Why Theatre? 3957324580, 9783957324580

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The Golden Books are a joint project by NTGent and the Berlin publisher Verbrecher Verlag. It is a series on theatre, aesthetics and politics as well as background pieces on projects by NTGent. A series on both the theory and the practice of an engaged theatre of the future. For the 5th volume, after months of cultural lockdown, when live arts were in a state of emergency and the whole institution rethought their priorities, NTGent asked more than 100 of the most influential artists and intellectuals in the world the question: Why theatre? Why is this art form so unique, so beautiful, so indispensable? From classical theatre to performance art and dance, from activism to political theatre and the performativity of everyday life, authors of all continents and generations delivered short essays, memories, manifestos, letters. Moments of aesthetic epiphany meet strong emotion, critical insights into the problems of representation and populism compete with utopian texts about the theatre of the future: more than 100 voices about the state of performing arts in 2020.

WHY THEATRE? NTGENT, GOLDEN BOOK V

EDITED BY KAATJE DE GEEST, CARMEN HORNBOSTEL AND MILO RAU

Why Theatre? – Golden Book V Published by NTGent

© NTGent 2020 Published by Verbrecher Verlag, Berlin. © Verbrecher Verlag 2020 Proofreading: Eline Banken, Kaatje De Geest, Carmen Hornbostel, Lesley Van Damme, Sophie Vanden Broeck Layout: Nina Wolters ISBN PDF: 978-3-95732-469-6 ISBN Print: 978-3-95732-458-0

WHY THEATRE?

TABLE OF CONTENTS EDITORIAL.................................................................................................................... 15 001 A constant journey of doubt and experimentation Mohammad Al Attar.......................................................................................... 16 002 Things I would miss Lola Arias............................................................................................................. 20 003 Theatre as a spiritual path Hector Aristizábal ............................................................................................. 22 004 The Lion King Back to Back Theatre........................................................................................ 26 005 The Think Tank Theatre Yael Bartana....................................................................................................... 30 006 The same air Vincent Baudriller.............................................................................................. 34 007 Saving the world Jérôme Bel.......................................................................................................... 36 008 Theatre humain Chokri Ben Chikha (Action Zoo Humain).....................................................40 009 Why oh why? Bread and Puppet Theatre..............................................................................44 010 Art is not about producing, it’s about implementing Tania Bruguera................................................................................................... 46 011 Suspension of disbelief Luanda Casella...................................................................................................48 012 The art of those who dare Nora Chipaumire................................................................................................ 52 013 On vulgar acting Benny Claessens............................................................................................... 54 014 About wild capitalism & its patriarchal performance in our lives Colectivo LASTESIS.......................................................................................... 58 015 Home Kelly Copper (Nature Theatre of Oklahoma)............................................... 62 016 A letter to dance Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker........................................................................ 66

017 I was theatre, but theatre was never me Mihaela Drăgan ................................................................................................. 70 018 “All the world’s a stage,” (really?) Radha D’Souza................................................................................................... 72 019 Re: Theatre does not entertain me Tania El Khoury.................................................................................................. 74 020 Dinner is served Nicoleta Esinencu.............................................................................................. 76 021 Not even the dead will be safe if the enemy wins Douglas Estevam (MST)................................................................................... 84 022 One day we will all be free Tim Etchells (Forced Entertainment) ........................................................... 86 023 Sustaining the sky Cibele Forjaz....................................................................................................... 88 024 On theatre, absence, disappearance and bodies Oliver Frljić.......................................................................................................... 92 025 You know you want it! Gob Squad ......................................................................................................... 96 026 It has eaten up all the others Julien Gosselin.................................................................................................100 027 Together in the dark Sébastien Hendrickx (Extinction Rebellion)..............................................102 028 For a life in action Florentina Holzinger ......................................................................................106 029 Living in theatre Hsin-Chien Huang...........................................................................................108 030 Need I say more? Isabelle Huppert..............................................................................................110 031 Wet dreams Manuela Infante...............................................................................................112 032 When we still do not know what theatre is Christiane Jatahy ............................................................................................116 033 Whatever you do is theatre Jojo & Joyee (House of Muchness).............................................................120 034 Stop pretending John Jordan......................................................................................................122

035 Because Stefan Kaegi (Rimini Protokoll) ...................................................................126 036 A is not. Any more than B. Alexander Karschnia (andcompany&Co.)...................................................129 037 The infinite game of becoming Susanne Kennedy...........................................................................................132 038 The less good idea William Kentridge............................................................................................136 039 Never becoming the concrete answer Amir Reza Koohestani ...................................................................................138 040 Our opera is a body, is a vessel, is a village Aino Laberenz..................................................................................................142 041 Born from the inside out Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui....................................................................................... 144 042 Embodiment Ursina Lardi.......................................................................................................146 043 I need company Jan Lauwers (Needcompany).......................................................................148 044 Let us be invaded Marco Layera ...................................................................................................152 045 Theatre belongs in a museum James Leadbitter (The Vacuum Cleaner)...................................................156 046 Why sea stars? Frie Leysen........................................................................................................158 047 About the ineffable: the mystical conception Angélica Liddell...............................................................................................160 048 Laboratories of the future Matthias Lilienthal...........................................................................................162 049 The suspension of freedom Édouard Louis...................................................................................................166 050 Theatre as assembly Florian Malzacher............................................................................................170 051 Creating a climate of change Katie Mitchell....................................................................................................174 052 Forever changes Sanja Mitrović...................................................................................................178

053 A sort of genesis Ariane Mnouchkine ........................................................................................180 054 Technicians of Dionysus Ermanna Montanari & Marco Martinelli (Teatro Delle Albe)..................184 055 Excursus Maia Morgenstern...........................................................................................188 056 The role of theatre in the struggle against neoliberal hegemony Chantal Mouffe.................................................................................................192 057 There will always be theatre Yolanda Mpelé.................................................................................................196 058 Between here and here Rabih Mroué ....................................................................................................198 059 Exile and territory Kornel Mundruzcó ......................................................................................... 200 060 Why as a responsibility to awe Ogutu Muraya.................................................................................................. 202 061 Second exit after the soul Nganji Mutiri.................................................................................................... 206 062 Theatre, because freedom Jeton Neziraj.....................................................................................................212 063 Hello darkness Daniela Nicolò & Enrico Casagrande (MOTUS).........................................214 064 Theatre of vulnerability Boris Nikitin.......................................................................................................218 065 Why water Mamela Nyamza............................................................................................. 222 066 Dear grandma, Markus Öhrn.....................................................................................................226 067 Fiction coming to life and intercontextualisation Toshiki Okada.................................................................................................. 230 068 We sit as an audience in the now Suzanne Osten................................................................................................ 234 069 States of emergency Thomas Ostermeier ....................................................................................... 236 070 Like breathing Bouchra Ouizguen.......................................................................................... 238

071 The grass is greener on the stage Lies Pauwels.....................................................................................................240 072 For God’s sake why? Luk Perceval.................................................................................................... 244 073 Nurture the audacity Alain Platel........................................................................................................248 074 This is a recording René Pollesch..................................................................................................252 075 Thinking of the end of the world in costume by the sea Philippe Quesne............................................................................................. 254 076 Indispensable ritual Mokhallad Rasem............................................................................................256 077 Theatre is a place of truth Milo Rau.............................................................................................................262 078 Put on another show Falk Richter...................................................................................................... 264 079 To stay in life Tiago Rodrigues...............................................................................................268 080 The curtain should rise on the right side Kathrin Röggla.................................................................................................270 081 Piece of evidence Pia Maria Roll & Hanan Benammar.............................................................274 082 Believing before seeing Didier Ruiz ........................................................................................................278 083 Creating a new world Amir Sabra (Stereo48).................................................................................. 280 084 Why art, why now, why ever? Farah Saleh.......................................................................................................282 085 In closed spaces Fabian Scheidler ............................................................................................ 284 086 Why, honey? Dennis Seidel...................................................................................................286 087 Antibodies against lies Kirill Serebrennikov....................................................................................... 290 088 Slowly getting high She She Pop.................................................................................................... 294

089 For as long as I can remember, I’ve been performing Buhlebezwe Siwani....................................................................................... 298 090 Lack of guarantee Mårten Spångberg......................................................................................... 300 091 Half world Veit Sprenger (Showcase Beat Le Mot).................................................... 304 092 Towards emancipatory performance Lara & Jonas Staal ......................................................................................... 308 093 Ghost choirs Botho Strauß.....................................................................................................314 094 We got it all wrong Tea Tupajić.........................................................................................................316 095 Some call it universe, I call it theatre Carole Umulinga Karemera...........................................................................318 096 Confusionists Igor Vamos (Yes Men)................................................................................... 322 097 Art is a human right Ivo van Hove.....................................................................................................326 098 A world that needs ceaseless reconstruction Gisèle Vienne.................................................................................................. 330 099 The condition of community Dmitry Vilensky (Chto Delat)........................................................................ 334 100 The fifth wall Marc-Antoine Vumilia.....................................................................................336 101 Everything is open Sasha Waltz..................................................................................................... 340 102 Why not Miet Warlop...................................................................................................... 350 103 Tough love Joanna Warsza.................................................................................................352 104 Incomprehensibility Apichatpong Weerasethakul........................................................................356 105 Escalation! Zentrum für politische Schönheit............................................................... 358 106 The art of unmasking Dominique Ziegler.......................................................................................... 360

EDITORIAL Why theatre? We can’t ask ourselves a more basic question than that and at the same time no question is harder to give an answer to. Why do we make theatre? What purpose does it have or does it even need to have a purpose? Usually, the answers are given by the making of theatre itself – but suddenly we find ourselves in a situation that has shaken up our ways of searching for the answers. In March 2020, NTGent was closed for an unknown period of time, like most theatres all over the world, due to the Covid-19 pandemic. So we wrote the following letter to more than 100 artists and intellectuals all over the world: “Dear friends, In times when theatre and performance as live art are in a state of emergency and societies rethink necessities, we ask you: Why theatre? For two years now, we have been publishing the series ’The Golden Books’ at NTGent, together with the Berlin based publisher Verbrecher Verlag: books on the theory and practice of contemporary performance art, on individual plays and general social questions. In volume 5 of the book series we want to broaden the focus and ask: Why theatre at all? Why is this art form so unique, so indispensable? What is YOUR personal ’why‘ as a theatre-maker, spectator, activist, citizen – or simply as a human being? We are interested in the whole range of theatre: from classical theatre to performance art and dance, from activism to political theatre and the performativity of everyday life. You determine the content and format of your contribution: whether you want to start from a concrete artistic experience as a theatre-maker or spectator, or write from a theoretical or utopian point of view. It can be a short essay, a memory, a manifesto, an invented dialogue, a poem, a letter to someone. A moment of epiphany, strong emotion, insight or confusion. A utopian text about the theatre of the future, post-capitalist theatre or one without any ideology, about Oedipus or the performance of birds outside your window. Whatever comes to mind when you ask yourself “Why theatre?“, whatever seems neuralgic to you or makes you feel confident. With solidarity and kind regards, Milo Rau, Carmen Hornbostel and Kaatje De Geest” Why theatre? Because of all that follows…

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A CONSTANT JOURNEY OF DOUBT AND EXPERIMENTATION / MOHAMMAD AL ATTAR When the world was seized by collective panic, I was left with the same nagging questions: Who cares about theatre? Who cares about culture at this point, in the middle of a pandemic? I don’t have easy answers at this time, so I would like to return to March 2011 when the Syrian revolution against the Assad regime started. Back then, I grappled with the same question: “Of what use is theatre today?” My answer was clear. This was not a time for theatre. Playwriting seemed a frivolous pastime compared to writing political articles and organising demonstrations. I held on to this opinion until, upon the urging of a few friends, I began writing the play Could You Please Look Into the Camera? As part of my research for the play, I interviewed 10 young men and women in Damascus, who had been arbitrarily detained by regime security forces during the first few months of the revolution. They all asked me the same question: “What’s the meaning of dramatising our stories today?” My answers sounded confident. I highlighted the role of theatre as a witness, and its power to humanise our stories in a way that the dry prose of news media with its facts and figures fails to do. But deep down I was still searching for answers that could help dispel any remaining doubts about the work I was doing. The answers emerged during the initial meetings I had with each of the individuals who narrated in detail the horrific experiences they had endured and that shaped the persons they had become. Our discussions about prison were accompanied by conversations about food, music, cinema, and love. The meetings helped me realise that the importance of the work lay precisely in those moments and not necessarily in the prospective act of performance per se. It lay in the participants’ need to talk and my need to listen—in their liberation from unspeakable images and mine from the fear of sharing a similar fate, for it was merely coincidence that separated those who were detained from the ones who survived in Syria. That text later became the medium through which we all—the director, actors, technicians, and I—engaged with the events around us as the regime’s brutality against the revolutionaries grew. Rehearsals became our only safe haven for discussions and arguments. Was our audience

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able to register any of this later? I can’t be certain, but I believe some of it must have been felt. Through our post-performance discussions with the audience in places far away from Damascus like Seoul or much closer like Beirut, I became convinced that as professionals in the field of theatre we still have a role to play in such a time of devastating wars and crises. And, so I returned to theatre after months of prevarication. Since that time, I have come to believe that answers will emerge from engaging with the work itself, and that our theoretical knowledge about theatre and its role is not sufficient during times of radical transformations. In the summer of 2013, during a theatre workshop that I held with a group of young people in Raqqa following the liberation of the city from the grip of the Syrian regime and only weeks before it fell under ISIS control, we found meaning in the friendships that developed among us. Theatre didn’t change our lives or fates. Shortly after, one of the workshop participants was killed in a regime airstrike and, later, two others were kidnapped by ISIS fighters and still remain missing to this day. The rest of the group became refugees scattered around the world. All that survived from that workshop are the enduring friendships that have helped us live through the painful memories of loss. In Beirut, while working on the play Antigone with some Syrian refugee women who lived with their families in squalid camps in the Lebanese capital, once again I struggled to answer the same question posed by the women: “Of what use is theatre today when we lack basic life necessities?” I decided to set aside the arguments I had prepared in advance and invited them to discover the answer together. And, so we did. During three months of working together, we discovered many answers—in their challenging of male authority, their reclamation of the narrative of the Syrian crisis, their growing confidence in themselves, their voices, and their bodies, and their grappling with the racism they had faced in a society dominated by a rigid, hierarchal class system. At the end of one performance, Wafaa, one of the performers, came up to me and, pointing at a group of elegantly-dressed women standing outside the theatre, said: “they used to see me only as another cleaner for their homes, but now they lavish me with praise for my stage presence.” I asked her jokingly, “what about the other women who haven’t seen the play?” She responded with a chuckle, “I don’t care about that anymore—what matters now is how I see myself.”

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While I was in the midst of preparing for a performance of The Factory—a play about the scandal involving the French cement plant Lafarge in Syria— Muhannad, a worker at the plant who had suffered from the management’s mistreatment and neglect, agreed to speak with me after much hesitation. I asked him why he had changed his mind. He told me that even though he couldn’t retaliate against such a giant conglomerate that had joint interests with the governments of major powers, he wanted them to stand trial through the play. I explained that the play does not revolve around a trial nor will it be a substitute for one, but he insisted on telling me his story. Several months later, Muhannad attended a performance of the play in Athens. I received a short text message from him: “Yes your play isn’t a trial, but it’s my first step to seek redress.” Recently, I have stopped keeping up with pandemic-related news. I have accepted that we will be living with the virus for a period of time. Theatres won’t be up and running any time soon and independent playwrights like myself will face difficulties in producing new works. Still, I find myself thinking about new projects that excite me. But how will this enthusiasm and belief in our need for theatre endure? Yet again, I do not have an easy answer. I know that we create theatre as witness in this posttruth era of declining politics and rising fascism. We create it as a space in which performers and audiences explore and deliberate on issues and questions to better understand ourselves and our world—and yes, we create theatre for the pleasure we experience during rehearsals or sitting there in the dark watching the stage. But I am also confident, that times of great uncertainty and change, like the ones we are living today, will bring new challenges to our understanding of the role and importance of theatre, and with them new answers—answers that can only come through experimenting and rumination. Mohammad Al Attar, is Syrian playwright and dramaturge. He is considered an important chronicler of war-torn Syria. He works between the border of fiction and documentation. His plays like ‘Withdrawal’, ‘Could You Please Look into the Camera?’, ‘Antigone of Shatila’, ‘While I was waiting’, ‘Aleppo. A portrait of Absence’, ‘Iphigenia’, ‘The Factory’ and ‘Damascus 2045’ have been presented around the world.

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↳081 In the years to come, we will need to use all our creativity and joy of experimenting to deal with the repercussions that inevitably will come. 19

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THINGS I WOULD MISS / LOLA ARIAS coming into the theatre through the back door the smell of reheated pasta from the kantine the inspizient’s voice over the speakers the secrets in the corridors the shadow of fear on the actors’ faces as they sit facing the mirror before performing the technicians nipping out for one last smoke the mini TVs showing the empty room waiting in the dark behind the set before going on stage the dance of the audience entering the theatre in little groups those who come in twos those who come with friends and loud chatter those who come alone desperately seeking out their companion the people who stand up to let people pass the people who just sit there looking at other people’s bottoms the people who turn in their seats to stare at others the restlessness before seeing something and I don’t know what it is the start of a journey to nowhere the silence of so many people watching something they’ve never seen before the breathing of so many people sitting close together understanding collectively something that I couldn’t have thought alone the gestures that look like life but are not the words that hang there floating like a cloud the audience’s faces lit up by the light from the stage the technicians’ faces lit up by the screens of their phones the people who laugh out loud during the show the laughter that makes you laugh the laughter that splits the audience in two the spectators who slam the door as they leave in the middle the spectators who flee crouching in the dark the spectators snoozing in their seats their heads drooping to one side the thoughts the telepathy of the audience when they think together the fear that the play will end too soon

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the fear that the play will never end the strange time between the play ending and those who were on stage disappearing and coming back to wave and bow the spectators roused by the applause the applause that sounds like things falling the slow-motion applause of the disappointed the fatigue in the body after you’ve been on stage the awakening of the body after watching in silence the players smiling as they wave because the play has now ended the time to speak again after so long in silence the people meeting again in the foyer after the performance seeking out someone to talk about the play with having nothing to say after a play feeling like you’ve time travelled during a play feeling like you’ve aged during a play feeling like you’re someone else after a play the life lost in the theatre the things lost in the theatre the endless nights the smell of the empty dressing rooms Lola Arias is an Argentinian writer, theatre and film director. She is a multifaceted artist whose work brings together people from different backgrounds in theatre, film, literature, music and visual art projects. With her film ‘Theatre of war’ she won i.a. the CICAE Art Cinema Award  at Berlinale, Movistar and Prize for Best Documentary Film at Documenta Madrid and Best Director Award at the BAFICI Festival in Buenos Aires.

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THEATRE AS A SPIRITUAL PATH / HECTOR ARISTIZÁBAL   Theatre has run throughout my entire life. At university, while I was studying psychology, I would dedicate all my nights to the collective creation of plays that addressed social issues. As actors, we decided to support the revolution in Colombia from the stage.   As a psychology student, I started using improvisation to submerse myself in the themes that interested me. In the shoes of characters like Zicotico, I walked the streets of Medellín like a psychotic wanderer, getting into the sewers of my city, waking up with the bastards and the prostitutes in parks and on dirty sidewalks, gathering in my body and soul the social and emotional world of what many treated as human garbage.    A lot of them were characters that I created in my desire to understand the human soul in constant struggle with the social conditions of growing inequality and violence. The public space was taken over by the war between various guerrillas, paramilitary groups, the police and the army at the service of power and the new cocaine mob with its armies of young men ready to kill and die at any cost. Life lost all its sacred value and chaos took over our lives. We made theatre to keep the soul alive, even if very few people came to see our plays.   In 1982, I was arrested and tortured by the army on the accusation of being a guerrilla. I survived and resisted some more years until the assassination of various friends forced me to leave the country. The fate of destiny led me to the United States, the imperialist country that caused the majority of our problems. Without money, without knowing anyone, while I was learning English, theatre allowed me to start working in schools. I fell in love, had two beautiful children, returned to university, made theatre in schools, then in prisons, and with TAYE’R performance collective and the use of grants, I directed and created numerous community theatre plays.   In 1990, in Omaha, Nebraska, at a conference on Pedagogy and Theatre of the Opressed, I met Augusto Boal and my life changed drastically. As a psychologist, I immediately started using the Rainbow of Desire, which, combined with psychodrama, now gave me a powerful methodology to move from the intrapsychic and the intersubjective to the social. I directed numerous forum plays with gang members, with people affected by HIV/ AIDS, with torture survivors, immigrants and in prisons. 

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 Meanwhile in Colombia, in 1998, my brother Juan Fernando was abducted, horribly tortured and killed by paramilitary groups. Pain, anger, helplessness and hatred took over my psyche. In a way, I was experiencing symptoms of PTSD, I didn’t seem to find a way out. The pain and the murder of my brother and my childhood wounds being reopened led me, together with a group of friends, to create the monologue Nightwind, in which I talked about my torture by the Colombian army in 1982 and the abduction, torture and assassination of my brother by paramilitary groups. I was tortured when I was 22 years old and 22 years later, I was able to summarise that experience in a play. It was my ritual way of becoming the author of my life, and not the victim or the survivor. Theatre once again literally connected to my life in a totally organic way by integrating and redefining the most traumatic aspects of what I was experiencing.   I was invited to universities, symposiums about torture, social organisations. Eventually, with ImaginAction, the company that I founded in 2000, I started giving trainings in the use of the techniques of the Theatre of the Oppressed in pedagogical and therapeutic work and in activism. I designed trainings for psychosocial teams in war and post-war zones and in areas with natural disasters or extreme violence.   Theatre of the Oppressed was complemented by Playback and above all by my meeting in Northern Ireland with Teya Sepinuck, creator of the Theatre of Witness.  In this way, in the last 20 years, I have had the privilege of learning from communities in more than 50 countries. However, it is the work in war zones and post-conflict areas that has most marked my personal process. Working with ex-combatants in Northern Ireland, Guatemala, South Africa, El Salvador, Nepal, the Basque Country, Palestine, Israel and other countries was preparing me – without me knowing it – to be able to return to my country and face my own shadow again.    When the discussions between the FARC guerrillas and Santos’s government about a peace agreement started to appear definitive, I took the decision to return and to completely dedicate myself to the process of peace and to offer the medicines that have helped me heal. In 2016, I returned to Colombia and with a wonderful group we created a project called Reconectando to accompany the challenging work of the Truth Commission. The project invites 20 people, from ex-combatants of all groups, their victims, social leaders and other people interested in

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participating in an intense 5 day-process, literally in the womb of Mother Earth. In these spaces we combine deep ecology, social theatre and healing rituals to connect us as people who have lived through war and are committed to peace through uncovering truth and creating conditions for coexistence and non-repetition.  Today, theatre is the way to connect with our ecological being, with what we have always been, daughters and sons of the earth, natural beings with the capacity to symbolise, biological beings with the capacity to make theatre. For many years, despite loving nature, I was trapped in anthropocentric paradigms that separated me from our essence.   All human beings come into the world to bring gifts, to deliver our medicine, which is unique and unrepeatable in the way it is expressed in each of us and which the world needs. Theatre is one of the medicines that houses my soul and that has allowed me to give my gift to the world and in this way participate in the constant creation of life. Theatre has been my spiritual path.    Hector Aristizábal was born and grew up in Medellín, Colombia during the civil war. He works all over the world in post conflict and war areas to help people tap the transformative power of theatre. He was honoured with the prestigious Otto René Castillo Award for Political Theatre.

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↳078 What kind of show are you people putting on THE STAGE OF OUR PLANET? 25

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THE LION KING / BACK TO BACK THEATRE From Geelong, Australia, Back to Back actors Mark Deans and Scott Price discuss theatre with Artistic Director Bruce Gladwin. The conversation took place at 11:30am on May 18, 2020. SCOTT BRUCE SCOTT BRUCE SCOTT BRUCE

If Mark was a Roman centurion, he would be called Marcus Deanus. Yeah. You’d be called Scotus Pricis. Possibly. Sounds more Greek. Or Scott Proscenium. Yeah. Mark; Scott and I’ve got some questions for you about making theatre. SCOTT Yeah, we do, we do. BRUCE Can we ask you some questions, Mark? MARK Yes. SCOTT Can you ask him first, Bruce? BRUCE You go first. SCOTT Mark what is ... MARK What? SCOTT What is art to you? MARK What? SCOTT Can Mark actually hear us? BRUCE Mark, can you hear us? MARK Yes. BRUCE All right, let’s try a different question. SCOTT What is the most important thing in your life? MARK Theatre. SCOTT Okay. Why do you like theatre Mark? MARK I’ve seen theatre. BRUCE Mark likes The Lion King. SCOTT Oh Bruce, am I allowed to ask this question – What is taboo for you? Can I ask that? BRUCE Yes. SCOTT I’m going to ask you a very provocative question. Mark, what is taboo for you?

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MARK Mm… SCOTT If you can understand that question? MARK I don’t know. SCOTT Bruce, he doesn’t have an answer. BRUCE What about you, Scott? What are you not allowed to do? SCOTT That is a really good question, Bruce. No, no, Bruce that is a really good question. Of course, you’re not allowed to break the law. You’re not allowed to get close to people. What else? You’re not allowed to graffiti or shoplift. You’re not allowed to hack into other people’s computers or break into people’s houses. You’re not allowed to murder someone or touch someone else’s genitalia. What else? I think that’s the full list. BRUCE You’re not allowed to have sex with family members. SCOTT You can call that incest. BRUCE Yes. SCOTT That’s a big taboo. BRUCE What famous theatre show has an incestuous relationship? SCOTT Oedipus. BRUCE Yes. SCOTT I’m damn serious, it’s Oedipus. I mean, like, I’m like, yeah, that’s a fancy shirt in your purse epic show from Ancient Greece. BRUCE Mark, you said you’ve seen theatre before. MARK What? BRUCE You said you’ve seen some theatre. SCOTT Did you see that Geoffrey Rush theatre show, Exit the King, did you see that one? Mark, it’s Exit the King, did you see that one? Hello? No, he doesn’t understand the question. BRUCE Mark, did you see it, Exit the King? A very funny show. SCOTT Yeah, I was going to say with Geoffrey Rush. BRUCE Did you see that one Mark? SCOTT Obviously, he didn’t. BRUCE Mark, what are you scared of? MARK People. SCOTT People talk to you? MARK Yes. BRUCE Mark’s a good talker.

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004 MARK BRUCE SCOTT BRUCE MARK SCOTT

BRUCE SCOTT BRUCE SCOTT BRUCE SCOTT BRUCE SCOTT BRUCE SCOTT BRUCE BRUCE BRUCE SCOTT

Yes Mark’s a good actor. Sometimes he is. Is it easier to talk on stage as an actor than in real life? Yes. It is. It really is. Here is something you don’t know about me: I’ve had a knife pulled on me, twice. Do you carry a knife yourself? I actually don’t, other than to cook. But no, I don’t. Twice, you could have ended up in tragic circumstance. Definitely it could have ended with lots of blood, both times. A Greek Tragedy. More like a Geelong Tragedy. What do you think our destiny is? Death. What about Exit the King? That’s a story about a king who is about to die. Yeah, it is. It is. That’s a show about death. Yeah, it is. It is. I think it is. Maybe all theatre is about death, what do you think? The Lion King definitely is.

Back to Back Theatre is one of Australia’s most globally recognised and respected contemporary theatre companies. Under the artistic leadership of Bruce Gladwin Back to Back Theatre creates new forms of contemporary performance imagined from the minds and experiences of a unique ensemble of actors with a disability.

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↳085 Is theatre, while our civilisation has started to fall apart, going to find a new language and form? Or will it just go down with all the rest, wriggling and shouting in closed spaces? 29

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THE THINK TANK THEATRE / YAEL BARTANA

As a filmmaker, I am used to having full control over the framing and the content of my art. The Think Tank Theatre gave me a new opportunity to create alternative realities in real-time. In theatre, everything is laid bare – there is no hiding of all the imperfections, accidents, deficiencies, and bluntness. In theatre, trust is required. I have to trust the moment of creation and have confidence in the invited participants to perform in a world that I create for them. It is compelling and cathartic to witness an alternative reality taking shape. My first experiment with theatre took place in 2012, when I inaugurated the First Congress of the Jewish Renaissance Movement in Poland ( JRMiP), as part of the 7th Berlin Biennale. The JRMiP itself was founded in 2007 in the frame of my film trilogy And Europe will be Stunned, which called for the return of 3.3 million Jews to Poland as an act of reconciliation that also challenges the politics of memory. This first Think Tank Theatre project aimed to discuss and formulate the concrete demands of the JRMiP’s members for a mutually envisioned future, not only in Poland but in Europe and the Middle East. I wanted to experiment with the movement’s imaginary spillover potential and the public’s capacity to respond to its activist proposals and to create a space for other voices.  The congress embodied a symbolic parliament of delegates that in­spired a multi-faceted conversation, a lively exchange of thoughts, arguments, and ideas between invited guests, open-call participants, and an audience. It harnessed the power of theatre, which lies in the moment, in the actual meeting, and in the formation of a community, to trigger political imagination.  In my second Think Tank Theatre project, I wished to do more than give a fictional platform for a real debate. I wanted to create a direct collision between fiction and reality by mixing real people with made-up characters and relying on a semi-structured script.  This new large-scale project, What if Women Ruled the World (WiW), was an experimental theatre performance that took its inspiration from Stanley Kubrick’s satire Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964). In it, I tried to simulate a vision of women’s power and emancipation in an all-women cabinet, in order to give internationally

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↳008 Quixote, Robin Hood, Hamlet: we must not only portray them, we must become them. 31

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renowned women experts the opportunity to initiate a process of global change. Questioning power and leadership, WiW was searching for alternatives to a society in which men dominate religion, economy, politics, language, and culture. The starting point of the project was a simple act of replacing men with women as authority. In the world I created, which reverses the one presented in Dr. Strangelove, an all-women government of a superpower gathers in the Peace Room, to discuss its policies. Upon receiving new information about a rival country threatening to increase its nuclear stockpiles, the president and ministers understand that an emergency action must be taken. To make an informed decision, this government, elected democratically for its disarmament agenda, decides to consult with security advisers, generals, freedom fighters, parliamentarians, humanitarians, and peace activists, on how to react to the situation. “The end of the world is drawing near; it’s two minutes before midnight. In the cabinet of a country with a pacifist constitution and a state disarmament programme, the president and her ministers face a dilemma. Another country is breaking a joint international agreement by announcing an increase in its nuclear stockpiles. Will they abandon their one-sided disarmament or continue with their original programme?” (WiW, 2016) The WiW production involved a cast of actors and non-actors, in an attempt to explore what happens when fictional elements are placed with­in reality and vice versa. The actors who played the cabinet members were joined every night by a different cast of five experts participating as themselves. In all, there were 50 women experts – advisers, soldiers, lawyers, peace activists, humanitarians, politicians, and leading thinkers – who took part in the production and shared their real knowledge and experience with the fictional government.  The women experts understood that they had been invited to participate in a live debate. Yet, throughout the performance, they faced more than just questions about public policies. They were also challenged with dramatic situations such as unexpected appearances by certain characters, provocative suggestions voiced by cabinet members, and other turns of events that set new rules for the game. For example, they found themselves interacting with a half-naked man serving fruit or waiting for the Army Chief of Staff while she sang a lullaby to her child over the phone.

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These women, used to working in a highly professional and demanding environment, were, thus, pushed by the scripted performance to let go of their inclinations.  It was the dramatic situation created on stage that compelled the non-actor women experts to improvise, to act. And this is how the Think Tank Theatre made it possible to produce a genuine moment of alternative. There, between fiction and reality, an opportunity for imagination emerges. Yael Bartana is an artist and filmmaker. Her films, installations and photographs explore the imagery of identity and the politics of memory. Her starting point is the national consciousness propagated by her native country, Israel.

↳010 It’s not about producing art, it’s about implementing it. 33

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THE SAME AIR / VINCENT BAUDRILLER Why theatre? This question accompanies me relentlessly, when attending a rehearsal or a performance, when being responsible for a festival or a theatre, in the difficult choice to make between which artists and works to be produced or presented, by wanting to make theatre accessible to the greatest number of spectators, and especially to those who feel alienated from it, when the performances provoke joy, anger or incomprehension, when defending the public need for this art form. But I have always tried to resist to definitions that might limit theatre, I prefer to leave open all possibilities of its performance, its usefulness, its forms. To give theatre its freedom was one of the fights of the ‘battle’ of the 2005 Avignon Festival, especially in this place of great symbolic power. So why theatre? Because what happens between artists and spectators who breathe the same air during this shared time and space of the performance is for me an intense and fragile experience, both physical and mental, of life and thought. Because it is an intimate experience of the singular and the otherness but also of the collective, for the artists on stage as well as for the ephemeral community of the audience. This artistic and artisanal, almost clandestine, process which is created and lived on the scale of a small group of people, generally inside a theatre room and hosted on its walls and stages, can be opened up to the multiplicity of the world. Because it offers an intense experience of time: the stretch of time between the countdown of the production and rehearsals towards the promising future of the premiere, the fragile and vibrating present of the performance, the memory of the past for this ancient art whose works of art quickly fade. Because it is an act of resistance and of freedom, a sensible experience of beauty, of violence, of the vulnerability of the living, of the complexity and contradictions of human society. Because it is written and invented freely and each time finds its own form, it freely finds its proper form, creating tension between words and images, bodies and languages, movement and space, fiction and reality.

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Theatre causes the viewer’s gaze and intelligence to work and will at times touch, displace or disturb him/her. Because it is a shared risk, for the artist who commits him/herself and seeks and for the audience who ventures and discovers and for the theatre that brings them together. Because it will reinvent itself again to respond and react to the upheavals of our time. Vincent Baudriller co-directed the Avignon Festival for ten years, from 2004 to 2013, together with Hortense Archambault, and has been the director of the Théâtre Vidy-Lausanne since 2014.

↳012 The poor: That is what theatre is, and why theatre could never disappear. 35

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SAVING THE WORLD / JÉRÔME BEL

In 2007, I was on a plane from Melbourne to Paris. We had just played The Show Must Go On (2001). And in one of the newspapers on board, I read an article saying that because of global warming, everyone should reduce their C02 emissions. On the plane with me were the twenty dancers from the company, and that’s when I got the idea that from now on we won’t travel with the whole company, but instead I would send just two of them to take the piece abroad with local dancers. This was my first action when it comes to ecology. (I have been a vegetarian for many years, but it was only years later that I would learn that my diet was ecologically virtuous. The same goes for my shows, my aesthetics in general, which are anyway criticism of consumerism and its corollary capitalism, and never require the production of objects such as new costumes or polluting scenography). In 2014, a programmer from a Parisian theatre tells me about a show on ecology that she invited. Thrilled by the news, I ask where this company is from. She tells me that they are coming from Australia... At that very moment something cracks in me, something is wrong: how can you express something artistically while producing exactly the opposite at the same time? Recently, in February 2019, I was in my apartment in Paris. I was adjusting the heating to save as much energy as possible to reduce my carbon footprint (I had done some very efficient insulation work years ago). Suddenly, I realise that at the same time two of my assistants are on a plane coming back from Hong Kong where they have just restaged the show Gala with local dancers and two other assistants are on another plane to Lima to restage the same performance. That’s when I tell myself that I’m a hypocrite, that I’m lying to myself. I then fall into a serious depression for several weeks until I come to the conclusion that my work cannot continue to pollute like this by contributing to global warming and I decide that neither I nor the company will fly anymore. At the time, I was starting rehearsals for the play Isadora Duncan in Paris with the French dancer Elisabeth Schwartz and I had the idea of doing another version of the play with another Duncanian dancer in New York that I had spotted on the internet, Catherine Gallant. So there would be

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two versions of the piece: one that would tour in Europe and another in the north-eastern part of the United States. Both would travel only by train. For the other most in-demand shows abroad, such as The show must go on and Gala, we work with local choreographers in the cities that invite these pieces (Taipei, Buenos Aires, Miami, etc...) so that these choreo­ graphers can stage them based on transcriptions, videos and teleconference rehearsals. Right now, I am considering other work procedures, such as writing scores that I hope will allow me not to meet the dancers at all. The choreographic milieu is unfortunately completely stuck in the system of extreme globalisation that prevails in so-called ‘contemporary dance’ and which produces an appalling carbon footprint. I think, alas, that most of the people I know who have a dominant position in the field of choreography, as artists or theatre or festival directors, who are my age (in their fifties...) or older will not change anything. They are prisoners of a system they don’t want to question. That’s really quite unacceptable because they make ecological speeches, sign petitions because they are famous, without producing any action. They are no different from today’s politicians. No one is prepared to lose any of their privileges when disaster is imminent. It seems to me that it is precisely this system that needs to be deconstructed and reformed. For example, there is this symphony orchestra in Sweden, in Helsingborg, which only invites orchestras and musicians who will agree to travel by train. In Vienna (where I had travelled to by train), I was attending a show that wasn’t very interesting and all of a sudden I started to ‘calculate’ the carbon footprint of the show that was taking place before my eyes: the number of dancers on stage, their intercontinental travels to come to Vienna, the costumes, the set, the number of stage technicians, etc... And in fact I realised that I was watching hell: I was watching the melting ice, I was watching the violent storms ravaging homes, fires and subsequently the millions of climate refugees who were going to have a miserable life if they didn’t perish completely, the authoritarian regimes elected in our liberal democracies to prevent the influx of these same refugees etc., etc… In fact, I realised that there was suddenly a new paradigm in my aesthetic judgment: if a show I attend does not take into account the question of ecology in its realisation by acting as if nothing had happened (too

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many costumes, too many objects, too many sets, too much travel, etc...) it does not give me pleasure, I find it bad. So I no longer go to see shows calibrated for international tours, instead I go to see the works of young people working in my geographical area . How can I trust a choreographer, director, dance or theatre company that contributes to global warming? These are people who don’t think about the world, who don’t see what’s happening. How can their performances be of any value? Jérôme Bel is a French choreographer and environmental activist based in Paris and working internationally. His work is highly experimental combining movement, text, film and digital media. His artistic project is a research on the different connections between subject and community, subject and history, alienation and emancipation, and the sensitive and the intelligible.

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↳001 We create theatre for the pleasure we experience during rehearsals, sitting there in the dark watching the stage. 39

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THEATRE HUMAIN / CHOKRI BEN CHIKHA (ACTION ZOO HUMAIN) Let’s come straight to the point. What is our profession – our craft, our love, for the most social of all art forms, the art form that is so dear to all, (that should be at) the heart of society – actually worth to us, theatre makers? How much do we really want to be at the heart of that society? Not because it is imposed on us, as a condition for subsidy, but from within ourselves, as an autonomous wish, as the core of our mission? I ask that question to all the theatre makers, including myself. Do I really want my theatre to be at the heart of society? And what does that demand of me? Do I dare to take responsibility for claiming that place? Or do I settle for a little attention and a nice review with a few stars? I have always believed in artistic, theatrical truth – as a very powerful, autonomous form of truth against the other forms of truth: the factual truth, the propagandist truth, bureaucratic truth, religious truth, you name it. The artistic truth offers a perspective on the world that is free but not free of engagement. It is a truth that can look behind things and tries to unmask and unveil what remains hidden otherwise. Because it has a poetic potential at its disposal. Without that artistic truth, we wouldn’t be able to imagine anything. The question I want to ask you is what kind of impact that truth has on the real world. Do theatre makers actually have an impact? Or do we use our artistic abilities to dream away a little? And do we not get any further than some fine fiddling on the sidelines? To find answers to these questions, I would like to take you back to the nineteenth century, to one of the great theatre innovators, who can easily hold his own with figures like Brecht, Shakespeare or Molière. He was a pioneer of realistic theatre, of documentary theatre, of multidisciplinary theatre, of intercultural performing arts, a pioneer of accessible theatre, with a fame and influence that every theatre maker today can only dream of. I’m talking about the German theatre maker Carl Hagenbeck. Hagenbeck starts with zoos, bringing in wild animals from all over the world: bears riding a bicycle, monkeys dressed as man and woman doing a dance. And together with some reindeer he also brings over some authentic Sami, people from Lapland, to take care of these animals.

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And as it turns out, the Sami are more popular than those beasts. Instead of animals, he lets the Sami perform. It proves to be a hole in the market and they go on tour from Hamburg to Leipzig, from Leipzig to Berlin. The Sami become a blockbuster, a hit all over Germany. Then he brings Nubians to Germany: natives from Sudan. They are even more successful than the Sami and go on an international tour, in London, Paris, Brussels, Ghent, Antwerp... Carl Hagenbeck deserves a place in the pantheon of the great theatre makers, for the development of the zoo humain… The principles of the zoo humain have been well understood by the current generation of politicians. Trump, Francken, Wilders, Orban and Le Pen brand foreign peoples on the basis of their stereotypical characteris­ tics. The strategy of playing off differences between certain population groups against others is what I call ‘zooism’. Zooism is characterised by the craving for spectacle, the urge for voyeurism, the obsession with defining one’s own identity and the spectacularisation of difference. The zoo humain developed by the genius Hagenbeck provided the model for an anti-enlightenment thinking and a policy of dehumanisation. This zooism makes victims on a daily basis. On a global level you can see, for example, how the Palestinians have been put in an immense cage. Closer to home, asylum seekers and migrants are often reduced to second-rate monkeys, especially if they are Muslim. In Belgium, this higher art form has even made it into a fixed line of policy. We have zooists and zoo directors in power. We can laugh this off. We can put this into perspective. But then we are also laughing off ourselves. I’m not writing this to blame or to prove me right. I’m writing this to share a sense of urgency with you. It’s not that theatre makers don’t do enough. We work our asses off, we focus on public action, we go into the neighbourhoods and question ourselves again and again. For a long time now, we’ve been making much more than just theatre. More than ever, we are involving the world. But has the world itself really felt involved? What have we actually brought about? Is it enough? Are we really convinced that the foundations under our theatres – the temples of free thought and the democratic rule of law – are not irrevocably bursting?

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I think the theatre has a job to do here. I think theatre makers should intervene. And not by making another play that puts things into perspective, but actually intervene in reality. That’s why theatre. We have something no one else has. Not the judges, not the police, not politics, not social workers, not education. We have a truth to tell: our artistic truth! If so much lie is injected into society, as current political leaders do, then we have no choice but to organise a counter-power. With our artis­ tic truth! Let’s get something going in the social debate. Let us claim the position at the heart of society to think something of the world. We are capable of stirring up emotions. With our artistic truth, we can unmask, confuse and model. Quixote, Robin Hood, Hamlet: we must not only portray them, we must become them. The noisemakers, the provocateurs, the fortune-teller, the fools, the oracles: all these are age-old role models for those who care about justice. Dr. Chokri Ben Chikha is a Flemish/Belgian actor and theatre maker. Since 2007, he is a postdoctoral artistic researcher at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Ghent. From this context, he founded the international performance group Action Zoo Humain. The company examines to what extent theatre can directly affect reality without losing sight of its poetic potential and sense of self-criticism.

