My response: something else. Philosophy and arguments are a thing for texts and not the theater. (This is where we sidestep b.b.). In these four walls it’s all about experience, about receiving/making impressions. And that’s our goal. To affect the bodies of the audience even if we don’t let ourselves be affected in the same way. They needn’t match each other. That’s a fallacy.
One retort would then be, then why didn’t I write nonsense. My answer is I wanted to write something open enough for many different interpretations and uses, to operate as a full blown out theater piece, as something for puppets, as a maze installation, as songs. In my understanding of it, it functions like music performed by the voice and the body. With the emphasis on the voice. Maybe it could work differently.
Listen again to the Lachenmann Second String Quartet. Pay attention to when you drift in an out of understanding the meaning of the words. Why does this happen? While what he’s saying can be rather convoluted, the drift is also caused by the Sprechsang technique. You become of the way things are being expressed and not what. You never forget is that the voice is constantly saying something, that these words have a meaning. Indeed it is rather interesting, important and beautiful what he’s saying. But that’s not the point. The point is, he’s taking something that has a certain meaning and using it as material. Why isn’t the listener bothered, when it’s unclear what the performer is saying? Is this because it’s clearly delineated as music? If other arts are at ease about instantaneous cognitive apprehension (there are other examples in the arts), is the attachment to cognitive meaning (and expression of that through the body) something that theater has a monopoly on? Is this necessary for effective theater? I would wager that it doesn’t. I believe there are many examples that speak against this: to name only two of my favorites ‘Not I’ and ‘Medea in der Stadt’ work on this level.
Listen again to Berio’s Sinfonia. Listen to the voices, take note of the man saying ‘page after page, KEEP GOING.’ That’s what I’m talking about. Straight. The slightest hint of emotion, but not giving in to it. I get the impression that he’s aware of what he’s saying, but it doesn’t much matter to him. That’s an interesting experience. Not one that we want to emulate but one which we might find inspiring. Let’s separate voice/body, meaning/experience even if the text tries to force you into a philosophical moment. You’ll never fully escape meaning, but you can pervert it. You may never be able to divorce yourself from the meaning, but you can create a cleft, a gap where the meaning of the words no longer dominates. There may even be times when normal acting comes through, but this should be a conscious choice. One where the music either fails you or the energy needs to be there. I think this has potential for an interesting experience in the theater. I hope you too would like to keep going (page after page) in this direction. -Shane Anderson
Originally published at Bit Rate Labor. Please leave any comments there.