Performing the Truth

Friday, August 07, 2009

Last week I completed an intensive movement  theater workshop at Sadler’s Wells Theatre with my company, Aegis Productions Ltd. The technique we studied, Gardzienice, comes from some of the most physical performers available in Eastern Europe.  Our director and her assistant had the ability to suspend the laws of physics. In ten days she did her best to do the same.

 

If this was a disability themed blog, I would now proceed to write an inspiring entry about how I was able to overcome my physical limitations and have an amazing two weeks. Fortunately, I’m not that kind of writer and my disability isn’t the most interesting thing about me.

 

In recent months several of my artistic collaborators have brought up the concern of performing with a physical disability. Many artistic institutions continue to use excuses such as “having a limited movement vocabulary” to justify their lack of inclusion, or as I prefer to see it, a lack of imagination.  I believe even more firmly this rationale is not only damaging to the craft but is cowardly as well.

 

A lack of imagination is a shockingly common trait amongst performance practioners particularly when it comes to disability inclusion. For those of you who doubt me, please see my article referring to Susan Boyle.  There are countless singing teachers who won’t take a student on with vocal nodes. When I was five and wanted to be a ballerina, there wasn’t a single dance school that would let me join their kiddie classes. (one wonders what they were teaching.) The civil rights campaign IAMPWD estimates that while about twenty percent of the America population is disabled, only one-half of one percent of words spoken on television are spoken by a person with a disability. It’s like the artists and producers can’t see past the boundaries of their own imaginations to dwell in possibility.

 

Of course, this wouldn’t bother me so much if I didn’t know that imagination could be stretched, the craft could be improved, and art does not move forward without individual artists pushing to enhance creativity. Two weeks working with a Gardzienice director who refused to see limits yielded the seedlings of new forms of movement which could someday challenge and inspire endless amounts of performers.

 

A favorite word bounced around conservatories is that of “truth.” Students at drama schools are repeatedly told that successful performance is “truthful” and therefore transcends various barriers. Taking the institution’s own bromide as fact, do not these barriers also include disability? If acting is truthful and fully in the moment , it doesn’t matter if there are back flips or the tinest movements such as eye blinks featured, it will be effective.

 

There are millions of terrific ways to play King Lear. Understanding the physicality of an old man is simply one way of entering into the character.  If it was the only way of doing so, then good performance would only take someone who could move like a feeble old man to perfect the role. For that matter, no one over the age of eighteen could ever effectively play thirteen year old Juliet.  But directors say they are looking to see a role played truthfully, NOT accurately. Truth is beyond facts and sciences because even a robot, performing scientifically programmed movements could never be truthful.

 

It is the task of the artist to stretch their own boundaries of imagination and vision. Because the art of a society reflects the heart of a society, it is vital that we, as artists, find the human truth in our work. This truth transcends physicality, sinew, and mind as all these do deteriorate even while our humanity remains intact.  In short, Lear is not tragic because he is old, he is tragic because he is human. It is that humanity, which can transcend all sorts of ailments and deteriorations, which is at the centre of performing any character.

So THAT’S What They Are Talking About

Wednesday, August 05, 2009

Recently, two of my friends encouraged me to read the book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. The book, written by Haruki Murakami, details his own experience with long distance running and how it connects to his philosophy of life. Everyone I know loves it. Everyone I know owns a pair of running shoes. It is a very strange thing to hear about something as common as running and have absolutely no frame of reference as to what your friends are talking about.

 

I, of course, could easily have my equivalents. A road racer for several years, I know fully the feeling of wind in my hair combined with the repulsion of seeing a rotting animal on the side of the road which Murakami describes so poignantly. Or I could write What I talk About When I Talk About Tying my Shoes which would detail the two hours it would take me to complete the act and the Zen like state I force myself to go into so I can avoid chucking my Nike’s into the Thames. At the end of the narrative, I would explain how my ticket to inner peace is a pair of $500 Stuart Weissman’s in black leather and with a three inch heel because they slip on so easily. This, most likely, is not what the author was hoping to inspire.

 

After reading Murakami’s book I had questions, lots of questions. Questions like: why is running uphill difficult? Why doesn’t anyone run down hill? Doesn’t it hurt your knees? What makes a good pair of running shoes? I even asked one of my guy friends to explain to me what chaffing was. Admittedly I was wholly unprepared for the response. There was suddenly this universe that everyone else knew about which was utterly foreign to me. I was totally lost in spin off conversations about the London Marathon or the hardest places to ran in Southwark. And in between the descriptions of the mud and the knee pain, the panting and the roadkill I kept reiterating my original question: why the hell would this put anyone in a zen-like state?

 

For Murakami,  running (and life) is about the process and the journey along the run. It’s about meeting the goals you set for yourself rather than being the fastest in the race. And on the one hand, I understand that. As someone who didn’t learn to walk until age ten, seeing the milestones is sweeter than whizzing by them.  Coming to what ought to be childhood rights of passage later means the phase of discovery is unending. I love being twenty five and getting to ask stupid questions that everyone thinks they know the answer to. I loved being a university student and finger painting for the first time. But I am still a very ambitious creature, unwilling to let go of being the fastest in the race when it comes to certain competitions.  Maybe because of this I’m not as well balanced as I would like to pretend. Or maybe its what one friend told me about running, “when there’s a road closed, you better make damn sure you know the detours really well.”

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The Stranger Down the Aisle

Monday, August 03, 2009

I hadn’t seen my best friend from childhood in just over eleven years when I saw her walk down the aisle. Three weeks earlier I had slung my duffle bag down from college as my mother announced that we would be attending the wedding. This was news to me. The fact that Mary was getting married before she could legally drink was news to me.  If I thought about it long enough, the fact that Mary even still existed would’ve been news as well.

 

Mary and I grew up together going to zoos and Six Flags Great America. I remember dance was her life and school was mine. We were awkward in the ways that only eight year old girls can be, complete with knobby knees and a palate that could only appreciate the subtleties of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.  When Mary got her ears pierced it meant I could too. We went through puberty together, started to become curious about boys, and planned our hypothetical weddings during ten thousand sleepovers.

 

The Sunday before school started one August, Mary’s mother told us that the family would be moving away. I saw Mary for the last time three months later.

 

And so I finished junior high, went through high school and half of college rarely thinking of my childhood friend. Thus, going to Kansas to see a wedding of a friend from half a lifetime ago was less than appealing.

 

I settled myself into the pew, not knowing why I and my family were even at the wedding in the first place. I literally had no idea who the bride and groom were. When the church doors would open, I didn’t even know what she was going to look like. It was the wedding of absolute strangers.

 

The beautiful bride was halfway down aisle before I realized my cheeks were wet. Where were these tears coming from? I didn’t know her. I certainly didn’t know him. Yet the tears weren’t forced. It wasn’t that I was at a wedding  so I was supposed to be crying becuase that’s what you are supposed to do when the bride walks. The tears were real. All I could think of was us rehearsing our weddings at ten, and how the things we dreamt about in our Barbie sleeping bags were just beginning to happen.

 

There is something about the dreams and connections of our childhoods which stay with us. Long before we make the comprises and unexpected commitments we dare to aspire to, even to the point of having a sense of innocent entitlement.  And while often these golden rings slip away from us, sometimes they come back in the most unexpected ways. Mary never was a professional dancer. She went into Math. Somehow I ended up being the performer.

  

But for once, as I was watching Mary and her husband dance the last dance of the evening, everything seemed familiar.

 

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