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↳065 The question “why theatre”, is almost like asking “why water”. 43

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WHY OH WHY? / BREAD AND PUPPET THEATRE THE WHY Right now civilisation is busy redefining its essentials (flesh sustaining & repairing & meat packing) & we puppeteers, proud non-essentialists, are busy figuring out our next attack on that civilisation as well as the bread & butter issues of our trade. The obvious lack of appropriate funeralisation for the victims of Mother Earth’s furious revenge on our ill-behaved species requires combined insurrection & resurrection services which we have been delivering regularly in our Pine Forest Village, already full of memorials for family & friends, puppeteers & neighbours. MORE WHY 1. The doubts that accelerate into the why question are the mind’s urgent confrontation with the Nothing & don’t necessarily result in production, but shame the mind into acting by forcing it to understand itself not only as itself, but as member of an actors guild that aims for meaningful action. 2. In the 5th century BC when rather modest Greek forces defeated the Persian Empire’s gigantic fleet at Salamis, Aeschylus was chosen to write the victory celebration & instead produced the most heartrending lamentation for the mothers & widows of the slain Persian warriors. Why? To achieve catharsis. 3. The why is answered by the puppets’ passionate response to the latest urgency at hand. 4. Mitigation. In order to contradict the wonderful inherent nonsense of puppet theatre, Bread & Puppet serves bread & aioli to the public. Sourdough keeping, dough kneading, ovenbuilding, firewood chopping, fire making, giving instead of selling, garlic planting & harvesting, rye seeding & harvesting & milling are the mitigation: the soothing of pain. 5. Woody Guthrie wrote a great why-oh-why kid’s song. 6. Ta-ta-ta-ta Tatatatatatatata Ta-ta

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Bread and Puppet Theatre is an American theatre company using puppets of all sizes for the creation of political theatre. Founder Peter Schumann’s giant puppets first appeared in 1965 at political street parades in New York City, and increasingly became identified with the anti-Vietnam War movement. Their work has been featured at scores of international theatre festivals around the world.

↳052 I do not want art to exist as luxury, when what it does should be a necessity. 45

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ART IS NOT ABOUT PRODUCING, IT’S ABOUT IMPLEMENTING / TANIA BRUGUERA Let’s act together! It has been too long since we have made the gesture of the French Revolution the epitome of the democratisation of art. We do not have to enter the Louvre or the castles, we have to enter people’s houses, people’s lives, this is where useful art is. All art is useful, yes, but the usefulness I’m talking about is the immersion of art directly into society with all our resources. My understanding of art is simply based on the Spanish word estetica, meaning aesthetics. But in Spanish, if you divide the word into something else then the general understanding of aesthetics gets visible. E-S-T, is a form of the verb to be and etica, means ethics. This combination, this idea of aesthetic as the appreciation, and development of the transformation through ethics fascinates me. Not seeing aesthetic art only as the question how you best represent something formally, but also how you can, through this experiment, this emotional moment, generate and actually create a new ethical reality, an ethical paradigm. To create these new realities, we need the space for them. And that is what I use art for, to open spaces, to push boundaries. As soon as these boundaries have been pushed and the spaces opened, I invite others to come, to take over. What I do is to take the risk to open these spaces or to create them. I worked with immigrants, with vulnerable populations, or with activists in Cuba who are not so well known. They do not have the spaces they need but have the right to have. They will never have them if we don’t change power structures, if we don’t take the risk to act. I think it’s important that people with privileges, who have some power or some visibility take the risk. I mean, the personal risk, the human risk, the physical risk, the political risk, all the risk. But not because we are the one talking for others. No, but because we are the ones who, even if we lost power, if we lost privileges, we still have some. We can give it away in order for things to happen, to change. I think what we can do as political artists is not only to create public reflection, but also platforms where other people can stand up on. It’s not about producing art, it’s about implementing it. The useful art goes beyond complaining about social problems and instead tries to change them by implementing different solutions. It’s

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not about imagining impossible utopian situations, but building practical utopia. That’s what we have creativity for! Based on the conversation with Tania Bruguera in the frame of the online platform School of Resistance: ‘Episode One: This Madness Has to Stop’ by NTGent and IIPM. This episode took place on the 16th of May 2020 and can be read in full length on the NTGent homepage. Tania Bruguera is a Cuban performance artist and activist. In her work she examines political power structures and creates alternative proposals and aesthetic models. She has been arrested and jailed several times in Cuba due to her artivism. Her work has been presented internationally amongst others in MoMA and Tate Modern. 

↳030 Need I say more? 47

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SUSPENSION OF DISBELIEF / LUANDA CASELLA A SPIRITUAL ENDEAVOUR OR AN ACT OF POETIC FAITH? PRELUDE Ten weeks into the lockdown quarantine. Signs are lack of time, stress, scarcity, hunger. Lack of mobility, lack of safety, digital safety, surveillance, imagination. Impoverishment and imprisonment, predictions. Sickness with assistance, applause, sickness without assistance, a lot of death. A lot of hope, much despair. Solidarity and fascism hand in hand, washed hands touching a globalised wound. Trauma is being installed at the core tissues of human relations, drastically challenging our emotional intelligence and critical skills. The spirits of the forest are watching. The Orixás are watching. The witches are watching. The dead, in their absence and in the audience, are asking Why theatre? Night is falling. People are coming together at the same time in the same place for a common purpose. Their meeting is not random. One group of people is entering the Opu (the religious temple of the indigenous Guarani). The other group of people is entering the theatre. Both events will happen only once in the exact formation they exist at the moment. Only once, and never again. The shared purpose of these two meetings is allowing an experience to take place. Those involved must work together to make it happen. Everyone must accept all of the elements composing the context—the semantic smoke—as real. STORY ONE Night is falling. People are entering the Opu. It’s a little house with earth floor. One by one, they enter through the same door. The other one, directed to the sunrise, remains closed to avoid the entrance of evil spirits. The singing and dancing begins. It lasts until the morning arrives. In one corner, women take care of the slowly burning wooden strains, the fire that feeds the medicinal herbs of the shaman’s pipe. In another corner, a standing group performs Guarani chants with drums, maracas and bamboo sticks beaten against the ground by women, who by dancing,

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mark the short compass of the song. Scattered throughout the space, men and women in search of healing wait their turn to sit down, immersed in a scenario of heat, music and inexorable smoke. Blowing on his pipe, the shaman works the body energies of the sick. He inhales deeply and then returns a thick smoke that involves the person sitting in front of him, always through the head, the human sensory and cognitive centre. Pouring smoke over the seven orifices, the seven doors of human perception, from time to time, throwing a puff on the closed door. You never know. The shaman recognises the limitations of his spiritual healing. As a leader of resistance, he is aware of the effects of serious transformations in the indigenous way of life, the workings of evil spirits, dead or alive. So he summons absent voices to help him disentangle the whole human composition and restore balance. STORY TWO Night is falling. People are entering the theatre. It’s a big house with long curtains. One by one, they enter through the same door. They know that what they are going to see is a fictitious reality. They are not yet pretending that they do not know that. They are there to gather elements, first. Hopefully, those might eventually create a sense of empathy. A deal has been made: when lights go off, the group of people will spontaneously ignore possible inconsistencies in the fictitious reality and temporarily accept it as their own (no matter how implausible). One such group of people happen to be children. For the hundredth time, they are seeing Caspar, the friendly ghost, a theatre piece during which they are offered ‘wind biscuits’,— obviously transparent—as the crew of storytellers describe their texture and consistence; It’s small, baked, crispy, flat, and sweet. Can you taste it? Yes, they can. It is simple, it tastes right. They are children. They arouse their imagination (not necessarily by sacrificing their logic) and suspend their disbelief. Readily, they go along with that premise for the sake of their own enjoyment. The piece features Casper, a cute ghost-child who inhabits a haunted house along with a community of adult ghosts who are cheerfully happy to scare the living. Casper, however, is a nonconformist among ghosts: he

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would prefer to make friends with people. So he packs up his belongings and goes out into the world. The world mistreats him, the animals that he meets; the rooster, the mole, the cat, and mouse named Herman, all take one horrified look at him and scream: “a ghost!” He finds no friends. Distraught, Casper unsuccessfully attempts to commit suicide. He lies down on a railway track before an oncoming train, and on that moment, a matter of seconds, he meets Bonnie and Johnny, both nonconformist like him. Together, they eat wind biscuits Casper always carries in his little lunch bag. DIMINUENDO It is very tempting to conclude the text with a romantic comparison; Us, storytellers and shamans; blowing the smoke, offering wind biscuits. Closing the door directed to the sunrise, obstructing evil spirits as the night falls. Chanting, humbly in service of our community. Aware of the limitations of our healing powers, recognising the insistent nature of evil spirits, dead or alive, of drastically challenging our relations. “When they enter, we are protected by one another”, we think. We the medium; we the participant, we the sick, the healer, the writer, the spectator, all expecting an epiphany. And the epiphany here is that whether we are shamans or not (probably not), the healing of collective trauma has always been, throughout our history, a process of creating a lot of smoke and allowing for suspension of disbelief. The dead, in their absence and in the audience, are laughing with ironic joy; The little ghost tries to commit suicide, ha!, he’s already dead! Luanda Casella is a Brazilian writer and performer. Blending rhetoric with irony, her work exposes language constructions, exploring unreliable narration in fiction and in everyday communication processes. Her work has been shown in venues and festivals around the world such as Spielart (Munich), Edinburg International Festival, Het TheaterFestival (Ghent), and Kaserne (Basel).

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↳054 Listening to the victim who whispers “Remember me!” in our ear. 51

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THE ART OF THOSE WHO DARE / NORA CHIPAUMIRE

April 16th, 2020

It would be dishonest of me to say I don’t often wonder why theatre exists… Which is to say I often wonder why I exist… Don’t get me wrong, this is not about that examined life, reason, philosophy i.e. the good old modern or contemporary, colonial thought… I don’t come from that… My daydream always returns to my grandmothers, my mothers, my brothers, my sisters, my aunts… For whom life, the act of living, is a daily adventure, full of surprise, joy, misgivings, sadness, genius, banality and frivolity. Living… A courageous undertaking if you are black and African. I want that… That weather, that keenness on how ‘heat affects the backyard garden’ or why rain allows this and that to happen: that tree and its shade and the gestures of the dance that are always in the air… So near, songs so near. The poor… That is what theatre is, and why theatre could never disappear, as we will always have the poor if we have Africa. The poor, a theatre of no fear, nothing to lose, no safety net. The poor, a daily practice in the art of those who DARE. The poor, the joy of defying mosquitoes. The arrival of an unexpected visitor, for whom you have no extra room but will make room for. The poor, songs that shift pitch depending on who is doing the singing… Why theatre… Because it is about the dare of the poor. We will always have the poor, the poor, AFRICA… We will always have… Long live the free…

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Nora Chipaumire is a choreographer and performer born in Zimbabwe and currently based in New York. With her work she challenges and embraces stereotypes of Africa and the black performing body. She is a Guggenheim scholar (2018) and three-time Bessie Prize winner.

↳080 Theatre creates futureness. 53

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ON VULGAR ACTING / BENNY CLAESSENS In his book Tragedy, the Greeks and Us Simon Critchley writes about the overall differences between the ancient Greek philosophers and the sophists and how the latter ones were mostly neutralised by the establishment of philosophers at the time. This attempt to bring down the sophists was grossly based on a misogynist and xenophobe reaction, since most of the sophists were women and foreigners and therefore despised by the patriarchal thinking of Socrates and friends. Also the tragedy itself, in which women and slaves were not only given text, but were allowed to speak on an argumentative level, was a big problem for the patriarchy. One chapter in Simon Critchley’s book interested me the most. It was called Vulgar Acting. I thought ‘Oh yes, it’s about me’. But soon, disappointment took over. Apparently the chapter on vulgar acting was another confirmation of how dumb and vain every actor is. Although the arguments were very interesting this time. Vulgar acting is a term that was used in the ancient time for actors who improvised on the text written by the poet. What was expected is to serve the word and not to try and comment, nor think and contemplate. Does that ring a bell? In order to make clear why it interested me, I have to talk about how we, as performers, deal with old texts and also with projects we develop together with writers/directors. Saying a text is a dialogue between the performer and the author, dead or alive. In a dialogue, inevitably thoughts come to mind and not saying these thoughts out loud turns the dialogue into a monologue by the author. Most of the time, when the author is still alive, he is absent. Still we, as performers, say the author’s words in rehearsal studios and on stages. When the author is dead, he isn’t there at all. So isn’t it weird that we believe theatre to be about aliveness and presence, when we cannot interfere with a monologue of the absent and the dead? If an actor is taking this space it is almost never seen as content in the first place. That an improvisation on stage is never seen as thinking. As content. It is not a joke. It is a thought. An idea. And fighting for content is part of our everyday work. Or rather fighting for our content to be seen as content, and not as an airplay. But I get ahead of myself, let’s clarify first what an idea actually is. In a documentary about Jane Campion, Campion is asked how she gets an idea. In an instant, she answers she thinks she never had an idea.

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Ideas are not things you have. They just present themselves to you. An idea is nothing that exists within you trying to struggle its way out. An idea knows no production and also an idea is not there to serve your vanity or ambition of display. An idea creeps up and it asks you to serve it. So when I say I have an idea, it is not to show myself within this idea. An idea is a suggestion in the big space between us. It is a provocation of thought and a wish to connect and to open a forum between me and others who carry their ideas themselves. So when I hear a sentence like YES YOU CAN THINK AND HAVE IDEAS BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN THEY WILL MAKE IT TO THE PLAN, the person saying that to me is deliberately not connecting with me. Even worse, the person becomes an authority saying which thoughts are valuable. My question to all of you is: why are we cutting off each other’s wings, while shouting at each other FLY FLY FLY? Is an actor opening his mouth and making side notes not a chance instead of a crisis? In order for that to be a chance, there needs to be a shift of perception in the job description. It is about connecting in the spaces in between. Not every function needs to be defended. Our not knowing can connect us more than our knowledge. What we know catapults us into the past with its own merits, but also into the imperial structures we reject. In challenging each other in all transparency, we might create a work that is bigger than ourselves, because then the work makes the work, not the name nor the fame. The idea that people only like things because they are like other things should be challenged. Capitalism doesn’t move us, it keeps us in place. And as artists and thinkers, with or without a monthly wage, we are there to give the people something they don’t want, in order to give those who don’t know they actually wanted something else for a change to begin with, something else. In order to create these possibilities we need to see them and say goodbye to the thought that this is the way we do things, because this is the way things used to work in a long lost past. You only see white men in a reconstruction of civil war battles. Driven by the good old days. We just need to do things together, see where we end and where the other one begins and vice versa, instead of doing them for someone or something abstract. Let’s need each other more, instead of trying to be saviours of one another. We are our own means of transport and in that transport it is good to know shit about anything we thought we knew and

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understood in the first place. On a political level, in this privileged position, we can keep trying to pave the way as smooth as possible when there is the ambition or necessity of anyone moving towards us. And when people move in and live with us, we don’t have to explain where the knives and the forks go. No, we will decide anew where all the stuff that surrounds us will go and throw away some of the stuff together. I hope none of us is the kind of person insisting on where the knives should go, I mean that would be too unsexy, right? Let’s try and accept the ideas and not subject them to a ridiculous process of auditioning. They are ideas, they don’t need to be good or bad in a reality of production. They need to be invited and are forever and can get picked up anytime, anyplace, over and over again. They pop up and they stay. But productions eventually disappear. Thank God they do. This text was written for an internal Covid-19 meeting at the Maxim Gorki Theatre in Berlin. Benny Claessens is a Belgian actor and director living in Berlin. He is a member of the ensemble at Maxim Gorki Theatre, and has worked with e.g. René Pollesch, Falk Richter, Jan Decorte, and Ersan Mondtag. At the 2018 Theatertreffen in Berlin, he was awarded the Alfred-Kerr-Darstellerpreis and named actor of the year by the journal Theater Heute.

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↳064 It is a step into the void. 57

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ABOUT WILD CAPITALISM & ITS PATRIARCHAL PERFORMANCE IN OUR LIVES / COLECTIVO LASTESIS And the first thing that comes up, the exploitation of life and not in a figurative sense. More like such a sharp literalness, that to sit here and reflect is painful at the least. They’ve taken everything, except for the rage. And sometimes, between collecting the dead, letting wounds heal and surviving, we take it to the streets and sing our rage. The song goes something like this. exploitation of our body exploitation of our ideas exploitation of the Earth exploitation of water exploitation of the forests exploitation of the animals exploitation of family exploitation of women exploitation of sexuality exploitation of mothers exploitation of the right to decide exploitation of forced motherhood exploitation of child mothers exploitation of reproduction exploitation of production exploitation of work exploitation of domestic work exploitation of education exploitation of marginalisation exploitation of poverty

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exploitation of infancy exploitation of youth exploitation of adulthood exploitation of old age exploitation of health exploitation of fear exploitation of vulnerability exploitation of confinement exploitation of memory exploitation of uncertainty exploitation of revolt exploitation of dignity exploitation of life expectancy exploitation of life exploitation of death Deep breath. We’re face to face with the description of a territory, which goes something like this. An extremely unequal, neoliberal country, with laws that look after the economic interests of the private sector and not after the lives of the people; the dignity of the people. A country where the precariousness of health only underlines the expendability of bodies that do not contribute to the productive machinery. A sick body is a useless body, therefore, there is no safeguard for that life. It becomes very difficult to reflect on everything else while we see how the government makes decisions that violate lives. The finances of large private companies are protected, but not those of all the rest. The rest, that was left. The rest, that stayed. That did not matter. That had no worth. The rest, that does not live, but survives.

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Manifest about living and surviving. Here we inhabit the dimension of survival, and not of living. Living implies having certain basic needs resolved and being able not to question their vital capacity. On the contrary, survival keeps us in direct connection with it, with the concern and action revolving around not dying, around surviving; surviving with pandemic surviving without pandemic surviving becoming sick surviving unsafe abortion surviving extreme inequality surviving the confinement with your assailant surviving the debts surviving choosing art as a trade. (There’s a silence) A dystopia. A global stage, a global platform. We’ve seen the fear. The invisible – the unknown. A fiction that disarms and locks up humanity. It detains it. And in it, what seemed essential to us before. From what point do we define the future? Isn’t this the future maybe? What do we do with this reality now? We don’t have the answers, just a pile of questions lined up to be answered by the great scholars of the academic world. Only they would dare. What do we do with this reality now? Sometimes, between collecting the dead, letting wounds heal and surviving, we take to the streets and sing our rage.

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The song goes something like this. let it all burn and be rewritten create for colonial deconstruction, anti-capitalist, but above all ANTI-PATRIARCHAL in a rage for having the odds stacked against you or in favour of you? because fighting state-wide, structural, regional, communal & domestic insufficiency is not an easy task even less so when the only thing you have are unsteady lines contained rage and ever so powerful enemies in the field of precariousness we have little to lose so we’re staying here burning everything in the on-going uprising breaking down hierarchies imposing demands illustrating new ways of being inventing stages where there are none. COLECTIVO LASTESIS is a feminist performance collective from Valparaíso, Chile. Their street performance ‘Un violador en tu camino’ (A Rapist in Your Path) led to a mass movement against sexualised violence. The protest performance was reproduced all over the world by women and protest movements.

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HOME / KELLY COPPER (NATURE THEATRE OF OKLAHOMA) As I write this, it’s June 2nd in New York City and the city is under a curfew. We’ve been in lockdown for over two months. Thousands of people have died during this time. There were nights when all you could hear were ambulance sirens, and now, this evening, it’s police helicopters, and police sirens. I went out today on my motorcycle past broken glass and people boarding up shop windows… It’s dark times. And I can’t say right now that I have a good answer for “why theatre?” Nor can I, in this period, imagine performing.

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I’ve always come to theatre from a sceptical place, and with each project asked myself why do I need to do this? What does theatre do? What is its purpose? And this has been a necessity for me, not to take for granted that what I do, what I have chosen to do with my life, is important just because – because art is important, because culture is important – but to remember that this is somehow a special activity, and a strange thing that humans do, and that there’s potential – maybe – and a productive energy when people come together in a room, and that theatre is an excuse and an occasion for that and which shouldn’t be squandered or ever taken for granted. However, these days the theatres are empty and dark1, and the action takes place on the streets, as it should. My partner, Pavol, comes from the former Czechoslovakia where the Velvet Revolution was largely driven by theatre people who stopped making theatre to make change in their government and their society. I think sometimes we fool ourselves into thinking that this change can happen inside a theatre, or with a show (what kind of show?) – but this has never proven to be true. I don’t want to be a downer, but… Why theatre? Fuck theatre, man. Right now fuck theatre. And theatre is fucked. People are desperate and sad this evening, and though I’d like to offer consolation – I can’t, or at least not with what I know how to do, which is theatre. When I started thinking of writing something for this publication, weeks ago, I thought of saying something else, being more hopeful and optimistic, perhaps. Right now I can’t do it. Maybe another time. Hopefully better times are ahead. I have been in my home too much alone, maybe, isolated and feeling useless, often wondering if there will ever come a point again when the work I love to do becomes necessary. My home, thankfully, is a nice place. It’s also where we usually make work. It doubles as our rehearsal room. So it seems especially empty to me at the moment. 1

Now, June 4th, I hear some theatres have become more useful, finally, and most are opening their lobby areas as rest stations for protestors, handing out water and allowing use of their bathrooms…)

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↳014 Sometimes, between collecting the dead, letting wounds heal and surviving, we take to the streets and sing our rage. 64

Maybe now I should search for something uplifting to say. When we get through this time – and I trust that we will – we may come out of it at last with a real hunger and sharpened appreciation for what it means to sit close to other bodies, to share space as human beings. There’s something we used to do whenever we performed in a new theatre, Pavol and I would always tell the actors to make sure they know every inch of the space: make sure you sit in every seat, we would tell them, know what the audience sees, how they hear, how the chairs feel, the light in the room, how they experience the space – because this space has to become intimate. Has to become home, first and foremost. Before you invite them in – the audience, your guests. Understand and appreciate that they bring their own brains and hearts and experiences into the room with them – that they’ve had their dinner or not, that they’ve had a bad day or not – but recognise that they have their own stories. Make sure you really look at them (which is why we leave the lights on in the audience) – and don’t treat them as a mass of people in the dark, but take time to really see them, and get to know them as well as you want them to get to know you, and discover again why you do this. We all know that theatre has its own rules and traditions, so they won’t talk back (or not usually) – but you can still experience them, and appreciate and honour their complexity, and be grateful that they’ve come. Right now is maybe not the time for this – there are other things to do. But I wish someday to have this room again, this space, this place, this home – again. So that we can sit together and see and feel each other, and infect each other again with our humanity, with creative energy, which is right now the only thing I can think of that theatre can do that still needs doing. Nature Theatre of Oklahoma is an award-winning New York art and performance enterprise under the direction of Pavol Liska and Kelly Copper. With each project, they attempt to set an impossible challenge for themselves and the audience. Their perfomances demand total presence from everyone in the room. They use the readymade material around them, found space, observed gesture, and extreme formal manipulation to affect a shift in the perception of everyday reality.

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A LETTER TO DANCE / ANNE TERESA DE KEERSMAEKER

Dear Dance, What a strange feeling it is, to address you in such an official and de­­ tached way. We spend so many days together, from morning until evening, and I rarely feel the need to spell out our relationship in explicit terms. Why write a letter to someone one lives with, who is a constant compan­ ion? Usually this is done in extreme cases, when the person in question is moving away from you, or when a couple is on the brink of a break up. That’s when letters are written. The other option is that people are too far away from each other, and that distance invites letter writing: the physicality of a text is supposed to close the physical gap itself. But that is not my feeling either, since I’ve never felt so close to you. So why this letter?  Perhaps this letter stems from something else – namely, the question of whether I really know who you are. This is a question that lovers ask themselves all the time, of course, and is fodder for many romantic novels. But my wonderment stems from something different. The other day I was thinking about the word ‘choreography’. Consider the etymology of that word. The word choreography is a fusion of two Greek concepts – ‘chore’ and ‘grafein’. The one signifies ‘choir’ or ‘troupe’, the other ‘to write’. At first sight this a perfectly natural combination. What choreographers do, in this definition, is ‘draft movements’ – it is a form of writing. Things get more fascinating, however, when we look at the word ‘chore’ and what its original meaning was in Ancient contexts. The ‘choir’ was not only a spectator to a tragedy. Most importantly, it was a commentator, someone who judged from an objective, third-person standpoint on the troubles of the protagonists. The choir thus has a deeply critical function: it manages to see through the illusions of the great heroes. It is no surprise that the choir also has a popular feel to it: we here witness the people commenting on their superiors. ‘Choreography’, in this sense, is a mode of politics insofar as it includes the question how to organise a multitude. Choreography is about writing the ‘people’.   Maybe we can also think of choreography in a more conventional way. Choreography is always an attempt at ‘incarnating’ an abstraction, embodying an idea. Yet even here, there always is a latent politics to dancing. By

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insisting that people undertake movements together, that they organise their time and space together, choreographers are already posing acts that are potentially political. But perhaps there is a more interesting analogy. Choreography, like politics, is always a matter of agency, and how one might go about imagining a form of agency that is collective but not unconscious. People in a crowd waiting for a bus certainly share a sense of collectivity. But they do not necessarily share a sense of agency. In the same way a crowd moving through a metro station on a busy morning might be said to exhibit traits of a ‘choreography’ – given the architecture of the space, they tend to move in a certain direction and generate specific patterns of movement. But they don’t necessarily have any sense of the conscious moves they undertake within their environment. It is only when this group of people decides to go beyond this passive activity that one can truly speak of ‘dance’. When ‘intention’ and ‘agency’ enter into the picture, choreography as an art form makes its appearance. People treading through a train station on a Sunday morning are not necessarily dancing; people treading through a train station singing ‘Singing in the Rain’ might be said to ‘dance’ in a more convincing way. Above all, choreography is about negotiation. It is about balancing the tension between the concrete and the abstract – the concrete, physical texture of a body and the abstract products of a mind, and how a body has to change itself to conform to this mind’s mental map. This jump from the concrete to the abstract, where the concrete has to correspond to the abstract, is always a question of labour – human interaction with nature. Choreography is a form of labour, not only in a legal sense (dancers are paid and remunerated for their services), but also in a more existential sense. It is so by its insistence that the body goes beyond its set limits, its attempt to test the body’s capacity for adaptation. If there always is a form of politics to choreography – or, that choreography always tells us something about politics and politics will tell us something about choreography – what would a ‘political’ form of choreography look like? I’m not entirely sure I can answer this question here. There are certainly ways of moving choreography closer to politics. This would mean insisting that choreographers start with material that is not only artistically but

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also socially political. No matter how important these choices are, however, I always feel myself drawn back to the idea that this is secondary to the ‘basic’ politics of choreography; namely, its capacity to abstract. If dance gives up on this ambition to incarnate abstraction, to go beyond the move from ‘movement’ into ‘dance’, then I feel that the question of how to ‘politicise’ choreography is simply premature. This might make me vulnerable to all kinds of objections. Mainly about what counts as ‘craftsmanship’ and ‘expertise’, and what it means to be a ‘good’ dancer and choreographer today. But I think we can leave those questions for a later time. Instead, we can insist that the act of turning ‘movement’ into ‘dance ‘already offers enough food for thought. We all know that the modern era is one of constant movement. People move around all the time, from factory to office to restaurant to train to plane. Often, however, they do so unconsciously. It is our capacity to render this movement conscious and thereby offer tools for reflection (our political movements, overall) and what kind of movement we want to undertake as a society together, that is the first political pay-off of choreography. I’m afraid I have to leave it there. We will see each other tomorrow, of course, at work and afterwards, and long after. Anne Teresa P.S.: Do atoms dance? Do flowers dance? Do birds dance? Do clouds dance? Do stars dance? We might be able to attribute the semblance of ‘dancing’ to them, but this is a human projection. Maybe our refusal to claim ‘dancing’ for these entities is due to the fact that they lack something humans are uniquely capable of: politics. This letter was written for deufert&plischke’s project ‘Letters to dance’ Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker is a Belgian choreographer. She established the dance company Rosas in 1983, while creating the work ‘Rosas danst Rosas’. Since her early breakthrough pieces, her choreography has been grounded in a rigorous and prolific exploration of the relationship between dance and music. She is also the founder of the school P.A.R.T.S. in Brussels.

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I WAS THEATRE, BUT THEATRE WAS NEVER ME / MIHAELA DRĂGAN

I often ask myself the same question: why did I choose theatre, when theatre buildings have never been designed for people like me? Is theatre much more than a building? What makes a theatre, theatre? I ask myself this question over and over again. I don’t have a space or a building to perform my theatre company’s shows, the only company that is dedicated to Roma people in a country where all other national minorities benefit from their own theatre.   For as long as I have known, I knew I wanted to be an actress. Theatre has always been a big part of my life until the point it monopolised me, suffocated me and defined me. Reading this, you will say that this happens to every artist who is passionate about what she does. But I insist that for me (and people like me) it was different because, while I gave everything for theatre, theatre erased me. From its memory. From its history.   Roma slaves laid the foundations of early modern theatre in the Romanian Principalities, but their contribution to the history of Romanian theatre is never mentioned.    I was THEATRE. But theatre was never me. Theatre was a gadjo1 space when I started to dream about becoming an actress. But I wasn’t aware of this for a very long time, so I continued to love theatre. I felt guilty that I didn’t fit in the gadjo theatre spaces and visions.    But after I saw enough theatre where people like me are ignored, silenced, downplayed, stereotyped, I felt devastated and betrayed by theatre. I hated it for this. In the end, why should I, as a Roma artist, love any expression of the established dominant white culture? Why should I enjoy seeing theatre made by white directors with white actors for white audiences and not become tired of this? In the end, what does it say to me? That I don’t have any place there, right? Whether you want to admit it or not, theatre is ideological. It’s political because it’s personal. And when I became aware of this, I just knew that I would do anything to occupy those theatre spaces with my Roma body and more than that, that I would share 1

Gadjo means ‘foreigner’ in Romani language and it usually corresponds to not being an ethnic

Romani. When the term is applied to politics and history, it refers to white people, to the beneficiaries of white privilege and Eurocentrism.

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that space with other Roma artists. Only later did I start to write theatre that I desired to perform.  In the last years, I have been learning how to unhate theatre and to challenge my past relationship with theatre into a healing one through the power of a theatre collective that I co-founded. I care about making theatre a safe place for everyone and we have transformed our theatre collective Giuvlipen into our sacred space. In our temple, my colleagues and I are witches.   I feel like a witch on the stage and my words are my wand. For me, the words I deliver on stage have the same power as the words in an incantation or magical ritual. They are like a mantra, together in a certain order they create the sound I am looking for in order to heal myself and my community that is in the audience. But I can also see the necessity of exposing this power to my non-Roma audience. I make theatre and I play with the energy of the words, because, maybe unconsciously, I believe in the idea of moving the world if I say the perfect words at the perfect time. These words can be loving words, healing words, slow words or necessary, intense and angry words. I am not afraid of furious words; I do contemplate their beautiful path from the moment I enunciate them until they settle in the minds and hearts of my spectators.  I have a strong connection with the words. But many times, theatre means precisely that which is happening in the moments in between words, in the moments of no words. In those moments, being on the stage really feels like I am in a no-time magical place. It is not reality, let’s be honest. And it is not unreality, either. Maybe it is something in between. In these moments I belong to theatre and the way theatre makes me feel cannot be replaced by anything in the world. This is my answer to why theatre. Maybe not for the rest of my life, but at least for now.     Mihaela Drăgan is an actress and playwright. Her performances focus on the connection between theatre, Roma identity and social justice. In 2014 she founded the Giuvlipen Roma Theatre Company, together with other Roma actresses. She was one of the six finalists for the 2017 Gilder/ Coigney International Theatre Award in New York, and a 2020 nominee.

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“ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE,” (REALLY?) / RADHA D’SOUZA

“All the world’s a stage,” Shakespeare wrote, and his words made me happy. If all the world’s a stage, I am the actor and spectator, the speaker and listener, the director and directed, the choreographer and dancer… My coloured soul which slumbers deep within me in a grey blubbery pouch imprisoned between my rib cages stirred and interrupted my happy train of thoughts. “Shakespeare was a white man. You are reading Shakespeare like a coloured woman.” Having uttered these words, my coloured soul snuggled and snoozed again. Really? I returned to Shakespeare’s words. This time, I read lines 2, 3, 4 through to lines 27, 28, 29. I was filled with horror. Is this what he is saying about me? That, as an infant I bruised my mother’s nipples in my desperation to live, even as she put me to her breast to nourish me, even as she writhed in pain caused by her inflamed, sore, red nipples? That, now I sit on my chair in front of my desk and watch the faces, neck and above, ZOOM in and out of my computer screen all day, busts without torsos or limbs? That, I will continue to sit on my chair, in front of my desk, as ZOOM manages the entries and exists, day after day, until one day my head drops on my desk, my last breath leaves my grey blubbery pouch, and my slumbering coloured soul seizes the opportunity and escapes imprisonment? A dreadful denouement. I turn eastwards. “All world is maya, an illusion,” Sankara wrote. “It does not matter who enters and exits, when and how, and what words they utter. All world is maya and, the stage a mirage.” The people zooming in and out of my LED screen do look like mirages. I cannot kiss them, hug them, catch the light in the corner of their eyes as they speak. I imagine their hidden bodies and my backlit LED screen illuminates their faces like halos. I close my eyes, meditate, empty my mind of all thoughts, clear my eyes of all images, my ears of all sound, even as the faces flash in and out of my HD LED screen. Long after my head drops on my desk, my last breath

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leaves my body, and my cheeky coloured soul escapes to freedom, ZOOM will continue to flash faces across my screen. In the maya within concentric circles of maya that encircles me, ZOOM is eternal, everlasting. My coloured soul yawned and curled up snugly in the grey pouch. White man. Coloured man. What’s with these men? I shout. I push away my chair and jump up. I hear my feet stomp the ground beneath me. I stomp again and again. I recognise patterns, cycles of beats, a rhythm. Soon, I am dancing without an audience and my dance intoxicates me. Words tumble out of my quivering lips and cast a magical spell around me. There are no listeners. I flail my arms about and realise they are enacting my words to the rhythm of my feet. There are no spectators. My intoxicated eyes spot the door and I trapeze in and out of entrances and exits. I am in my garden, the coloured flowers in full bloom, the trees pregnant with fruit, the water in the pool shimmering like a mirage. My spectators. My audience. My listeners, directors, choreographers, my light technicians. Look! I call out. Having animated me, her job done, my coloured soul is fast asleep, deaf to me and to my words. I deliver a dialogue on impulse. Mr Shakespeare, you are wrong. The actors are more important than the stage. Sri Sankara, you too are wrong. The world may be maya, but a mirage is as beautiful as the water it mimics. Yours with love. I curtsy with a flourish. *** EPILOGUE. Life is animated. Animation is dramatic. Drama is theatrical. Radha D’Souza is an Indian writer, critic and social justice activist. She practiced law in the High Court of Mumbai in the areas of labour rights, constitutional law and human rights. She is also an activist lawyer working with labour movements and democratic rights movements. Currently she is Professor of Law at the University of Westminster, London.

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RE: THEATRE DOES NOT ENTERTAIN ME / TANIA EL KHOURY I must admit that I ignored the first three emails inviting me to contribute to Why Theatre. Why theatre?! I repeated to myself. Why me? Why should I answer this question? I believe the question is loaded with potential self-gratification of how crucial theatre is for our society. I wanted to refuse to engage but here I am contributing. I am sorry to disappoint you but I don’t actually like theatre. My dislike is informed, not a merely ignorant dismissal. This intense feeling started in me after a brief period of passionate love. As it is often the case with passionate loves, it wears down after you get to know your lover and you are left with an overwhelming sense of disappointment. I have spent my entire university education in theatre departments. I ended up with a doctorate degree in theatre studies. I made work that won awards in theatre festivals and toured around the globe. I annually watch a great number of theatre productions, sometimes back to back and even in languages that I do not speak. I dislike theatre as a space above everything. I dislike its hierarchical relationships, its church-like preciousness, its imbalanced relationship to audience, its imposed quietness and politeness, its inaccessibility, its whiteness, its elitism, its classism, its racism, its sexism, its heteronormativity, its ableism, its ageism, the fact that having an old body, a sick body, a trans body, a disabled body, a body of colour on stage is an act of radicalism. Theatre does not entertain me, it angers me to the bone. An anger that you only feel towards the closest people in your life. Yes, I seem to have family relationship issues with theatre. I feel like a trouble child of a destructive family. As you do with an abusive father, you change your name to distance yourself from his lineage. I did that with theatre. I never call myself a theatre artist. Sometimes a live artist, sometimes just artist. But deep down I know where my roots are and I resist them and lean on them every single day.  Tania El Khoury is a live artist creating installations and performances focused on audience interactivity and its politics. Her work has been translated and presented in multiple languages across six continents. She holds a PhD in Theatre Studies from Royal Holloway, University of London.

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DINNER IS SERVED / NICOLETA ESINENCU theatre is political just like water or like bread our mothers baked bread many of them still do it today they do not post their bread on facebook they do not take photos of themselves holding the bread freshly taken out of the oven they do not call it political bread my mother baked bread for us to have something to eat for us not to starve theatre is political today theatre produces on the conveyor belt like adidas or puma theatre does not sell as much as adidas but it very much wishes it did this does not mean it wishes it paid its people more it just wants to sell its merchandise at a higher price in addition to the merchandise, it has recently started to sell branded protection masks for just 20 euro theatre wants to make as much money as possible this does not mean it wants to respect its people more the quantity is what matters how much you produce it does not matter how you produce it

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brands are already known for producing clothes under inhumane conditions theatres are not yet known for making productions under inhumane conditions work is done during the day and night and in the morning at all costs during the weekend at all costs in the dark at all costs the premiere must be on time at all costs broken legs burnout depressions at all costs theatre is for the rich most of the times created by the poor for the rich now online too what do you mean you don’t have money to pay the ticket? today’s theatres slogans are: poor people suck about you, but without you because you can’t afford it but we need your story for the next season only for the next season people and their stories are used and thrown away to the garbage

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just like theatre sets used and thrown away or used and deposited and thrown after or sorted this is this type of garbage this is that type of garbage or recycled just like the yellow bin from the west and sent to be burnt in the east the poor recycle the garbage of the rich the east recycles the garbage of the west how people are used so are countries used too the civilised civilise those whom they consider uncivilised the director makes a copy like a xerox machine like a burger he sells another franchise site specific it’s just not clear which site? or side? capitalism side? puma and adidas demanded the withdrawal of shoes sale from the central market in chișinău on the grounds that they were not original products

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those were cheap shoes sold by poor people to poor people the moldavian judges rejected the request made by those from puma and adidas succinctly, undoubtedly, and comprehensively the black and white footwear with a bent stripe and other blue footwear with 3 little lines have been detected that’s it oh my the bent stripe and 3 little lines haven’t been discovered in the west I don’t think it is necessary to talk about it here about what some still call today the discovery of america we also have our lines and stripes bent ones period directors like to spend money a lot of money to make big productions huge ones to build stages sets huge ones to satisfy their own ego to satisfy their artistic ejaculations

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artistic ejaculations of the males that took theatres in their hands like their own penis which they won’t let go the walls of the theatres reek of director’s sperm mixed with our fear of saying metoo the stages are soaked in testosterone theatre is a macho directors that act like bosses who spread their legs over all the theatres and continuously mark their territories the chairs the spaces everybody is at his disposal of his highness the director the white male they climbed a pedestal they made their own monuments they have become statues walking statues these monuments carry other monuments with them the old ones from the history racist ones homophobic ones transphobic ones on horses made of gold

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of bronze gilded polished washed renovated from books on the covers of books and magazines these monuments also carry the new monuments with them of country presidents of logos of employers’ organisations of corporations the monuments will fall do you know how monuments fall? the directors divide actresses and actors into stars celebrities leading players main roles first violin and the others into supporting ones secondary ones dinner is served enjoy your meal! here is your asparagus! when I received the invitation to write this text they didn’t tell me I would be paid for it

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why would we also be paid? won’t you write a text since you’re staying home anyway? just like domestic labour unpaid a pleasure? a hobby? an honour? I did not get any contract instead of a contract It would be a great pleasure and honour to have you among the contribu-tors! my mother would say: aha! tonight i will make bread out of your honour. and not lastly much esteemed Verbrecher Verlag much esteemed NTGent/Milo Rau the text is served to you on a plate as they say dinner is served! or there’s no food to serve I hope you will pay for the translation of this text I have written it like that, so it cannot be translated with google translate

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by the way how much does the book cost? *comment from the translator is required **The translation is ready, see appendix. I found something special in this translation: namely, the author asks the translator to add his comments. Of course, I did not do that. I don't think it is desirable and from a deontological point of view I am not allowed to do so. Otherwise I found the assignment very pleasant and I look forward to a possible future collaboration. Nicoleta Esinencu is a Moldovan playwright and theatre director, who after graduating in drama and theatre arts, has been an active presence in the theatre world in Eastern Europe, writing plays, directing and developing performances. She co-founded teatru-spălătorie, a political theatre collective in Chișinău.

↳013 Let’s need each other more, instead of trying to be saviours of one another. 83

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NOT EVEN THE DEAD WILL BE SAFE IF THE ENEMY WINS / DOUGLAS ESTEVAM (MST) Why theatre in Brazil made by the Landless Movement (MST) which unites hundreds of thousands of peasants without land, who, for more than three decades, have been occupying large estates in a continental country? Because it is known that the expansion of the modern, capitalist Europe would not have been possible without the colonisation of the American continent, without the extermination of hundreds of indigenous people, without the enslavement of millions of black people brought from Africa. The ‘Landless’ of today are the fruit of colonisation which decimated the Native Americans and enslaved the Africans. Occupying land, the Landless Movement has created a new political scene, challenging the inequality of a colonial structure reinforced by new forms of financial capitalism, combining the persistence of the most archaic forms of oppression with the most contemporary forms of international financial speculation. Again: Why theatre of the Landless? With Augusto Boal the first attempts to stage an answer were rehearsed in the 50s. In the course of the advance of the far right, which would result in the military coup of 1964 (the military and dictatorship today praised by the fascist Brazilian government), Boal associated his theatre work with the Ligas Camponesas, the historic organisation of the rural workers of the time, the unions, the students and the progressive social forces. Tortured and forced to exile, he did not give up. Boal knew that the theatre is a weapon and that the people should use it in their fight against all forms of oppression. Theatre was meant to be the rehearsal of the revolution. For thousands of black people, for the descendants of the indigenous people, for the mestizos, for all those who are looking for a re-writing of their lives in the actions of the MST, Boal continues to be a point of reference. For him, the most important goal was the socialisation of the means of theatrical production in order the oppressed workers might be able to express their history, their vision, and their poetry. If we consider that Hitler did not forget to include theatrical elements in his political actions, his today’s copy in Brazil does the same. The German philosopher Walter Benjamin believed that against the aestheticisation of politics, the politicisation of the arts could be a path towards

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resistance and human emancipation. Because not even the dead will be safe if the enemy wins. Douglas Estevam is a member of the MST, the Brazilian Landless Worker’s Movement. He works mainly in the arts and theatre department of MST in the state of São Paulo. Among others he collaborated with the Brazilian director and pedagogue Augusto Boal on the concept of the Theatre of the Oppressed.

↳024 Doesn’t theatre become itself also through disappearance? 85

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ONE DAY WE WILL ALL BE FREE / TIM ETCHELLS (FORCED ENTERTAINMENT) Because in this space of theatre, of performance, there is something valuable in the sitting together and not speaking, in the shared agreement that there will be silence (more or less), a silence authored, owned, maintained and made manifest by all the persons present, as well as in the shared commitment that there will be (more or less) attention focused in a certain direction. Because in this space of theatre, of performance – fragile as it is, con­ tested and subject to challenge as it must be – a complex series of simultaneous triangulations are possible. Triangulation between those performing and those present as spectators. Triangulation between those on stage as performers. Triangulation between those present as spectators. And a further however improbable triangulation between all those present, in the space of the performance and all those who are not present – those outside, absent, those not gathered, those who have no attention to spare, or no desire (need) to attend. Because these triangulations – live processes of social echolocation and relational exploration which the performance itself demands – are a vital means to test who we are, who we might be or could be, and who we are not. Because these processes of measuring (understanding, feeling, being sensitised to) proximity and distance, ‘sameness’ and difference are – so far as I am concerned – the deep foundations upon which ethics, politics and questions of relation are built. Who is present? And because theatre and performance – old as these spaces are, bound in problematic structures of expectation and power as they are and are tangled with economics as they always will be under capitalism – are nonetheless the space in which we can perform the haptic thought experiment, the knife-edge negotiation of our individual and shared identities, our troubled collective. Because here (there) as watchers and as watched we are all, always breathers of the same air, mutual authors of each silence in each pause, subjects reflecting on our proximity, distance, difference and sameness and on the possibilities and responsibilities of relation in the wider sphere of the world. London, June 2020.

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Tim Etchells is an artist and a writer based in the UK. He is the artistic leader of the world-renowned performance group Forced Entertainment. His practice shifts from performance to visual art and concerns itself with questions of contemporary identity, our relation to fiction and the media, as well as with the limits of representation, especially in respect of language.

↳017 Whether you want to admit it or not, theatre is ideological. And when I became aware of this, I just knew that I would do anything to occupy those theatre spaces with my Roma body. 87

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SUSTAINING THE SKY / CIBELE FORJAZ Since I can think I have always wanted to do theatre... As a child I wanted to ‘play theatre’ like anybody who wants to be an astronaut to land on the moon and, who knows, instead of putting there a Brazilian, American or Soviet flag dance for everybody on earth to see it in a full moon night. ‘Playing theatre’ was like being a traveler and being able to go around the world to know all the peoples there are or will be there, all of them very different from each other. The world is diverse and we are obliged to choose to be some ONE, a person with an identity and coherence. I wanted to ‘do theatre’ in order to be everything I wanted to be. It was a way of also being a historian, a dancer, an anthropologist, an educator, a scientist or a hippie, even if out of time, howl at the moon and be the dream of a mandarin or the very mandarin himself who dreams of other possible worlds. In short, it was a way of building a life full of transformations. There are many ways of theatre in a single Theatre. Why theatre? Because theatre is imagination, game and play. Later, in college, came the passion for light … For the editorial function of the light-design which articulates time and space: the point of view, the dramaturgy of seeing, the writing of a scene, the weaving of languages … I dedicated myself to the techne of theatre. I became a lighting designer and director. I learned ways and means of telling stories. Theatre is also a craft. There are many ways of theatre in a single Theatre. Why Theatre? Because theatre is a craft to be learned, one language and many idioms. A few years later, in 1990, I saw Zé Celso on stage for the first time. The director of As Boas, (The Maids) by Jean Genet spoke directly to the audience, he actually did not speak, but screamed, presenting the ‘Society of the Spectacle’, tearing down the mask of cordiality to rub the violence of the Brazilian inequality in the faces of the audience... a multi-ethnic, multi-lingual country which only recognises itself through a neo-liberal representation of a court of an enslaving class in their luxury penthouses in Rio de Janeiro. There, in the Teat(r)o Oficina, I received a punch in my stomach and I understood the transforming power of theatre to pierce the armor not only of the actors but also of the audience; .Theatre makes the contradictions

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of our times visible, provoking critical reflection and revealing deep scars of a civilisation built on the foundations of class, sex or race violence. Theatre is a Molotov cocktail for the polis. As Hamlet says to his actors, the play‘s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king. There are many forms of theatre in a single Theatre. Why theatre? Because theatre is politics in action. So, thinking I had finally discovered the reason to do theatre, I joined Teat(r)o Oficina Uzyna Uzona. I stayed there for more than ten years and worked as a lighting designer, assistant director, electrician, art director, cleaning lady and whatever was necessary for ‘theatre’ to take place. There were many radical experiences. For example, during the staging of Bacantes, a Dionysian rite which had an important influence on many generations, we drank Ayahuasca for three months to officiate the shows and experienced telepathy on the stage among ourselves and with the audience. At the end of these three months I was pregnant. The fragile membrane between life and theatre which still existed was broken and life imposed itself. There, in company, I learned the intrinsic relationship between the political and the ritual dimension of theatre. There are many ways of theatre in a single Theatre. Why theatre? Because theatre is rite. In 2000 we founded the company Cia.Livre. Together, we did research exploring the Amerindian universe and performed several shows on the basis of free recreations of myths, songs and narratives of different indigenous peoples. While we were looking for a translation of the concept of the Amerindian perspectivism into a theatrical language, we invented an epic Brazilian theatre through interdisciplinarity between social anthropology, indigenous ethnography and the performing arts which relates to other, non occidental models. Antropophagy becomes both a theme and a working procedure. There are many ways of theatre in a single Theatre. Why theatre? Because theatre is the rite of presence, of the “eternal return of the encounter”1. In 2018, tired of devouring theory and anthropologists, we decided to leave for the countryside to get to know another Brazil which has got over 300 1

Krenak, Ailton. O Eterno Retorno do Encontro in Novaes, Adauto (org) A Outra Margem do

Ocidente, Companhia das Letras, 1999.

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peoples and 274 languages. We went on a journey along the Rio Xingu, from the mouth to the headwaters, together with doing ethnographic studies of the Araweté, Kayapó-Mebengokré, Kamayurá and Juruna/Yudjá peoples. We discovered other worlds and ways of life, and in every village or community I got to know I looked for the theatre and did not find it. For the first time in 53 years (39 dedicated to theatre) I discovered that it is possible to live without a theatre and that there are societies that do not know what we call theatre and that they live very well. And if you had asked me “Why theatre?” then, I could no longer have given an answer. The myths are truths and the oral narratives are at the same time history and science. It is completely unlike our concepts of representation or fiction. On the other hand there is no ritual or daily action that has not got its conventional form, its aesthetic way of being. If there is no theatre, the theatricality is ingrained in life itself, where there is no border between existence and art, whether you are a jaguar, a capybara or the tiniest leech. Today, in the midst of a pandemic, a serious ethical crisis of the country is promoting the genocide of the indigenous peoples and aggravating the environmental collapse of the planet, putting the very existence of humanity in check. At this intolerable historical moment a collective art of presence is more important than ever, because it has got the power of transformation and of proving that everything can be transformed. Thus, I do no longer invoke theatre here but the theatricality of our human and extra human existences to reflect if there is any possibility of a great transformation of the world, away from the capitalist system that devours the planet at an absolutely unsustainable speed. It is in ‘be-coming another’, no longer as a representation but in a transfiguration of our own bodies, to be a collective body. Therefore, in order to survive we must learn from the people who sing and dance to sustain the sky. As the activist and indigenous intellectual Ailton Krenak says, as long as we can tell one more story we will be postponing the end of the world. Cibele Forjaz is a theatre director, light designer and researcher from São Paulo. She is the artistic director of the theatre group Cia.Livre, working with themes related to Brazilian culture since 2004, with a focus on the cosmologies and narratives of indigenous peoples. She has won several awards, including the Shell Award Brasil for Best Direction. 90

↳072 It is no coincidence that the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Velvet Revolution in Prague and the revolution that led to the creation of Belgium began in the theatre. 91

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ON THEATRE, ABSENCE, DISAPPEARANCE AND BODIES / OLIVER FRLJIĆ Part of the world isolated in the frame we traditionally call theatre, speaks – if there are ears to hear it and eyes to see it – more about what is absent from this frame than what is there. This internal paradox was formative for my understanding of theatre – to always search for the things that I couldn’t see on the stage and reasons for their absence, underlying politics of exclusion and inclusion which we usually call representation. In her book Unmarked: The Politics of Performance, Peggy Phelan tells us that “performance’s only life is in the present. Performance cannot be saved, recorded, documented, or otherwise participate in the circulation of representations of representations: once it does so, it becomes something other than performance. To the degree that performance attempts to enter the economy of reproduction it betrays and lessens the promise of its own ontology. Performance’s being, like the ontology of subjectivity proposed here, becomes itself through disappearance.” Since the outbreak of the corona crisis, theatre has been more than ever struggling against its own disappearance. Massive migration online – all video recordings of shows we could watch online, all those spectres chasing their former existences – could stabilise its main referent only as the absent one. Let me put it in other words which I am pretty sure would create more confusion than understanding: doesn’t theatre as a medium become itself also through disappearance? But there is another question implicated in disappearances and the traces it leaves in physical reality. To answer it, one can borrow short excerpt from Hamlet: ROSENCRANTZ What have you done, my lord, with the dead body? … ROSENCRANTZ My lord, you must tell us where the body is, and go with us to the king. …. ROSENCRANTZ Where the dead body is bestow’d, my lord, We cannot get from him. 92

↳033 Everything around you is theatre. You are theatre. 93

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HAMLET At supper. … Not where he eats, but where he is eaten: a certain convocation of politic worms are e’en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet: we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots: your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes, but to one table: that’s the end. One shouldn’t overlook in Hamlet’s response dealing with disappearance of the body’s short-living promise of social equality that would erase different social statuses of those who are introduced as ‘two dishes, but to one table’. Something similar could be found in a short-lived dream that corona doesn’t recognise class, ethnic and racial borders – the dream also dreamt by Artaud in his pivotal text Theatre and Plague. The suppression of the corporeal in Western theatre is an old/new history. The body was always the greatest obstacle to rational understanding, which is still an ideal of all prescriptive aesthetics. This idea of the body as something threatening, something that could contaminate and infect health and purity of rational structures of theatre, has been nurtured for so many centuries through different forms of theatrical logocentrism. Derrida’s remark on Artuad could be of help here, illustrating that Cartesian division could not be simply overcome. Appearances of the body in the discourse on disappearance (like in the example above with Peggy Phelan of Hamlet) brings into being an articulated body: “for one and the same reason, through a single gesture, Artaud is as fearful of the articulated body as he is of articulated language, as fearful of the member as of the word. For articulation is the structure of my body, and structure is always a structure of expropriation. The division of the body into organs, the difference interior to the flesh, opens the lack through which the body becomes absent from itself, passing itself off as, and taking it­ self for, the mind.”

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Oliver Frljić was born in Bosnia-Herzegovina and works as a director and author. In early 2016 he resigned as the artistic director of the Croatian National Theatre out of protest against Croatian cultural policy. His political theatre plays have been invited to the most famous international festivals and have been multi-awarded.

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YOU KNOW YOU WANT IT! / GOB SQUAD Dear audience, dear passers-by of cities and towns across the world, You always inspired us, filled our imagination, kept us going and moved us forward. From the start, we built our world with you in mind. We always aimed to please you, even when we pretended we didn’t care. We tried to see ourselves from your perspective, and constantly put ourselves in your shoes, to understand where we were heading. It was always you we cared for the most. We liked to tease you with the phrase ​“You know you want it!”, and over time we realised that assumption was actually true. Over the years, we did so much with you. Here is a list, so neither of us will forget the depth of our relationship – how far we took it, how we kept challenging each other to push the limits. First we have to admit, we were pretty scared of you. So we decided to give you freedom: we let you come and go as you pleased and make your own way through our projects. We let you watch and witness us in very private situations. We invited you to phone us and took your requests seriously. We sang our hearts out for you and asked what you wanted from us: certainty, sincerity, hope, understanding? We took you to hidden and faraway places and had a secret meeting together under the stars. You watched us from the other side of a railway platform or from the inside of your car through the windscreen. Nevertheless, we saw you. We felt your presence. Then we let you come closer. We shared a fantasy that the world had ended and we had to build a new one, together with you. We made memories​. ​Sometimes we lost control and you almost took over. We have to admit that this was a challenging time for us. We felt we could vanish and you would still be there, even without us. So we left you for a while and explored the streets, journeying to the great outdoors. Out there, we started to talk to you again and asked you for guidance. Then our relationship got really intense. We shared a whole night with you together in a hotel. We invited you to close encounters to our hotel rooms where we danced with you, had a moment in bed or staged a party with you. You helped us make it through the night​. ​We even held you hostage and tied you to a chair and made you stay with us until the bitter end... Sometimes we wondered if we had taken things a bit too far. But

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then again – you always had the choice. You knew what you were getting into when you decided to pick up the phone... After that, it was time for some fresh air again. So we armed ourselves with cameras and turned the city into a film set where you became our co-stars. It was there where we finally had our first embrace – a film kiss with one of you – a complete stranger. It was thrilling, and still is. Maybe by now we were somehow addicted to you. We searched for you again and again, found you and casted you on a red carpet and paid you good money to star in our soap.​You always looked stunning, whatever you wore. We shot a complete Hollywood-style film with you where you were dressed as apes and stayed completely incognito. That’s why we never found out who was the villain, the heroine or the pole dancer of the various evenings. It was a crazy roller-coaster ride and you went for it and let your hair down.​​Once we’d seen that, we felt the need to find the monster in you – in all of us – so we took you into a reintegration-programme. Then it was time for you to completely replace us. We trusted you enough and knew you wouldn’t let us down. We swapped places with you so that you played us and we told our most private stories out of your mouths. You came to bed and tried to sleep for us and then we kissed – for real this time. For three entire minutes! You gave us hope by changing your path and igniting a revolutionary spark for us, each time we asked. You helped us save the world (on videotape) for an unknown future. You held a lecture on our behalf. You joined us on the dance floor. You patiently endured a full night of group therapy and you witnessed ‘our’ children grow up in fast forward before your very eyes. You reenacted the least watched video on the entire internet for us, and you were the heart and the soul of our birthday party. We discussed uncomfortable political topics together, and you ate food we made for you and said it was delicious. You watched us struggle with our midlife crisis, you saw us naked (several times) and noticed our bodies changing over the years. You stayed with us – through times of crisis, and more than 25 years... We tried the impossible with you. You never disappointed us, in fact: you always exceeded our expectations. You helped us lose our fear of strangers, our fear of closeness and intimacy. Thank you for that. Why theatre? – Just because of you.

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Gob Squad is a UK and German artists collective. In their performances they search for the beauty in the everyday. They place their works not only in theatres, but also in the middle of the urban environment – e.g. in houses, shops or parking lots. Utopian scenarios meet the reality of a concrete situation with an uncertain outcome. Their work has been touring to all continents.

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IT HAS EATEN UP ALL THE OTHERS / JULIEN GOSSELIN When I was a teenager, I lived with my parents in a house with a garden, in a place that was not a village and not a town either, by the North Sea shore, a peripheral area in the middle of the fields, but which had a supermarket, modern housing estates, a single tobacco bar, some sports facilities designed to appeal to the technicians and engineers who came from far away to work at the nuclear power station a few kilometres away. I attended a high school in Calais, the nearest big city. In the morning, I got on the seven o’clock bus. We drove on the road through the fields, then the roundabout, the passage in front of the Meccano factory. I listened to music. I could see the rain falling. I was trying to change the world. Often people who teach drama use the metaphor of childhood to explain to actors how to work. They say, “It’s like a game”. It’s a tiresome idea, this return to childhood, to innocence, to the original joy (who said that children were joyful?), I’m repulsed by the idea that we have to rediscover, whatever the cost, this form of innocence that doesn’t exist, never existed. For me, theatre has been, on the contrary, a work of modification of the real – not towards the blissful joy of the imaginary but through a deeper and deeper plunge into this real, into the words and forms that the real is taking, the motorway interchange, the shopping center, the wind, the sea, the grey of the sky, and it is by probing more and more deeply into these words and things that I was able to begin to make theatre. As a teenager, I was absolutely certain of one day making art when I had managed to penetrate layers of sadness that were unknown to me, through the impure addition of sound, image, literature, sensation, walking on the bridge over the railway, in the late afternoon, the rain-laden sky. I don’t like to be asked why theatre, it’s a question we are often asked, much more often than filmmakers are asked why cinema, imagine asking a musician: why music? The theatre must have reached such a point of degradation in the minds of many people, it must seem so old and useless that we are asked why we spend our days trying to keep it alive, like those people who specialise in folk dances or medieval bowling games. We are asked why we keep a fire alive that, according to the askers, is only waiting to be extinguished by general indifference. What they seem to ignore is precisely the force of the impurity of this art. And even more than its dimension of the

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present – we often ask forgiveness for making theatre by justifying the live dimension of this art, ‘it is art in the present’, but we are not the only owners of the living spectacle – theatre is one of the greatest arts because it has eaten up all the others. Whoever wants to make theatre wants to make music without being a musician, cinema without knowing how to hold a camera, singing, dancing, painting, playing with light. And then to speak, especially to speak, and therefore to write. And since theatre, with a few exceptions, is one of the only arts that can live independently of the liberal system, it is one of the only places where something can happen, where we exchange a constraint, the black box and not the starry skies, for absolute freedom. Absolute. Today, the only salvation of our old art of the present, of our ancient dance around the fire, is that human beings want to see others take risks, make something happen that does not exist, that we should not do, dive into the pain of the world and not reproduce the two horrible common translations: the cultural heritage show and its sibling the liberal televised storytelling. We are tranquil. They all think we are already dead. We can be the most radical, the greatest, we can do anything and try anything, since we have already disappeared. Julien Gosselin is a French director. After graduating from Théâtre du Nord in Lille, he co-founded the collective Si vous pouviez lécher mon coeur. His practice is documentarian or even polyphonic, and he works with contemporary texts, speaking to the audience in today’s language. His productions based on novels by Don DeLillo, Roberto Bolano and Michel Houellebecq have premiered in Avignon.

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TOGETHER IN THE DARK / SÉBASTIEN HENDRICKX (EXTINCTION REBELLION) I’m writing to you from Brussels, Belgium. As a dramaturge, I am part of the world of performing arts; as a member of Extinction Rebellion, I am active in the domain of environmental activism. The globalised standard of physical distancing makes it difficult to gather individuals, in the theatre as well as on the streets and on the squares. The pandemic is part of a much larger story – that of the high-speed and unjustly spread ecological breakdown. I ask myself the question: how relevant are the performing arts now that the state distinguishes ‘essential’ from ‘non-essential’ activities? Wouldn’t it be better, in these critical times, to concentrate fully on solidarity campaigns and (adapted forms of) political protest? In any case, there is no place for live arts on a dead planet. Today, May 27th 2020, Extinction Rebellion has 1110 groups in 68 countries. It is a large community of disillusioned citizens who want to face the truth of social and ecological destruction and turn to ‘praxis’. Philosophical pedagogue Paolo Freire uses that term as a denominator for the symbiotic mix of action and reflection, two poles that are both product and raw material of each other, in an ongoing mutual process. Where possible – not every country has the same level of political freedom – Extinction Rebellion tries to put pressure on governments with largescale, non-violent actions of civil disobedience. Immediate success is not on the horizon, and being aware of that makes the resistance a resilient one. In the search for impact, political strategies must constantly adapt to changing circumstances. Many of our members (including myself) see the movement as part of a last chance to keep the planet somewhat habitable. Covid-19 has had a major impact on activists worldwide in recent months. Some regimes took advantage of the crisis to further intensify the repression. Since the Belgian lockdown restrictions have been loos­ened, the local branch of Extinction Rebellion has been rethinking actions in the public space, which are both disruptive and covidproof. When and in what ways theatres will reopen their doors remains un­­ clear for the time being. As a dramaturge, I have the privilege to see performances emerge before they become public, and to contribute to their emergence with research and feedback. For the first time since the start of the lockdown, I attended a rehearsal in an almost empty auditorium

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last week. Two male dancer-acrobats performed an intriguing duet on stage. During the after-talk we discussed the influence of their different body proportions on the performed movements, the simplicity of those movements versus their potential for virtuosity, the gendered character of poses and what role that aspect could play within the overall coherence of the performance,... I had truly missed this kind of exploratory, speculative conversations somewhere in between the abstract and the concrete – to construct something together in the dark. At the same time the question arose: wasn’t all this completely futile against the turbulent backdrop of what was happening outside? An important part of the performing arts world seeks the answer to this paralysing question in the union of art and activism, the fusion of aesthetic considerations and the pursuit of demonstrable social impact. (Sometimes this fusion seems more like an outright takeover…) Normally the word ‘artivism’ refers to art forms that resemble political activism. In this context I prefer to use it as an umbrella term for the high-minded rhetoric around the ‘political radicality and impact of art’ (present in a lot of communication of cultural institutions, art criticism and theory) and the artistic practices that mirror it. In reality, the seemingly vigorous artivism is often nothing more than a powerless grandchild of two outdated Western traditions: the historical avant-garde with its attempts at the revolutionary blurring of boundaries between art and life, and the petty bourgeois, institutionalised experience of art. Hence the schizophrenia of institutionally encapsulated militantism. Not only does artivism usually lead to aesthetic disappointments – especially when it imitates the functional dramaturgy of protest – it is also counterproductive as a political intervention because (1) it is largely made for and by socially privileged people for whom political change is an indirect moral choice rather than a direct vital necessity; (2) it diverts the energetic potential of criticism, action and political innovation to a harmless and symbolic context; and (3) it blocks actual political initiative by raising expectations too high or triggering feelings of hopelessness among the public. Without a proposal for a sustainable strategic action path, it remains an empty gesture, more a matter of subsidy applications, artists’ careers and thematic theatre festivals than a matter of social change. The double disappointment of artivism weakens the position of the

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performing arts in general. Still, it is not because their political strength is sometimes so overestimated, that they can’t serve a purpose! Everything – including art – may be political; politics isn’t everything! Just like activism, the performing arts can be an integral part of ‘the good life’ in the twenty-first century. It is my conviction that through global heating and extinction, the abstract pursuit of profit will eventually give way to a more grounded utilitarianism. Even then, despite its uselessness, the performing arts will not be a luxury but a necessity. We will possibly even yearn for it more: to take part in ritual encounters, to discover imaginary constructions together in the dark, to experience artistic practices as individual-collective sources of empathy, solace, memory, insight, conviviality, vulnerability, mourning, humour, experiment, speculation, wisdom, etcetera. Sébastien Hendrickx is a dramaturge, teacher, activist and art critic based in Brussels. He has worked with artists like Benjamin Verdonck, Jozef Wouters, Alexander Vantournhout and Luanda Casella, and is a member of the editorial staff of the performing arts magazine Etcetera. He recently created a solo performance called ‘The Good Life’. He is part of Extinction Rebellion since March 2019.

↳102 Why not! 105

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© Josefin Arnell FOR A LIFE IN ACTION / FLORENTINA HOLZINGER for a life in action choreography= to live with chaos  no panic an autonomous body as instrument for action playing the instrument more beautiful than ever before  Florentina Holzinger is an Austrian choreographer and performance artist. For her explosive and physically intense pieces, she uses references from i.a. acrobatics, striptease and yoga. Her performances test the limits of the body, the stage and the audience. With her work ‘TANZ’ she was invited to the Berlin Theatertreffen.

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LIVING IN THEATRE / HSIN-CHIEN HUANG The fundamental difference between stages and theatre compared to today’s film and television is the following: the essence of theatre leans closer to real life. Television and film can be classified as ‘Story-Telling’, where the audience watches the story a movie tells. However, today more and more interactive, virtual reality based and immersive experiences appear. There is a transformation from ‘Story-Telling’ to ‘Story-Living’, which resembles more the theatre of the past. The audience can not only go watch the theatre’s story, they now have the possibility to go live within the story. Theatre itself is even more like a real life environment, where the actors live on stage, and time and space become continuous. Unlike the media of film and television, where one can rely on editing to jump through space and time, the space of theatre is subject to all kinds of real life functionalities and needs. The performers live inside this space. Theatre is a space that leans very close to real life. Speaking in my capacity of ‘new media artist’, I would say that a large part of the technology used in new media emphasises its appearance by having a strong eye-catching quality. The audience of new media art gets to see many things that look dazzling, keep lingering in our vision and stimulate our sensory experience. However, such projects certainly do not allow our bodies to live inside the experience. Therefore, when I create a virtual reality piece, I usually consider returning to the reasoning of a theatre artist. In that way, I use the way of living in theatre to think about the virtual reality piece and to bring the experience closer to our lives again. Because the purpose of virtual reality is exactly to allow the audience to live inside the imagined space created by the artist, the issue of ‘Why theatre’ has even more important significance in view of the development of new media art. To quote the insight of a female Taiwanese writer: “Male artists often see their work as something outside the body, and use their best efforts to ‘create’ the work. But the attitude of female artists towards their work is that it is an extension of their lives, as well as a process of life. They share their own lives with their artwork. In that way, they become a complete artwork themselves.” Life connects not only to theatre, but even to the creation of art itself. At last, under the influence of the epidemic in 2020, we suddenly have

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no way to go to playhouses, theatres, art galleries and exhibitions anymore, but maybe this is an opportunity for reflection. Let us rethink why we should go to these external environments to appreciate art. During this epidemic, we see many musicians playing at home, dancers dancing at home, writers reading poems aloud at home, as such bringing the territory of art back to the base of ‘life’. This is a phenomenon that leaves me deeply moved and fascinated, and it is also the reason why I think we should discuss ‘Why theatre’ during this time. Hsin-Chien Huang is a new media creator from Taiwan, with backgrounds in art, design, engineering and digital entertainment. He explores cutting edge technologies in art, literature, design and stage performing. His projects often involve large-scale interaction, performing, mechanical apparatus, algorithmic computations and video installations.

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NEED I SAY MORE? / ISABELLE HUPPERT From: Phèdre(s) / Wajdi Mouawad, Sarah Kane, J. M. Coetzee, staged by Krzysztof Warlikowski, Premiere at Odéon-Théâtre de l’Europe on March 17th 2016 ©Pascal Victor/artComPress. Isabelle Huppert is a French actress, acclaimed worldwide for her versatility and the subtle gestures and restrained emotions of her portrayals, both on stage and on screen. She has collaborated with directors like Michael Haneke, Jean-Luc Godard, Krzysztof Warlikowski, Robert Wilson and Paul Verhoeven, and has earned countless prestigious awards, among which a César, BAFTA Award, Golden Globe Award, and two Cannes Best Actress Awards.

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WET DREAMS / MANUELA INFANTE When theatres and rehearsal spaces were closed, I was not able to think anymore. I supposed it was stress, depression, shock. That’s what they said it was. “Inability to concentrate is normal” they said. But they were wrong, it wasn´t shock, it wasn´t stress, it wasn´t a lack of concentration. It was the lack of theatre. Theatre is the way I think. Not because I think by means of it, but because the theatre thinks. And, sometimes, I get to take part in its thinking. *** I once had a strange dream. It was extremely realistic. It must have been during my early twenties. I found myself sitting in something like a waiting room in what resembled a public office; some dull, sad place in some downtown ministry. I was told to wait there, since I would be introduced to God. I waited, in wonder, trying to understand the riddle given to me in so many words: I am going to be introduced to God? What does that mean? After an ellipsis in which time didn´t pass but was represented as passing, they came for me. I have no idea who is ‘they’. I probably didn´t even see them, but I followed. I walked into a room. Someone drew a curtain. Maybe I did. In front of me there was a table, on which lay, like an embalmed dead president, Susan Sontag. Her eyes closed. Her gray hair shining like it was made of solid silver. Susan Sontag is God?

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I remember being surprised not to be taken by the absurdity of it all, but rather by a feeling of serious reverence. There was no riddle. No hidden meaning. Susan Sontag was God. Ok. Later, many years later, it hit me. Against Interpretation had become my bible. “Art is not about something; it is something.” … reads the bible. *** I echo the bible… (Is that praying?) The theatre is not about something; it is something. The theatre is some-thing. The theatre is some-thing that thinks. The theatre is some-thing that thinks as a thing. The theatre is a thing that thinks about some-thing. And sometimes, it also thinks about itself. *** It’s not us who think or dream about the world by means of the theatre. The theatre is, rather, the world thinking about us. It’s the world dreaming us up. The theatre is an erotic thinker.  And its dreams of us are wet. The theatre does not think with what it declaims. Not at all. That´s how it thinks the less. That´s how it fools us. The theatre thinks like a plant. When it philosophises about time and space, space is what it creates as

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it stretches, and time is the form of its body. The theatre thinks like a rock… Slowly. Slowly. It piles up… Stuff. Its weight, like the weight of a stone, is nothing but accumulated time. It aggregates. It archives. Slowly forming dense compact things that can be thrown to break the windows of an anti-riot police truck. What is erotic about breaking window shields you might ask? Oh, everything. The erotic thinking of the theatre, erodes. That´s what it does. It riots stubbornly at the borders separating ‘We’ from ‘It’, wearing them down. And then, it calls out to those who patrol the borders, shouting: “Do you even know who you are working for?!” The theatre also thinks like the wind, pounding persistently until it erodes even the question “Why theatre?” down to its bones. And the ‘We’ that lurks behind it is fully exposed. “There is no ‘We’ ”, sings the wind, “So whose theatre do you mean? Which theatre? Where? When?” it buzzes. *** I don’t make theatre because I want to figure the world out. Much less because I want to fix it. I don’t make theatre because I need to say something about the world. I make theatre because I feel the desire to have the world say something about me. Because I feel the urgency to be thought by some-thing-other. *** Why theatre?

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Well, we all know what God said: “None of us can ever retrieve that innocence before all theory, when art knew no need to justify itself, when one did not ask of a work of art what it said, because one knew (or thought one knew) what it did. From now to the end of consciousness, we are stuck with the task of defending art.” Why theatre? Go ask the theatre if you like. It will answer in play. And in place. I´m thankful for the conversations I have had with Maaike Bleeker on the subject of theatre as a thinking thing, and my on-going conversations with Michael Marder on plants and non-cognitive thinking. Manuela Infante is a Chilean playwright, director and musician. She is well known for creating scenic articulations of complex theoretical issues. In her recent play ‘Vegetative State’, she probes in which ways new concepts such as plant intelligence, plant communication or a vegetative soul change human perspectives.

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WHEN WE STILL DO NOT KNOW WHAT THEATRE IS / CHRISTIANE JATAHY THE EXPERIENCE OF WATCHING The 1970s. I remember the first time I went to the theatre, I was four years old, almost five. It was during the worst period of the dictatorship in Brazil, a time of voices being silenced violently, of dissolved collectives, of profound silence, of censorship. I went to the theatre with my mother and father, who had disappeared until then. Everything between us was sensitive, we were not used to being a family. The three of us sat down in the audience, I in the middle, he to my left, she on the right and around us a full theatre audience. The three of us were looking at the same spot, in front of us, an empty stage, huge. In the audience people were moving and talking loudly, there they did not have a past, and the present was a promise of the future which was about to happen in a few minutes in that theatre. These minutes passed. I do not recall the transition between the moment before the play and the moment it began. But I do remember that from one moment to the next I was not just me anymore. I was those people on the stage, what they were saying, what they were living, the music that was playing, the laughter of the public, the arm of the chair I was pressing, my knee resting on the seat so that I could see better, my mother’s warm hand in mine, no more distance between us, no more distance between any of us. It was theatre, I still did not know.

THE EXPERIENCE OF BEING WATCHED The 1990s. For the first time I went to teach a theatre course. The course was in the biggest favela of Brazil, in Rocinha, in a school founded by a woman called Dona Elisa. She was a seamstress who had gone to school till fourth grade and decided to teach the children in her neighbourhood reading. It was a family school located in the backyard of her house with small classrooms built by the neighbourhood. There were children of all ages, some nearly adolescents, and with my arrival they heard the word theatre for the first time. At the beginning we played games and had fun, but one day I decided to rehearse a play to be presented at the end of the course at a festivity of the community. In the second week of rehearsals they no longer wanted

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↳056 As a privileged terrain for the mobilisation of affects and the construction of new subjectivities, theatre practices are crucial in the hegemonic struggle. 117

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to keep the same roles, they constantly kept asking me to change roles, they did not understand the idea that we would present to others what we were creating. As a result, our rehearsals were always different, because they wanted to act all the characters in the play. We continued and the day of the performance arrived. A huge festivity in the lower part of the favela. There, we were to show the play we had rehearsed for nearly two months. A sunny Sunday. I arrived at the court where the performance would take place. There were already many people present but none of the children. I asked the people of the school what was going on and they told me that the parents had not brought the children because they did not understand the idea that they were going to perform a theatre play. They had never been to the theatre. We decided to visit each child at home and explain to the parents how important it was to present the play they had been rehearsing for two months. We promised to take them back home afterward. Their houses were in different parts of the favela which is built on a hill. Some houses we could only reach sitting down and sliding down the steep hill. There were houses hanging in the air with many people living in it, sometimes more than one family. We entered each house and I tried to explain what theatre is, but how does one explain theatre to someone who has never seen theatre? Telling them it could only happen on that day, that they had rehearsed a lot, that people were waiting to watch; no words could explain what had never been seen. And perhaps, not by what was said, but by what we did – asking their approval, drinking coffee with them, talking – we managed to convince them to let all the children come with us. Even some relatives came along, curious to discover theatre. We came back to the court where the audience had already been waiting for quite some time. They had put chairs in front of the stage. It was the audience that had prepared the space while they had been waiting. They applauded happily when they saw us arriving. That was already the beginning. The children got dressed and we started the play. Everybody knew how to act all parts, but for the first time each one of them acted out his or her own part. They reacted to everything, open, lively, present. Surprised and happy to be seen and to be heard, to feel part of a collective group where each

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one depended on the other to make it work and to relate to each person present, watching and being watched. A utopia was possible there. A utopia is possible here. It’s theatre. Christiane Jatahy is an author, theatre director and filmmaker from Rio de Janeiro. In her plays she questions the boundaries of reality and fiction, actor and character, theatre and cinema, intimacy and publicity. Her numerous plays and films have been presented internationally and have received numerous awards i.a. twice the Shell Award, the most prestigious theatre award in Brazil.

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WHATEVER YOU DO IS THEATRE / JOJO & JOYEE (HOUSE OF MUCHNESS)

JOJO I’m 11 and I’m dyslexic. I’m a person who swears a bit. I like people who understand me, as me. I want to be a part of something. I’m a person who wants to change the world. I’m in the Children’s Party which is about children and ideas and politics in a theatre show. I might start to change the world that way. Theatre is important because it shows stories. Stories show generations and generations of people what’s going on. Where they’ve come from, why they’re here, and how they’re here. Things we need to know. Then we can understand people and their ways. My first show was actually a music festival in Adelaide when I was in my Mum’s belly. The first theatre show I remember was an opera. Because Roger’s cousin is an opera singer. Roger was my grandfather. I love theatre where you have to use your imagination, your own imagination which is different from everyone else’s. Because the things in the show are hard to see or aren’t there, you have to imagine them. You make them up. And then you can see them really well. But people might have a different story or pictures in their head compared to what’s in my head. If you don’t take kids to the theatre, then theatre will stop. Theatre shows lives and hearts and souls in actions. If I was taking a child to the theatre, a little child, I wouldn’t explain or tell them anything on the way. They would watch it and then they would explain it to me. If I was told I couldn’t see any more theatre, it would make me sad, it would make me angry. If I hadn’t seen some of the things I’ve seen in the theatre, I wouldn’t be me. And I like me. JOYEE Everything is connected to theatre. I was born in a place where theatre was very special. In India. And even though I was in an orphanage, I knew theatre was important there. My mum is part of theatre. I’m part of theatre. I do House of Muchness which is a type of theatre – we put on shows. Stuff like that.

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Every child has the right to do fun things. Like House of Muchness. I do Bollywood too because it goes with where I came from. Everything is theatre. It’s hard to explain. I wouldn’t try to explain it to someone who didn’t understand, I would just take them, show them, and they could see for themselves. Theatre is you. Whatever you do is theatre. Everything around you is theatre. You are theatre. All your body works together like a theatre. To make one big show. And that show is your life. Without theatre, there would be no imagination. Everyone wouldn’t be able to be themselves. Without stories, everyone would be bored all the time. A bit gloomy – they wouldn’t really feel very nice. It would be like the moon. No one could actually communicate with each other because of the big hats. If you have no imagination, well, the only thing to fix that is theatre. It makes you learn things. It can teach you about love. How it looks in different ways. And how different people who might not know if they can love each other, well, they can. If it’s a really powerful story, it can actually change us. Theatre is special and good and beautiful. And we have to have all the feelings – if a show makes us feel sad, then it can also make us feel hopeful – that a good thing can happen after. And most of the time it does. Jojo (11 years old) and Joyee (8 years old) are children attending House of Muchness, “an environment where young people can belong to a collective and build social relatedness, artistic expression and find their creative kin,” in Brunswick, Australia. These texts are a transcription of a conversation with its founder and artistic director, Alex Walker. The texts were first published for the annual World Day of Theatre for Children and Young People campaign in 2019, organised by ASSITEJ, the International Association of Theatre for Children and Young People.

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STOP PRETENDING / JOHN JORDAN A LOVE LETTER FOR THE MAKERS OF POLITICAL THEATRE AND THEIR SPECTATORS June 1st 2020. The Laboratory of Insurrectionary Imagination La zad de Notre-Dame-des-Landes. Dear fellow lover, Do you remember when you first fell in love with theatre? Do you remember how your body reacted? Was it an erotic experience or simply a spark of intellectual excitement? And what about the bodies you were watching? Shut your eyes. Feel back to that moment. I, for one, was a teenager. I remember a stage writhing with flesh. Swarming orgiastic beings, touching, breathing. Repetitive, trance like music. A forest of hands gesticulating. A woman’s voice, repeating: “What do I care for your orders! You can’t frighten me!” It all took place in Brussel’s Monnaie theatre, and I found it erotic, because it made me realise what it is to feel truly alive. In antiquity Eros was not considered a god of pleasurable satisfactory love, but a tragic figure. He was the embodiment of emotional intensity, the desire for life that burns just as hotly, if not more so, when unsatisfied. And after falling in love came my dissatisfaction. Theatre had shown me what it could mean to live a fuller life, but that feeling faded away when the show ended. My mother who took me to the Monnaie, never told me that it was infamous for being the only theatre to have sparked an actual revolution. It was summer 1830, insurrection was in the air, Paris had just seen 4000 barricades rise. In Brussels, an operetta set during a 17th century anti colonial rebellion in Naples was programmed. The Monnaie was packed. Act three began. Following a rousing chorus, the tenor paused and stepped out of his role, out of the past into the present. He shouted : “To arms citizens!” The audience replied: “Long live liberty!” He had stoped pretending and started acting, acting on and with the world, inter-acting with the reality of the situation; action had replaced representation. The audience broke their normative contemplation, pouring out of the theatre to build barricades: the spectators had become the spectacle. Shops were looted, the houses of the rich burnt, factories occupied and weeks later Belgium gained independence. For a brief moment theatre

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was no longer a rehearsal for revolution, nor an evocation of insurrection, but the real thing. It had returned to its roots in ritual – the age old theatre of magic, where a community performs a desire that is so intense and focused, that it bends reality. Aged 25 I would finally desert theatre to re-find its magic. I became an organiser in climate justice and anti-capitalist movements, co-designing new forms of disobedience that attempted to make resistance desirable, libidinous, fun and most importantly, politically effective. Faced with the very foundations of life on this planet being undone by the cancer like logic of capitalism, I could no longer pretend to do politics on stage, in theatres funded by corporate criminals, watched by audiences, who came for the thrill, experiencing conflict and justice, only to return to business as usual when they left the building. The only theatre that made sense anymore was the social drama of rebellion against the suicidal system that was putting profit in front of life. The activist collectives with which I worked recognised the beauty of rebel bodies. Together we crafted and choreographed humorous actions, blockades, occupations, climate camps, street parties and riots – knowing that these theatrical rebellions would amplify the emotional intensity of their participants, and that by focusing collective intensity on a vision – be it shutting down a coal fired power station, blocking an airport project, creating an alternative summit – reality could often be transformed, struggles could be won, new stories about the world told, human and more than human life protected. Such mass participatory rituals often have audiences that seemed unimaginable when I was working in theatre. As I write, the black lives matter uprising is spreading across the US, so many bodies refusing curfews, performing their rage. Reminding us that disobedience makes history. Last night on Twitter I saw live, thousands of people lying on the ground, hands behind their backs chanting: “I cant breathe!” for 9 minutes, the time it took for the police to lynch George Floyd. More than 6 million people watched that video last night. Good theatre gives me goosebumps, it charges and changes our bodies, and when it stops pretending it can change our worlds. Yet so much of the theatre world seems frightened of the messy fleshy off stage life world. I live on the ZAD, Zone à Défendre (the zone to defend),

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1650 hectares of wetlands where a 50 year long struggle defeated plans for an airport. The resistance brought farmers and activists together against a backdrop of treehouses, cabins and building the commons against a climate crime. A young theatre student was so inspired by his visit here that he asked the head of Le Conservatoire National Superieure d’art Dramatique, if their annual ‘rural workshop’ could go to the zad and work with our collective, the Laboratory of Insurrectionary Imagination, on how to merge theatre and politics. At the time the school’s end of year show was Zone a Etendre, inspired by the ZAD, where students dressed up as activists against a backdrop of cabins. “If I let you go to the zad”, the head of the conservatoire replied, “I will lose my job!” It was only ok for her students to stay in their roles and pretend to do politics. And will you stay in your role? Will you make dance pieces about protests when your skills as a choreographer could help crowds move through the streets to avoid the police? Will you design sets for plays about refugees when you could design tools to cut through the border fences? Will you perform the silence left where there were once songbirds, when you could beautifully block the pesticide factories that are annihilating them? Why make theatre that pretends, why not fall in love with life again? John Jordan John Jordan is a British artist and activist. He co-founded Reclaim the Streets and the Clandestine Insurgent Rebel Clown Army. He now co-facilitates the Laboratory of Insurrectionary Imagination (Labofii), researching creative forms of resistance across Europe against cooperate globalisation, war and environmental issues. The Labofii now inhabits the ZAD of Notre-Dame-des-Landes, “a territory lost to the republic,” according to the French government.

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BECAUSE / STEFAN KAEGI (RIMINI PROTOKOLL)  Because in theatre the phone is switched off. Because I hear others breathing. Because we hold our breath together. Because we are silent together. Because we release hormones. Because it’s easier to fall in love with people with whom you have released hormones. Because I can cry about something that has nothing to do with me. Because I’m not lonely in theatre. Because nobody can do theatre alone. Because people I don’t know sit next to me. Even people I can’t stand. Because people who would tear each other apart outside can stand next to each other on stage. Because everyone can do theatre. Because acting in theatre means acting together. Because in the end everyone plays their own roles, even if some try to play others. Because here everything artificial is defeated by children and animals. Because everyone knows what theatre is. Because nobody knows. Because everyone is surprised by what can also be theatre. Because everything that happens can become theatre. Because theatre can happen everywhere. Because the spectators also have a role, even when hiding in the auditorium. Because performances can be stopped at any time by anyone in the room. And because that never happens. Because theatre predicted behaviour long before algorithms existed. Because time passes here that no spectator has planned. Because it takes two seconds for applause to break out. Because theatre has similar rules to politics. Because I see how it is done in theatre, and then I notice it wherever power is exercised.

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Because complexity can be materialised on the rehearsal stage. Because here, the indescribable becomes tangible. Because in theatre things happen that are not written in literature. Because in theatre the staged and the unforeseen meet. Because nowhere else are hitches and glitches so exciting. Because theatre is embarrassing. Because you can hear a pin drop. Because nowhere else does nothingness happen with so much weight. Because we are afraid before the performance. And because we’re relieved afterwards. Because in theatre I fall asleep among people and can’t separate my dreams from the performance. Because it’s warm in theatre in winter. Because memories are made here without being photographed. Because theatre cannot be collected and sold for too high prices. Because theatre does not hang around forever. Because theatre only happens once. Stefan Kaegi creates documentary theatre plays, audio-interventions and works in the urban environment, often giving voice to ‘experts’ who are not trained actors. He is one of the founding members of the multi-award winning collective Rimini Protokoll.

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↳055 I think my fear, my dread to answer the question “Why theatre” and provide my essential contribution to this work is somehow rooted in the need for originality. Or in the need of being loved, liked, accepted, applauded. 128

A IS NOT. ANY MORE THAN B. / ALEXANDER KARSCHNIA (ANDCOMPANY&CO.) Why theatre? In times of upheaval, it is hard to give an answer. But one sentence keeps haunting many of us: “I can’t breathe”. And the scene from Minneapolis, from the brutal police murder of George Floyd. The sentence has turned into a political chorus all over the world. A terrible déjà-vu, because we heard these words before when Eric Garner was killed by the police in New York in 2014. When hearing this sentence, Frantz Fanon comes to mind. In Black Skin White Masks, he speculates about the reason to revolt: “Quite simply (…) because it became impossible (…) to breathe, in more than one sense of the word.” Fanon was referring to Black people, but he would always also talk about white people as well. He analysed their relationship as psycho-existential complex. “I hope by analysing it, I can destroy it.” While he was hoping for an ‘authentic disalienation’, he showed how much ‘alienation’ is inscribed in every notion of ‘identity’. “The N. is not. Any more than the white man.” Flashback: In November 2016 andcompany&Co. had its premiere of Not my revolution, if…: The stories of Angie O. It was planned as a piece about the ‘NGO-isation” of political protest. But during the rehearsals, reality kicks in. The former star of a reality TV-show wins the US-elections. Why theatre, we ask ourselves, when the theatricalisation of politics takes on such bizarre forms? Our focus shifts towards direct action and the concept of affinity groups. Inspiration we find in the text Coalition Politics: Turning the century by Bernice Reagon Johnson. One of the performer collapses on stage: “I‘m sorry, I can barely breathe among you. I feel as if I am going to keel over and die any minute.” The reaction: “But that’s the way it is in a group like this. The only reason why you get together with people who could kill you is because you don’t see any other way to stay alive.” Johnson, together with the Combahee River Collective, were pioneers of the so-called ‘identity politics’ in the late 1970s. As feminist women of colour, they did not feel represented by white women in the feminist movement, nor by Black and white men in social justice groups. They concluded that the source for radical politics was their own identity. Forty years later, this turn to ‘identity’ was blamed as the reason of Trump’s victory. ‘Identity politics’ has shifted the focus away from the social question and

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alienated the left from working class people. Mark Lilla called it “cultural theatre”. In response, the extreme right filled the void and took over the social question. But maybe Lilla did not only misunderstood ‘identity politics’, but also theatre. Isn’t the bigger problem the fact that the extreme right had developed their own ‘identity politics’ which did not fight against exclusion, but aimed to defend their privileges? Among them the privilege to remain among themselves. Quite the contrary in the original texts of ‘identity politics’. It is not a plea to retreat into a room of one’s own, a safe space. “One thing should be clear, the door to your four walls is painted bright red. They’ll definitely find you there, if they start cleaning up around here.” Whatever you do, stay together. Tous ensemble. Learn to work across differences. That is the secret of affinity. And the answer to the initial question. Theatre-practice is coalition work. And an antidote to ‘identity politics’ from the right. It subverts identity instead of supporting it. Almost 100 years ago, Brecht conceptualised the ‘alienation-effect’. He wanted the spectators to be able to zoom out, to distance themselves from what they saw on stage. Today we need to radicalise that concept. The ‘A-effect’ could help the spectators to distance themselves from themselves. All identities need to be performed, repeatedly. That is the power of performativity. In the repetition lies the potential for radical change. That’s a promise, and a threat: “You are not yourself!” A is not. Any more than B. This inverted ‘identity politics’ is especially needed among white people. For white people (especially men) tend not to look at themselves from the outside. While Black people in return have described many times how they keep looking at themselves from the outside, reflecting the gaze of their white surrounding (‘double consciousness’). We can find echoes of the white attitude in (post)dramatic texts like Heiner Müller’s Hamletmachine. “I go home and kill time/ at one with my undivided self.” An accurate description of how spectators should not leave the theatre. Because only those with a divided self can truly think. No one thinks alone. Thinking always is a ‘dialogue interieur’. The moment in which this internal activity becomes externalised we call ‘theatre’. Others call it ‘politics’. Hannah Arendt‘s ‘vita activa’. Or ‘love for the world’. “The world?”, Donald Trump asks. “I love the world!”. “Yes, you do,” Fanon would answer. “The white man wants the world; he wants it for himself alone.”

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Angie O. ended with a song to “the man who sold the world”. Why world? Because it is a stage: the space between us in which we can become who we are. And be what we are becoming: Breathe. Think. Begin... Alexander Karschnia is theatre maker, performer, author and co-founder of the international performance collective andcompany&Co. He e.g. invented the Frankfurt ‘night.dance.demo’, took over of Schlingensief’s political party ‘CHANCE 2000’ or curated conferences such as ‘NA(AR) HET THEATER – after theatre?’.

↳008 More than ever, we are involving the world. But has the world itself really felt involved? 131

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THE INFINITE GAME OF BECOMING / SUSANNE KENNEDY In the beginning there was: HE. Man as the measure of all things so that he may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals, and over all the creatures that move along the ground. He separated himself from the Greek chorus’ dancing and recitation and pronounced ‘I’: the birth of the tragic hero. From there he went out to conquer the world and all its inhabitants. He declared himself as ‘self’ and everything else as ‘other’. He declared himself as a rational and thinking being and on stage he recounted his adventures: conquering the savages and killing the beasts. The monologue of the imperialist about the universal human condition was exquisite: He told us how he was created in Gods own image. HE made him a subject, an organism – a tragic Adam who was cast out of paradise because he was seduced by Eve. The protagonist shouts, he weeps, he implores, he moves the audience to tears. They see themselves in him! The applause was never-ending. The critics were raving about it. But now! Suddenly in the middle of his performance, the face of our protagonist distorts, his words become slurry, unrecognisable, his movements that have been strong and decisive become weak and lifeless. There is a cry from afar but it originates from his own chest. His eyes roll back into his head and there: he bursts into thousands of fragments! The audience gasps with horror. Our protagonist is “becoming-woman, becoming-child, becoming-animal, -vegetable, or -mineral; becoming-molecular of all kinds, becoming-particles.”1 In the end he has become imperceptible. His becoming is never-ending and never finished. The play goes on and on. Hours become days become weeks and years. The centre stage seems empty but in the margins there is movement and giggling. Strange beings human and non-human are stirring in the wings. They communicate in languages we have yet to learn. These beings perform an exorcism. It is the human being that is being exorcised. The creatures place our protagonist – or what is left of him, or rather 1

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Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (2009)

what isn’t left of him – one last time on the autopsy table to remake his anatomy. Their dialogue sounds as follows: “Man is sick because he is badly constructed. – We must make up our minds to strip him bare in order to scrape off that animalcule that itches him mortally.” Our protagonist, who is no longer the protagonist, answers joyously: “For you can tie me up if you wish, but there is nothing more useless than an organ. When you will have made him a body without organs, then you will have delivered him from all his automatic reactions and restored him to his true freedom. Then you will teach him again to dance wrong side out as in the frenzy of dance halls and this wrong side out will be his real place.”2 The protagonist’s body has burst into a multitude of fragments. He is in the process of becoming and is no longer a ‘he’, but a ‘she’ or an ‘it’. He or she or it has developed a body without organs. He no longer needs his voice to tell us how he killed his father and married his mother. He no longer needs a face to cry his tragic tears. The complex has vanished into the hot air of the theatre. Nature has taken its course and the audience starts to realise the dark truth in their delirium: there is no separation! The body on stage has no borders because it is always already part of something else. And the spectators are forced to witness this transformative process. Confusion is spreading: Where is the conflict of feelings? What is this strange happening on stage? Where is our hero? More and more people are leaving the theatre. Some slam the doors in protest. By now we have reached the scene where our protagonist has started to mingle with the other bodies, entities, beings and forces on stage and beyond. A terrible realisation is dawning: There is no subject that lies behind the production, that performs the production! This is unsupportable. “Start acting!” a spectator cries out in utmost agony. Others demand: What is your name? What is your gender? What is your nationality? Your intention? Your goal? Your language? But our protagonist can no longer answer, nor does he desire to. Our fragmented protagonist is growing and growing – beyond the 2

Antonin Artaud, To have done with the judgment of God (1975)

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borders of the theatre, the street, the city, the nation, the universe and beyond. Our protagonist who stopped being a protagonist approaches the unknowable and the unpredictable – this quest is full of surprises and suspense. He/She/It is utterly faithful to him/her/it -self, moving through space and time: an ever-changing nomadic subject. This body can no longer be called human – it becomes a multiplicity of possible new connections and affects with other bodies and, more broadly, with the Earth itself. This is pure theatre. The boundaries and limits that this body encounters during his becoming are simply being incorporated: institutions, state borders, zones, ages, genders, death. This becomes a game – the infinite game of becoming. No one knows when this game began, for there is no beginning and no end. This infinite play is not restricted by time and the rules change constantly. The play we are watching is about total surrender. The drama is cosmic and encompasses all life. The play has no director, no script, no final outcome. It only has non-protagonists. When all is done, a group of human beings in white protection suits enter and clear the stage. Only 4 people applaud. The human face is an empty power, a field of death... ...after countless thousands of years that the human face has spoken and breathed, one still has the impression that it hasn’t even begun to say what it is and what it knows.3 3

Antonin Artaud, (written for a presentation of his Portraits and Drawings at the Galerie Pierre,

July 4-20, 1947)

Susanne Kennedy is a German author and director. Her works have been invited to the most known theatre festivals like the Wiener Festwochen, Dutch Theatre Festival, the Berliner Theatertreffen, Ruhrtriennale and many more. In 2017 she was awarded with the Europe Prize New Theatrical Realities.

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↳007 How can I trust a choreographer, director, dance or theatre company that contributes to global warming? 135

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THE LESS GOOD IDEA / WILLIAM KENTRIDGE In South Africa in the 1980s – which was the last decade of apartheid – there was strong censorship of press and news. But there was a gap in the world of theatre and performance. Many things could be said and shown on stage that could not be said or shown in the media. In South Africa at the time, theatre became a vital part of daily life – not least for the shared energy of a small audience close together in a theatre. In South Africa in those days theatre was also one of the first places of breaking the boundaries that apartheid enclosed. There were conversations between performers and audiences that, in their limited sphere, were a utopian vision of how communication could happen in a damaged society. Improvisation and workshop creation were the key elements of this period and remain key for me in the theatre work I do now. Even if the work ends up in an opera house in Europe or America, the preliminary improvisatory work done in the studio in Johannesburg is key, both in finding a language and in generating the energy that feeds invention through the mental and physical proximities of the performers. Four years ago I founded an arts centre in Johannesburg called the Centre for the Less Good Idea (the title comes from the Tswana proverb, “If the good doctor can’t heal you, find the less good doctor”). This is a centre in which actors, musicians, dancers, writers, artists come together, and twice a year make a season of different offerings for public viewing. The principle of it is that one starts with an idea, but it is in the physical activity of making – rehearsing, improvising, repeating the same gesture with variations, that ideas emerge (the less good idea) and often shift the work and take centre stage. This is not a theoretical position. It is about thinking in the movement of the body and voice, allowing us to recognise things which our body knew, but we did not know we knew. This becomes very clear to participants in the workshops at the centre. The completion of the making of this meaning relies on the presence of an audience, in our case small (our spaces are not large), maybe 150 people at a time, to share this discovery. To understand, in their recognition of what they see in front of them, their participation in making meaning. This complicity confirms the agency of all in the theatre, both performers and audience, in making sense of the world. 136

William Kentridge is a South African artist working in drawing, film, print making, sculpture, theatre and opera. His works have been exhibited in solo exhibitions at many museums, including the MoMa in New York, and the Albertina Museum in Vienna.

↳021 Theatre is a rehearsal of the revolution. 137

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NEVER BECOMING THE CONCRETE ANSWER / AMIR REZA KOOHESTANI When faced with such a broad question like “Why theatre?” there is a strange pull toward answering it in a very narrow way. There is no ‘formula’; there is no ‘right’ answer; there is no ‘universal’ answer. Nevertheless, we are all talking about one word: theatre. I have a strong feeling that when this book is released, and I read it, I will be saying “ah!” and “yes, exactly” for it is much easier to find your answers in what others have written than to write your own. At the same time, it is very likely that the answer I give to this question on May 26th 2020 will not be valid on the day you read it. This is a lesson I have learned from theatre itself. Theatre, as I experience it, is not the place to stage the final answer you have on your hand. In fact, I very much doubt that any answer that can be labelled ‘final’, can stay valid. In theatre, I think, the best answers are those that give birth to the next question, those that even disprove the answer that seemed ‘final’, in order to make sure the conversation never ends. So, my answer, like theatre itself, is ephemeral and fixed to a time and a place; to my experience of time and place. First, a broad take. Theatre is more about the process than the result. The collective process that artists start in the rehearsal room and then, in the moment of performance, the audience is invited to participate in. A process quite different from those of the other art forms. Let us take this book as an example. We have, individually, and unaware of each other’s, written our own answer to a simple question “Why theatre?”. They are compiled, turned into a book, and released. Now, for the first time, we are able to read all the answers collected together; the answers are together, but we are not. Now let us imagine that, instead of releasing this book, we would all come together and ask Ian McKellen to read all our answers on a stage. I believe it would produce a different layer of understanding; an understanding that we would only get collectively, that would only happen on that specific day. This is something that I cannot find anywhere else. So why theatre? Because in theatre, a collective process of creation takes place that is liberating, because it is not concrete, because it cannot be final and ultimate, because it changes with the people and for the people, even though its building blocks stay the same. 

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Now let us narrow it down to something more personal. During these past few days, when thinking about my particular ‘why’, I found myself coming back to something very specific about what I need in an art form in relation to my working situation, as I am working in an exceptional situation: I am directing theatre from two entirely different planets, Iran and Germany. Just to name a few differences: in Iran, there is no subsidised money available, and the whole theatre company must survive on the box office. There is an official censorship programme, and our texts and performances have to be pre-approved by a committee before going on the stage. Iran does not have a long history of ‘theatre’, the new wave of Iranian theatre is as young as my generation, and before that, we had a dark age of post-revolution nothingness for about 30 years. Yet, the theatre audience of Iran is young, enthusiastic and demanding. That is where my career began and where I still work very often. Then, in Germany, like in most European countries, the majority of ‘publicum’ are senior citizens, traditionally belonging to a theatregoing family, whose ‘taste’ has been shaped through sampling the flavours of some of the greatest contemporary artists of the world. They know what they want. The history is long and rigid. That is where I am invited to work. On the one hand, it makes it very difficult for artists like me, who do not belong to the community, to challenge the established ‘taste’. And on the other hand, it seems like the idea of inviting someone outside of the community, who does not even speak the language, to work on Wagner, Müller, Büchner or Anna Seghers, is to be asked to be confronted with an alternative point of view on these traditional texts that the audience is so used to watch through the eyes of German directors. That is probably why the press always underscores my nationality and where I come from; to remind me and the audience why I am invited. I am doomed to be ‘the alternative’. I have actually been criticised a couple of times for my theatre not being ‘alternative’ enough, . They expect me to be an ‘Iranian director’. What is the point of inviting a director from abroad if they are going to repeat what a local one can do? Funnily enough, something similar happens in my hometown. Since I started touring productions of the Mehr Theatre Group, my Iranian company, in Europe, there have always been voices in Iran saying that I

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create theatre for the sake of satisfying and seducing international festival curators; that I do not consider the needs of my local audience – even when the works themselves were received warmly by both the audience and the critics alike. I am becoming a ‘foreigner’ in the minds of some people back home, if not a ‘traitor’. I am not fulfilling their expectations of an ‘Iranian director’. Now, I have the same status working from two very different planets. That of the Albert Camus’ Meursault: being a stranger. The one who doesn’t fit into one of the communities, but is of both worlds. A sense of not belonging while being there. Something like the Brechtian view of an actor on the character: neither being the character, nor yourself on the stage, but always being in the process of becoming and never reaching the final destination, never becoming the concrete answer. So, for me, that is the ‘why’. Because for a stranger, theatre is a place of relief and refuge. A place where process is more important than the result, where things can become more than their building blocks, and where the answer is not the end of the conversation, but just the beginning of a new one. Amir Reza Koohestani is considered one of the most important Iranian theatre makers and playwriters of his generation. At the age of 18, he founded the Mehr Theatre Group in Tehran with the aim of developing new forms of theatre, distinct from the traditional Iranian concept, including documentary elements and film. With his third play, ‘Dance On Glasses’(2001), he gained international notoriety and is since then working and touring internationally.

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↳090 Theatres are fantastic. It’s not just the building. Once the theatre is no longer there the building also loses its cool lustre, its power, its inevitability.

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OUR OPERA IS A BODY, IS A VESSEL, IS A VILLAGE / AINO LABERENZ

© Mario Lombardo

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Aino Laberenz works as a costume and set designer for various theatres. She worked closely with Christoph Schlingensief for several of his film, theatre and opera productions. Since 2010 she is the managing director of Christoph Schlingensief’s ‘Operndorf Afrika‘. With curator Susanne Gaensheimer, she designed the German pavilion at the 54th Venice Biennale in 2011 with works by Christoph Schlingensief and was awarded the Golden Lion.

↳046 Why friendship? Why sorrow? Why war? Why sensibility? Why Hieronymus Bosch? 143

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BORN FROM THE INSIDE OUT / SIDI LARBI CHERKAOUI Theatre allows us to identify with others. Whether you are on stage performing a role which in real life would be so unlike yourself, or as an audience, you are looking at a character on stage you had no idea could be compelling to you, during -and after- the experience the result is the same: you know and understand more about what it means to be human. It expands you, your humanness, it broadens your horizon, it opens your soul: you can feel what it’s like to be someone you are not, it breaks the borders of your identity, it pushes you into not just relating but at times becoming someone else, even if just for a moment. Empathy, solidarity, interconnectedness, compassion… Theatre thrives because it is rooted within these essential human qualities. Theatre carries our stories into the future, it makes a moment live on forever.  One of the hardest things to pass on from one generation to the next is ‘life experience’. Here again theatre helps achieve this in the most organic way. It can find a form, a shape, an interpretation, a personal angle to keep details or essential parts of our history alive. Theatre frames the world… It also reflects it and challenges it. Taboos become discussable. Difficult subjects get a platform, there’s a freedom on stage that sometimes goes beyond the space given to us in real life. The context of theatre can be a caring home, the convention of it helps to create a secure bubble: we are challenged by it and paradoxically we feel safe in it too. The notion that theatre creates a protective place is very real, for many people it is a haven, a temple, a place of worship even, when there’s an artist’s performance you really want to see, or a story that you desperately want to experience. It creates an opportunity to see, hear, feel and meet people who otherwise would not be accessible to you. It truly brings people together, in the most simple and practical way. It’s therapeutic: through seeing a character go through something you have gone through, you feel heard, you’re not alone anymore, you feel the experience being validated. Theatre gives value to the smallest gesture, gives perspective to the biggest tragedy. Theatre also transforms time; it allows you to experience the pulse of life differently. Through the ups and downs of the performance, it cradles you with an ebb and flow of emotions. The beauty is that our inner rhythm becomes challenged; some plays feel long whilst being objectively short,

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others feel short whilst being long: it often brings you in this parallel dimension where the past, the present and the future seem to intertwine. It challenges your memory: theatre only exists in the minds of those who were there. And no two minds experience the same theatre, it is incredibly personal even if it is a collective experience. My most cherished memories of theatre are when I had the privilege of seeing the play be born from the inside out. Working on developing a text or a scene, seeing the coming together of all these letters, these words, these sentences, into one cohesive whole, has always been like witnessing a miracle. The performers connect the dots, the ideas find a form of expression which transcends the original premise. Chaos becomes order. And no two shows, even if played exactly in the same way, make you feel the same way. The same story can keep revealing itself to you. Every time you see something else, it grows with you. The world is a place where very little seems to make sense to me; theatre somehow organises all these random events, brings them together in a digestible whole, it structures your thinking, it gives perspective. In other words, for some of us, theatre keeps us sane. Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui is a Belgian choreographer. He has made over 50 full-fledged choreographic pieces and picked up a slew of awards, including two Olivier Awards, three Ballet Tanz awards for best choreographer and the Kairos Prize for his artistic vision and his quest for intercultural dialogue. He has his own company Eastman, and is the artistic director at the Royal Ballet of Flanders.

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EMBODIMENT / URSINA LARDI An Australian myth tells of a mountain-sized frog that swallowed the ocean and all the waters of the world. The fish and all the other sea creatures were left wriggling on dry land. All of a sudden, an eel began balancing on the tip of its tail, walking up and down in front of the frog with a somewhat desperate dignity until the frog collapsed laughing and spit out all the water. In the face of this existential threat, my colleague the eel preferred performing for the frog, rather than entering into a discussion with him to explain why, for very obvious reasons, he should quickly spit out the water. We who work in theatre are not the only ones, it would seem, who are persuaded that to embody an idea is to give it an essential and indeed transformative value that simply stating it cannot. Even God wasn’t content to publish and spread his thoughts and commandments by dictating them to prophets of all types, but apparently found their embodiment through a son necessary and meaningful. Ursina Lardi is a Swiss actress. She played in Michael Haneke’s award-winning ‘The White Ribbon’ (2009, Golden Palm Cannes) and received in 2014 the Swiss Film Award for best actress. 2017 she was awarded with the Hans-Reinhart-Ring, the highest award in Swiss theatre. Since 2012 she is part of the ensemble of the Schaubühne am Lehniner Platz, Berlin.

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↳103 Theatre actually cries for all of your attention. 147

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I NEED COMPANY / JAN LAUWERS (NEEDCOMPANY) London, 15th March 1592: a pandemic is decimating the population of Europe. And on top of that it’s freezing cold. Incomprehensible changes in the climate. People panic or die of starvation and cold. Shakespeare has to close his theatre: a general lockdown is imposed. He has just come from a meeting with his company: they have no work and are hungry. It weighs on their minds: Richard Burbage, his best actor and the favourite of their audiences, cries out that this is the end of the theatre. They are inconsolable. Shakespeare throws his latest and unfinished play in the bin, is compelled to stay at home in quarantine and reviews his life. He writes his first world-famous sonnets. A few years later he builds his Globe theatre and writes Julius Caesar, and Burbage once again has the chance to shine. More than four hundred years later, theatre is still indestructible and outrageously present. It’s April 2020. Just as in the 16th century, we are again in forced quarantine. Never before in the history of mankind have so many people been obliged to spend their time differently. To re-think their time. In spite of all the misery involved, this is a splendid notion. And it is happening at a time when a great many momentous questions are being raised, about the climate, equality, racism, the oppression of women, the accursed patriarchal system and so on. So many things are already going on today. And on top of all this we have now been given time to think. This ought to make the world a better place. It’s a good thing that theatres, museums and concert halls have to remain empty for a while. It’s a good thing for all of us to reflect. And I have noticed that our politicians and our scientists, who are now in overdrive and therefore have too little time to think, badly need those who are staying at home. Not for their civil obedience, but for taking time to think about such extremely thorny matters as love and happiness. For artists, self-assured in what is pointless, this is highly inspiring. OK. Let’s think! Why not theatre? Can we retrain ourselves? Become social workers? Doctors? Firemen? Virologists? Nurses? Make the world a better place by doing something that does matter? Scientists change the world much more than art ever can. It’s perplexing: art needs the world, but the world doesn’t need art. Alright, let’s call it a day. Away with theatre. Away with all those arts. But fortunately that’s not what we

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↳016 Do atoms dance? Do flowers dance? Do birds dance? Do clouds dance? Do stars dance? 149

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shall decide to do. Quarantine has no influence on the arts. On the contrary, new Globes will be built, as life under quarantine is surely a normal situation for a creative artist. All writers isolate themselves to keep out the noise. Or to let in as little as possible. Because an artist must after all create a detached connection with the world. In theory there is no difference between, let’s say, Michelangelo, Rothko and Warhol: they all start from that empty moment, that blank canvas, and then decide when they will let the world in. I am convinced that the longer the noise is kept out, the more vividly the artwork manifests itself. The time Michelangelo spent staring at his block of marble before he carved the pietà: that is the noiseless time. Even an artist such as Warhol, always surrounded by people, was a master at controlling that noiseless time, which he did by making the people themselves noiseless, reducing them to the role of material. That is why he came across as unworldly and autistic. But in fact it was a noble anti-noise attitude. But in critical situations the language of intelligibility is required. And then this language has to be shouted as loudly as possible. That produces a lot of noise. This noise makes the task of the silent artist extremely delicate, timeless, but invariably united by a single concept: time. ‘Time’ was invented so that not everything happens at the same moment. Theatre is one of those places in the great cultural whole where everything can happen at the same time. Theatre means questioning time. This is the only political significance of theatre. That is where its true beauty lies. And that beauty is dark, bright, excruciatingly slow or as swift as an arrow, velvety soft or viciously hard, obscure or clear, dull or violent, bleeding in a corner or dancing on a grave, and always demanding. Theatre is about failing in style and the spectacular nature of the pointless. About the radicality of what is entertaining. About magic. About ecstasy. The importance of ritual. The necessity of being together in a dark auditorium. The tragedy of applause. About the beauty of working together. Theatre is the oldest and most intact artistic medium to have always proven its social and political importance. Theatre is a delightfully conservative and indestructible medium. No wave of iconoclasm, dogmatic movement or manifesto has ever been able to strike at the soul of theatre. Shakespeare had to compete with popular dogfights and public torture. He watched as his mentor, Campion, had his belly cut open alive

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and his entrails set alight ‘so that he could behold hell’. The people were overcome by so much fun. Yet he still loved people. And working together. And theatre. This is what determines the difference between fine art and applied art. Splendid isolation and cooperation. As a writer I seek out solitude. As a theatre-maker I subject myself to the dictatorship of cooperation. As a theatre-maker I need company. I need company. Jan Lauwers is a Belgian artist who works in just about every medium. Over the last thirty years he has become best known for his pioneering work for the stage with Needcompany which he founded with Grace Ellen Barkey, and has also built up a substantial body of art work which has been shown at BOZAR (Brussels) and McaM (Shanghai) among other places.

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LET US BE INVADED / MARCO LAYERA I don’t sing for love of singing or to show off my voice but for the statements made by my honest guitar Víctor Jara1 Behind every artistic work lies the need of the ‘author’ to communicate, to make known his particular vision of the world, in short, TO BE HEARD. In our case, this compelling need has its origins in the outrage and resentment that inhabit our bodies and in the conviction that our craft is an instrument which allows us to modify our society. Otherwise I think we would have devoted ourselves to something else. Below I will present a series of reflections, questions and ideas that have guided us: LET’S TALK ABOUT MARGINALISATION How can we talk about marginalisation today? The mere fact of considering the question of marginalisation in such terms shows that we live outside of it; the marginal generally do not question ‘marginalisation on the scene’. How do we access it if we’re always looking at it from the outside with a Diet Coke in one hand and a golden briefcase full of makeup in the other? Even more complex: how do we REPRESENT it? Ethics? Aesthetics? If so, what would be the ‘ought to be’ of our days? Being COOL and subversive at the same time… some contemporary voices are shouting at us. The categorical imperative of our time demands us to represent it: Without resorting to clichés Without glorifying it Without pitying it 1

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Translation by Joan Jara

Without allowing the artwork to diminish its brutality, Without sublimating it Without allowing the melodrama to monopolise it, the daily disgust already does that, it’s its democratic-cultural discourse, it loves the ‘picturesque life’ of that otherness. BEAUTY? There are those who maintain that theatre must be beautiful even when it shows horrors or brutalities, or else it does not generate strangeness. I ask myself: how can we look for beauty where it doesn’t exist? Injustice isn’t beautiful, The brutalities and atrocities of our times even less – they should generate strangeness by themselves, they do not need make up to do this. A good-looking poverty creates a compassionate look. A look that allows the audience to feel good about themselves, benefiting from the misfortune they are shown. Compassion generates empathy from immobility. These times are not for STATUS QUO. There are no adjectives more dangerous for scenic work than BEAUTIFUL, NICE and HONEST. We need to reach the public, shake it up in all its dimensions. SHATTERING THE METAPHOR When authoritarianism ruled us, everything on the stage was a metaphor, the use of this resource followed the repression and censorship to which creators were exposed in those times. Today we ask ourselves: What role does the metaphor play today? Why is it still embedded in the scene? What are we afraid of? Why don’t we say things as they are or as we think they are? What do we care about? THEATRE SHOULD NOT CARE ABOUT ANYTHING! Metaphors simply hide a real term; author and public both agree that you do not mean what you are saying. This makes us assume that what one wants to communicate is found elsewhere, in it there is a demand for turning one’s back on the world. The metaphor disguises the real and

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distances the public from what one really wants to communicate. From this perspective, the metaphor seems to us today to be ineffectual, since it is not capable of questioning the public; the latter does not feel addressed because there is always talk of ‘others’. We need more direct and critical approaches to reality. The immediacy of the discourse does not have to become obvious: we believe that a ‘direct language’ can be used in a deep and artistically elevated way. ENTERTAINMENT VS. REFLECTION Theatre can entertain and provoke reflection at the same time. We no longer believe in the tradition that the human tragedy should be narrated in a dense or one-sided form. We usually perceive ‘theatre’ as a superior artistic discipline, full of seriousness and formalities, almost operatic, definitely making it something ‘SERIOUS AND DISTANT’. It is necessary to dishevel it, to disrespect it, to give it freshness and audacity. It does not seem to us that ‘the great themes of humanity’ are still, almost by obligation, told from the same place that is characterised by its dryness and darkness. Theatre can entertain and not be superficial. There are other views which, based on contradiction, excess, cruelty, irony or the absurd, possess a much more disturbing and corrosive reflective power. We chose to work with A LUCID FORM AND A LUCID DEPTH. Our craft must be able to entertain and make the spectator reflect, to modify him by presenting him with a transfiguring view of reality. THE TIME HAS COME The order of things has changed and theatre must establish a relationship with its present, and an ability to confront its outside. We can no longer imitate past and predominant artistic forms and discourses. They responded to other times and today they do not seem to live up to the task. The tragedy and the drama invite us to their funeral, our time makes these dramatic forms NAIVE and RIDICULOUS. How can you make a tragedy, when the truth is out there and rules us crudely? How to cope with a room with black walls and artificial light, inhabited by liars? How to exert tension on the tragedy from here? The time has come for theatre to regain its subversive and transformative power/ The time has come to approach our trade as what it is: a

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collective exercise, a way of making a community/ The time has come to democratise a space that has remained elitist for years, it is time for the spotlights to illuminate other faces as well and for other bodies to have the privilege of sitting in those seats. These times demand that we LET OURSELVES BE INVADED by the outside, to go beyond the comfort of the stage and the glamour of the applause. We need to tear down the walls of the theatre to inhabit the streets, where the bullets are not blanks, the sets are not made of cardboard and the blood is not just another effect. Marco Layera is a Chilean director. He studied law and specialised in criminology before he founded the theatre collective La Re-sentida in 2008 using drama as tool of political thought, necessarily innovative and subversive, where he remains the artistic director. His shows have been presented in more than 25 countries and 80 international stages.

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THEATRE BELONGS IN A MUSEUM / JAMES LEADBITTER (THE VACUUM CLEANER)

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James Leadbitter (the vacuum cleaner) is a UK based artist and activist. He addresses challenging and taboo issues such as consumerism and mental health. With roots in activism he has created one-man interventions and large-scale actions as well as performance, installation and film which have been presented internationally and at Tate Modern or the Wellcome Collection.

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WHY SEA STARS? / FRIE LEYSEN Why beauty? Why migration? Why science? Why Donald Trump? Why spring? Why Mozart? Why the superfluous? Why fear? Why fanaticism? Why love? Why Bolsonaro? Why exploitation? Why philosophy? Why friendship? Why sorrow? Why war? Why sensibility? Why Hieronymus Bosch? Why flowers? Why rich/poor? Why Recep Tayyip Erdoğan? Why floods Why science? Why poverty? Why family? Why horror? Why manipulation? Why invading space? Why Monteverdi? Why generosity? Why corona?? Why racism? Why Italian renaissance? Why burning Amazon rainforest?

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Why pain? Why opportunism? Why intelligence? Why the ephemeral? Why sea stars? Why... Why... Why... Frie Leysen is a Belgian festival director. She established the international arts centre deSingel in Antwerp, and went on to rethink the role of festivals locally, nationally and internationally by co-founding the multidisciplinary and bilingual Kunstenfestivaldesarts in Brussels. 

↳071 Hearing the previous requiem / looking at the upcoming madness / all turning into expression. 159

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ABOUT THE INEFFABLE: THE MYSTICAL CONCEPTION / ANGÉLICA LIDDELL “No one has the possibility to say anything, at all, because there is no word that can communicate or express this experience, nor is there intelligence or thought that can capture it, as it so much surpasses everything. As with God, who cannot be explained by anything. God really cannot be explained by anything!”, says St. Angela of Foligno to Friar Arnold in her Book of Life. And: “The divine Scripture is so sublime that there is no wise man in the world, even if he is endowed with intelligence and spirit to understand it, that can understand it so thoroughly that it does not overflow him, and yet stammer something. But, about those ineffable divine operations that take place in the soul when God manifests Himself, absolutely nothing can be said or stammered.” We will stammer something then, but neither why, nor what for, for that would be to diminish the experience, the indescribable, the ineffable of art. There is no such thing as ‘why’ or ‘what for’ theatre. Rather, and in line with St. Augustine, it unfolds like any spiritual experience in a ‘je ne sais quoi’. On the other hand, like love, any artistic expression has value because of its uselessness. A great useless suffering, that is art, that is true love. Famous is the episode in which St. Augustine tells us about the theft of some pears just for the pleasure of stealing. “And we carried great loads from him, not to give them away, but rather to have them thrown to the pigs, though we ate some. We felt delighted to do that which pleased us by the very fact that it was forbidden to us.” Absurd, purposeless thefts bring us closer to God. Any useless act, like art, live love, brings us closer to God. The suffering to which love leads us is absolutely useless and therein lies its necessity and its beauty. Only purpose, calculation and reflection keep us away from transcendence. We need to attract God even at the cost of heresy, even at the cost of love, even at the cost of theft. Madness is our best weapon of seduction. Prohibition leads us right to another quality of aesthetic supremacy: transgression.

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If taboo and the law are applied with all their force to sex and death, art only finds its freedom in the violation of the law of life, and therefore of the law of the state. As long as theatre places the level of representation in ‘life’, amplifying the taboo and the prohibitions on the physical aspects of the representation and its reception, susceptible to censorship and scandal, above any other expression, painting, photography, cinema..., the sense or nonsense of the theatrical expression only discovers its space in the radical, in the violence linked to birth, sex and death, in that violation of the law, since the law of poetry is not the law of the state. Here I link to my search in the dark. Following Florensky’s teachings, I propose a medieval vision. Nothing interests me about the world of appearances, the world of the explainable. I despise the illustration of the outside world in favour of the inside world, that is, the unrepresentable. With the Renaissance and the optical perspective, artificiality, the appearance, was established. On the other hand, what interests me is the inverted perspective, the perspective of God, the medieval concept, the contempt for the imitation of nature in favour of the supernatural. Everything in art is at the service of the unrepresentable. Appearance destroys the world, true likeness is the likeness of the non-existent, it is something other than what we can see with our eyes. In short, what interests me is the world of the invisible. And therefore, to create means above all to love failure. Finally, we will not stop fighting for beauty. The pursuit of beauty is the torture of the soul. April 22nd, 2020 Angélica Liddell is a Spanish director, writer and performance artist. She is known for her unconventional and visually stunning works about personal, social and political violence. Together with her company Atra Bilis she has produced and toured internationally and was i.a. awarded the Spanish National Dramatic Literature Award (2012) and the Silver Lion at the Venice Biennale (2013).

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LABORATORIES OF THE FUTURE / MATTHIAS LILIENTHAL Theatres, as laboratories of a future society, are of significance not to be underestimated. But does that mean they are already systemically relevant? Is that even a desirable goal? Do their strengths sometimes not even lie in their ‘superfluousness’? What does the question of relevance mean for the freedom of art? The more art, especially the performing arts, takes on the role of wanting to be of benefit to society, the more it opens itself up to regulation by state bodies. The system of project funding would be an obvious example. On the other hand – who would want art that believes itself to be completely free of the gravitational fields of social conflict? The price of its so-called ‘freedom’ would then be irrelevance. In Germany, the theatre was created at the courts of the small states. There it was something like royal self-marketing. The National Theatre of Goethe and Schiller was founded – 50 years before the German Reich – at the time of the Weimar court. It anticipated the process of nation-building and was to accompany it culturally from then on. The moment of self-understanding of a bourgeoisie emancipating itself from feudal rule has been preserved to this day. The structures of the feudal system and their forms of exercising power and rule have also remained in the inner life of the theatres. With the Hamburg Schauspielhaus the Hanseatic bourgeois society set itself a monument at the end of the 19th century. Shortly thereafter, in a counter-movement, the foundations were laid by the spirit of the labour movement, the Volksbühne in Berlin or the Volkstheater in Vienna. The mission fluctuated between the cultivation of bourgeois cultural traditions and educational opportunities for the working class. What they all had and still have in common is the function of stabilising the system. But, especially in the times of the Weimar Republic, it also became an art form in which conflicting social interests competed for the sovereignty of interpretation and the artistic means necessary to achieve this. In the end, as is well known, on stayed the ambivalent characters, open to the temptations of opportunism. The fact that the system of publicly funded municipal theatres was a Nazi invention and that the Münchner Kammerspiele carried the subheading “Stage of the Capital

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of the Movement” on its letterhead was never really systematically dealt with – unlike the guilt of individual persons. After the Second World War, Bertolt Brecht deliberately went to East Berlin and thus clearly set himself apart from the provincial muff into which the West German theatre of the post-war period had sunk. Perhaps it was also the spirit of Bertolt Brecht that led Frank Castorf in the early 1990s to the fundamental decision to respond to the process of reunification at the Volksbühne with the polemical claim of an Eastautonomy. With the OST (east) logo, an imaginary GDR was invoked that never existed in this form. Together with the unforgotten stage designer Bert Neumann, he created a powerful symbol to counter the unwinding of the East by the West. As before, the German city theatre is still oriented towards the cultivation of the German language and predominantly also towards a canon that has long since been identified by postcolonial discourse as an instrument of assertion by white power. In our present day, the performing arts only have any meaning if they also deal with this culpable entanglement and charge themselves ‘from outside’, transforming social developments into a kind of friction. This is precisely what the hybrid model that we had in mind for the Kammerspiele was and is intended to achieve: if half of the directors no longer speak German and rehearsals are held in English, it depicts a society based on the unlimited exchange of people and goods, for better or worse. In turn, the involvement of Independent Theatre Groups replaces a hierarchical system with a principle of collectivity and the decision of the director with an open discussion process. Both fundamentally change the way of producing and the works created in this way. We live in a time of extreme acceleration. The revolutions of the IT world are changing everything. More and more, they are moving into Artificial Intelligence-based forms of being human and living together with non-human entities. The theatre itself is not excluded from these profound upheavals, on the contrary. Our habits of seeing, the way theatre creates publicness, the production processes themselves: nothing will be the same in the foreseeable future – even if some theatre directors are trying their best to think of the stage as a museum of the world of yesterday. The performing arts will only survive if they see change not as a threat,

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but rather as an opportunity for new aesthetics and content. The theatre could – just one of many examples – show what happens when an event on the internet that is invisible in itself meets the reality of the analogue world and, as if by magic, has an effect on it. Will theatres become more like virtual film studios? Will the employees soon be freelancers of performing arts start-ups, technicians of a place for illusions? That’s, too, a development that has already been on the way for some time. Theatre has to overcome its traditional shyness towards the world of technology, take these resources of information processing under its wing. Strategies must be developed to take advantage of all this – against the grain of the operating manuals envisaged by the corporations, in order to formulate political and aesthetic resistance. Now we need theatres that formulate visions, that collaborate on a new ethic of society, which is no longer geared solely towards consumption and economic efficiency. For this, the arts need not less but more financial resources. The car industry is a phase-out model. Culture and theatre are not.   Matthias Lilienthal was head of dramaturgy of the Volksbühne am RosaLuxemburg-Platz under Frank Castorf where et alia he worked with Christoph Marthaler and Christoph Schlingensief. He has been the artistic director of HAU (Hebbel am Ufer) in Berlin and the Munich Kammerspiele.

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THE SUSPENSION OF FREEDOM / ÉDOUARD LOUIS

“The first time that I experienced real confrontation in theatre was in high school. We were taken to the theatre to watch Angels in America. At that time, I had no access to arts. I was not reading yet. My family rejected books because they felt rejected by books. They grew up in a milieu were nobody would go to school or university. A book for my mother or father was like the symbol of the life they didn’t have, the life of people who went to school, who studied, and therefore, had a more privileged and easier life. So as a result, they did not like books. Culture rejected us, so we rejected culture. But then with school, we went to watch this theatre play, a play about homosexuality. Suddenly I saw men kissing, having sex and in a very explicit way. It was everything that I knew about myself, of my desire for other men, but that I was trying to hide from others the whole time because I was ashamed, of me, of these desires. And suddenly those were exactly the things I saw on stage. I actually walked out of the theatre, stood up and said: “I don’t want to see that gay stuff.” But it was too late. Something inside me was broken and open. I had seen these men touching each other and couldn’t escape the fact that it was all that my body was asking from me.  What is important in this anecdote is not me, my person, but this: theatre can be so powerful in forcing people to see, what they usually avoid, what they have built exit strategies for or against, to not watch, or not listen. Even if they know these things they avoid do exist, and are there, around us, not only as desires but also as violence, racism, poverty and hate. Everybody knows these things exist but often people try to avoid being confronted with reality. Confrontation is what interests me about theatre. A room filled up with people, who have to stay and listen. Of course they can walk out, but there is still, a kind of physical power of theatre. A book you can just put aside or away, theatre you cannot. You have to keep watching and be confronted with what you see. This is the potential radical power that theatre has, the suspension of freedom for a brief moment.  Theatre should never forget this unique power, because along with the power goes the responsibility of the choice of what you are talking about. And that’s why theatre should always be made with a certain feeling of shame, confronting the public, the actors, the makers. To what and

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whom will we listen and what and whom will be silenced? Of course you can stage The Hypochondriac by Molière, I love Molière, and when I read it I am moved to the core, but at the same time migrants are dying, the Amazon forest is disappearing, women are being sexually assaulted and not being believed as victims. I think it was Ta-Nehisi Coates, referring to Baldwin, who said: when I walk down the street, I see these beautiful little streets, with beautiful little trees, and a beautiful little bench, it makes me angry because I know it’s a lie. The world is not like this. This aesthetic that I am seeing is not representing the reality, what is currently happening in this world. And that’s the same for me: I go to the theatre and I see The Hypochondriac, and I think this is a lie, this is not what is going on around us, this is not what we live in. Reality is actually a delicate issue. It’s what builds us, it’s everywhere around us, but it is the most difficult thing to see, to touch, to represent. Isn’t that strange? There is still an old-fashioned ideology of what art is, an engrained ideology for centuries: the less you say, the more artistic you are. The more you suggest things, and the less you show them, the more powerful you are. We created this very strange system, in which, if you do art, the best compliment people can give you is: “It’s wonderful because everything is suggested, because it says nothing.” This is only serving the people’s strategies to not watch, to not be confronted. Often the art field gets tangled up in their own exit strategies. What I believe is that we should use theatre as an art of confrontation, and a place to fight the system with the system – because of course theatre is always part of the system we live in: who goes to the theatre? Who can afford it, who was educated to go there? Who is absent? I think we lose our time when we ask ourselves: can theatre be completely out of the system – a system of class, of oppression, of racism, etc. What is interesting is to use the system against itself, like Jean Paul Sartre when he was publishing books in the most prestigious French publishing house, back intime, or when Toni Morrison was teaching in an Ivy League university. How did I start with theatre? Because I was gay and not masculine, my family, my surroundings were telling me that I was different, that I was wrong and I searched for a possibility to escape. In middle school I remember, I joined all the associations of the school, because I wanted a place where I would be loved and accepted: chess, comics, t-shirt, poetry. And

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one day I went to a theatre class. It was strangely easy, because, like many LGBTQ persons, I was born as an actor, in spite of myself. As a gay kid I was always hiding, pretending to be straight, pretending to be masculine, to like girls, to love soccer. I had no choice, but to be an actor. And when I went on stage for the first time in middle school, it was easy, I wasn’t scared, I was 12 and already had 12 years of training. Theatre gave me a weapon to fight the system I was living in, to change my reality. Now I want to try to use it in order to change other people’s reality.” Extract from a conversation between Édouard Louis and Milo Rau about ‘Why Theatre’, 30th of June 2020, Paris and Ghent. Édouard Louis is one of the most successful young European writers of his generation. The autobiographical essays and novels of the "wunderkind" (New York Times), in which Louis deals with his descent from a proletarian background and his homosexuality, have been translated into 30 languages to date.

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↳025 We shared a fantasy that the world had ended and we had to build a new one. We made memories. Sometimes we lost control. 169

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THEATRE AS ASSEMBLY / FLORIAN MALZACHER “Close all theatres for one year, and then let’s see what we really need them for”: no wonder Heiner Müller’s provocation was trending during the time of Covid-19 lockdowns when venues and festivals were shut down – not for a full year, but at least for some weeks and months. But instead of fundamentally rethinking the own medium and its routines, there was a constant activity. Streamings and discussions, readings, lectures, Zoomperformances… Theatres were closed almost worldwide and there was more theatre available every day than anyone could possibly watch. The horror vacui was too strong. It prevented almost any silence, almost any taking time to re-evaluate our arts and our lives. As if we were afraid, the moment we’d stop, all would fall apart forever. But within this never-ending talking and doing there was actually a hidden answer to Heiner Müller. While the phantom pain was growing, it became more and more apparent that all the screening and Zooming was not even close to the real thing. It was a permanent referring to something absent. To something that used to be there and hopefully would be there again soon. It only existed in this relationship. If we stripped away everything that isn’t essential to theatre, what would be left? More than any other art form, theatre is a medium of assembly. A place to come together, to invent, try out, discuss. A medium of physical presence, an agonistic arena in which society can negotiate their conflicts and foster radical imagination. Like activists’ assemblies, it marks a zone of gathering, of building community, of making decisions – and thus a zone of experimenting with the way democracy can function. A physical space, a space of bodies, like Judith Butler points out in her speech at Occupy Wall Street: “It matters that as bodies we arrive together in public. As bodies we suffer, we require food and shelter, and as bodies we require one another in dependency and desire. So this is a politics of the public body, the requirements of the body, its movement and its voice. […] We sit and stand and move as the popular will, the one that electoral politics has forgotten and abandoned. But we are here, time and again, persisting, imagining the phrase, ‘we the people’.”

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But still there is a crucial difference: the activist/anarchist assembly is generally considered a space of authentic negotiation, a space for trying to abolish established hierarchies, for not only trying out but living a different way of decision-making, usually based on the concept of consensus. While theatre as assembly might sympathise strongly with these ideas, I would argue that at the end it has an essentially different take. Theatre is not only a social but also always a self-reflexive practice, despite the fact that conventional approaches have been neglecting this. Theatre is a paradoxical machine that marks a sphere where things are real and not real at the same time and proposes situations and practices that are symbolic and actual at once. It does not enable an artificial outside of pure criticality, nor is it able to lure its audience into mere immersive identification. The social spheres, the assemblies it can create offer the possibility of partaking and at the same time watching oneself from the outside. Brecht’s alienation effect is not an invention; it is a discovery of what constitutes all theatre. It’s just that not all theatre admits it – or even tries to make consistent use of it. As much as theatre can be a space of collective or collaborative imagination, it has also always been a medium for showing conflicts and oppositions between ideas, powers, nations, generations, couples, or even within the psyche of a single character. Different forms of realism have sharpened this aspect of theatre by focusing on the internal contradictions of society. Brecht’s dialectical theatre looked at the different aspects of concrete struggles to enable the audience to understand how they were created by the system they lived in, instead of simply identifying with one position. Following Marx, this kind of theatre was driven by the belief that when the class struggle would finally be won, a harmonious communist society would be created. But we are not only rational beings; emotion will always play a role, as Chantal Mouffe stresses: “While we desire an end to conflict, if we want people to be free we must always allow for the possibility that conflict may appear and to provide an arena where differences can be confronted.” Mouffe’s concept of ‘agonistic pluralism’ therefore aims for democracy to be an arena in which we can act out our differences as adversaries without having to reconcile them. At a time in which the once frowned upon dictum ‘You’re either with us or against us’ is having a renaissance on all sides of the political spectrum, we need

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playful (but serious) agonism where contradictions can not only be kept alive, but above all be freely articulated. Only through this can we prevent an antagonism that ends all negotiation. It is not by chance that Mouffe’s concept draws its name from theatre, from ‘agon’, the game, the competition of arguments in Greek tragedy. The ways theatre is conceived as a public space that gives room for radical imagination as well as pragmatic utopias are manifold and not seldom contradictory in their aesthetic as well as their political positions. But what unites them is the aim to expand the field of theatre, to push its very means and possibilities, to find ways of engaging with the social and political issues of our time and by doing this also giving inspiration to activism and political thinking beyond the artistic realm. Florian Malzacher is an independent performing arts curator, dramaturge and writer. He was the artistic director of the Impulse Festival (2013-2017) and co-programmer of steirischer herbst festival in Graz (2006-2012). He edited and wrote several books on contemporary theatre, arts & politics as well as on curating performing arts.

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CREATING A CLIMATE OF CHANGE / KATIE MITCHELL The title of this collection is Why Theatre, and for me the answer lies in a different but related question – how to make theatre in a changing world. There have been many brilliant and creative theatrical responses from the broader theatre community during the coronavirus pandemic including the streaming of old productions and new pieces of work using digital means. But clearly this is only a short-term response and my fear, underlined by conversations with theatre and opera organisations across the UK and mainland Europe, is that most folks are simply waiting for things to return to normal. The view seems to be that if they wait long enough, what they used to do will start up as quickly and as suddenly as it stopped back in March 2020. This perspective envisions theatre returning in exactly the same format as before with a few caveats. So, some productions have been cancelled, others rescheduled, downsized, re-directed in a socially distanced format, re-shaped into a digital format or turned into a blend of digital and live. Under this revised business as usual approach, some organisations where there is more state support are making small changes, like the Schaubühne in Berlin which is now going to spend more money on how they film their productions in case they need to roll out the recordings in the wake of another pandemic. And in other organisations, in countries where the bailout for the arts is worse, they are making tougher economic decisions, such as the 25% staff redundancies at both the Royal Opera House and National Theatre in London. Under both of these scenarios, the danger is, for me, that everyone is Just Waiting for the (gradual) return to business as normal, and not preparing for a different future. The reality is that ‘normal theatre’ has been slipping from our grasp over the past decade or so without us noticing it or wanting to face it. And that is not because of the pandemic (which is in itself just a sign of a larger problem) but because the climate is changing irrevocably and at a pace startling to even the most reluctant scientist. The effects of climate change will cut deep into our societies not only changing the temperatures we live in but causing more pandemics, more mass migration, the

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collapse of our ecosystems, reduced water and food supplies and putting enormous pressures on our limping capitalist system. Climate change will, and already is in this pandemic, affecting our cultural life and our theatre practise. Whether we like it or not many of our models of making theatre and touring theatre need to change, particularly when it comes to the physical movement of productions and artists internationally. Theatre was always going to be faced with the need to make deep changes to its practise because of the environmental catastrophe; the pandemic has just sped up the necessary and unavoidable process and done so in a brutal way for many of us working in the sector. Theatre now needs to be lighter on its feet, examine its large administrative structures, reduce its operational carbon, be more flexible in how it moves between the digital and the live and push forwards with new forms hitherto unimagined that can cope with temporary building closures or social distancing requests due to future pandemics or environmental catastrophes. We need to find new stories to tell and new forms to tell them with. We have to let go of the habit of thinking about theatre as if it were a sacred live experience where people sit together in one space with the performers. That has been – without us even knowing it – an unquestioned premise of theatre making for people from another age and now is not a time for rolling out arguments about the sanctity of that live experience; now is the time for re-imagining the art form from scratch, for being more elastic in our thinking and for reaching out into unchartered territory. We need to widen our definition of theatre. There simply aren’t any rules anymore and, in some instances, there aren’t even many theatres as some have been forced to close due to the financial impact of the pandemic. As citizens we all need to reduce our flying and car use, move away from a meat diet, insulate our homes to reduce energy waste and regularly lobby our governments to put in place provisions for the climate emergency. As theatre practitioners, we need to mirror these activities in the workplace. This includes an overhaul of how we make productions, in terms of the materials we use and the construction processes. We need to challenge every aspect of our energy use, radically reduce our flying and embrace the likes of zoom and skype to rehearse virtually reducing

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the movement of people across the globe, whilst continuing to celebrate international collaboration. We need to start making these first steps now and with this in mind I am currently working with Jérôme Bel and the Vidy Theatre in Lausanne on an experimental project to create a production (and a radical producing model) to make a show without any travel. We will rehearse using zoom – me from London and Jerome from Paris – with the show opening in Lausanne and then touring but without any movement of people or materials. The original production will be notated as a score that moves to the next city where everything is made from scratch out of recycled materials, with local performers and a local director or choreographer interpreting our original score. These are small steps in the process of renewal, but experimentation is fundamental if theatre is to evolve and thrive and the environmental agenda needs to be part of the everyday fabric of a theatre’s thinking, in the same way that education already is. Now is time to move the discourse on from “Why theatre?”, a question more relevant to an age of past theatrical certainty, to “How do we make theatre?” That is the key issue and one I urge the theatre world to embrace. Theatre has an important role to play in our cultural lives, and I hope the profession can rise to the challenge, embrace the need for change and enable theatre to thrive in this new world. Katie Mitchell is a British theatre and opera director. She has been an Associate Director at the Royal Shakespeare Company, Royal Court Theatre and National Theatre. She is currently a resident director at the Schaubühne Theatre and Schauspielhaus Hamburg. She advocates for women in theatre, in term stories told and how women are presented on stage. Since 2007 she has pioneered work about climate change in theatre. In 2009 she was appointed Officer of the Order of the British Empire for her services to theatre.

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FOREVER CHANGES / SANJA MITROVIĆ

At the time when we are not only encouraged but increasingly enforced to conduct most of our daily existence – working and relaxing, interacting and socialising, teaching and learning, shopping, entertaining and even protesting – from the solitary confinement of our own private worlds, theatre is one of the last truly public spaces left at our disposal. Not only in the sense of sociability, even though it is that too, but as an activity conceived of and carried out socially, in groups, through physical presence and exchange with other living, breathing, thinking, dreaming human beings. I do not want to forget the importance of moments experienced with others, the energy of coming together, the charge of catching a glance of agreement or of disapproval, the excitement of returning a smile. A form of a secular congregation whose singularity is intrinsic to theatre, just as it is to live concerts, nightclubs, street demonstrations – the knowledge that never again will these same people find themselves together, sharing time, space and a lot of emotions. I do not want to think that theatres will start to get torn down, turn into instruments of national populist culture wars or continue to toil under the market-driven imperatives of communicative capitalism. They should be what they are always supposed to be, beacons of community in which we gather to collectively think about who we are, what are we doing, where are we headed. I do not want to become an online content provider, with endless streams, Zooms, virtual auditoriums and digital stages, which appeal to the sense of connection and ‘togetherness’ but in fact do little more than advance the expropriative logic of the neoliberal culture industry, leaving us remote, separated and alone in front of our screens. I want to believe that solidarities will endure and grow stronger; solidarities in small acts of everyday kindness, comradeship and compassion, not empty gestures of bombastic proclamations and meaningless heroics. And I wish they would translate to theatre too. To how we work with each other, to how we gather and what we talk about, to who we listen to – not only those in the position of privilege and power, but also those disregarded, left behind, uncool, or simply uninterested in sticking by the rules of ‘worthy’ and acceptable as sanctioned by corporate-sponsored institutions and media. 178

I do not want art to exist as luxury, when what it does should be a necessity. I do not want to stop wanting, imagining, questioning, doubting, listening, learning, showing respect to those who do not ask for it and disdain for those who consider it a birth right. I want nothing to sit outside of potential for change. Brussels, June 2020 Sanja Mitrović was born in Zrenjanin (former Yugoslavia) and currently lives in Brussels. As director, author and performer her work has gained international recognition for an exploration of theatre’s relation to the social, political and cultural realities of our times. Her work has been presented at i.a. the Kunstenfestivaldesarts in Brussels, the Wiener Festwochen, the BITEF Festival in Belgrade.

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A SORT OF GENESIS / ARIANE MNOUCHKINE

The moment we were looking for a name for our theatre company, we wrote down: ‘la beauté, la vie, la chaleur’ (beauty, life, warmth). I then asked, what do we like in life? The sun, so we called it le Théâtre du Soleil. My friends and I created a kind of kingdom for doing the essential in life, for seeking beauty, but in the truth of life. I think that is theatre. There’s no reconstruction at all. I think there’s an interpretation, there’s a clarification, there is an image offered. An image that is subjective and partial. I think that if you attempt a reconstruction, it instantly becomes a lie. A short workshop I gave had as theme: a shipwreck, a desert island. A boat full of immigrants. Where are they heading? That’s for the participants to decide. Well, they don’t reach their destination, because they’re shipwrecked. They come from all layers of society on this boat. You can improvise who is on the boat and when, you can improvise the shipwreck, the breaching and how to be and organise on this island. Everyone can try all roles. All the men and women bring their contribution to all the roles. It’s all investigation. The feeling of being on stage is immediate. There is nowhere to hide. You’re always facing the void. I think this enchantment, this climbing back into the attic of childhood, that’s a sort of joyfulness which must work even if it is scary. There is a heating of the imagination which begins in the body. I’m sure of that. 1 My job is to look and to try to keep what I see, because it is not only a question of looking, but also of seeing, and to see you have to look, and to hear you have to listen. And to hear what we have listened to. This is the job of directors. We often say: “knowing how to look”, that means to really look, not only with the eyes but also with one’s guts, one’s heart, one’s ears, and not to overwhelm one’s gaze. There is certainly a kind of projection of one’s own visions onto the visions that the actors offer us on stage. You have to let yourself be deluged by the other. That’s the job of directors. It is also our duty as citizens. At this moment, as at many other moments in history, we must not turn our gaze away, and sometimes, you know, we feel like turning away our gaze and looking at something more beautiful, more pleasant, more human, less maddening. We sometimes have a kind

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of gaze laziness, a lazy way of listening right now. We’ll find excuses, ‘let’s think’ about something else.2 I’m talking to you about the theatre! When I talk to you about society, I’m talking about theatre! Watching, listening, guessing what’s never said. Revealing the gods and demons that hide deep within our souls. Then, transform, so that the transfiguring beauty helps us to know and bear the human condition. To endure does not mean to suffer or to resign oneself. That’s too is theatre!3 Coming to the theatre, the audience has an hour to settle down. The actors put their masks on, the audience removes theirs. In theatre, you tell a story to 600 people who’ll live it together, it is utopia. When an audience comes to the theatre, we are responsible for them. I think it’s important that when they come to the theatre, they take away a renewed hope in humanity, in our capacity for hospitality, beauty, tenderness, momentarily at least, and sometimes for months afterwards. The Théâtre du Soleil aims to show what is possible, to show that theatre is possible, art is possible, that human fraternity is possible, that high school students can come with their teachers, who are modern-day heroes. In a way, it tries to restore enchantment to stories. I think its role is that. I think it’s the role of all theatres. To revive desire, hope, courage, appetite, spirit, that’s our role. I haven’t discounted the certainty I had as a child that it’s my duty to make the world a better place. I believed that with absolute conviction that it was up to me to make the world better. I feel that our theatre, but not only our theatre, channels the world itself, not just its echoes. I think it’s a vocation to welcome and be welcomed. Who will speak out? If not the artists, who will have the courage?1 Extracts of conversations with Ariane Mnouchkine from: 1

Ariane Mnouchkine, ‘L’aventure du Théâtre du Soleil’, a film by Catherine Vilpoux (Arte, 2009)

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L’heure bleue, France Inter, with Laure Adler, 23 June 2020

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Télérama, with Joëlle Gayot, 9 May 2020

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Ariane Mnouchkine is the founder of the Parisian Théâtre du Soleil and is considered one of the world’s most influential directors. Ever since her productions together with fellow students at the Sorbonne in the early sixties, she has maintained that theatre is a collaborative art that must involve all participants – on stage, backstage and in the audience itself.

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TECHNICIANS OF DIONYSUS / ERMANNA MONTANARI & MARCO MARTINELLI (TEATRO DELLE ALBE) The invitation to this project brought us great joy for the free way it’s formulated and calls us together. Also because the invitation centers on a vertiginous question: vertiginous, because ever since 1977 when we married and began living on theatre, art and life have been one and the same for us. Answering the question Why theatre? is like answering the question Why life?, so you can understand our feeling of vertigo. Which is after all a question about the vertigo of meaning: does life have meaning? Do things have meaning; that is, does that thing, that so-called, reviled, often-snubbed reality have meaning? Does it make sense to go on asking ourselves whether there’s any meaning in the senselessness of a world where violence and injustice and war continue to run the show? Where so many human beings are considered nothing but scrap, multitudes of the sacrificed, left to die of hunger or under bombs? Since the beginning (we were twenty, two asses, starving for knowledge... we hadn’t finished college; all we knew about theatre was we wanted to do it), since the beginning we were inhabited by a lucid sensation: that for us, theatre would be a place to scrutinise the swamps of the soul, the mud of our underground, the microcosm where we could sift the planet’s wrongs, and at the same time a place to give voice to the irrepressible desire for happiness and love, which made us tremble in ’77 as it does today. A place to rebel against the Powers of this World. To become a place: that’s what we’ve done and continue to do, bringing in comrades who think of theatre not as a trade like any other but as an ‘experimentum mundi’: a mode of representation that goes beyond representation, that excavates fragments of truth and beauty with ‘obstinate rigor’, scraping its hands on the naked rock. In fifth-century BC Athens, people like us were called ‘oi technitai Dionisou’, technicians of Dionysus, the god of theatre; that is, his priests and technician-artisans. Dionysus is the god of dismemberment, the child who plays and gets torn to pieces by the Titans. Being ‘technicians’ of Dionysus meant and still means staring straight in the face this world-baby torn to pieces, learning how to change from dismemberment to remembering, a memory technique, putting the pieces back together, listening to the victim who whispers “Remember

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me!” in our ear. It’s a technique that makes all other techniques authentic, a technique that spans the centuries and all the myriad conceptions of the stage, from Aeschylus to Piscator to Brecht to Carmelo Bene and up to our own day. Theatre is born revealing the violent foundation of society, the sacrifice of all history’s Iphigenias. No matter how much it limps and stumbles in confusion, this remains its pole star: theatre is an art of revelation, of unmasking through masking, using artifice to point to the truth. And in this becoming a place, at a certain point in our journey we felt the need to widen the circle of the company to encompass a material location, the four walls of Teatro Rasi in Ravenna, a space to gather the citizenry not only to watch our plays, but to make our plays along with us; a short circuit between art and life, turning the circle into a spiral that overflows the banks of the stage space and floods the entire city, reinventing the models of tradition, from medieval mystery plays to Mayakovsky’s Theatre for the Masses. Theatre as the art of the public summons. It feels strange in times like these, when the pestilence of Covid-19 distances us from one another, to think of ourselves as the standard-bearers of assembly, that forbidden word today. It’s a time of testing for everyone, and the test is precisely our ability to imagine. We’ll be different from before because we are never the same after a catastrophe, whether an earthquake, war, or a pandemic like this one. We are guided along our path by the image of Diego, a six-year-old who lives in Matera, the nephew of a director friend of ours, Andrea Santantonio, who recently told us about the singular metamorphosis the quarantine has brought about in this boy. Before Covid-19, Diego was obsessively attached to his mother’s smartphone. Dismayed parents and psychologists were plaguing themselves: what to do about their embryonic hikikomori in sunny southern Italy? But now, since the lockdown, Diego gets up at dawn, meets his friend from next door, and off they run to frolic in the big garden between their two buildings. They spend the whole day discovering trees, flowers, and animals among the palms, olive trees, and lizards. Armed with a little plastic sword, they seem two little pirates on their own private island. They only come home at dark, called in by their mothers. Otherwise they might stay out all night, in their openair theatre rich with marvels.

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Teatro delle Albe was founded by Ermanna Montanari (actress, author, set designer) and Marco Martinelli (playwright, director). The company has been interweaving the search for the ‘new’ with the teachings of traditional theatre, inventing a contemporary theatrical language. They have received i.a. fourteen Ubu Prizes, the highest reward in Italian theatre.

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EXCURSUS / MAIA MORGENSTERN I was asked, I was requested several times to provide an answer to this question... Apparently my answer would be important, it would be an essential contribution to a large-scale project. I hesitated, I hesitated and I hesitated and I have been hesitating ever since, trying to postpone the answer and to do my homework. Even now, I don’t dare to start writing, to start doing this thing... I am asking myself the very same question. Why is it so difficult, so complicated? Out of fear? I hesitate answering, I procrastinate, I try to get away somehow, I dodge, yeah, I dodge. Evasion, this is it. The answer to this question “Why theatre?” – is hovering like a cloud over me right now. Why? Because I am scared. Why am I dodging? Why this evasion? Why this procrastination? Why this concealment? Why this cloaking? Yes, because I am scared. Out of fear. Out of dread. The expression of my vanity? Maybe. An expression of my desire to be appreciated, to give a good answer, actually an astonishing answer, an unexpected answer. Probably it’s the originality desire. I won’t do a deep and epiphanic introspection here because I don’t know how, I am not able to do that. I think my fear, my dread to answer the question “Why theatre?” and provide my essential contribution to this work is somehow rooted in the need for originality. Or in the need of being loved, liked, accepted, applauded. Out of fear in front of uncertainty. That is another reason for procrastinating the answer. Yes, maybe it’s about emotional memory, the remembrance of the tremendously painful moments which in my soul, in my mind, in my entire being, would acquire the dimensions of a cosmic catastrophe, a sort of an atomic mushroom, which had been hovering over me for such a long time and which was pouring radioactive ashes of pain and sorrow into me, above me. Any fight, any denial, maybe a big ego, a sense of helplesness... Who am I as an actress, how do I comply with directives, how do I fade away or how do I blossom under a certain director, in a nucleus, in a group, created on the spot? We come close to each other in a theatre project. Actually about this I could talk, how theatre unites people. Yeah, in a project, in the preparatory phase, when a group is formed, when it gets coagulated, no matter our affinities, there is a chemistry and a miraculous way in which we can communicate and respect each other and get close to one

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another and exchange vibes in order to create shows. Or how a theatre leader, no matter his or her social or hierarchical position, manages to bring people together. It is a factor of coagulation and, at the end of the day, the effort of everyone, conscious or not, is to gather, to communicate. We don’t always manage to put aside our egos, or what we call personality – built, created, polished, molded after rules, education, norms, art trends, theatre trends, after the social group to which we belong or to which we would like to belong. These categories, sometimes, not seldom, not always, get messed up. Lately, artistic projects have been formed on the basis of affinities, concepts, political and social affiliations. At the end of the day, this is normal. We can talk about the way in which the theatre serves directions and goals. I am actually afraid to say this. The theatre becomes pretty often a tool of demonstration, of theory argumentation or a message conveyor, charged with political connotations and I think this is how it was from the beginning of time. I am not a theatre historian, but that’s how I perceive things.  I will give an example that troubles me. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but in any case, this uncertainty, this to and fro, baffles me. Chekhov. I have studied him in college. When I was 19 or 20 years old, we were under Ceaușescu’s regime. If we do the math, it was probably somewhere in the ‘80s. Chekhov was interpreted by our teachers, our directors, colleagues in a certain direction. They were using him to demonstrate something. What is the truth? We are insisting and insisting, our teachers, our audience, our colleagues, our directors, our critics, and we are looking for the truth. Where is the truth? The truth, and the truth, only the truth. What’s the deal with the truth, that’s another deep discussion and you don’t have enough pages in this book to discuss it thoroughly. So, during college we were searching for truth, in Chekhov, in a certain direction. Time passed. We interpreted Chekhov, the paradigm shifted (I am saying it ironically) and the same Chekhov, the same genius Chekhov, about whom we learned that he is a genius and how we got emotional and cried, the same text of Chekhov, the same Cherry Orchard, the same characters, were used to demonstrate the opposite. Why? Because the regime changed, the paradigm shifted and the same Chekhov, the same Cherry Orchard, the same truth was different than 10 years before. 10 years later, we interpret Checkov differently again. 10 years pass again and again we set about on

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the same journey, in another direction, another meaning, the same truth, the same sincerity, we get emotional and cry in the same way in front of Chekhov’s geniality, but in a totally different direction. We set about on different paths, antagonistic sometimes, using the same genius text of Chekhov. Taking him out of context, then contextualising him, for us to think it serves our purpose, our line of argumentation, our need of a truth that is suitable for our present. Maia Morgenstern is a Romanian film and stage actress who is described by Florin Mitu of AMOS News as “a symbol of Romanian theatre and film.” Internationally she is best known for the role of Mother Mary in Mel Gibson’s ‘The Passion of the Christ’. In 2010, Maia Morgenstern was appointed Romanian Ambassador of the Alliance of Civilisation and is currently the director of the Jewish State Theatre in Bucharest.

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THE ROLE OF THEATRE IN THE STRUGGLE AGAINST NEOLIBERAL HEGEMONY/ CHANTAL MOUFFE We are currently seeing the rise of a variety of forms of resistances against neoliberal hegemony and radical left movements that challenge the social-liberalism dominant in the centre-left parties have emerged in several countries. Those resistances signal a ‘return of the political’ after years of post-politics, but this return of the political will not automatically bring about a progressive issue. Everything will depend on the result of the agonistic struggle between political forces vying for hegemony. I am convinced that cultural and artistic practices could have a significant role in this struggle and I believe that the hegemonic approach that I have developed in several of my books could help to envisage the kind of intervention that they could make to further democratic goals. The hegemonic approach is particularly fruitful when it comes to apprehending the relations between art and politics because it brings to the fore the discursive character of the social, and the multiplicity of discursive practices through which ‘our world’ is constructed. It highlights the fact that the construction of the hegemony is not limited to the traditional political institutions but that it also takes place in the multiplicity of places of what is usually called ‘civil society’. This is where, as Antonio Gramsci has shown, a particular conception of the world is established and a specific understanding of reality is defined, what he refers to as the ‘common sense’, providing the terrain in which specific forms of subjectivity are constructed. And he indicated that artistic practices were one of the terrains where the ‘common sense’ is built and subjectivities are constructed. For the hegemonic approach, critical artistic practices are those which, in a variety of ways, contribute to unsettling the dominant hegemony and play a part in the process of disarticulation/re-articulation that characterises a counter-hegemonic politics. This counter-hegemonic politics aims at targeting the institutions which secure the dominant hegemony so as to bring about profound transformations in the way they function. In post-fordist neoliberal capitalism, the cultural and artistic terrain has become of an ever greater strategic importance because artistic and cultural production is currently vital for capital valorisation. To maintain its

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hegemony, the neoliberal system needs to permanently mobilise people’s desires and shape their identities and the cultural terrain, with its various institutions, occupies a key position in this process. This is why, contrary to other views, the hegemonic perspective asserts that it is not by deserting the institutional terrain that critical artistic practices can contribute to the counter-hegemonic struggle but by engaging with it, with the aim of fostering dissent. The aim of this struggle is the construction of a multiplicity of what I call ‘agonistic’ spaces, where the dominant consensus is subverted and where new modes of identification are made available. I would like to stress that, according to such a perspective, critical artistic practices do not try to lift a supposedly false consciousness, so as to reveal the ‘true reality’. This would be completely at odds with the anti-essentialist premises of the theory of hegemony which rejects the very idea of a ‘true consciousness’. It is always through insertion in a manifold of practices, discourses and language games that specific forms of individualities are constructed. The transformation of political identities can never be the result of a rationalist appeal to the true interest of the subject. It consists in the inscription of the social agent in practices that will mobilise its affects in a way that disarticulates the framework in which the dominant process of identification is taking place, so as to bring about other forms of identification. It is not by reaching the understanding through concepts that artistic practices are able to bring about a transformation of subjectivity. It is by their articulation with affects that ideas can gain real force and crystallise in desires. This indicates that the impact of artistic practices should not be envisaged primarily at the cognitive level. The object of artistic practices is not the production of concepts but the production of sensations and the cognitive / conceptual dimension should not be privileged. This does not mean that there is no cognitive dimension in artistic practices, but that it is via the affective dimension that the cognitive level should be reached. As a privileged terrain for the mobilisation of affects and the construction of new subjectivities, I contend that theatre practices understood in all their diversity are crucial in the hegemonic struggle. There are many different ways in which they could contribute to the agonistic debate and all of them have their importance. But I would like to single out the Mapa Teatro in Bogotá that has crucially contributed to the cultural and political

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debate in Latin America, and has been vital to activate processes of social and political subject-making in relation to burning issues faced in Colombia, such as the trauma after a fifty-years-long political conflict, as well as the complicated mixture of poverty, criminality and social abandonment in urban areas. Mapa Teatro’s work has not only represented such issues, but has actively contributed to articulating the terms of their discussion, engaging political actors in public conversations made possible by the performative frameworks they provided. An important example of this is the project Testigo de las ruinas they realised in 2011, involving Antanas Mockus, at the time mayor of the city of Bogotá and responsible for a programme of urban regeneration of the city. The project innovatively placed him in an unprecedented creative and testimonial role and initiated a productive dialogue about the social and political issues underlying measures of regeneration and urban renewal. I see the Mapa Teatro as providing an outstanding example of the role that theatre can play in the creation of agonistic public spaces and I take it to be a model for the kind of intervention needed in the current struggle against neoliberal hegemony. Chantal Mouffe is a Belgian political philosopher, especially known for her agonistic theory of democracy, currently teaching at at the University of Westminster in London. She has held research positions at Harvard, Cornell, The New School, Princeton, the University of California at Irvine, the French National Centre for Scientific Research and the Collège International de Philosophie in Paris. Some of her most recent books are ‘Agonistics. Thinking the World Politically’ (2013) and ‘For a Left Populism’ (2018).

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THERE WILL ALWAYS BE THEATRE / YOLANDA MPELÉ TIME: EARLY JANUARY 2020 PLACE: SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE “There will always be theatre.” I remember saying that to my friend D. on a Sunday afternoon while strolling in the park. It was the perfect sunny day to talk about my fears for the future of the world and the earth shaking disaster I was sure was coming. My friend D. told me “you’re always so dramatic”. I am not being dramatic I said but “the impending doom is certainly falling upon us I can feel it”. I thought the age of aquarius was definitely coming some time this year and that’s when I said but luckily “there will always be theatre”. My friend was sceptical: “so, the world is going to be on fire, civil unrest, fear, panic but somehow actors will be on demand?” I replied that theatre was as ancient as the world and it survived until now so why not this time. But anyway my real survival plan was to have a house with a garden and grow my own food.

CUT TO A SCENE. TIME: SUMMER 2020 PLACE: SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE The stars aligned (or misaligned) and the world was brought to its knees by a viral monster. I’m still living in my small flat. There was no time to find a garden and plant vegetables. Gatherings of humans are now forbidden. While strolling with my friend D., she reminded me of the conversation we had in January “you were right about almost everything but with the playhouses shut down maybe you were wrong about the whole theatre thing.” It is true, of course, that the tragedy has been happening in the streets all along and the everyday heroes are walking the streets to demand justice as we speak. I took a pause, gathered my thoughts and, just like in the musicals, I started humming (I mean when emotions are big why not start rhyming.) I said: “Theatre is not going, it’s resting while the western world is resetting

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Now we understand black history is just history how many perspectives have we missed when old makers thought the audience was not ready? New narratives are here they’re dying to exist Even behind a mask, players have been known to play but the same old tricks won’t make it through everybody and their mother is begging to say who are we, why are we here, can I find myself in you? 1 meter apart is the new regulation challenge accepted let’s make the stage bigger the timing is not great for a celebration but like always we are stronger together Even behind a mask, players have been known to play humans watching humans is as old as the night let’s wait for the third act, there is always one I say theatre is a sport for empathy to ignite let storytellers make sense of the senseless the age of aquarius is here somehow ‘there will always be theatre’ I promise the time on stage is always now” I then bowed and my friend D. said to me “you’re always so dramatic”. Yolanda Mpelé is a French actress. She has performed with the Roundhouse Theatre Company in London, La Compagnie Persona, the Line Theatre, the Théâtre National Populaire in Villeurbanne, at l’Opéra de Lyon and at NTGent.

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BETWEEN HERE AND HERE / RABIH MROUÉ Theatre is the ideal medium to expose uneasy and complex matters and plunge into them. It is the place where questions are asked, without reaching conclusions. In some ways, theatre could be similar to courts, where trials take place in front of an audience; but with one important difference being that the theatre, at least in principle, does not issue any judgments in favour of this or that party. It is a place where ideas are formulated. Theatre is not a spokesperson for this or that side, regardless of its situation and even if it is a victim. The simplification of complex matters by reducing them to a mere dichotomy of executioner/victim is nothing but a cancellation of the idea of theatre. Theatre stresses differences rather than similarities; it stresses confrontation rather than agreement. It is a place for uncertainty, a place for the struggle of ideas; it is a space for open debate concerning an unresolved issue, in the presence of an alert audience, which is listening to the different voices and the conflicts between the characters. The theatre is in need of an audience composed of individual citizens, having the benefit of civic rights, the ability to choose, to express their opinions, enough time to think and contemplate. One of the theatre’s roles is to deal with the audience as a group of individual citizens and not a monolithic block, of one colour and one voice, that thinks as one. The theatre practitioner has to be aware of the danger of anticipating the audience, of trying to imagine their tastes, opinions, and reactions beforehand. It is a condition of the theatre that we enter it as strangers. And the stranger is the one who always asks questions in face of traditions, norms and the given, who doubts the familiar to which he/she has grown accustomed to, and that usually makes him/her comfortable. The familiar is lethal to theatre. Theatre is like exile. It is not a place for comfort, nor is it a place of custom or worship; it is discovery, research, and the re-arrangement of relationships. I long for a theatre that makes me feel like a stranger among my people, family, and friends so that I get to know them and myself anew. It is the need to go beyond the limits of the space into which we were born and raised; to travel in order to meet the ‘other’ with no prejudgments or any expectations, to discover the unknown in order to rediscover the known.

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It is the need to always come back home to rediscover the unknown, to expand borders inside ourselves, and erase lines; lines between ‘here’ and ‘there’ as well as between ‘here’ and ‘here’. I dream of a theatre where my works are no longer in need of an actual place. Nor are they in need of actors, nor a stage, nor huge resources for production, nor how many performances are scheduled… What matters for me is the speech (la parole) which will be produced after the performance, the speech that emerges here and there at the same time, the speech that generates ‘fascinating’ ideas that become the performance itself, the speech that looks for creating doubts and unaccomplished ideas, which diverge from conservative norms and common prejudice, the speech where there is no rhetoric, no sermons, but that only opens for infinite interpretations and possibilities of debating. * Re-worked excerpt from ‘What has slipped away is so far, and what is yet to come so close …’, an essay first published in Doomed by Hope: Essays on Arab Theatre – PlutoPress (2013). Rabih Mroué was born in Beirut. He is a theatre director, actor, playwriter, co-editor of the magazine The Drama Review (NY) and co-founder of the Beirut Art Center. He works at the interface between performance and visual art, combining aesthetic and political research.

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EXILE AND TERRITORY / KORNEL MUNDRUZCÓ In my understanding, the ancient duty and definition of theatre we all learn about and treat as common knowledge, is lost. I don’t consider theatre a forum, nor a mirror and least of all a hammer of ideologies. The illusion that theatre serves these functions is what keeps it alive, but real plays (if we, in fact, believe that theatre creates true art pieces) cannot work alongside these ethea these days. I’m convinced that my disappointment over this fact is the one that lead me to theatre in the first place. This contradiction, the creation of something new atop its ruins, carried freedom in my eyes. Once I described what theatre means to me by comparing it to a free fall: atrocious danger offering eternal liberty. It’s like a rabbit hole, through which one can discover an entire new world. Theatre means a territory and an exile to me: it is a self-inflicted exile to a new territory, to open it up, wander around in it trying to figure out how to make it relatable for the audience. Since it circulates abstract notions, theatre utilises a classical expressive language, the stories, characters and the truth they hold, that has been eliminated from the 20th century theatre scene and removed from its history. The authenticity of the story and characters is an eliminated notion. Theatre is always auteur, regardless of the already existing text. It’s not adaptive, it reaches back to a format that doesn’t originate from the 20th century. Finding the common and mutual stories is the task, not adapting and processing the mutual heritage. The ruins aren’t the building blocks to create something new, but they do provide a foundation for constructing something new altogether. The crisis of theatre partially derives from the loss of its ethea, furthermore from the crisis of representation and the political nature of it. I always thought of the audience as the most interesting element and if I want to elaborate further, it’s the act of watching that interests me the most. To understand and give a perspective to where they watch it all from. Defining this is the most crucial to me. Theatre has lost the war against other media such as journalism and the internet, streaming sites and TV series. Nonetheless, in this extinguished, almost superfluous position it has gained its true context. When we spend time in this dark place, in the self-inflicted exile and we discover a whole

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new territory – this is what is addictive about theatre to me and I believe it can break all rules and boundaries again and again. To me, in its physical reality and primitive truthfulness, theatre is eternal. Kornel Mundruzcó is a Hungarian director and writer. With his films he won numerous international awards, i.a. in Cannes and Locarno. In his productions for film and theatre, he condenses social and political phenomena into shocking, often surreal scenarios. His plays have been shown i.a. at the Festival d’Avignon, Adelaide Festival, Ruhrtriennale.

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WHY AS A RESPONSIBILITY TO AWE / OGUTU MURAYA The writer Ben Okri describes creativity as “a form of prayer, and the expression of a profound gratitude for being alive”. I used to have a hard time agreeing with and accepting Okri’s description. I was introduced to creative labour as a function of struggle – creativity as protest. Within this dynamic, it has always felt to me like there was no room for feelings of profound gratitude. In fact having such feelings felt like a betrayal to the struggle. With this model the only path out of dysfunction is through the expression of what is wrong with the world, what is negative, what is corrupt and what is broken. Under such a mindset, it is decadent to indulge what is beautiful, miraculous, enchanting, and wondrous with the world. Even the choice of words is telling, we ‘engage’ with struggle but we ‘indulge’ with beauty. There is in a sense a lack of seriousness when you honour your responsibility to awe. I borrowed the phrase “a responsibility to awe” from a collection of poems by the astronomer Rebecca Elson. For Elson “facts are only as interesting as the possibilities they open up to the imagination.” Now, it would be naive to ignore the fact of social, political, economic and ecological struggle, but can such facts interest us in the possibilities they open up to the imagination? Perhaps sociologist Ruha Benjamin has a more elegant way of addressing what I am attempting to articulate. She says “Remember to imagine and craft the worlds you cannot live without, just as you dismantle the ones you cannot live within.” The balance within creativity as protest is often tilted towards dismantling the worlds we cannot live within. For a long time I was stuck with this model of creative labour, and I could not find compelling reasons for gratitude nor open up my imagination. I started to slide into cynicism and nihilism, especially because it seems difficult to find sufficient perceptible positive changes within the grand dysfunctions of the world. This slip-sliding-away produced in me a perpetual state of existential angst. Only recently did I start to question creative labour and in particular my artistic practice as a function of struggle. Theatre as struggle was no longer satisfying my desire to create. With my angst, I initially regarded this question “why theatre?” with suspicion. I wandered cynically how strange that as theatre practitioners we often seem to be caught in situations where we have to validate our

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existence. I cannot imagine such a question ever being posed to musicians. No one second-guesses the existence of music. I also struggled because why questions are tricky questions to answer – especially when you are under a fog of existential angst. Why questions demand we delineate the cause, reason or purpose for which something occurs – why seeks out motive. For me, there are three areas in which why questions become indispensable, when a tragedy has occurred, when there are excesses, and when confronting an existential crisis. An explanation is sorted out in order to rule out the uncertainty of chaos; the randomness of life, by knowing why, we can rest that there is order, that there is a pattern to the madness. Nothing is more unsettling than the existence of something without a reason. We must know why, it is troubling to experience happenings that are in violation of causality. Answering why gives relief. To know why is to give closure. To know why is to motivate action. To lose why is to invite angst. To lose why is to oscillate with uncertainty. To lose why is to motivate inaction. However, answering why can also give a false sense of security – a false sense of understanding. This falseness when looked at under the politics of memory reveals periods in history where grossly formulated and incorrectly answered why questions gave justification for mass occupation, massacres and genocides. History is full of perpetrators with sufficient means blinding their atrocities by answering why from a perspective of intolerance towards differences. These atrocities are not only relegated to history, contemporary societies are still full of countless cases where whys are based on damaged reasoning and incorrect causation. These flawed ways of thinking extend to the multiple ecological disasters facing the world. Other life forms and ecosystems are assessed based purely on human interests. What fails to align with human interests is seen as being unimportant, insufficient, non-essential, therefore disposable. Under such scenarios asking why can also be subversive. Why is despised by hegemonic systems however they manifest. This hypersensitivity to why arises because everyone knows there is no sufficient reason, cause or purpose to justify violence, oppression and suppression. So now, why theatre – is the question asked to justify existence, to resist suppression, to seek truth, to alleviate uncertainty, to gain approval, to align with reality? For a long time, since my first encounter with the

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dramatic arts, I thought theatre was the space where you found ways to frame why questions, a space to doubt and question and seek the truth. The only failing in my thinking was that this space with its why questions, its doubts and its search for the truth was only oriented towards a limited understanding of political, struggle and protest theatre. It was about pointing at and towards what is dystopian and dysfunctional in society – what is negative, what is corrupt and what is broken. And so when I slipped, sliding away into nihilism, into nothingness, unable to answer why – I almost lost all interest in theatre. I am starting to accept there is more to struggle than just struggle; this acceptance came from reconnecting with my responsibility to awe. To quote Ben Okri “it is precisely in a broken age…” and I would also add a broken personhood, “that we need mystery and a re-awakened sense of wonder: need them in order to be whole again.” A responsibility to awe is a duty, an expectation, an obligation, a commitment towards awe. When all arrows point to doom, despair and disaster, it can be easy to become indifferent to this sacred responsibility. But it is precisely in this orientation towards doom rapt in political disturbances, environmental tragedies, social instabilities and economic deadlocks; it is in these precise times that we must reclaim our responsibility to awe. Rather than abandon and neglect this duty – we must embrace this duty. The literary scholar Keguro Macharia, once said: “Freedom isn’t freedom if it has no room for pleasure” – no room for wonder, no room for awe, no room for beauty, no room for enchantment. The struggle is real but we must not in the process of struggle misplace, forget and neglect our responsibility to awe. Understanding this helped me to reclaim my interest in theatre and reframe my ‘why theatre’ as a responsibility to awe. Ogutu Muraya is a Kenyan writer and theatre maker whose work is embedded in the practice of orature. In his work, he searches for new forms of storytelling where socio-political aspects merge with the belief that art is an important catalyst for questioning certainties. He has performed at several theatres and festivals within East Africa and internationally.

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SECOND EXIT AFTER THE SOUL / NGANJI MUTIRI A/ How would you feel if your hands were cut off to feed a rich bastard? B/ Stop with the metaphors. C/ Yeah but you get the message. B/ I am tired of the metaphors, the poems, the prayers and all the Jesus -said-turn-the-other-cheek-bullshit. D/ Come on, that’s the spirit of Sheppard and our characters are paying homage to... B/ Your character, not mine. D/ Not your character but at least his and mine are paying homage to the… A/ No, no, I don’t recognise myself in the character you portray, that’s why I named mine William Henry Sheppard the third. B/ Hahaha… wawww... and you think that’s enough? A/ Yes! Stop mocking… laughing at me. C/ She is not laughing at you, she is laughing... A/ With me. Yeah. Whatever. D/ Don’t forget; we are in a white theatre, with a white director, and a… B/ So what? A/ Remember, the title of the play? Black! C/ The Sorrows of Belgium. And it’s the beginning of a trilogy. A/ Yes but the first word in capital is “Black” and I am not sure that if we are the ones playing the Blacks, that we are really doing justice to... C/ Symbolically, Black stands for the first colour of the flag… A/ Let me finish. C/ It’s a human story taking place in Congo not a Black and White story… A/ Can I finish!? B/ Ouuuhh, toxic masculinity. A/ Really? You want to go there? B/ Why not? C/ Look at him, he doesn’t like that. D/ Let him finish, please. A/ Thank you. What I’m saying is that our characters don’t express as many dimensions as the white characters.

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D/ And it’s a pity for a performance titled: Black. C/ It’s really not a Black or White story, don’t you get it? D/ We also need… C/ We? D/ We also need tridimensional black characters. A/ Voilà! B/ We already know that. A/ Why didn’t you say it then? B/ To let you express your unheard voice, maybe. A/ You see. We can’t talk seriously with you. B/ Listen man, it’s not because I smile that I don’t take things seriously. You don’t know me. We speak about self-empowering tools every day. D/ She’s right, you don’t know her or us as well as you think. C/ There you go. B/ Were you there when we talked about patriarchy or colonial apologies? C/ Were you there? A/ No. B/ So. Shut. Up. D/ Come on. It’s alright. Let’s try to think like a team. She doesn’t mean it. B/ Oh yes, I mean it. A/ I’ll shut up. Have fun with your superficial characters. D/ Hey! Come back! Listen, we are different shades of brown and even if black is not a real skin colour, racism is a reality. C/ Socially constructed during centuries. D/ Exactly, but we can agree on the need to bring different ‘black’ contemporary voices on stage and elsewhere. We can start here; we have a chance to engage the local audience’s perceptions in a refreshing way. A/ That’s what I’ve been trying to say. B/ Acting like a Congolese dictator didn’t help, did it? A/ Stop it. B/ You, stop it. C/ He is more African-European than Congolese, you know. A/ No, I’m African. C/ You wish.

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A/ What does that mean? C/ You know. A/ No I don’t, tell me. C/ Yes, you do. Remember the book Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome? D/ Listen. Expressing different tridimensional ‘black’, or, ‘African’ characters as deeply human characters on European stages will not happen overnight. So, for the moment, let’s focus on why we are not talking about the links between centuries of building ‘white’ privileges and the lack of… or let’s say; and the incommensurable fear of walking the path to financial reparations. C/ In a country haunted by colonial realities? With a history of cognitive dissonance and disguised shame? I wonder what Dr. Joy DeGruy might… (Door opens) E/ My brother, my sisters, costume fitting in five minutes. C/ Thanks. (Door closes) A/ Brother and sisters, pfff. He still thinks he’s being… B/ Cool. A/ Yes, or funny. C/ He meant it like in the second act of the play; my religious brother and sisters. Not as funky soul brother and sisters, or whatever you think that was. B/ You’re always there to defend him, hun? I know you find him attractive. C/ Nonsense. B/ Don’t be ashamed of it. D/ Anyway, I am saying the colonial past, crimes against humanity, structural lies and centuries of despicable businesses created wealth and privileges that some Belgians are still benefiting from today. We should talk about it too. A/ Nah, they will not let us do that. They will say it’s anachronic. B/ Anachronic? Some of the dialogues and songs in the performance are anachronic. C/ Yes, but they are not as deeply disturbing as facing this structural taboo: the history of how to make money on other people’s back. A/ Accumulating economic power, mind control and mass

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manipulation. D/ We should bring those issues to the table. A/ That’s not a battle we should start in this building. It doesn’t feel right. Plus, it’s not sexy. C/ Why does everything have to be sexy? A/ I mean, it’s not locally appealing. B/ That’s why you need to produce, write and direct your own stories Othello. A/ Not funny. But you know what? I am already working on that. D/ I am, as well. That doesn’t mean we can’t influence things here. B/ Really? D/ Yes. B/ Great! I’m eager to support you, but I will not put too much energy in trying to change things where changes are not welcome. Not everyone got a Winnie Madikizela in her, if you know what I mean. C/ What is your hot secret project? Who is financing it? Got a title? A/ Yes. No excuses, pay back what you stole. C/ Nope. Too long. And not sexy. A/ It is sexy. D/ Can we say that? A/ No excuses? Or, pay back what you stole? D/ Both. A/ Yes, we can. B/ Thank you Barack. A/ Barack? Obama is not ‘black’. D/ Don’t start again. A/ He is ‘biracial’. C/ Exactly. B/ Thank you Kwame then. A/ Nkrumah had a white wife. D/ Here we go. B/ So? A/ Whatever. B/ Your racism level is… interesting. A/ I am not racist. I’m just saying, choose your metaphors carefully. B/ Actually, his wife was not white. Fathia was Egyptian.

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D/ Real love has no colour. C/ Are you sure? D/ Yes. A/ It all depends on who we are talking about. D/ No, it’s… B/ Who we are talking to, is more accurate. D/ I’m so tired of this. Anyway, our ‘white’ colleagues are waiting for us. C/ Just say: our colleagues. D/ I’ve used these, didn’t I? Look: ‘white’. C/ Alright, I see your fingers now. A/ When can we meet properly? When can we focus on building bold perspectives for new audiences? I mean, if you are interested in really doing something. D/ I am interested, but I am not sure your artistic ambitions match the place you live in. C/ Or, maybe you are not knocking at the right doors. B/ Voilà! D/ I don’t know about you, my brother and sisters, but I’m going to find something comfortable to wear. A/ Wait. I thought you were interested in self-empowering tools. B/ We are. C/ But there is a place… B/ And a time… C/ For all things. D/ Let’s go try our costumes. (Door opens) The End Nganji Mutiri is an artist born in Congo, currently living in Belgium. Storytelling through acting, filmmaking, poetry and photography is his passion. Searching for links between singular perspectives and universal spirit is his artistic obsession.

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↳005 Between fiction and reality, an opportunity for imagination emerges. 211

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THEATRE, BECAUSE FREEDOM / JETON NEZIRAJ In April 2017, one day before the premiere of the play Bordello Balkan, a group of about ten war veterans entered the National Theatre of Kosovo. All of them were fuming. They demanded that the play should not be shown the next day, because, according to them, it insulted “national feelings” and “values of the liberation war”. During an inflamed conversation — which even included death threats — I remember one of them saying that it would be fairly easy for them to stop a play at the theatre, compared to a Kosovo Assembly session that they had also stopped a few weeks earlier. I quickly replied by saying that it is possible to block an assembly session, but not a theatre performance. I still remember their perplexed faces, as though they couldn’t believe that I was saying something like that. They were either thinking I was crazy, or that I was being arrogant; or, in those moments they could have even thought that theatre had a sort of ‘extraordinary power’, or some ‘hidden magic’ of which they weren’t aware. The play premiered the next day, despite strict police supervision — which has often been the case with Qendra Multimedia plays in the last few years, in Prishtina or even in Belgrade, where we were invited as guests to show our plays! For a long time afterwards, I have thought about my crazy determination to defend the staging of a play in such dangerous circumstances. So, why did I believe (and why do I still stand by it) that somebody so powerful could potentially stop an assembly session, but not a theatre performance? Because I believe that I am a free human being. Because I have and continue to believe that Kosovar society is a free society. During the '90s in Kosovo, theatres were among the institutions that were occupied and brought under the management of Milošević’s violent administration. Albanians chose not to go to a theatre that was taken from them by force and where most of the presented plays were in Serbian. The programme of that theatre was serving Milošević’s fascist policies. It had become a tool of the regime and it turned into a type of anti-theatre, the opposite of what it should have been or what theatre should represent. As an Albanian student, I once decided, almost by chance, to enter that theatre and see a play in Serbian. Being in that hall for over an hour was

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one of the most terrifying things I have experienced. I believed that I was the only Albanian there, surrounded by a Serbian audience. I believed that everybody there knew that I was Albanian. Meaning, a man without freedom. A slave in an enslaved theatre. And that’s why I was afraid. What makes theatre indispensable? It’s the powerful bond it has with freedom. With the feeling of being free. With the aspiration to find freedom on the stage, at a time when it is absent in reality. When this bond between the public and the theatre is lost, the meaning of theatre per­ ishes along with it. A free theatre is testimony to a free society. A struggle for a free theatre, specifically freedom on stage, is a struggle for the freedom of a society. Freedom on stage represents the freedom of the society. A captured and blackmailed theatre can only serve the people in power who have captured and blackmailed society itself. So, theatre — because freedom. So, we do theatre because we aspire to have freedom. We want a free theatre because we want to be free. We want to defend the theatre because we want to defend our freedom. For the premiere of Bordello Balkan in April 2017, regardless of the tensions and incidents that could have occurred because of the war veterans, the audience showed up. This time, their coming was not an ordinary theatrical ritual, but an act of resistance. By attending the play, they wanted to show their solidarity with the theatre, especially with the freedom that they desire, and which they were ready to protect. Their coming was a struggle for their threatened freedom. Theatre, because freedom! Jeton Neziraj is a playwright from Kosovo. He was the artistic director of the National Theatre of Kosovo and is currently the Director of Qendra Multimedia, a cultural production company aiming to create an alternative form of art production to address political and social issues with clarity and imagination. His plays have been translated into more than 15 languages.

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HELLO DARKNESS / DANIELA NICOLÒ & ENRICO CASAGRANDE (MOTUS) Why theatre? Because in a way theatre is something ‘stupefying’ (It.: ­stupefacente). I use it here with the double meaning the word has in Italian: as an adjective, from the Latin stupefacere, i.e. “rendering speechless with astonishment, filling one with utmost wonder”, and as a noun, “a natural or synthetic substance that alters the state of consciousness and that, after repeated consumption, causes a condition of physical and mental suffering resulting in addiction and increasing habituation.” I wrote this down once while travelling, after 30 days of touring ever varying cities, atmospheres and audiences: this is (was) the stupefying life of a time that consists of the instantaneous changes in pace that come with “being in the midst of things” (to quote our beloved Pasolini), from small independent theatres to the main stages of international festivals. When this dynamic comes to a halt, as it did in these two months of lockdown, we are thrown into a state of ‘physical and mental suffering’: after the first astonishing loss due to abstinence, one starts looking for surrogates/artistic formats that are adapted to the altering of this socially solipsistic and infected context. Theatre has the athletic capacity to reinvent itself, it’s a phoenix that rises from its own ashes. We feared habituation, but now that it’s impossible to tell how we will emerge from the pandemic – whose conditions were created by neoliberalism, public health cuts and nervous overexploitation – our senses have become hyperactive and our minds ‘high’ on pressing questions: we could emerge definitively lonely, aggressive and competitive or with a great desire for embraces, for solidarity-based sociality, contact, equality? The virus is the condition for a mental leap that no political preaching of any kind could have caused. Equality has re-taken (on one side) centre stage. Let’s imagine it as the starting point for the theatre that will be! On the other side, in these ‘dark times’, under the surface, sovereignism is simmering with nostalgic glances at past regimes: the pandemic offers the perfect breeding ground for new intolerances and anti-democratic abysses. It’s an ideal pretext to hush up the already scandalous hushing up of the issue of migrants, war refugees, land-grabbing, of those without shelter or proper passport … To set out again in this worrying panorama it’s truly unavoidable to ask oneself: “why theatre?” Or possibly: why do we

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obstinately insist on wanting to make theatre, while we could do voluntary social work for so many invisible people, that are now living in even worse conditions? The temptation to leave everything behind is strong, but then we feel how powerful our ‘dependence’ is and how – after thirty years – theatre might, for us, be the (only) way to really, fully, ‘be’ in this world. If we would disappear, we would play into the hands of the right wing parties that, in Italy, demand cuts in culture to face the crisis. It’s an old story, scenting of smoke from the books burnt during Nazism, but in today’s desert everything blossoms again and is analysed. In this time and space deprivation, dictated by the virus, we realise that all the theatre that has been made, is behind us, crystallised, “in the amber of the moment” to quote Kurt Vonnegut: so more than a restoration, it might be the chance for a relaunch, “Quit and restart!” Cleaning, weeding out the rotten parts, making use of the crisis that in this ‘new dark age’, weighed down by hypertrophic state structure, tends to generate further media toxicity. The chain of choices we’ll have to face regarding making theatre will unavoidably be linked mostly to committing to solidarity and renouncing what is established. It will take a lot of effort, but it’s also a great opportunity that living with the virus grants us. We say this because we cannot resign ourselves to mere artistic survival, to meaninglessly keeping on our feet only to keep receiving grants, to struggle just to have our name appear in the umpteenth festival… That’s simply not enough. We want “a good life,” as Judith Butler writes, to slow down and redesign the same creative processes, using practices based on solidarity, sensitive to the environmental alarms, and to make something happen on stage that, beyond the aesthetic research, might ‘serve’ politically. And theatre, precisely because of its intrinsically communal nature, can and has to be seen once again as the home base for this necessity. There where bodies are subject to political control, gestures and bodily performances by which individuals express opposition or a kind of reciprocity enter the domain of the political act. This is what Butler calls ‘perceived democracy’. If biopolitics can only be understood through a microphysical analysis of power, then research of the perceivable forms of rising up and the rejection of inequality, necessitate a microphysics of resilience, also in its artistic forms. We have attempted this in the past with the Antigone project, voicing the protest of a new generation of ‘without-names’… We

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are trying it now, for example, by re-imagining a festival we have been advised to cancel but that, instead, we keep weaving together with the local community, precisely as a social experiment of co-management of allocated space and time that we are living. Aims: we have to train ourselves to deal with changes and uncertainty. We were taught to think of darkness as a place that’s full of danger and even death. But darkness can equally be a place of liberty, fantasy and equality. Those who already live in the margins know how to find new balances, darkness is threatening to those who are privileged, those who aren’t used to feel ‘not-so-welcome’ or dangerous … Let us practice, instead, being last. “All is not lost: if we really are capable of thinking in new ways, then we are also capable of rethinking the world.” ( James Bridle, New Dark Age: Technology and the End of the Future, 2018) Motus is an Italian theatre company founded by Daniela Nicolò and Enrico Casagrande. They have been animated by the necessity to deal with conflicts of the present, blend art and civic engagement crossing imageries that have reactivated the visions of some amongst the most controversial ‘poets’ of contemporaneity. They’ve received numerous awards, including three UBU Prizes.

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THEATRE OF VULNERABILITY / BORIS NIKITIN I cannot separate the idea of vulnerability from the act of coming out. Both are firmly interwoven in my head. Coming out is an act of self-publication and at the same time an artistic act: a person stands in front of others and opens up to them what they personally think, feel, believe, experience or have worked out. In the first place it does not matter, whether it is about sexuality, or the confession of a faith, or the witnessing of a violent experience, or the showing of a work of art, or about an undesirable political conviction, or perhaps even about the simple expression of an unfinished thought. People go public. Stand for something. Give themselves a voice. Expose their bodies. With this act these people change. They cross a boundary into something that, in that very moment, is completely uncertain and undefined. It is a self-inscription into the fabric of fictions and assumptions that we call reality. A shift. They make themselves visible, criticisable, attackable. Vulnerable. But by showing their vulnerability, it is suddenly transformed – from a lack that we usually prefer to hide into something that we can all of a sudden declare as an ability. An ability that is perhaps most clearly inscribed in its English term: Vulner-ability. The ability to be vulnerable. The ability to make yourself attackable. The ability to use your vulnerability directly in your encounter with the world.

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There is a risk involved. The risk of being criticised, misunderstood, excluded, perhaps even physically injured. But at the same time with the possibility that others might say: That’s exactly how I feel. It is a devotion to the others. It is a wager with the future. It is a step into the void. This uncertainty is what makes you vulnerable. It is an almost fundamentalist act of trust towards the people this person opens up to. It is an insinuation. Hannah Arendt calls it the “venture of the public realm” and takes a run at the most radical of her statements: “We are cutting a thread through the web of relationships. We never know what will become of it. We can never know! But this venture is only possible with trust in people – with fundamental trust in the humanity of all people.” The echo of this mental big bang does not fade away in my head even after many years. The outing, the vulnerability, is utopian: I insinuate that you understand me. The hope of not being alone after all. The hope of a look into the face of someone who is just as vulnerable. A potential. It is the greatest possible risk-taking, the ultimate price of which – at both opposite extremes – is death or freedom. All this is, at the same time, the core of the artistic act. For me, artistic work means being able to work on this vulnerability. On this ability. Artistic work is the possibility to work on a form of work that carries this effectiveness within itself. It is working on a non-alienated form of work: work not in the sense of wage labour, but as an influence on reality so that it changes, even if only to a small extent.

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It is the ongoing work against the potential powerlessness of depression. And I do not mean anything clinical by that. Every artistic publication is an outing and work: You invest your physical, mental, emotional and biographical time and try to do something that means something to you and that gives shape to reality. In this meaning the whole intimacy exists. By showing it to the public, to the audience – and of course it is embarrassing – you make yourself vulnerable. Every artist knows the fear that comes with that. But it is only consequential to take the risk. It is logical. Everything else makes no sense. Anxious art interests no one. Living in fear is not worth living. Visibility is vulnerability. There are few places where this becomes as evident as in the theatre. Whoever enters the stage is seen. Therefore vulnerability is a form of appropriation and empowerment. It is a means of production for the creation of subjectivity that is shared with others and that, precisely in this act of sharing, brings with it the experience of a potency. For this reason, the theatre is a contested place: visibility is a good that not everyone has. Not everyone has the possibility of making themselves vulnerable and thus appropriating reality. If artistic work is a privilege, then that is why: to finally trust oneself! It is about the possibility of intuition. It is about sovereignty. It is about economy. This is the rehearsal stage, this is the studio: To work concretely with the reality of this space and this body, not simply to depict or show reality as it appears to be, but to understand it as material and to influence it. Try to give it a form.

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What does that mean in the end? To confront my counterpart, with whom I seem to be in a permanent, never-ending competition, with another, perhaps enigmatic possibility, namely the possibility, that she is as mortal as I am, that she can get just as sick as I do, that she is as vulnerable as I am and most importantly, that she did as little to get born as I did. So what am I willing to give? There is a sentence that has accompanied me since 2012 and which I always thought Heiner Müller put into the mouth of the slave Sasportas in The Mission: “You have forgotten how to die, therefore you are no longer capable of revolution.” That is the ultimate reason, the beginning, the purpose: the devotion of the own body, the moment of total vulnerability. Only where I no longer cling to life, only where dying becomes a possibility, life becomes a possibility for the first time. That is a conceptual thought. It means in the last consequence to make your own body, your own vulnerability, a weapon. To appropriate one’s own mortality. Alone, this weapon may also be pointed at me. Or at you. And that’s another chapter. Boris Nikitin is a Swiss theatre director, author and essayist. His theatre works reflect the representation and production of reality and identity in politics, economy, religion, personal stories and in the arts. Since 2016 Nikitin's texts and theatre pieces focus on the relation between art and vulnerability as well as between art and illness.

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WHY WATER / MAMELA NYAMZA The question “why theatre”, is almost like asking “why water”. We all know that all there is on this earth, whether human, animal, or ecosystem, can never survive without water. In the same vein, at all levels of our cultural society, including nature, we simply cannot live without our ‘theatre’. Notwithstanding, the different interpretations or definitions of what ‘theatre’ is, will inevitably either attract rebuke or rejoice in my opening statement above. For, in my own context as an African from South Africa, I truly resonate with Allen Kaprow who insists that: “The line between art and life should be kept as fluid and perhaps indistinct as possible.” Theatre is an inevitable infinite space of self-reflection between itself, the art exhibited, artists as performers at all levels, and patrons/audience/ society. As such, theatre is not a building or an institution, but an embodiment of art of all genres. Theatre is an enabler of cross-cultural and multi-disciplinary art focus, forever introducing new ways of thinking, talking, and embodying the destruction of the norm. Art, after all, is meant to make us to cherish, intuition, uncertainty and to always search for new ideas. And, by virtue of this, artists will aim to break rules, and will always strive to find unorthodox ways of approaching classical and contemporary art, and challenging accepted anomalies. And that is why theatre should have the power to shift the world from its normative look. But, the question is: has theatre lived up to its expectation as the space for innovation and pusher of boundaries? In South Africa, we might find contradictory responses to this question, dependent on exposure, access, creativity and support of artists. In this instance, the question exposes a lot of hesitation and hastiness from theatre in its response to the needs of artists, and their creativity. Some of South African theatre’s response to artists’ innovation or fresh work, has been heartbreakingly institutionalised and inhibiting to artists, instead of being inviting and inclusive. Certain theatres demarcate their platforms from unfamiliar terrains of creation, with the notion of ‘preserving the culture and keeping their patrons happy of their theatre’. This notion is sadly superficially progressive and pleasing to the society

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↳004 SCOTT: What is the most important thing in your life? MARK: Theatre. SCOTT: Okay. Why do you like theatre, Mark? MARK: I’ve seen theatre. 223

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as the ‘heART-beat of the nation’. Instead of acting against a structured one-sided theatre work, some theatres often opt to side with an institutionalised response of power and patronage against the avant-garde artists who yearns to bring the ‘other work’ to the theatre stage. Instead of a consolidated and united voice of theatres for art innovation, we usually find scattered individualistic voices with different messaging on how to encourage and promote the ‘unknown unsophisticated performance art work’. So, as we approach the stage of a post-Covid-19, it is demanded of us, art practitioners and the creatives, to shout against a theatre of patriarchy, patronage, nepotism and corruption, and seek for a theatre that benefits all artists, especially, the young, up-and-coming and women artists, for their creativity growth, and related sustainable economic growth spin-off. Our youth in South Africa is facing the worst economic outlook for a generation with more than 24% of 18 – 35-year-olds out of work, making the youth unemployment in South Africa reaching a catastrophic 40% for the year 2020. Our young people are not just our next generation of audiences but also our future creative industry leaders as well. Therefore, the theatre must place the youth artists at the heart of every programme and project it does. So, for the sustainability and future of theatre, theatre itself must begin to take care of these human resources/human capital – youth and women artists – by giving them the opportunity to exercise and exhibit their respective fresh creative talent. Therefore, for theatre to survive in South Africa, it must then enable to mentor, inclusively, its constituents – the artists, the patrons, and the larger audience – to be in the forefront of inspiration, innovation, discipline and endurance. Why theatre then? Theatre is to bring diverse voices into the theatre, and not be shy to push the boundaries. Theatre must allow its constituency (artists, patrons and audience) to be moved, to be touched, and to be transported to a new place never visited before, just as had the virus Covid-19 done with our known lifestyles and world-views, which have been altered for good. Let the theatre be then the centre that encourages a vast range of truly

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differing perceptions, ideas, and knowledge, so as to progressively drive creative arts to higher quality levels. That is what theatre is, and that is why theatre must aspire to: to always aspire to this definition. Mamela Nyamza is a performance artist, activist, dancer and choreographer, born and raised in Gugulethu, Cape Town, South Africa. Nyamza’s choreography is firmly rooted in autobiographical, political and social works which have garnered her a national and international acclaim with the audience. 

↳019 Theatre does not entertain me, it angers me to the bone. 225

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DEAR GRANDMA, / MARKUS ÖHRN 1. EXT. GRAVEYARD IN FOREST – AFTERNOON It is the beginning of June 2020 and Markus Öhrn, a Swedish artist is visiting his grandmother’s grave in his home village Niskanpää, a small village in the very north of Sweden. He feels confused about a question that someone just asked him. Only a few months ago the answer would have been so easy, but now everything feels different. He gets down on his knees in front of the grave and asks his dead grandmother Eva-Britt.

MARKUS Why theatre at all?

EVA-BRITT I don’t know.

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Markus Öhrn is a Swedish visual artist. He works mainly with video installations and performances. His work has been presented in museums, galleries and international theatre festivals. He lives and works in Niskanpää, a small village in northern Sweden where he has his studio and produces his works.

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FICTION COMING TO LIFE AND INTERCONTEXTUALISATION / TOSHIKI OKADA

My definition of theatre is fiction coming to life right in front of you. That also means the opposite is true: as long as fiction comes alive right in front of you, it can be defined as theatre. Or at least, it could be perceived as theatre. In other words, it is possible to apply the conceptual framework of theatre to things outside of theatre itself and include them in the meaning. For example, in recent years we have done so by using video installation as a form of theatre. We film the actors as they perform in front of a background, facing the camera. Those recordings are then projected in exhibitions in life-size, bringing alive fiction in front of everyone who experiences them. Despite the fact that the medium here is video installation, the conceptual framework applied in the process is theatre, and therefore to us it is theatre in essence. The big question is: where does fiction come to life in this situation? I believe there are two possible answers to this question. Firstly, it can be the area where the viewer is at that moment. However, it is extremely difficult to make fiction come to life there. That’s because there are an infinite number of places they can be in, not to mention that the performers don’t know what kind of place it is in the first place. I fully realise how much of an advantage it is for the performers and the audience to physically share the place where the performance is held. However, I don’t want to go as far as to say this is an indispensable aspect of theatre. That’s partly because I’m trying to develop a form of theatre coming to life from a remote location after all. The other possible answer is probably better. Namely that it isn’t the place the viewer is in, or somewhere on the screen, but a different place: a third location which can be seen as the actual stage for the performance. In this place which is somehow shared between the performance and the audience, it would be possible for fiction to come alive right there and then. If this can be attained, it would be nothing short of theatre and you could even call it the natural experience. Then again, I have no clue ex­­ actly what place that would be. Just maybe in order to create this place, we would have to re-interpret our definition of the word ‘place’. Which is quite a large task. To begin

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with, it would be a ‘place’ different from a physical place that brings forth fiction, and thus brings forth theatre. Would something like that even be possible? I have my doubts as to this. But even so, I really want to find out. It would be interesting if we could realise a change that is not simply primarily based on the development of digital technology, but a transformation towards a new form that still entails the conceptual essence of theatre. And I can’t think of a set of circumstances that is better suited as an incentive to really start grappling with this vision. There is one more thing I want to talk about. Over the past ten years or so, I’ve been traveling around a lot, working on all kinds of performances and productions. Even though I’m actually an indoor type of person who doesn’t actively jump into different cultures to gain international experience, I’ve been taking up opportunities in all kinds of regions, mostly in Europe, of theatres and festivals that are internationally oriented. Because of this, it’s become commonplace for me to spend almost half of each year outside of Japan. This experience has undoubtedly been a large factor in shaping my idea about theatre that fiction is something that appears at the place of the performance. A performance of a certain work, at a certain place and at a certain time is bound by the context of a specific period, culture and region. This is something that I’ve begun to understand through my experience. Furthermore, over the last five years I’ve also been entrusted with making four repertoire productions for the Munich Kammerspiele. In these five years of cooperation between the theatre and me, I’ve been using texts that are centred around societal problems in Japan, the country I call home. In order for these pieces not to be limited to simply introducing Japanese societal problems to people who don’t know about them, we’ve been gradually learning about techniques of localisation so that the repertoire can be successfully performed in Munich. If the context of the performance differs from the context from the audience and these contexts collide on stage, it can bring forth unexpect­ ­ed nuances and impressions. In that situation, the performance becomes a place where not only fiction, but also intercontextualisation comes to life. In these ten odd years, I’ve been constantly flying from one place to another and constantly staying in cities for periods of about two months

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when I couldn’t even speak the language. To a certain extent, you could say that the purpose of all that was to create intercontextualisation as a creative accident. Would it be possible to realise the significance of intercontextualisation and trigger it without the added experience of physically putting yourself in a region with a different context from your own? I think something like that would be impossible. When only dealing with the question of the place where fiction comes to life, it would be enough to create the image of a space in which both the audience and the performance co-exist, and you probably wouldn’t have to consider the regional, cultural and societal contexts of this space. With that interpretation, by simply updating the definition of ‘place’, it would be possible to create a non-physical place in order to establish theatre. However, when you also take into account the intercontextualisation, such a place would not be sufficient. That’s because a non-physical place would fundamentally be unable to become a scene where region, period and society, in other words, context, can collide. I’m placing an enormous value on intercontextualisation. When asked the question “why theatre?”, my answer is, because theatre is something that can bring forth a place of intercontextualisation. That’s why I would find it regrettable if we’re moving towards a trend where we lessen the degree of creating intercontextualisation. My desire is to find a way of theatre that could fight against the demise of globalisation by investing energy in intercontextualisation. Toshiki Okada is a Japanese playwright, theatre director and novelist. He is internationally known for his works with his theatre company chelfitsch about cultural transformations and their social effects. In this sense he developed a new type of theatre, EIZO-Theatre, utilising image projections as a theatrical performance, transforming exhibition space into theatrical space, exploring new avenues of expression unbound by conventional dramaturgy.

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↳100 There is a fifth glass wall between the stage and society waiting to be torn down. 233

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WE SIT AS AN AUDIENCE IN THE NOW / SUZANNE OSTEN We sit as an audience in the now what We see is always a breath of life We fill it in with our experiences We dialogue the opinions We meet with collaborative craft Behind movement, sound, light… are people with Visions We take in Bodies as if they are our Bodies We Eat, digest and dream On In our dreams We are naked and unprepared Curtain up Suzanne Osten is a Swedish film and theatre director committed to highlighting feminist issues in her work for young audiences. She has directed 10 feature films, and taught directing at Dramatiska Institutet (1996-2009). For more than 30 years, she was the artistic director of the Stockholm children’s theatre Unga Klara, where she created groundbreaking productions like ‘Babydrama‘ among others.

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↳023 Because theatre is the rite of presence. 235

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STATES OF EMERGENCY / THOMAS OSTERMEIER From time to time I am asked to give workshops in an international context. One of the exercises I regularly offer is what I believe in the jargon is called ‘guided improvisation’. I ask all participants to come on stage, where I set up a few chairs, arranged in a similar way to the waiting area of an airport departure gate. I ask all participants to behave as if they were waiting for a flight, playing an individual behaviour, preferably from their own observation. You see the backpacker, the businessman, the holiday traveller, the hipster and whatever other characters one meets in the metropolises of this world. They wait and behave in a civilised way. Then I imitate an airport announcement that the flight is delayed. After what feels like an hour, another announcement that there has been a poison gas attack or an attack with a spreading virus near the airport. The everyday situation tips over into a state of emergency, the tension and drama increases. Before the exercise I put a bottle of water on the stage. I give it to one of the participants after several hours have passed at the airport. The group will discuss how to deal with the last remaining water. Usually there is a dispute about a fair distribution. The civilised behaviour of the participants changes abruptly. The tone becomes more aggressive. Some find arguments for why they, of all people, have a legitimate claim to get the water or at least a large part of it. Others form coalitions and try to gain advantages for the group that they formed. Rarely – but this also happens – individuals sacrifice themselves for the group and give up their share of the water to help others. Of course, this guided improvisation always develops differently in the details, but the basic structure – and here comes my point – remains the same: people’s behaviour changes fundamentally in extreme situations. All participants had behaved according to everyday norms up until the moment of the announcement that they could no long­er leave the room, and in this dramatic moment the masks fell. Behind these masks a different, often more deviant behaviour appears. In most cases of course an egotistical one, but in a few cases also an altruistic one. This seems to me to be a perfect analogy for what interests me in my theatre. As soon as a human being is placed in a dramatic situation, it becomes more difficult to maintain the forms of civilised coexistence. The actual character, or what each individual is capable of, emerges. That

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interests me. My theatre is not a portraiture of everyday life. My theatre tells of what happens when people get into a state of emergency where their usual patterns of behaviour no longer work. These special situations tell us something about what it is that actually makes a person human. And, as I said, this does not always have to be the story of ‘man is a wolf to man’. Sometimes it is also the story of ‘women and children first’. Although the second one might be more the Hollywood version. Or the old dream of Eastern European theatre of the “socialist hero” (not a story that we still consider worth telling with our still ironic attitude towards the world, and yet one that should not be completely ignored. The dialectician would say that both possibilities always exist). The dramatic circumstances in which I bring the characters are thus the precondition to change my view of the people involved. But the audience, too, can perceive a discrepancy between what they see on stage and their everyday life and civilised behaviour. One can see how people decide in times of need. One can recognise this decision as wrong. In the best case, one can change one’s own behaviour.  The dramatic circumstances are also the precondition for the actress or actor to bring herself or himself into states that they might not have known about themselves before. The player discovers other sides to heror himself. In this respect, it is of course also an acting challenge. Without this joyful exploring and living through dramatic circumstances, we might not be able to learn anything about the world in a state of emergency. And therefore less about the people or the actresses and actors who embody them. That’s why I do theatre.

    

Thomas Ostermeier is artistic director of the Schaubühne am Lehniner Platz Berlin and a director. His plays are toured worldwide and he has received many awards for his work, including the Golden Lion at the Venice Biennale (2011).

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LIKE BREATHING / BOUCHRA OUIZGUEN I have never been able to explain what I do and to me, defining things is not really important. Theatre, music, dance... It was about doing things, living them fully and always being there where I wanted to be. And to live only one thing, only one life is dreary. It was obvious, it was written, it was that and nothing else, it was like breathing. Today it is dance, theatre and tomorrow it will be something else... It happens not in the past nor in the projection, but in the moment that moves me, inhabits me and rejoices me. “...and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?” Vincent Van Gogh Bouchra Ouizguen is a Moroccan dancer-choreographer born in Ouarzazate. She lives and works in Marrakech, and is the founder of Compagnie O. Her choreographies combine the qualities of moving sculptures and sound installations, and have been presented all over the world.

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THE GRASS IS GREENER ON THE STAGE / LIES PAUWELS Because we simply need to hang on tight. Artistic identity is becoming a creative accessory of the system. More and more we are becoming creative deputies, rather than artistic personalities. Triggered by the maintenance of a system called society, we risk getting alienated from ourselves as human beings, but also from ourselves as artists. I believe it is important to not underestimate the representation of human content in theatre. This comprises values that are ancient and universal. Values that are far from original, sometimes even cliché, but ubiquitous and always applicable. Thematically, theatre can only repeat itself. The quality of an artist is to respond with his or her own life and insight – rational and emotional – to this complex matter. Theatre is maybe the last place where you can take part in an existential celebration of humankind. This wonderful party between life and death. The denial and the acceptance of the paradox on the same evening. Artists don’t have the responsibility to co-design the future. Or at least they should not feel obliged to do so. It bothers me that well-intentioned opinion formers influence the artist’s discourse. It seems as if artists are supposed to consolidate the changes in society. But I ask myself how one can reflect on society if one has to accomplish it as well? I fear theatre that is hijacked by too much morality, with contours that are drawn by rules and guidelines, whether they are imposed by society or come from within the cultural circle. I don’t want to imagine theatre buildings turning into intellectual shopping malls, battlefields for rational revolutionary happenings or venues for entertaining educational projects. Nothing against all this of course. One does not exist without the other. And I am sure that, in the eyes of some, even my work can be perceived in this respect as well. But I also see there is a lack of imagination, for instance in the choices we make. Too many see performance as an instrument of the model. A model that is trying to set up an artwork for its own policy and creativity. I think it is impossible to carry theatrical identity through a collective policy. Being established and accepted is great, but not when it directs the content in this or that direction. It makes artists dependent and compliant, and compromises their work.

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It is simple: I want to stay honest. I am a compassionate person and I believe in trust. It can already be a lot if we simply touch on something that appeals to people. Where else if not in theatre can we still design the irrational, emotional bottom line of being a human being, the emotional blueprint of our human identity in this more than complex world? Beside the fact that creativity and ideas are the cultivation soil for theatre, for me, theatre is very much a framework for everything we don’t know, a circumference of our fears, irrational behaviour, unconsciousness, consolation and so on. And the theatre space is the convention in which we present all this. Theatre sustains life. Theatre doesn’t have to change the world, but it has to achieve an exchange with the world. For me, theatre is a ‘sense’ that has not become a ‘concept’ yet. It is an attempt to formulate the human condition without naming or explaining it. Theatre is so meaningful if it can leave things unsaid and when it is not designed for better ‘comprehensibility’. Strangely, this may allow us to comprehend the paradox of our existence better. And now why theatre in some other words: To shut up and sit down and listen, wait and see hearing the previous requiem look at the upcoming madness all turning into some expression not knowing where to end up to re-invent the transformation and the inconvenience – of the world no milk today question today and the world, and the words, and the people transfer the emotion and dance with the questions and be quiet be in charge you are the audience

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you have unlimited access to my artist’s soul blending with my secrets having the access to my sensitiveness knowing where the wild things are which part is crushed which contingent potency I gain out of my sadness the truth redirected to find some potential transformation it doesn’t matter if you don’t recognise it you have to know the grass is greener on the stage watch out some uninvited mythology might fall into your lap a choreography of human thoughts a sculptural sensation in a complex whole that is why the doors are closed good for you to know that things will not be resolved but no worries the world outside still exists, that much is true maybe a bit bitter and quite confused but it is still turning, not like you you are seated your seat is on row B chair 7 it is a central position it is from your point of view it all exists it is your own unpredicted truth spread out and your own kind of lies your deceptive package do not feel guilty if you do not understand the shit shit happens you only missed the change to see what was happening and maybe you missed the contribution to the stage nothing more nothing less the deeper meaning is not the same for everyone

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but if it happens that you find yourself in the middle of the world we created tell us how it is I am curious feeling melancholy seeing melancholy living melancholy hurray for the whole cast the transformation of the world into its impotence the transformation was again as always... transformation in this space where it is possible to disappear but you know there is a risk in what I do I dare madly to fall flat on my face and I am shy oh so shy why do I risk so much why theatre I think I risk everything to recognise what I don’t know for my own sake and any inner state of being. Lies Pauwels is a Belgian director and actress. She worked closely with Alain Platel and Arne Sierens. Since 2001, she has concentrated mainly on her own theatre creations for which she works largely on the basis of controlled improvisations. In 2013 she started Sontag. Her performances have been performed internationally and she is often asked to make creations abroad.

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FOR GOD’S SAKE WHY? / LUK PERCEVAL Asking the question “why theatre?”, is not as innocent as it seems. It is an echo of the canon of neoliberal thinking – one of many. That way of thinking only accepts what ‘pays off’. Only that which generates high viewer ratings or represents a majority or a large market share has a right to exist. In that context, as a theatre maker having to explain the why, the sense of theatre, is essentially to bow one’s head before that utilitarian thinking. It feels as if you end up in the defendant’s chair and are forced to prove your innocence. In such a situation you cannot do much more than humbly bow your head to the blunt questions of the ‘system’ and try to answer them with the patience and tolerance of a wise person. In spite of my reluctance, I will make an effort. Human beings are guided by three basic needs: 1/ a need for safety and protection, 2/ a need for relaxation and 3/ a need for social contact. If we feel unsatisfied with these existential needs, mental disorders quickly arise and symptoms such as aggression and depression follow. As if the meaning of our existence is lost. What distinguishes theatre from other art forms is that it is a ritual of a community. A ritual that brings people together and meets three needs at hand: community spirit, safety and security, and relaxation. Essentially, the theatre is a meeting place where people of every rank and position, age and skin colour, ideas, thoughts, contradictions, emotions, energy, etc., can exchange. But what distinguishes theatre from other collective rituals – such as sports competitions or religious beliefs – is that it does not proclaim an ideology. Nor does it identify winners or losers. After all, theatre is a place for asking questions, with “To be or not to be” as one of the most well-known reflections. What these questions have in common is that they are not necessarily followed by an answer. They are questions that express a state of ‘not knowing’. Theatre depicts the human touch in the dark. For more than 2000 years plays have been made about love and death: Eros and Thanatos. Century after century, questions are asked on stage about appearance and existence, about life in all its ungraspable aspects. They are repeated as mantras. Not so much because we are looking for an answer to the mystery of life, but because the sharing of our ‘not knowing’ reassures us, and connects us. Theatre connects the spectator with the actor who 244

↳043 Shakespeare had to compete with popular dogfights and public torture. The people were overcome by so much fun. Yet Shakespeare still loved people. And working together. And theatre. 245

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functions like a shaman in ancient cultures: someone who fights vicariously, slips and laughs about himself. But theatre not only connects us with the endearing fate of a character, above all it connects us with each other. And with something far greater than our selves: a love that is universal. Through texts, actions, images, emotions and thoughts that are sometimes thousands of years old, we experience a spiritual connection with the past, the present and the future. It is precisely this connection that we miss so much when we are denied theatre. Furthermore, theatre is an art form that works directly and unfiltered, because it is a medium that exists only in the moment itself. A few photos or a video recording are usually all that remains of a performance. In its essence, therefore, theatre is like life: impermanent. It exists in the here and now, through a three-dimensional experience of time and space. It is not a light projection on a screen, or letters on paper. No emotion in marble, nor brushstrokes on canvas. The theatre offers a moment of contemplation, about our impermanent fate and suffering, a ritual that releases every individual from his or her isolation and connects him or her to an eternal community. This is the theatre’s essential contribution to the emotional, mental and energetic balance of our society. The theatre is not an exclusive event: on stage there is time and space and attention for the fate of every person, whatever their background. Everything and everyone can be questioned there. That makes theatre unique and necessary: it is a space without ideology. Because of its collective and very direct character, theatre is by far a vital factor for democracy: because it responds to every voice of a community – and at best generates understanding, empathy, catharsis and compassion. That is why theatre is a breeding ground for reflection, for development, for change and for progress. It is no coincidence that the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Velvet Revolution in Prague and the revolution that led to the creation of Belgium began in the theatre. Luk Perceval is an internationally acclaimed director, and a yoga master. After founding the Blauwe Maandag Compagnie, and later Het Toneelhuis in Antwerp, he has been directing at major theatres in Europe. For his work he received in Russia the Stanislavsky Award, the Baltic Star and the Golden Mask; and in Germany the Faust Award.

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NURTURE THE AUDACITY / ALAIN PLATEL

Wednesday morning March 11th 2020: my wife Isnelle has a severe epileptic seizure. It’s not the first time I’ve witnessed this, but what worries me is that this time she doesn’t get out so easily. What’s more, after the first one, a second seizure follows and a little later a third, a fourth… I call the emergency number and shortly after there are four masked nurses in our living room and she has to be taken to the emergency room. In a hurry, I call the director’s assistant of C(H)OEURS 2020, the opera production on which we have been working very intensively for several weeks now, to report that I may not be able to make it to rehearsals today. That same evening, as I return home from the intensive care department where they are trying to get Isnelle out of the status epilepticus, I receive the report of the workday with the dancers and the choir in the opera. Everything went perfectly. A little later I get a phone call from Jan Vandenhouwe, the artistic director of Opera Ballet Vlaanderen: the executive committee had just decided to cancel all performances, and to stop the rehearsals of C(H)OEURS 2020 with immediate effect. 12 March 2020: the World Health Organisation officially announces the corona pandemic. 13 March 2020: in Belgium the restaurants and pubs close down and all lessons in schools are suspended, five days later the country goes into lockdown. Faced with this situation, the question “why theatre?” seemed quite misplaced at first: at that moment we needed mouth masks – vaccines – support for all the people who continued to do the necessary work, and to share our concerns with each other, our fears and meagre words of comfort and encouragement... Not theatre. It took weeks before I didn’t immediately get stuck when thinking about theatre and its future. Slowly I realised that from now on theatres were among the most vulnerable places because of that fundamentally human thing that was suddenly strictly forbidden: being together with other people… This thought paralysed me at times. So I asked myself why I had made theatre until then? At the start of each new project, I tell the cast that, before we work on

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a performance, we have the opportunity to create a temporary utopia. Temporary because I feel that a utopia is by definition temporary, which, by the way, is what makes it so attractive and powerful. Is it possible to work in harmony with a cast of about ten very different individuals and by extension about ten technicians, production managers, tour managers and office workers in function of a result that is completely unknown in advance? A permanent exercise in democracy. During a creation we are confronted with almost all essential (life) questions: who am I – who is the other – who determines what – who has the power and when – what is the difference between men and women, between each individual – what influence does the place you come from have – what is good, clean, strong, authentic, meaningful, innovative – what is a concept, a content, a meaning, a metaphor – what is intuition, form, time, space and when is something virtuosic – what are ratio and sentiments – what is the relationship between the rehearsal studio and the outside world – what is poetry and when does it become economy – when is something religious or spiritual – what is universally human – what is that ... being alive and/or dead...? Over the past thirty years I have gradually come to understand that making a performance is the same as repeating the Great Life in miniature. With a specific group of people and at a certain point in time. From the beginning, no performance was ever a project and the boundary between work and leisure completely disappeared. They became attempts to live this life – which none of us has chosen for. And after that, what happens once the theatre enters the auditorium? Then there are people who choose the adventure of stopping work earlier in the evening, in certain cases get dressed up, pay for a babysitter, arrange transport, buy an (expensive) ticket and, together with some (un) known people, sit on a chair, watch the lights turn off in the hall and see them light up on stage ... to see, hear and at best also feel how someone or a group of people there on stage might succeed in showing how they are trying to live this life that no one has chosen to live. It can happen in an old-fashioned theatre or opera house, a modern building, a church, factory, a garage or an attic. Inside or outside and on all hours of the day and the night. What they show can be serious, or to be laughed with, it can be shouting

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and ranting, or whispering, through music. They can be silent and let their bodies speak, because those start talking when we run out of words to express ourselves through language. It can aggravate us, disappoint us, bring us into ecstasy, rush us, leave us indifferent. We may have forgotten what we saw while drinking the first pint after a performance, or we carry images, sounds, smells with us for the rest of our lives. It even inspires some people to radically change their lives. And all this through one of the most ephemeral art forms, because a performance only exists when it is performed.  Recently, I have seen a documentary that has stuck with me: The Farthest... A documentary about the NASA project that catapulted a spacecraft – the Voyager – into the universe in the seventies of the previous century, to make images of some planets that are decades away from us. It was very moving to hear some of the scientists, who were present at the birth, talking about what it takes to try to achieve something so ambitious forty years later: very simple... A childlike curiosity. It was also stunning to see the primitive means by which – at that time – the spacecrafts were crafted together. At a certain point, for example, scientists were looking for a solid way to connect a few wires and silver paper from the local grocery store was used for this... The most famous object in the Voyager is a kind of golden LP that stores information about the inhabitants of planet Earth and on which, in endless languages, “good day” is said to any ETs who would find this object... The Voyager, that looked as if it had been crafted with sophisticated Meccano pieces, was then shot into space and then we had to wait, years, decades even, before the first pictures of the planets reached us, planets that we had only been able to see through large telescopes until then. And those images turned out to be razor-sharp and shockingly beautiful. The Voyager has now reached the limit of our solar system and, according to human calculations, will probably continue to fly endlessly. “In one billion years, when our sun is burned up entirely, the Voyager and its golden tales will still continue. Maybe it will be the only remaining evidence that mankind has ever existed,” I read somewhere. All this was possible thanks to the audacity of a group of people. Audacity, in my opinion, is a beautiful and old-fashioned word. Bold and brave at the same time. It’s something I often think about when I see drama students

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in recent years, for example. Every year it moves me, again and again: to see 18-year-olds rush in with great flair, a degree of arrogance and in the full conviction that they will be able to add something to that immensely rich Human History of the Arts. Continuing to nurture that audacity, not only in the upcoming generation, but in all the following ones, and certainly even more the old dogs’ generation, will perhaps be the greatest challenge to come. Alain Platel is trained as a remedial educationalist, and is an autodidact director. In 1984 he set up a small group with a number of friends and relatives to work collectively, which became the internationally renowned les ballets C de la B. His dance and theatre creations offer highly personal and moving experiences and have been awarded nationally as well as internationally.

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THIS IS A RECORDING / RENÉ POLLESCH The usual question is why something doesn’t work anymore. But the real one is “Why did it ever work?” Everything we have been left with is completely incomprehensible to us. I see that in the colour films of the thirties where people still touch each other as if they were locked in an incomprehensible classic. When two people stand together on a stage, I always see, like in subtitled films, the words underneath “This is a classic”. As in TV shows recorded before the Corona crisis, where people come unusually close to each other, it is always shown: “This is a recording”. Probably also because of the proximity to the ‘Werther Effect’, to protect oneself in case the behaviour shown encounters mimetic imitators. Sarah Waterfeld recently drew my attention to the fact that due to the ‘Werther Effect’, the entire media association is largely in agreement that suicides should not be reported or only in extreme cases. They are largely kept dead quiet. But let’s get back to the two people standing together on a stage and the classics. Somewhere it said that Shakespeare wrote Lear in the days of the plague. But I think it’s more conceivable, and I could prove it, that it was much more The Passionate Pilgrim and The Phoenix and the Turtle. There are people who assume that playwrights could write their plays alone or isolated. What bothers me about such plays, is that they read as if no actresses or actors were involved (or, moreover, the addressees). Which unfortunately is the case with most plays that are available as texts. The greatest achievement for me as a playwright is to confidently reject any assumption that I would write plays right now. I am happy to have worked out what is generally thought of the actress and the actor, namely that they cannot work alone (which they can do much easier). I haven’t gotten anywhere thinking on my own. It’s always just feeling. Alone you always feel good. I need someone to think. But I don’t need anyone to talk. That’s so difficult to see because you always think: so to speak, it takes two, NO! To think, it takes two or three or four, etc. To speak, if you can pull off the feat, it only takes one. In no other place is this so exposed as in theatre, perhaps also in a seminar room, that someone in the front speaks alone, but he or she doesn’t think. In theatre, thinking only starts when a second or third person comes in. Speaking one does alone.

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Once I lived together with someone, in a shared flat, and we got along well, but we didn’t have much to say to each other. And that wasn’t too bad. But sometimes, and just when I was brushing my teeth for example, he came and started a conversation with me. Always in moments, when that wasn’t possible at all. Even, as another example, when I was standing at the electric coffee grinder and pressed the button, he came and wanted to start a conversation. So when the coffee grinder just made an ear-splitting noise, he would come and talk to me. And I didn’t hear him, of course. And he didn’t do it on purpose. I don’t think he realised it. But for me, it was quite relieving that this could not be a conversation. When I was brushing my teeth, I couldn’t answer, of course, or if I couldn’t hear him. And the fifth time that he came while I was brushing my teeth I thought, he’s got to be kidding me, why now of all times? And at some point I noticed that he speaks without having to arrange for a conversation, and I think in these moments something is really talking. When the coffee grinder is on, it is clear that this is not going to be a conversation and now I can finally start talking. Yes, that’s it. You have to find another way to speak. So when 200 to 600 people in the auditorium are brushing their teeth. Then it’s possible. Or when they push the buttons on their coffee grinders. Then you can talk. Everything you do is for someone else. Which is good. In the real world. In politics. You wake up for someone, you go to bed for someone. Someone you love, for example. But there’s one place where you do something only for yourself, or everybody does it for themselves, and where you can even say to the other people in the other places, “Do it for yourself.” Yes, and NOT for love. Yes, well, you are being watched. But you still do it for yourself. And that’s the trick. René Pollesch is one of the most influential German playwrights and directors. His plays have been shown all over the world. From the 2021/22 season onward, Pollesch will be the new artistic director of the Volksbühne am Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz.

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THINKING OF THE END OF THE WORLD IN COSTUME BY THE SEA / PHILIPPE QUESNE Philippe Quesne is a theatre director with a background in visual arts. He was a set designer for theatre, operas and exhibitions before becoming a director with his own company Vivarium Studio and creating pieces where scenographies are ecosystems which he immerses his actors into. Since 2014, he is the director of Théâtre Nanterre-Amandiers.

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INDISPENSABLE RITUAL / MOKHALLAD RASEM I was born in Bagdad, nicknamed “city of peace”, even though it has known little of it. When I was very small, my innocent daily ritual was to play. Playing with other children, with my brother and sister. When I got older, it became my daily ritual to listen to a story before bedtime, told by my father or mother. Later, the ritual changed and I read books myself. When the war between Iran and Iraq broke out, it was a daily ritual to hide in the bunker during the bomb alarm. This ritual lasted for eight years. The biggest part of my childhood. As I got older I developed the ritual to escape from daily reality, by plunging into my fantasy. That way, I forgot the fear and the power the dictator wielded over us, which in itself was some kind of ritual. Also during the first Gulf War I held on to this ritual of fear and caution. Afterwards I started my theatre studies, which again changed my ritual. My daily reality was different now that I associated it with art. When the last war, the one between Iraq and the U.S. was over, I realised that my reality was far from normal. This realisation breached my daily rituals. I then decided to leave my reality, and look for another reality where I could build new daily rituals. One of those new daily rituals

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is the retrieval of memories, thinking about my family. I remember the tea flavoured with cardamom that my mother made for me in the morning. I remember the bread that was baked in the clay oven. I remember the dates we picked in the garden. My daily ritual as an artist is imagination and observing reality. Silence. Watering the plants. Listening to classical music. Thinking about what’s going on in the world. Reading poetry. Drawing. Drinking tea with cardamom. I have lost a lot in my life. I lost old rituals. I lost my daily reality. I lost my home. I lost my country. I lost my language. I lost my friends. I lost my dreams. I lost my dog. I lost my feeling. I thought I lost everything. But in my new reality, with my new daily rituals, I found everything back at the theatre. Theatre has taught me to be myself. Has taught me life. Taught love. It taught me to be open. It taught me to read.

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And to discover small details. It taught me to draw lines. Triangles and squares. I have learned to confront myself with my own personality. I have learned to have fun. To divide my energy. It made me discover a new time and a new space. I feel that the stage is my home. My country. I feel free there. REALITY VS POETIC IMAgINATION The basis of theatre is imagination. Only people have imagination. We can imagine things that are not present and even things that don’t exist in reality. Theatre touches us, connects us with ourselves and with the world around us. It provides communication. Communication that generates warmth between us. It can give people insights and alert people. It helps us explore reality and read it in a different way. Theatre provides access to greater awareness. Helps to express the unspeakable. Theatre allows us to imagine other worlds, making us think about existential questions. Through theatre we can search the truth that has disappeared in our society, in the mechanical political system. Theatre can develop a new generation, and make sure people don’t settle. Theatre can offer democracy in a country without democracy. Theatre is catharsis. It washes our brains and can re-programme them. It is healing, in two directions

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both for the audience and for the artists. Through theatre we dare to describe our feelings. Art is the pulse of life, and gives life meaning. The world of today needs this perspective more than ever. Mokhallad Rasem is an actor and director who was born and trained in Bagdad. The war in Iraq changed the course of his life, and since 2005 he has been living and working in Belgium. Whereas at first he mostly concentrated on classical European repertory, over the course of time he has taken a more documentary approach.

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THEATRE IS A PLACE OF TRUTH / MILO RAU Once I saw a monologue at the Berlin Volksbühne, staged by a friend. The leading role was played by an actor who had been in the ensemble for almost 20 years, but for reasons unknown to me had not been given a single role. At some point in the play, he was about to die, and this actor, dressed and made up like in a silent movie, suddenly stopped in the middle of the stage. He had been talking the whole time, without pause, but now he stopped and looked around. It became quiet, for what felt like a very long time. And then this actor lifted his finger as if he wanted to say something, opened a bottom flap of the stage and jumped in. He was gone. As far as I’m concerned: forever. Another time, a peasant woman came on stage, it was in East Congo, in Bukavu. That happened as part of a people's trial that we organised there against the big mining companies. We had to convince the farmer's wife for weeks to perform. She had been deported, just like her whole village, to a windy mountain, her goats had drunk from a cyanide contaminated lake near the gold mine and had died. She told all this, and while she was talking, for some reason the stopwatch went off. So she started talking about her dreams. That she wanted to return to her village, how many rooms her house should have, how many cows she would have. As we saw later, this took more than an hour. A hall of 1000 people listened spellbound to this peasant woman. About 15 years earlier, we played ping-pong in a Berlin off-theatre. A post-dramatic company had performed a Maoist production play for fun, and during the intermission ping-pong tables were pushed onto the stage. I was too late, the play should have continued when we were in the middle of the match. The actors were at the side and gave us signs, they wanted to continue, we waved back: almost finished! The time of the game and the time of the performance overlapped, pause and play became one, for a few minutes, as so often in the theatre. I like the way sheep come on stage: their initional hesitant, then comfortable presence. I like rain and wind and heavy objects on stage. I like machines, I like instruments, but I also like it when there’s nothing on stage at all. I like to watch children at warm-up rehearsals: their total mastery of form and emotion. I like long monologues and long silences.

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I like it when actors draw attention to themselves and then release us from it. Above all, I like that you always have to be complete on stage. You can't cut, you can't trick, the audience always sees everything, in real time. It is a completely different exercise from filming, it is a completely different exercise from writing. It's for example impossible to make an enumeration like this one in the theatre. Time passes uniformly on stage, as on any given day. The room is absolutely visible, like a waiting room: always there, stubbornly. “And something wonderful is supposed to happen here?”, one sometimes thinks. Because the theatre is so unmodern, so antiquated, because it is a place of truth (and humility before the materiality of the world and its inhabitants), it has become a place of horror vacui. I personally hated the theatre for a long time: it screams, uses old texts, music, only to forget what it is. Why can't you just watch someone go from right to left? Watch how a person talks, how they reveal themselves? How they are there? Why can we no longer bear the pure existence for which theatre is the place? Perhaps theatre is an exercise for our time: one has to come to terms with what little we have. We are human beings, we do not lack anything. We have bodies, a few languages, social norms, a sometimes violent and sometimes promising history. We have each other, but we also have the long paths that every word - especially a “no”, a “that can no longer be done”, i.e. the revolt - sometimes has to take deep inside us. We have much, but also no abundance. The theatre says: “That must be enough”. And I want to see that, in all its extension. A victory of humanity interests me more in the theatre than elsewhere: because it is subject to the rules of reality like no other. Why theatre? Because the stage makes people appear. Because it - how could that be forgotten? - is our real place. The theatre I like is the place where what we have is there: no more and no less. An actress once told me the following scene: An actor, desperate as a Chekhov figure, shoots himself backstage. After some time he reappears, walks to the ramp covered in blood. Is he a ghost? Should one be frightened by him? One does not know. But then he laughs and bows. Milo Rau is an author, director, since 2007 the artistic director of IIPM International Institute of Political Murder and since 2018 of NTGent.

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PUT ON ANOTHER SHOW / FALK RICHTER

Why theatre: Because I am not good at anything else. Because I need a community. Because it provides the only space where I can concentrate and share ideas and tell very, very intimate stories, and … LISTEN to the intimate stories of others and take notes and write it all down and then re-write it and re-write it again and make A SHOW out of it and fail and try again and fail and hate it and love it and be TOTALLY CONNECTED AND DISCONNECTED TO AND FROM MYSELF, EVERYONE AROUND ME AND THE WORLD all at the same time. There are moments when I truly believe that theatre has the power to change politics, stop wars, make people understand. There are other moments when I can see Sarah Kane’s ghost sneak around the corner laughing at me for being so naive and stupid. Once I wrote a play about Donald Trump, and during the rehearsal process, I felt that my goal should be that MY PLAY WOULD STOP TRUMP, would make people understand that they cannot vote for him and see how corrupt he is and that he is a fraud and a thief and a compulsive liar, but three weeks after the opening night, HE WAS STILL IN POWER. How is that even possible? Did people NOT LISTEN TO ME? It is amazing what THEATRE CAN MAKE YOU BELIEVE: That you can cause a revolution, that you can change the world. That is why I do theatre … I get into these states that are BEYOND THE EXPLICABLE BEYOND LANGUAGE BEYOND THE RATIONAL, where EVERYTHING BECOMES SO INTENSE LIKE I AM IN FULL PSYCHOSIS or I AM INSIDE A CREATIVE SWIRL or where I am the soap opera version of the protagonist of my re-occurring nightmares. Shall we meet in our dreams tonight? Are we five days before the revolution? Are we looking back at a simulation of the best world ever possible from a dystopian future, or are we looking back at the worst form of society ever from a future that has solved all conflict and has cured all wounds and we are just looking back at our time to understand how NOT TO LIVE. HOW WRONG AND FLAWED AND IRRATIONAL AND CONTRADICTORY life can be IF WE DON’T PAY ATTENTION. Theatre is the way to make reality appear as a simulation and understand that what we see before our very eyes is JUST ONE VERSION OF A MULTITUDE OF POSSIBLE REALITIES. A way to understand WHERE I LIVE and WHAT I LIVE and ALL THE CONSEQUENCES OF THE PRIVILEGES I HAVE. And ALL THE WOUNDS inflicted by those who have even more privileges

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than I do, or less, or other ones, and who only see the gay man in me, not the artist, not the human, only the potential easy victim, or the threat to their narration of what is right and what is wrong, the one who lives against God’s will, against Nature’s Laws, who causes IMBALANCE to AN OTHERWISE PERFECT HETERONORMATIVE PARADISE that will be destroyed by … please fill in the gap … depending on the time and place and historical situation this could be anyone. Each victim has their own story to tell. Each aggressor has their own wounds to heal. BUT FIRST HE*SHE NEEDS TO TALK. The stories must be heard. The silence has to be broken or the silence will break us. The victim knows that all too well: The silence has to stop. And the theatre is one of the few safe places in this world where THE VICTIM HAS THE POWER TO SPEAK UP AND TELL HER*HIS STORY. Or tell the story of the aggressor but from the victim’s point of view. Or tell the story that makes us see how the victim’s and the aggressor’s stories are intertwined and bring them to a fictional space where the line between the victim and the aggressor gets blurred and THEY SEE EACH OTHER IN THE EYES, LISTEN AND THE FEAR AND THE ANGER DISAPPEARS and gets replaced by EMPATHY and UNDERSTANDING. Well, keep trying. HISTORY. HERSTORY. MY STORY. THE WORLD’S NARRATIVE. Thou shall not create a hierarchical structure. Well, good luck! We try, we fail, we try, we fail, we get closer to each other, we get hit by all the toxicity that is around us and we wonder: How will we get out of this mess, how will we become a solidary society of people who TRUST each other, how will we make up for THE FUCKING RAPE MACHINE THAT COLONIALISM WAS AND HAS BEEN AND CONTINUES TO BE, and how do we live with ALL THE GUILT that we accumulate in our lifetime. Let’s talk about that. Let’s shift the paradigm. From ABUSE to EMPATHY, from competition to collaboration. Greta, you and your friends can take over the planet now. I am happy to assist you in any way I can. My last show was called IN MY ROOM. I gathered five actors around me and they all came from very different backgrounds and had very different stories to tell, and experiences to look back to socially, financially, sexually, politically. And we talked about our fathers, how they were brought up, how they lived, what they believed in, how they performed masculinity, how they treated their wives and children and how toxicity is passed on from generation to generation and has shaped our families, societies and the shaky grounds on which the European Union was built

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upon and the un-still unstable grounds on which Europe is shaking and trembling today as racism, colonialism and the destruction of the planet are continuing. Theatre is a way to understand the personal, the mythological, and the political and where it all comes from and how it affects the world and how it affects us personally, intimately, socially, politically, spiritually and it communicates and it speaks to the audience and the dead and the broken pieces inside of us and the ones who are yet to come and who are already faintly watching our performance from where they are now and they are already softly asking us: What the hell are you people doing with our future? What kind of show are you people putting on there on THE STAGE OF OUR PLANET, we are watching you, we are your audience, so you better start re-writing the script and PUT ON ANOTHER SHOW and that is WHY I MAKE THEATRE. Because THEY are watching our show. And they just like us deserve A BETTER NARRATIVE. Falk Richter is one of the most important German playwrights and directors of his generation. His plays have been translated into more than 25 languages. In 2019 he was awarded the Special Teddy Award of the Berlinale for his artistic work and his activism for the LGBTIQ* community.

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TO STAY IN LIFE / TIAGO RODRIGUES Not dying. Above all, not dying. Staying in life. Facing a doctor who pro­ nounces the diagnostic with careful tenderness, like Tiresias at the beginning of the tragedy, and confirming that we were right every time we said that the fundamental things in life are invisible. We were right even when we doubted what we were saying because we always doubt what we are saying and we know that the silence between each word that we utter is not called silence, its name is doubt. If in doubt, stay in life. Facing the idea of death, to reaffirm the reason we participate in life: the mystery of the future. Knowing how to say no to death’s kind invitations, which show us a place to sit waiting for the world to come to us, that ask us to accept the world just as it is, unconditionally while we wait for the hour of death, with the impotence of the vanquished. To refuse death and go and meet the world, be a nomad, discover what’s hidden beyond the mountain journey to the other side of the night. Perhaps even transform the tiniest bit of this world or never manage to. To be beaten, maybe, but beaten by life. And, above all, not to die. To know that the idea of death is with us in the tiny space of the doctor’s office when Tiresias foretells the terror, to feel that death’s elbow rubs against our elbow and even then to stay with life because only those that live can imagine the wanderings of death translate them into a story that serves us in life. That’s it: writing or reading about our enemies, making or seeing theatre about the forms of death that haunt us but never swelling the ranks of deadly compliance. Rescuing old words and images, or inventing new ones, or mixing them up some weird way as if you put things in a bag in a hurry to get out of a house in flames, gasping for air, doing what you can to stay in life. And all of this may seem like a collection of big ideas, vaguely political, intended to ease the conscience, or animate the spirit but those who choose to stay in life know that it’s something as concrete as the sound of crickets on a summer’s day. It is, above all, not dying. Savouring the delicious difficulty of staying in life, through the hard times and also the others, but never the easy times, because we know very well that the easy times don’t exist. And every time they tell us that the easy world is possible, knowing that it’s death that speaks to us and that we are the others, the ones who fight

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it. And this is why we must preserve the public places and the underground places where we can stay in life. We must preserve the moments in which we dedicate ourselves to the mysteries, in which we meet and say: here we are, we may be few, but we’re certain that in the face of the prospect of death, we choose to stay in life. And whispering instead of shouting, refusing the noise of the world, listening to the breathing that emerges from the silence and that was always there even when we didn’t want to hear it. To preserve the places where we can hear the wind, the whispering of thought, the spirit of place, the brief and unrepeatable moment when we see ourselves for the first time. And above all, not dying. Tiago Rodrigues is a Portuguese theatre director and artistic director of the Teatro Nacional D. Maria II in Lisbon. Either mixing true stories and fiction, or rewriting classics, his theatre is deeply rooted in the idea of writing for and with the actors, searching a poetical transformation of reality through theatrical tools. In 2018 he was awarded with the XV Europe Prize Theatrical Realities.

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THE CURTAIN SHOULD RISE ON THE RIGHT SIDE / KATHRIN RÖGGLA “I think the only way that could be an answer would be to close down all the theatres in the world for a year – but it has to be a year – and then perhaps you will know afterwards why theatre is necessary,” as Heiner Müller put it in 1995 in Theater ist Krise (Theatre is crisis). Are there first results? Well, the year is not yet over and some theatres have reopened. We know the year will never be over and that the theatres will never close completely. As I write this, I’m watching Robert Wilson’s Hamletmachine from 1986 at the Thalia Theatre via digital stop-and-go. Someone is constantly disturbing me, coming into the room, demanding something, interrupting me. Heiner Müller is also a literary stop-and-go himself, almost stroboscopically. And now Robert Wilson: clown faces, no-theatre sounds, abstraction, stylisation. Exhibited gestures by acting students – different layers of interruption, one could call it. Later I will read the quotation by Heiner Müller on the Hamburg Thalia Theatre homepage: “Hamletmachine, originating from Müller’s translation of Shakespeare’s Hamlet for a theatre in Berlin/GDR, can be read as a pamphlet against the murderous illusion that one can remain innocent in our world.” The illusion has long since fallen, long live the illusion! And it may have become even more murderous. “Everything is at stake!” is what is being said all the time, too often now, so much so that it’s worn out, political rhetoric in neutral. On the theatre stage, this statement would have to be translated into a re-perceptibility, i.e. translated into a concreteness. Through the abstraction of social conditions. I think, and here I am probably a relative of Robert Wilson, stylisation helps here. I have an aversion to theatre that pretends to be like real life and vice versa to theatre that pretends that real life is not at stake. Moreover, the curtain should actually rise on the right side. All too often it does not, because the view into the auditorium is not clear, the openings are not there, and now we are told that we have to settle on the wrong side, which is not possible. In 1986 this was the right side, the combination of such a stylised access to Heiner Müller’s texts was understood as stage language, but already some time later it was not or not so good anymore. Then the so-called flirt with the authentic followed, with the directness of the theatre. We

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let the so-called reality clash with theatre, on top of each other, and are now waiting for the language and the curtain to rise again. That means, I rather sit there and wait for 20 minutes for the language to start: But for now, language doesn’t come. Hamletmachine was a text, wasn’t it! I’d like to know, damn it, if there’s any language coming along, or is it left behind somewhere, can’t it find its way across the stage to us? When I write theatre texts, they come from all corners of the stage which are, as is well-known, numerous. Sometimes they also stop outside and never completely occupy the space, which is always a symbolic as well as a real one. Texts connect spaces, that’s their most innate task, and they transport us from here to there. If there is no more public space, there is no more theatre; if there is no more public space, there are no more political subjects, only individual plots of land. When there is no longer any theatre because there is no longer any public space, the place where society communicates with itself disappears. Seriously? Seriously. Therefore theatre. But not just any theatre, but, and here I agree with Heiner Müller in Theater ist Krise, a theatre of wastefulness. One that doesn’t pay off and is therefore actually doomed to ruin in a fully economised society. In theatre, it is not only wastefulness but also the here and now that rules. Always. The attendance. The rule of the here and now can be levered out theatrically, (what fun!) one can make allies out of it because it’s the here and now of the dying people, as Heiner Müller says in Theater ist Krise, of dying actors and dying spectators. And as I add on, is pressed by all kinds of presences, the now of the media, the now of the stock market, the live tickers, which don’t have as much to do with life as their name suggests. The place of conflict between the different present-day forms, that is the stage, and the dying actress must always be in conflict with her dying character, and she will never be completely familiar with the excess mortality we are seeing here and there. Theatre is an organ of translation of places, times and different experiences. In the absence of its translation services, we walk around monolingually, not knowing what connects the left hand with the right. For they are connected among other things by the conversation of mountains, bogs, river landscapes. Of clouds and microbes, insects and pigs, bats and steppes. The disappearance is also currently in conversation with us, but

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we cannot answer because we lack the words. We always lack the words. Yet the dispute is certain to us. Theatre is the place to carry out symbolic disputes, not to pacify the real, but to fight them out, because through theatre we understand what is actually at stake. For example, there was a historical court case in Munich and we don’t know what it was, because it did not provide much insight into a racist series of murders in Germany, but it revealed the state of this country. You could not reenact this court case like you can with others, to perhaps understand it better. If something takes five years, you have to work differently. You can look at it from the sides, or you can take apart its temporal structure. I say to myself that if something wants to be past right from the start, then you have to counter it with something. Something has to oppose the things that want to be past right from the start, and that’s what theatre does. It’s about creating a futureness, and theatre can do that. Kathrin Röggla is an Austrian prose, theatre and radio play writer. For her work she received numerous awards i.a. the Bruno Kreisky Award for the Political Book (2004), the Nestroy Theatre Prize for the Best Play (2010) and the Austrian Art Prize for Literature (2020).

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PIECE OF EVIDENCE / PIA MARIA ROLL & HANAN BENAMMAR “There is a thin line between being an actor and a witness.” - James Baldwin, Remember This House The role of the actor has through history always moved between power and contempt, from being respected presenters of the ideas of democracy in Greek antiquity to vulgar half-slaves in the Roman theatre onward to persecuted jokers in the Middle Ages to finally ending up as communicators of the bourgeois understanding of self in the 19th century. This constant dynamic between vulgarity and refinement, between obedience and resistance has always been a wonderful tool for us, both in developing our performances and in the drama these works tend to create in public discourse. We don’t perceive theatre as a profession. It’s an attitude towards reality, it’s a place where we can use the slow, experimenting mode of artistic social processes to re-sensitise ourselves to the social world and create pleasure and unpredictability in resistance. Our last show Ways of Seeing was constructed around the fable of two women with respectively Algerian and Iraqi/Kurdish descent, who for nine months were lying outside the houses of people in the political, financial, medial and military elite of Norway. Our task was to commit ourselves to focusing on how the ‘new racism’, brutally manifested in Anders Behring Breivik’s terror attacks in 2011, has managed to get such a strong grip in Norwegian society. “I am staying where I am, here in Oslo, but I still need to be in movement in order to understand things. I want to get my body really close to these people. As close as their front door. I want to look at their house. Because the house, this is where we all feel the safest. And I want to focus on that for 9 months. I basically want to know who is part of constructing and supporting the extreme right in Norway.” This statement, performed in the introduction of Ways of Seeing, sets the premises of our endeavour: the act of looking, on insisting on the gaze, and physically penetrating the universe of our ideological opponents. The performance was quickly heavily criticised from our right-wing government. We were subdued to threats, harassment and often extremely racist rage. This didn’t diminish when a series of attacks was done to the house and car of a politician presented in the play: the country’s minister

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↳027 In reality, artivism is often nothing more than a powerless grandchild of two outdated Western traditions: the historical avantgarde and the petty bourgeois experience of art.

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of justice, Tor-Mikkel Wara. For several months, we were accused of inspiring terrorism, of encouraging hate speech and were deemed ‘morally corrupt’. In the leftist milieu and the culture field, the tone of the play was considered ‘aggressive’, ‘rude’ and the discussions produced by the play ‘polarising’. In short, a powerful narrative of the play was induced to the public, so persuasive that even the state prosecutor believed in it and decided to start a process of charging us and ransacking our homes. The attacks continued for four months until the perfect Aristotelian peripeteia occurred: Laila Anita Bertheussen, the wife of the justice minister, was arrested and suspected of staging it all. Her actions had displayed the force of the new right: the ability to understand the power of false narratives, to use the theatrical methods of creating villains and victims and to build choruses to make society shiver with rage. But this time even the biggest PR-company in the country called First House, who was deeply involved in the process, couldn’t cover up the blunt fact that this had all been a hoax. As we are writing this text, two weeks have passed since the murder of George Floyd by a Minneapolis police officer. After the first global emancipatory storm of protest, the discussions were moved from understanding racism and structural violence to criticising the protesters and focusing on the ‘flaws’ of the anti-racist movement. This tendency, as strong in the left side of politics as it is in the right, of policing people’s form of expression and resistance, is one of the most destructive tendencies in our society today. In the years to come, we will need diversity in the way we resist and accept resistance. We will need to use all our creativity and joy of experimenting to deal with the repercussions that inevitably will come. The theatre practice, which is all about shapeshifting and playing with identity, is how we deal with the repercussions of our work, how we deal with fear, loss and humiliation. By constantly shifting between drama, humour, satire, theoretical knowledge or direct actions, it has given us the possibility to create moments of temporary relief and retreat strategies. Between September 2020 and January 2021, a trial will be held against Laila Anita Bertheussen, the partner of the former justice minister of Norway. This will start a new act of our theatre, as we change status from artists to witnesses and our play becomes a piece of evidence.

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Hanan Benammar is an Algerian/French artist based in Oslo who works conceptually on geopolitical, environmental and social issues. Pia Maria Roll is a Norwegian theatre director and playwright who has worked with themes of power and powerlessness. She has a company under her own name and is based in Oslo.

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BELIEVING BEFORE SEEING / DIDIER RUIZ I grew up not really knowing what theatre was. I went there only at a later age. The only pictures I had as a child were from the TV show Au théâtre ce soir. I guess it was once a week or once a month, most probably on Fridays. The show started with the murmur in the theatre, the plays they offered were burlesque theatre shows with the big stars of that time. My parents loved this ‘theatre date’ and they would always be bent over with laughter. We would all sit in our fixed spot, be it a chair or an armchair, and watch these black and white images. It was popular and cheerful, the theatre came into every home, even to those who never went to the theatre. Like us. Emotions were rare or absent. But I have no memory of live theatre whatsoever. I can’t say, like so many others can, “Oh when I saw so-and-so in this and this play, my life changed...” My theatre was built on the wind... On other images, on reading, on the television programmes of the only available, inescapable channel, the bullfights presented in the sixties, which would always leave a very strong impression on me. I was astonished, as if in a state of apnea, facing the unfolding rite of life and death. My choice for theatre happened very quickly. Without really having an example, but with a big desire. Without any references, like groping in the dark, guided by a sensation more than by images. I believed before seeing: I was the anti-Saint-Thomas. Why theatre today? Because I don’t do politics. I am engaged ‘in theatre’ because I don’t identify with any political party. It’s my way to reunite society, to stir it, to make it dream my way, to offer society a space for sensations and questioning, a society that resembles me most. I make so-called documentary theatre, this is theatre of the humankind, that articulates itself in the moment. On stage, I accompany the voices and bodies of those I like to call ‘innocent’, those non-actors who speak out, vertical and facing the world, without a net, who address us to tell us their world, to claim the world for us. The spectator recognises himself in this ordinary hero who speaks to him, who is not wearing a costume. He leaves the theatre troubled by what he has seen and heard. Changed by the performance, he rejoins his social group, he infiltrates the group

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with a new vision. For me, this is the start of a possible revolution from individual to individual, of a small-scale spin-off. I love the idea of the group. The idea of this evening rendezvous, of these strangers meeting in the dark to share their emotions, always leaves me on the verge of tears. Creating an ephemeral community, every night in a different way, enchants me. This community is alive, its members remain united by invisible bonds, together they experienced the emanation of that particular evening. Because I’m not religious, it is the temple in which I reflect. Yes, the theatre is the place of mystery where anything can happen. Spectator, actor and nowadays as a director, I continue to meet myself over and over again and commit myself forever to find new ways of life. Theatre helps me to be the man I am and at the same time, it allows me to immerse myself into the world, as one plunges one’s nose into a simmering casserole to capture the aromas. I believe that theatre is capable of stirring our consciousness. It is this conviction that makes me want to continue trying to change the colour of the world. After all these years, I make theatre that resembles me. Today, we talk about theatre performances to watch at home, on one’s screen. As a matter of course or fate. For me it is like going back fifty years in time. He, who hasn’t had the experience of being with others in an auditorium in the dark, doesn’t know what theatre is. We are asked to invent ersatz theatre, to imagine almost empty halls, hidden shadows. We can hear the voices of the gravediggers here and there, they want to put the beast to death. Theatre will resist as it has always done, as it has always defended itself by renewing itself for centuries. And I will help her. Didier Ruiz is a French director. Participatory creation is a trademark for his work. His company La compagnie des Hommes is involved in many projects in the suburbs, rural areas and specific neighbourhoods. Memory, the trace, but also the portrait and the collection, are reference points along a continuous path that Ruiz explores relentlessly.

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CREATING A NEW WORLD / AMIR SABRA (STEREO48)

I have always dreamed of creating a new world, a new reality and a new perspective through which the world’s particularities and peculiarities can be understood, and through which experiences, aspirations and ideas can be expressed. Theatre provides us with an opportunity to create art which is both an escape from reality and, simultaneously, an expression and a representation of that reality. Being born a Palestinian has meant that the concepts of existence and identity have always played a part in my development and in the way I understood the world. However, in my imagination there existed a different reality and a different story being told, one that is unrestricted and unburdened by politics and fear. It was the only place where freedom of thought, freedom of expression and freedom of movement appeared to be a reality. When I discovered theatre I realised that it provided a foundation from which this imagination can develop, express itself and flourish. In particular, I found that dancing (where no words are spoken) closely reflected my imagination and my understanding of how things ought to be expressed. The vivid pictures, colours and movements gives every individual the opportunity to see and express freely and to experience the world that he or she would like to experience. Theatre also provides us with a platform from which we can challenge stereotypes and remould the way society sees Palestinians. The creation of art by Palestinians is constantly undermined by the way people perceive us. More specifically, a Palestinian on stage is often blindly seen as a political statement. This misconception is problematic as it reduces the artist to being simply a conduit for the Palestinian struggle and focuses on an element of the art that may or may not accurately represent the artist or the artistic expression. This also partly serves to disregard and undermine the creativity and hard work that Palestinian dancers often put into their work. Theatre provides a solution to this misconception by allowing us to express ourselves as artists and as Palestinians in equal measure.

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Amir Sabra is a Palestinian dancer and emerging choreographer based in Nablus. He has been dancing since 2008, and is currently working as a director of Stereo48 dance collective. The collective was established in 2015 by 4 break dancers from Nablus, aiming to develop a dancing scene that gives a space for young individuals to express their reality in a creative manner.

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WHY ART, WHY NOW, WHY EVER? / FARAH SALEH The first thing the Chinese did under lockdown was to get the whole family dancing in Tik Tok competitions The first thing Italians did under lockdown was to play music and sing from balconies The first thing the Spanish did under strict lockdown was to dress in dinosaurs when throwing the trash to make people smile The first thing Iranian nurses and doctors did under lockdown was to dance their tiredness away The first thing Brits did under lockdown was to thank the health sector’s ‘performance’ with a clap The first thing Panama’s police did under lockdown was to sing and dance in the empty streets to cheer up the population The first thing Scots did under lockdown was to draw rainbows in front of their houses The first thing the Dutch did under the lockdown was to create chain choreographies* over digital platforms The first thing North Americans did under lockdown was to reenact famous paintings at home The first thing Lebanese did under lockdown was to tell jokes to ironise reality The first thing Palestinians did under lockdown was to create chain storytelling** videos

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The first thing besieged Gazawis*** did under lockdown was to draft the short poem Dear world, how does the lockdown feel? The first thing I did under lockdown was to cut and glue rockets from toilet paper rolls with my three-year-old The first thing I did under 2002 Israeli military invasion and curfew in the West Bank was to go back to dancing after years of interruption The first thing my parents did in the 1960s under Israeli military occupation was to distribute resistance posters The first thing my grandparents did after the Nakba in 1948 was to sing resistance songs and dance Dabkeh The first thing I thought of when asked why theatre? why art? was No art, no resilience, no resistance, no togetherness No art, no present, no future *Chain choreography is when one continues a choreography from where the person before ended his/her last movement and so on. **Chain storytelling is when one continues a story from where the person before ended it and so on. ***Gazawi is a resident of Gaza, where Israel has been locking nearly 2 million Palestinians in 360 km2 since 2007. Differently from the pandemic lockdown, the Israeli blockade entails bombings, incursions and killings. Food, medicine and basic material shortages and long electricity cuts. Farah Saleh is a Palestinian dancer and choreographer based in Scotland. She has won numerous prizes and has been involved with local and international projects in Palestine, Belgium, Denmark, Lebanon, and Norway. She is currently an Associate Artist at Dance Base in Edinburgh. 

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IN CLOSED SPACES / FABIAN SCHEIDLER WHY WESTERN THEATRE FAILS TO ADDRESS THE CRISIS OF LIFE ON EARTH

Industrial civilisation has led the earth into the sixth mass species extinction in the planet’s history. The vast forests of Southeast Asia, Central Africa and the Amazon are being turned into lunar landscapes. In the oceans, low-oxygen ‘dead zones’ are expanding rapidly; the Great Barrier Reef – the biggest structure life has ever created on earth – is dying before our very eyes. In Central Europe, about three quarters of the insect populations have already disappeared, while in Australia’s unprecedented wildfires of 2019/2020 at least one billion mammals, birds and reptiles have perished – in only a couple of months. Whether humankind as a species is going to survive ‘the great dying’ it has triggered is far from certain. It is a drama of almost cosmic proportions and on all accounts the greatest tragedy humans can imagine. But western theatre has remarkably little to say about this. It still presents us plays where desperate people yell at each other and roll on the floor; it shows the emptiness that the capitalist system creates in us and between us; but it has no language, no form for the much greater drama that is taking place between humans and the more-than-human world. While many think that everything has already been done on stage, the most crucial thing has not even been tried. The tragic plot par excellence – the conflict between creation and the hubris of man – is not staged. How has this inability to deal with the most important topic of the 21st century come about? The reason is to be found in a striking peculiarity of modern western theatre: it cannot represent the more-than-human world. Apart from some Christmas fairy tales, bourgeois theatre has, since its emergence, created characters who act as if they were alone with each other on the planet. In this closed universe, the sphere of what we call ‘nature’ is nothing but a backdrop to human intrigues. In Shakespeare’s works there was at least a storm; however, it turned out to be just a tool of Prospero’s colonial machinations. Later, the more-than-human world has disappeared more and more from western stages. Eventually, it merely served as a symbol, as a faint memory of a vanished world out there – a wild duck, a glass menagerie, a dead tree. Humans are hovering about in closed rooms without an exterior world. All that is alive in there is themselves.

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This isolation, however, is by no means due to the nature of theatre itself. After all, Greek tragedy, and thereby European theatre as a whole, once emerged from the Dionysian chants of horse- and goat-like characters. The great dramatic traditions of China, Japan, Bali and India – compared to which western theatre can sometimes look quite underdeveloped – abound with more-than-human characters. For us, however, they represent hardly anything more than religious folklore and an exotic decoration. Because only people can act, right? It is, however, not only theatre that has separated ‘nature’ from us as something alien and extrinsic. It is our civilisation as a whole. We are used to dividing science neatly into natural sciences and humanities; one dealing with physical objects, the other with societies and mental processes – as if we could insert a concrete wall between our bodies and our minds. We treat the outside world as a disposable mass for our insatiable economic system which is transforming the living world each and every day into mountains of dead commodities. We are fondling our beloved pet dogs while at the same time devouring steaks that originate from the nightmare of the slaughter factories which, for their part, are fed from the burning forests of the Amazon. – For sure, there are no other protagonists than us. Or is there anybody else? However, what has been split off and repressed as ‘nature’ returns centre stage as the protagonist of the 21st century: storms that no Prospero is able to control, floods that no Hercules can embank, blazing heat from which there is no shelter anymore, pandemics emerging from the excrement of bats who are fleeing from the ravaged woods. What is approaching us, has no human shape. It is different. And still it acts. Does theatre have anything serious to say about this? Is it, while our civilisation has started to fall apart, going to find a new language and form? Or will it just go down with all the rest, wriggling and shouting in closed spaces? Fabian Scheidler is a German writer, playwright, dramaturg and journalist. His books include ‘The End of the Megamachine. A Brief History of a Failing Civilisation,’ analysing the origins of global crises, and ‘Chaos. Das neue Zeitalter der Revolutionen’ (Chaos. The New Age of Revolutions).

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WHY, HONEY? / DENNIS SEIDEL Sandra interviews Dennis. Both sit opposite each other. Sandra starts to ask Dennis questions. SANDRA: So honey, can you imagine a world without culture or large crowds of people? DENNIS: Oh, no, Sandra. SANDRA: Why not, honey? DENNIS: For me, performing in front of a large audience is practically a necessity. I was born to be a theatre actor. SANDRA: Yes, I know, sweetie, but imagine there is no such thing in the world anymore, what about the theatres, the concert halls in the city? DENNIS: That would be terrible, darling, I couldn’t do my job. I would have to look for a new job, all cultural institutions would have to be closed, nobody could do culture anymore. SANDRA: Another interesting question to conclude, darling. Can you imagine ever being with another woman? DENNIS: No, Sandra, I love only you. You know that, Sandra. May 2020 I used to always watch theatre and think: I’d like to do something like that someday and my dream has come true, I am and will remain part of the ensemble of Meine Damen und Herren (Ladies and Gentlemen). My plays are mostly about love and emotions and about strong women. It is also a lot about mourning and death and about what happens when it is night.

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I am interested in the topics love, tenderness, death, mourning, showing feelings, night landscapes, city life and action. I love to play roles where I embody women, I find it interesting how women move and what distinguishes women from men, above all I’m more likely to stick to roles of young women, although I’d like to play an older woman at some point. I love to play a woman because by doing that I can take on another gender. In my work I first do research, then I see how I can put the play into practice, then I see how many characters (cardboard dolls, Barbie dolls, fabric animals and actors) I need, then the textbook gets developed and rehearsed, tried out and worked out. I also take various photos and scenes, which I edit with the image editing programme Photoshop. I think it is especially great to make my own plays. I am then my own boss and can decide for myself what I want to do and how it should be. In contrast to the previous plays with Meine Damen und Herren, in which I worked as an actor, I have now as a director succeeded in making four great ensemble pieces of my own and two solo pieces. My next project will be a solo again. I think it is great to play in front of a real audience, because then I have this great theatre atmosphere. People cheering you on, being thrilled by the stories. Before I started working in theatre I had a job as a courier driver for the Elbe Werkstätten (the Elbe Workshops offer people with disabilities educational and work opportunities), where I always brought orders to customers or picked up orders and worked on them and before that I was in the packing and assembly area. Now, I can develop pieces and bring them on stage, which is better. I used to always watch theatre and think: I’d like to do something like that someday and my dream has come true, I am and will remain part of the ensemble of Meine Damen und Herren. Dennis Seidel is a performer, writer and director and part of the ensemble of Meine Damen und Herren, a Hamburg theatre company of professional actresses and actors with a so-called mental disability.

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↳087 Theatre is a powerhouse which produces the energy of  its own destruction. 289

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ANTIBODIES AGAINST LIES / KIRILL SEREBRENNIKOV I’m little and I go to see a children’s show in the theatre. I watch a fairytale about a cat wearing boots. I immediately see that the castle is made of plywood and the booted cat is played by a tired old lady. I see that above the stage lamps are shining and that the fire is made with a fan swaying a torn red rag. I’m utterly enchanted by the force of shameless deceit that doesn’t even try to present itself as truth.   I don’t believe in illusion. I believe in magic. I can’t lie, because when I was a child I was beaten for lying. And now, if I want to tell a lie, my hands start to shake and my eyes wander sideways. I chose the theatre as the place where there are as little lies as possible.   I have these acquaintances – they’re a couple – they get drunk, take off their clothes and dance naked on the table. It doesn’t matter who’s looking at them – friends, strangers – they don’t give a damn, they’re having a blast. I can’t do that in real life. Take off my clothes and dance, I could probably only do that in the theatre.     People, even the most repulsive ones, are very vulnerable, I’m sure of that. A human being is very fragile. It’s easy to kill a human. But to break through his spiritual crust, his protective armour, is very difficult. But exactly that is the task of theatre. To make a person defenceless for the duration of the show, to make his system create antibodies against murder, nastiness and lies.    One director reported another director to the NKVD*, and he was arrested.   One director was on friendly terms with the bolsheviks at first, but then he fell out of favour, and he was executed.  One director asked for a theatre for himself all his life, but when the authorities gave it to him, he promptly died.  One director lost his mind when they took away his theatre, and his wife cursed everyone who would work in that theatre.  One director was first persecuted, then he became their favourite, and opened a casino in the theatre.  One director said everyone hated him, but on his table he had a phone with a direct line to the Kremlin. 

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One director incited the secret service to launch a criminal case against another director.  One director staged a famous show based on a famous play, and the actors of the famous theatre reported him to the authorities, and the show was closed.  One director agreed to take the place of another director who’d fled abroad, even though they warned him not to do it, and he died of a heart attack.  The history of theatre of my country is rich and diverse. That is called tradition.   Theatre is a place where the creative energy of protest prevails against the semi-official, against the fake, against the lie. Theatre is non-conformism in 3D.    Theatre is always manipulation, as is any form of art. Any director, artist, takes the spectator by the hand and has to bring him, by the difficult or the easy, the long or the short path to his main goal – transformation. You walk into the theatre one person, and you walk out another. For me, it’s interesting when a good artist, whom I trust, leads me somewhere. But I know that there is a great number of dumb and untalented artists in the world, and I don’t want them to lead me anywhere: “Get your dirty hands off of me!” In that case, I’m better off by myself already… The future belongs to different perception protocols from those of the traditional theatre. I like it very much when the spectator at least chooses where to look – not only at the stage. He shouldn’t be tied to his chair, like the character from A Clockwork Orange forced to stare at the screen with his eyes clamped open. I hate applause. It’s possible that that’s a peculiarity of mine. I remember the compliments and curtseys in the Moscow Art Theatre on the day of the premiere of my show: I was standing on the stage of the theatre, the hall is clapping for me, where Stanislavsky had been… And then I walked forward and understood that I didn’t feel anything, a-ny-thing. Not a single thought, no emotions of victory, no sensation of happiness whatsoever. A premiere is always a trauma. It’s as if you kill what has just been born, most often a premature child, you have to hand it to strangers, for the bloody box office to sell tickets. And you, f*ck, cursing everything, walk forward to bow… 

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 Theatre got me accustomed to sweet acts of betrayal. Every time it was painful to say goodbye to the actors with whom you spend days rehearsing, live a common life – after all, that is more than sex, more than everything! And then suddenly – poof! – everything is over. Another director has already arrived, and the actors go and rehearse another show. That’s all. They now love someone else. I’m used to it.    In the show Nureyev there is one moment that is my favourite: the soloists and the corps de ballet perform the most complicated Gala from different ballets that Nureyev danced and staged, and behind them the stage­hands appear and start changing the scenery right in front of the audience. Upfront – weightless people with delicate movements who don’t walk but float, and in the back beefy guys wearing heavy safety boots… One of the ballet fanatics was horrified when he watched the show: “You can’t do this, it kills the dancing.” Yes, everything in this show basically ‘kills the dancing’. I, obviously, love this destruction of classical structures. With this destruction, an enormous energy is generated. Theatre is a powerhouse which produces the energy of its own destruction. The show has only just begun and it’s already inevitably moving towards its end. Towards its own demise. Towards complete disappearance. Towards its transformation into the memory of those who are watching. In this way, theatre is a copy of life. Since childhood I have been afraid to live, that is why I prefer theatre.  *The NKVD (‘People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs’) was the interior ministry of the Soviet Union. It included the secret police and was central to the political repression in the Soviet Union, in this function it was the predecessor of the KGB.  Kirill Serebrennikov is a Russian movie and theatre director and artistic director of the Gogol Center. His movies and plays have been shown and awarded internationally i.a. at the Cannes Film Festival (2018) or with the Europe Prize New Theatrical Realities (2017).

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SLOWLY GETTING HIGH / SHE SHE POP Because there’s a dandyish guy with a fine moustache putting on a record. Before he turns on the music, he tells a story: two friends, beat poets, drive through an avenue, bright evening light from the side, the passing trees throw their shadows into the car: fast hard changes of light and dark. And the guys in the story close their eyes and slowly get high. Then the dandy turns on the music: cool electro, late ‘90s. In the middle of the record, on the label, he puts a cardboard cylinder. Above the record player, a very bright light bulb hangs on a long cable directly into this rotating cylinder. Apart from that it’s dark. The cardboard has wide slits through which the light flashes in a steady rhythm. Your eyes are closed and you listen to this track, and you feel the flashes of light through the closed eyelids. Because this one moment is a dense composition of many elements: a story, a light bulb, some cardboard, the music, the record player, the people close to you, the half-naked dandy in the thick sweater. Each of these elements is equally important. Each is what it is and at the same time it stands for something else that isn’t there: the trees, the evening light, the friend next to you in the car, the driving. There is no such thing as true or fictitious, there is no such thing as as-if. Presence and absence slide into each other for you and for all those who belong together in this moment and are slowly getting high.* Because you can’t forget that scene towards the end of the evening. You saw a group of seven people with and without syndromes doing a play about euthanasia. And then you watch them play ‘musical chairs’ and you get dizzy for a moment because this is such a cruel idea. But as you watch, you realise that there are different rules here and it’s all about having no feet on the ground. The chairs get shared, nobody is sorted out, everybody needs help. When finally only one chair is left and after many attempts and only for a second all seven performers succeed in finding space on it while clinging to each other, you break out in cheers. Your jubilation also applies to the utopian world design you observe here: a special group has proposed a small shift in the rules of the game here, which changes everything.* Because at some point all the women and men in front of you sit in a row on their chairs and start to present themselves with inviting gestures. Their poses are everyday ones, but somehow overused and artificial. They 294

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throw these flirtatious glances at you and others. The women and men never get out of these loops. And then they start talking, casually and quietly. Suddenly there are all these voices in the room. They’re demanding attention. Each one seems to want to tell you something. Something personal about themselves. In the process everything is also immediately lost again. This man, who previously tried to measure everything, now takes a microphone stand and tries to catch the stories. But he does not succeed. Only fragments are heard. He runs back and forth like a little boy trying to catch soap bubbles that burst as soon as he touches them. It’s so beautiful, desperate and real that you can’t forget it. Perhaps only theatre can do that: create something in front of everyone that bears witness to its own transience. In the auditorium, you yourself feel the longing to capture everything that cannot be captured: life, love, time – or just this one moment here.* Because everyone wears white. Because from the very beginning you cannot identify who is a guest here like you and who is in on the secret of this event. Who is a patient and who is part of the staff. A nurse comes up to you and leads you to a locker. She hands you a white nightgown and these cellulose underpants. You take off everything, even your underpants. Everything that you were made up of, you lock up in a closet and you hand over the key. You get a medical record and a new name. You get a bed assigned. You will spend the next few hours, maybe even the whole night here. You will eat and drink, attend group sessions or do some painting. You will gradually forget who you were before you came here and what time it actually is. You will lie in your hospital bed and realise that you enjoy it: the freedom and the loss of control. This other world, where you are now – as another. You ask yourself: who actually has control of the situation? Who is playing with whom? Who is responsible for what is happening? What is planned, what is escalating just like that and possibly slipping away from everyone? For a long time this experience will not let you go. Because you have never been so close to losing yourself in a situation and giving up. Because it has given you – perhaps for the first time – a real sense that the boundaries between play and reality are blurring. You will wonder what shared responsibility of people in a room actually means. And you realise that the decision for everything that happened that night was yours – all the time.*

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*Memories of moments from ‘Burn Cities Burn’ by Showcase Beat le Mot, 2000 at Kampnagel/Cinema Alabama; ‘Das Konzept bin ich’ by I Can Be Your Translator, 2019 at Ballhaus Ost, Berlin; ‘Kontakthof’ by Pina Bausch, 1989 at Staatstheater Wuppertal and ‘The Dorine Chaikin Institute’ by Signa, 2007 at Ballhaus Ost, Berlin. She She Pop is a performance collective that was founded in the '90s in Germany. The predominantly female performers see themselves as authors, dramaturges and practitioners of their stage art and work collectively. The inclusion of their own autobiographies is above all the method and not the purpose of their work.

↳094 The Greeks in their theatre looked at the vast sea, the medieval theatre looked at Heaven and Hellmouth. And we, all we look at is darkness. 297

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FOR AS LONG AS I CAN REMEMBER, I’VE BEEN PERFORMING / BUHLEBEZWE SIWANI Personally, the question is not “why theatre”, performance is the more pertinent word because it allows one to not pocket or define what it is that one does in such a linear way. I am also writing and responding to the question coming out of a performative background that was strengthened by the Fine Arts and Live Arts. Performance and what it is, is ever changing. Depending on where I am in my life, performance continues to change. The type of performance might change, where I am might change, the type of work I am making, who I am making it for, what I am trying to communicate and where I am making it. I have so many questions for myself thinking about performance, I even thought about how what I have written could perform itself using the many different ways performance artists have to answer interview questions. I began to interview myself, how I would, could articulate what I was asking myself without it being to respondent. I wrote a text, take it how you will, as a poem, a monologue, speech, dialogue or engagement… Whatever it is that you will or you might imagine it is. It has been a conversation, which has plagued my innards for the large part of my life. Long have you eluded me was the thought that ran rampant Of course, the black body must monkey itself and is expected to do so, when it no longer does this, it serves as an oddity, because what do you look at, how do you begin to encounter the body that is presented to you in a way that I myself have chosen. What of the layers and the complexities that the body presents Led to this place of work, willfully boxed, so you can see it the way it wants you to, does this not change the view and the dynamic Are you not performing the same way that this body in front of you performs? The dynamic of power and manner of shift has shifted, or surely should.

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This inner dialogue is the basis of why I have decided to make performance art. It is what has led me on this path. We all perform, objects perform and humans can change objects and their meaning using performance, making you believe that one thing is something completely different. For as long as I can remember, I have been performing. We come out of the womb crying, we arrive, and our mothers introduce us to performance. So, what is my first active memory of performance, the memory that made me think that what I was doing was normal life for everyone? The one that stands out to me is, when I was around 5 years old, the kids in the neighbourhood reenacted a wedding, and I do not remember why I was the bride. What I do remember is that we, the children, were between the ages of three years old and 16 years old. We all played together when something was this big, there were costumes, we wore make-up, held a procession, we were children creating their own joy in a township during apartheid in South Africa. Not even two years later South Africa entered its democracy and the township changed in ways we could not see, but our performances and our dances changed, the music changed. Again, why performance? Because it made me feel like I could breathe. Buhlebezwe Siwani is a South African visual artist working in performance, photography, sculpture and installation. Within her work she interrogates the patriarchal framing of the black female body and experience. She is also founding member of the influential collective IQhiya, which was formed as an activist response to the lack of exhibition opportunity and the under-representation of black female artists.

↳077 But then he laughs and bows. 299

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LACK OF GUARANTEE / MÅRTEN SPÅNGBERG

I like theatres. They have really nice stairs and the artist entrance is oftentimes minimally depressing. I mean the buildings. Theatres are lovely on the inside too especially after having been renovated too many times and altered to accommodate lifesaving IT-solutions and impossibly placed elevators that send people up and down unknown destinations. Theatres are great because people work there. Not just actors, dancers, musicians, the sweet gang in the costume department and all the front of house people, but all the others too. Those who are occupied with things that have nothing to do with theatre but still work there, in the theatre. That’s really uplifting to think about. Theatres are admirable because they have conflicts. What other workplaces have conflicts? In particular those that expand into the public sphere and media? Theatres are brilliant examples of failed optimisation. The number of square meters completely cramped with activity, stuff and history is combatted only by gigantic areas that are used so rarely they are often forgotten. Nowhere else is the canteen so perfect as in theatres. The bigger the theatre the better the canteen. As long as theatres are around the welfare state is not entirely dead. If I worked for a delivery company I’d do anything as long as I could deliver to the theatre. Oh, and nowhere else does it feel so good to be handed a visitor’s badge. Theatres are fantastic. It’s not just the building. No, it’s like the activity that’s in there. In fact it doesn’t matter what or if it’s any good as long as it’s theatre, but once the theatre is no longer there the building also loses its cool lustre, its power, its inevitability. This to me is reason enough. * I like theatre. What feels better than to prepare oneself for a visit to the theatre? Buy the ticket, especially when buying two. Already looking forward to a glass of lousy champagne in the break before the curtain even opens. The knowledge that it will be way too long and probably rather boring, regurgitating some or other conflict that we have had so much too much of already. It’s awesome to sit there in the dark being completely immobilised, unable to make my own choices. In the theatre the lights

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are out, where else in neoliberalism does that happen? The theatre is a place that doesn’t know multitasking. Just think about it, where else do you sit for hours not doing anything else than sit? There’s so much freedom there and I don’t even expect it to be stimulating, fun or exciting. Theatre is really well spent waste of time. Congenial, and the information flow is so gentle and sparse. A bit too much video maybe but otherwise zero focus on user experience. Theatre, the social situation, is simply amazing. So astounding it doesn’t really matter what happens on stage. As long as it’s theatre, the social can’t go wrong. We are there and together, not like in the cinema or the museum, for real together. Occasionally it can be tempting to confuse the social dimension of theatre with social theatre. But as we know there’s quite a difference between practice and representation. At times, theatre has engaged socially so intensely that the barrier between representation and practice has been breached. Those moments however must not be rehearsed, or the innocence of engagement transforms into simple manipulation. In our current societies, theatre, the social framework, is in itself a form of activism. The question however is if the political comes before or after activism, and what forms of homogenisation the different positions estimate? Theatre is terrific because it doesn’t offer us to stand in front of it and take a selfie. It insists on being in front of us. Theatre whatever it is, is never neutral. I might be bad or good, political or trying not to be, fresh or dusty, big or small, it nevertheless fails being neutral. I love this about theatre and that I think is reasons enough. Theatre is wonderful because its lack of guarantee. Where else do people ask for their money back? Isn’t it fantastic that there still exists an institution that doesn’t promise a complete, waterproof, dinner is served experience? There’s no Gerhard Richter retrospective that went sideways, or Hyundai sponsored Turbine Hall event that ended up with a booing premiere audience. In the theatre, even classics can fall over and they do repeatedly, but whoever heard about a Picasso exhibition that was a fiasco? With Picasso everything is agreed and settled, whereas Shakespeare still is or can become a pain in the butt. What other cultural institution that hosts art hasn’t eliminated that form of risk, if not any form of risk.

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↳068 In our dreams / We are naked and unprepared / Curtain up 302

Theatre is smashing. We just need to remember to let theatre be theatre and not try to give it reason. When we do that, it quickly ceases to be theatre, stops being art and ends up at best being culture but more often pedagogy and management. Then it becomes an instrument of power and loses its openness and emancipatory potentiality. But what about responsibility? Don’t theatre workers and makers have an ethical urgency to respond to the world that surrounds us? Yes, certainly as workers and makers but that responsibility is not identical to the responsibility of theatre, the art form. We should be careful not to transform art into an instrument, an extension or prosthesis of ourselves. It might sound paradoxical but maybe it is especially important to let theatre be theatre in times of crisis and hardship. Perhaps these are times, spring of 2020, when we urgently need a space that doesn’t guide our experience, that doesn’t tell us what to think or what opinion is appropriate. A space whose form is familiar but where experience remains open, indeterminate and generative. That I think is reason enough. Every day. Mårten Spångberg is an artist living and working in Berlin. His interests concern choreography in an expanded field, something he has approached through experimental practices and creative processes in a multiplicity of formats and expressions. His writing has been published in numerous magazines and resulted in several books.

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HALF WORLD / VEIT SPRENGER (SHOWCASE BEAT LE MOT) If people in the future name the period we are currently living in, they will call it the In-Times-Like-These Era. ‘In times like these’: in particular when used in speeches aimed at the arts community, this phrase immediately evokes a sense of belonging without needing to specify what sort of times these actually are. The phrase implies that ‘these times’ are somehow special, which in turn makes those of us who live in them special as well, because of our experiences and suffering, and because of how we accept our responsibility. That would be nice. But in the end, this era of ‘times like these’ is not that special at all. It has much in common with other periods people have lived through since the steam engine was invented and planet Earth was colonised: humans are exploiting other humans. Life is being destroyed on an apocalyptic scale. And art is completely irrelevant. Since crises don’t change our living conditions but do make us more acutely aware of them, we artists are increasingly confronted with the painful realisation of our own insignificance. We try to counter this by justifying ourselves. We tell ourselves – and anyone who will listen – that art is essential work. That it is the glue of society, food for the soul, an instrument of democratic participation, and a guarantor of societal health, among others. Yet viewed within the context of essential work, art is none of these things. That is not actually a bad thing. In fact, we may be doing art a disservice by constantly asserting how useful it is. These assertions could lead to expectations of art that it could only fulfil if it was indistinguishable from other suppliers involved in the booming business of free and democratic automobile production. For over a decade now, the educational theatre offered by the cultural night school has been prescribed as a panacea. In the worst case, this theatre would be the only alternative in the future. It would impart useful information from its home office – information which is completely harmless and guaranteed not to be contagious. At worst, the theatre space would become what it has been since the German classical period: a disciplinary mechanism that promotes ‘good policy’, a societal school of etiquette that mitigates extremism, a space of moderate self-assurance. Abandoning art – as well as artifice, the artsy, and all its other manifestations – in favour of information would lead to formal impoverishment. The joys of dilettantism

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would gradually dissolve into professional consensus, and the race for daily relevance, which is only political on the surface, would increasingly leave the bitter aftertaste of raw ambition and careerism. Theatre spaces would be equipped with assigned seats, ensuring ample safety distances from each other and from the performance, and for safety’s sake the architectural foundations of the theatre, which are also its political foundations, would be off limits. The exhausting, half-baked, potentially embarrassing and confusing togetherness that theatre could be would be replaced by standardised, repetitive recitations. Nothing would be free of charge in this circus of appropriateness; nothing would be given away. One would have to speak of non-musicality, because music cannot help but give itself away. The regime of functionality would extend into the remotest realms of the theatrical machinery, where, under the pretext of safety, every unfamiliar scenario that had not yet been thoroughly tested for feasibility would be met with vehement resistance. We would once again refer to the ‘stage’ instead of the performance space, and we would have ‘audiences’ instead of gatherings. Everyone would welcome a return to the good old organisational chart that dictates the division of labour. Why theatre? Precisely because it is not essential. I don’t say this as a cop-out, but rather to emphasise the luxury that is inherent in theatre. Instead of trying so hard to explain why our work is essential, now more than ever we need to embrace the fact that it is a luxury. In a commentary written during his Berlin period, Robert Walser expresses his desire for a theatre that “spins golden, ideal lies into a large, unnaturally beautiful form”. I long for this kind of seduction, the air of the funfair and the ghost train that the theatre has breathed at times. I long for this half-world, which is still half world, but also half something else that has yet to be discovered. After all, it’s impossible to plan which meaning theatre holds for which person. In any case, I have never created a piece that didn’t have to be explained to me afterwards by those who were there. The night after I was asked to write this text, I dreamt of a street lined with nothing but the facades of houses. Behind it was an empty, freshly ploughed field. Artichokes sprouted from the soil, then architecture sprang up. Not according to the regimented shoebox model used in contemporary urban planning, but freely, exuberantly, without constraints – the way plants grow. What would a theatre of plants look like? Ever since complex

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↳106 How to speak to audiences from all social backgrounds, while surviving in the midst of ephemeral trends and fashions? 306

life evolved, plants have gone about things in their own way – inasmuch as plants can ‘go’ about anything at all. Posture matters to them. They do not die, they just rest. They stoically allow themselves be eaten away at because their life springs forth. This does not mean that they are not cruel. They are always prepared to go to the extreme. The relentless force of their roots cracks concrete. They pave new ways by growing over them. They persevere. They think in the long term. They look for compromises and come to agreements, but not without renegotiating at every opportunity. Humour, subtly flowing through billions of capillaries, is a vital necessity for them. Yet their sense of humour is unobtrusive; no laughter is needed. They don’t mind people, but if people ceased to exist, the plants wouldn’t miss them. Theatre has never existed. But someone could invent it. Why not? Veit Sprenger is an author, theatre maker and musician. He is a founding member of the international regarded performance collective Showcase Beat Le Mot. In their plays they deal with the striving for self-determination, collective decision-making and non-hierarchical work processes – with the desire for unconventional forms of action and expression.

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TOWARDS EMANCIPATORY PERFORMANCE / LARA & JONAS STAAL JONAS STAAL: I’ve always perceived theatre as a term through which we engage the scripts, choreographies, performance, staging and theatricalisation of the life forms we are part of and the ones we aim to create differently. For me, theatre is not primarily a place or a space, but an idea. In propaganda studies, which is part of my field, the notion of ‘performance’ is very important in analyzing the way that dominant structures of power shape our reality. For example, how mass media or the military industrial complex ‘perform’ their power to shape a new normal that serves particular elite interests. To construct a particular reality, propaganda needs people to internalise ideological scripts, so that they embody and perform this reality on a day to day basis. Emancipatory theatre, I would say, is about challenging the interests invested in these scripts, rewriting them in order to enable the collective performance of an egalitarian society. The way you engage theatre, as a space both speculative in relation to the kind of societies we aim to create and at the same time organisational, because you try to assemble people to make that speculative imagination a reality, is a good example. LARA STAAL: Theatre offers me the possibility to create live assemblies where the rules, principles and values are not presumed. It provides an infrastructure within which we can come together in order to enact a proposal. This can range from ‘let’s give attention to this forgotten element in history’, to ‘let’s give this particular struggle a platform’, to ‘let’s reenact this trial that shows us how fundamentally unjust our societies are’. The performative, which theatre is rooted in, shows us how our world is being staged every day. It is exactly as you say; we constantly perform behaviour, thoughts, attitudes and rituals, but we have internalised them so much, that we forget that they are performative and simply think they are reality. Theatre can remind us and reveal to us, how much of what we do is performance; by which I mean that we daily enact a collective construction that we call reality. Therefore, it is crucial for me that theatre moves away from representation as this mode of thinking allows us to comfortably think we are looking at mere fiction, that it’s inconsequential. It is precisely the blurry zone between how we are fully entangled within our

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daily realities and at the same time can exercise going beyond that status quo. Every piece of theatre should be a call to remind us that we can live otherwise. Theatre can be a place of redistributing power. In relation to that I wonder how you are looking back at your New World Summits; they were very powerful political arenas where people excluded from democracy got a voice. There are not many stronger examples of emancipatory theatre, at the same time calling it as such could hurt the participants severely; what was this theatre enabling in the end in your view? JS: For me, terms like ‘performance’ and ‘staging’ are not mimicry per se, as they have the potential of being constitutive of life forms that co-­ define reality. Your desire to move away from representation is what, for me, defines an emancipatory performance, because this attributes to theatre a constitutive role in constructing egalitarian realities. The New World Summit consists of alternative parliaments that I developed in theatres, art institutions and public spaces for stateless and blacklisted political organisations. For me, a parliament is by definition a theatre, as much as a theatre is a potential parliament. When I traveled to Rojava for the first time in 2014, the autonomous Kurdish region in Northern Syria, the new people’s parliament of the revolutionary self-government was located in a theatre in Qamishlo. But the theatre was simultaneously in use for artistic performance. It was as much a theatre as it was a parliament, and it made sense to me that revolutionary imaginary would seek this intimate relation to artistic imaginary, as they need one another to constitute a new emancipatory reality. How do you see this interaction between the performative and the constitutive in, for example, your alternative people’s tribunal Europe on Trial, that you created with Yoonis Osman Nuur? LS: Your words resonate immensely. Indeed, reality is always staged, and performance is not mimicry or mirroring some idea of the REAL but performs principles that we decide to call reality. Still, there is something uncomfortable, because as clear as this might sound to us, I don’t think this is the case for a lot of people. Why is this infectious relationship between what we call reality and what we call fiction not more obvious to everybody? How did theatres and theatre projects become places of ‘critical entertainment’ for the privileged? What needs to happen in order for

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the performative and the fictional to enter the heart of society and start fruitful alliances with politics, healthcare, education, and journalism? How could we reach a world in which the actual and the possible are in continuous dialogue with each other? For me it was very important to bring Europe to trial because of the many crimes we committed against humanity regarding the fate of refugees trying to reach Europe. Of course, in a way, it would have been much better if an official institution such as the International Criminal Court would have taken on that job (which by the way happened a year after Europe on Trial), but as long as this wasn’t the case, we felt we didn’t want to wait for that. The slow, technocratic processes of such institutions tend to lose all public attention along the way, and we felt a great need for a hands-on trial. A people’s tribunal that can speak, not only to the minds, but also to our bodies and hearts. Our trial was deliberately a moral one, as we are convinced that when talking about asylum policies it is not enough to only look at treaties, statistics, legislation and the distinction between what’s true and false. We should move beyond looking only at individual cases and towards reformulating the values we, as a society, want to stand for. You cannot completely outsource this to a technocratic process of so called ‘speaking the truth’. Europe on Trial was rooted in this intimate relation between reality and fiction, envisioning a progressive tribunal that understands that what reality is, depends on what we collectively think should constitute the truth. To give a familiar example: many refugees don’t know when they are born, or where they came from on a map, they have never seen a map or a birth certificate in their lives… So, it’s simply not part of their reality, even if the IND (Dutch Immigration and Naturalisation Service) thinks it should be. Or, if we start to speak about memory and how this is affected by trauma, we can easily call someone who doesn’t tell the story of fleeing exactly the same a second time a liar, but that would be criminal, as we know the truth in reality is much more complex. JS: I think what you observe as the role of art in expanding forms of non-traditional evidence into the process of enforcing social justice, is extremely important. I think a project such as Europe on Trial, simultaneously contributes to highlighting what you call the “infectious relationship between

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what we call reality and what we call fiction”. Because your public, your jury, is aware that your tribunal does not have the same status as, say, the International Criminal Court. But as the procedures unfold, and new resonances of truth are performed, it’s hard to claim that it is not entirely a people’s tribunal either. It is at that moment that the relation between staging and constituting becomes visible and affective, as we are part of the process in which we see a desired institution gaining increasing legitimacy – a process that we witness and partake in at the very same time. This dynamic seems closely aligned with what Judith Butler has discussed as ‘performative assembly’, with which she refers to the process in which people, due to a sense of powerlessness, seek for one another on streets and squares, and in that unchosen process gain a new kind of collective power. Suddenly, their assemblies on squares becomes the new people’s parliaments, their alternative media centers the new news. The strength of the performative is gained through the forging of the collective. This opens the question of the relation between art, culture and popular power, as Butler describes a different understanding of art and culture as a shared competence, in the process of prefiguring – through performative assembly – egalitarian society. LS: So, theatre has the potential to revise and correct the current power structures in which we operate. It can reenact, and in that way, reach more social justice the second time. It can be more democratic than democracy itself. Theatre can be more inclusive than the narratives described in our history books. It can provide spaces for minorities who are overlooked and ignored within our current democracies. Theatre can exercise new forms of decision making etc etc. While all of these examples are crucial, theatre doesn’t only have to function backwards as some tragic correcting machine that becomes active only when the harm has already been done; a mere tool to extract knowledge and lessons from the past for those who are willing to engage with it. No, it can also preenact, prefigurate and constitute a reality that forces a new equilibrium in which power is redistributed in a more equal way. As reality equals the performance of power (or differently said: is the outcome of the interests of those in power), the theatre becomes powerful when it is affirmed by as many people as possible. When it is no longer viewed as mere fiction as people are confirming

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the ‘performance’, the outcry or the demand. At some point, the people in power will have to engage with this ‘new reality’. And by doing so, confirm its presence and make it part of our collective reality. When and how the performance we as artists propose, will have this impact is impossible to predict, as our democracies are the actions of many, and revolutions can only be co-created, not imposed from above. But we should always aim for our work to move beyond the institutionalised framework that keeps it hostage in the idea of ‘harmless’ fiction. Every time we stage, we should factor in the possibility for it to become an actual revolution. JS: I share with you this idea that theatre, as a form of emancipatory performance, represents imaginative power, and that this power is as real as emancipatory forces are willing to acknowledge it to be. I think what is important to emphasise though, is the question within which organisational structures we wish to contribute our imaginative competences as cultural workers. In the current constellation of neoliberalism on one hand and ultranationalism on the other, and all the intersections between the two, we risk lacking allies and comrades and are thus forced into a position of critically mirroring and preenacting for a future that might never see the light of day. Without a direct link between popular power and emancipatory culture, our imaginations risk to ‘fling garlands of flowers over the chains that weigh us down’ – to paraphrase Rousseau, instead of contributing to fundamental societal transformation. So, in that light, I believe our involvement as cultural workers in emancipatory political parties, unions, social movements and activist platforms is becoming all the more important, as we need to forge a new alliance between emancipatory culture and popular power, to ensure our contribution to collective imagination leads to real-time transformation. In such a context, the point is not to nudge the ruling elite a bit to the left or right, for the people in power would be all of us. I agree that our stagings are potentially powerful, but I would add that, in the end, this power only becomes meaningful to the collective when recognised as a structural and committed part of a larger struggle.

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Lara Staal is a Dutch theatre maker, curator, researcher and writer focussing on how theatre can provide a platform for political action and reflection and produce alliances between different domains. As a freelance curator in the performing arts, she has developed works such as e.g. ‘Europe on Trial’ (together with human rights activist Yoonis Osman Nuur). Jonas Staal is a Dutch visual artist and propaganda researcher who founded the artistic and political organisation ‘New World Summit’. Recent exhibition projects include ‘Museum as Parliament‘ (Van Abbemuseum, Eindhoven) and a lawsuit against Facebook developed with lawyer Jan Fermon, titled ‘Collectivize Facebook‘ (HAU, Berlin 2020).

↳057 The timing is not great for a celebration, but like always we are stronger together. 313

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GHOST CHOIRS / BOTHO STRAUSS Nothing was preserved of Bernd Schierer’s beautiful and pictorially splendid performance. Nestroy’s Der Alpenkönig und der Menschenfeind (The King of the Alps and the Misanthrope), a Munich production from 1973. No video, no TV recording, just a few photos. There was a young theatre enthusiast, his father had read him a short description of the performance, which he had not seen himself, from an old archive book. So the boy sets out to find this miraculous performance in the senses of those who had seen it. He meets several contemporary witnesses, eyewitnesses, who give him more or less superficial information. Even participants, though not the two main actors, who just like the director have passed away. The descriptions and memories that some people give him, however, introduce him primarily to these people who remember, and much less to the performance he is looking for. But there is a woman who now already has two grandchildren and saw this performance shortly before her marriage and for whom it always had a special meaning. “Theatre was a passion for me. I needed someone to identify with that night. Whether it was Hamlet or the Lady from the Sea. I only went to the theatre because of the necessity to identify myself. But the performance you’re tracking down had another effect. It’s very much alive in me! I remember that night at the theatre, as if it were a lifetime full of theatre! This fairy tale, this strange view of mankind, this secret enchantment... Since that evening my boredom in ordinary life began. In my job, on my travels, in my marriage, even in front of my children – I’ve been bored to tears ever since. Ever since that performance, it has enchanted me. Or bewitched. Since then, I have had to keep remembering, every performance and every couplet, and not only that, but remembering in general, my thoughts wander from everything that is happening to thousands of things from the past. Since that evening I have been gripped by an inexhaustible boredom of people and the present. I did not enjoy it then, I was dazed. People didn’t do such pompous things then as they do now. The performance was basically a tempting, well tied up package. A real deal. But as I then for the first time thought about what I had seen, King of the Alpes, misanthrope, ghost choirs, yes, the package jumped open, broke the bonds, and the whole spell fell upon me.” 314

Botho Strauß is a German author and playwright. He is one of the most successful and most performed contemporary playwrights on German stages and his work has been awarded with numerous international prizes. The themes of his dramas are the inability to communicate, lack of relationships and alienation in our society.

↳038 In South Africa in those days theatre was also one of the first places of breaking the boundaries that apartheid enclosed. 315

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WE GOT IT ALL WRONG / TEA TUPAJIĆ And just when we were standing there on the edge, you asked me where the hell it is that we are going, what is this space we are entering. Because in that space we were about to enter, there are no words (it eats them all: truths, manoeuvres, curses and lies), and because I was dog-tired of always explaining everything, I turned off the lights. When I turned off the lights, we entered. Then I told you a story. When I was a child, I used to go to a forest. I would lay down with my ear on the ground, trying to listen. I imagined it was full of rotten dinosaurs, ghosts, spirits and tumbling deafening volcanos. All these unknowns inside of it and inside of us we know nothing about. It is there that I wanted to go. The blackest black in this world is called Vantablack. Being one of the darkest substances ever known, it absorbs 99.965% of visible light. The ones that have seen it say that when you are close to it, you feel an eerie pull towards it. But just when you are ready to let go, to let it have all of you, your bones and knees fail you. You never move. No nightmare sweeter than this, no paradise more haunting than this. Someone then said: The Greeks in their theatre looked at the vast sea (that was before we closed our eyes to what it brought to the shore), the medieval theatre looked at Heaven and Hellmouth. And we, all we look at is darkness. So, we just stood there for a while. No songs, no whispers or applause, no glory. Slowly, very slowly, we stopped breathing. The silence that arose was like the silence I heard only in lakes and only in the silence itself. Or were it our muted screams? It is then that we understood. We got it all wrong. We were afraid and we got it all wrong. We do not enter that space, it enters us. Our skin does not dissolve that darkness, that darkness dissolves and tears our skin, leaving us with the naked life.

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“When we speak the word ‘life’, it must be understood we are not referring to life as we know it from its surface of fact, but to that fragile, fluctuating centre which forms never reach.” Antonin Artaud Tea Tupajić is a Croatian theatre and film director. She initiates long-lasting projects to research how art intervenes in complex, controversial political issues. Usually she works with non-professional performers e.g. former employees of Israeli Intelligence Service (‘The Disco’, 2015). Her work has been shown internationally in theatres, galleries, at festivals and in the public space.

↳036 Whatever you do, stay together. 317

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SOME CALL IT UNIVERSE, I CALL IT THEATRE / CAROLE UMULINGA KAREMERA It is 5.20 am. This is the time I usually wake up, even on Sundays. I get out of bed, put on my sports clothes and get out quietly, to avoid waking up anyone. I walk towards the rising sun and start to run towards it. I wait until the day reveals itself and the tone or the colour of the day is given to me... It’s a ritual, I love rituals. From my earliest childhood on. Since the traditional evenings, the artists’ shows in the refugee camps... That summer, I was at my grandmother’s and my friend’s in Kigali. More precisely in Remera. The neighbourhood is calm and warm. People are nice, and whatever mood you get up in the morning, your smile catches up with you, because so many greetings, good day wishes and other pleasantries are sown along your path before arriving at the top of the hill. That morning, the smell of the surrounding kitchen is so strong that it stops me from running. I’m looking for the scent of the gaze, which is absurd, you will agree, and I realise that it emanates from the neighbouring house. Internally, I vociferated against the housewife who dares to prepare red beans and cassava leaves so early in the morning. I come back home quite mad, I take a shower and swallow my fruit with no real appetite. The next day, the same scent greets me out of the house. I choose not to let my morning peace be disturbed and head for the next house.

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I push the gate and from a distance I see the silhouette of Suzanne, our neighbour. I know that she lives alone now, that her husband and children have been killed during the genocide. At the sight of the large pots placed on the fire made of makara, she prepares at least three or four dishes. It is Tuesday. What special event would justify cooking for several days and so early in the morning? I try a “Mwaramutse?” (Literally: Did you survive the night?) She turns to me and smiles at me: “Yego” (Yes), she says to me. “Ufite abashyitsi?” (Do you have guests?) “Oya” (No), she answers me. “Who are you cooking for then?” I retorted. “For the prisoner...” And there, I tried to contain myself. I was trying to remember the circumstances of the death of her children and her husband, the story about the trial that was told to me by almost all the neighbours, the sentence... Who could she be referring to? “Ninde?” (Who?) “The one who took my children’s lives.” Without a look or an ounce of emotion in her voice. I sat on the small wall of the house, the strength to run after what or whoever had just left me... I laugh nervously and whisper, “Are you going to poison him?” “No, this boy is alone. He is lost. He needs someone to take care of him. ” “And do you really think this person is you?” “ Yes. Well, I believe...” She stands up, gently wipes her hands on her loincloth and says: “I refuse to allow my love for my children to die with them. And I think the one who needs it the most is him.”

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I don’t remember if I told her or if I only thought it very loudly: she lost her mind! When I got home, I told my grandmother about my adventures. She didn’t even wink. She did not judge or admire her. “Leave it,” she said to me, “this is beyond what we can understand.” This woman’s actions and all the questions I’ve raised around me created a mess in the neighbourhood. Everyone was against her but all for different reasons. At some point, the young prisoner got seriously ill. Suzanne was immediately imprisoned, suspected of having attempted to take his life. Released because of his reclaimed health, the young prisoner washed Suzanne of all suspicion after which she was able to return home. Two weeks later, an ambulance arrived in front of Suzanne’s house. It was the young prisoner. He begged her to welcome him, offered her to be her hands, shoulders and arms to help her cultivate and do whatever she would need him to do. She welcomed him. She welcomed him. 24 years later, I still don’t understand her act. 24 years later, I think she did it for all of us, more than for herself or even her own children. 24 years later, I’m still looking for ways to recompose this fragmented humanity, brutalised for centuries. How to challenge this shared experience and memory deeply buried within each of us? How to echo, in the elusive and real experience that theatre is, our little stories strongly intertwined with history? How to heal our wounds by taking a step towards each other every day, to tell in words, in music or in movement: I am sorry, I feel you, I understand you, because you are my sister or my brother in humanity.

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As a theatre artist, bear with me, I can never bring myself to a deaf, silent world. Not only where words will have ceased to be told or heard, but where souls will have ceased to echo from each other. I truly believe that, without the breath of the other, one cannot breathe or move. I believe that each and every one of the living beings that compose our planet is a piece of a whole which misses the others enormously. And to fill this void, we need a very strong energy, which would push one towards the other so that we can feel temporarily less alone and more complete. This energy, some people called it the universe, God, love... For me, I find it in this incredible art form that some call: theatre. For me theatre is a promise to take you on my back, when the fatigue or grief will be too heavy. Theatre is a promise to scream your pain and your desire to exist as any free being. Theatre is a promise to remain silent to escape from the dissonance and cacophony of this world. Theatre is a promise to those who will be born after us, that we have tried everything to make this world more habitable. Carole Umulinga Karemera is a Rwandan musician, actress, director and cultural policy expert. In 2007, she founded the Ishyo Arts Centre together with eight other women, with the main objective to make culture available for everyone. Currently she is the executive and artistic director.

↳089 Because it made me feel like I could breathe. 321

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CONFUSIONISTS / IGOR VAMOS (YES MEN) Humanity is defined by our large-scale collective delusions. We perform these delusions in relation to each other. They become our agreed-upon realities. We all perform within this framework. It becomes invisible to most of us. We tend to be blind to our own cultural constructs. We are always performing these fictions, willing reality into existence. Theatre gives us a break from that relentless performance of the cultural reality we create. Theatre is a chance to perform on purpose for a change. With that in mind, I choose to answer the question “Why theatre?” by publishing a digest / manifesto gleaned from an ancient manuscript found in the rare books collection at St. Andrews University. I came across it because of the strange circumstances of pandemic lockdown. During the UK’s coronavirus lockdown I was in Scotland, and in my daily exercise jaunts I noticed a back door was left unlocked at the old library. In the totally abandoned library I found myself frequenting the rare books collection, where I discovered a Latin version of the following text, transcribed by Catholic monks from an even more ancient plundered text, which originated somewhere in the Middle East over 1500 years ago. I took the original text and distilled it, and with the assistance of translation software and an artificially intelligent manifesto generator, made it into what you see here below. I also sketched variations on two illustrations in the manuscript, including the text translations into English. Note that the translation is quite liberal in order to make this make sense to us today: for example thought was understood to occur in the heart at the time the text was written that this is derived from: I have opted to make it the brain since that makes the translation more understandable to today’s theatre-going public.

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CONFUSIONIST MANIFESTO Confusionists are border crossers, shape changers, masquerade artists, agent thespians ripping holes in the fabric of consensus. Confusion is a valuable state Confusion activates the intellect Confusion makes a passive audience into an active one Confusion begets action Confusion is a great responsibility Only confuse from under Never confuse to permanently deceive Only confuse in the service of the dispossessed Confustionists never serve power Confusion from above is not confusion: it is tyranny Confusionism is not for making sales Guerilla Marketing is for douchebags Confusionists serve facts Only confuse to reveal Confusion restores innocence Confusion shakes, dismantles, distracts, and obfuscates Confusion operates on a cycle of destruction/creation Confusion underpins the order of the universe

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Igor Vamos is founding member of Yes Men, a culture jamming activist duo. Through humor and mischief, they aim to raise awareness about problematic social and political issues. Under their motto that lies can expose truth, they have impersonated and ridiculed those who abuse power all over the world. They refer to this as a public ‘Identity correction‘. 

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↳083 Theatre is both an escape from reality and a representation of that reality. 325

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ART IS A HUMAN RIGHT / IVO VAN HOVE

“Thousands of years ago, the first man discovered how to make fire. He was probably burned at the stake he had taught his brothers to light. He was considered an evildoer who had dealt with a demon mankind dreaded. But thereafter men had fire to keep them warm, to cook their food, to light their caves. Throughout the centuries there were men who took first steps down new roads. Their step was first, the road new and the response they received – hatred. But the men of unborrowed vision went ahead.” These are words spoken by Howard Roark, the uncompromising architect in Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead. He mirrors Prometheus, who was the first to bring fire to the people and was terribly punished for it. A story that has become a myth that also appeals to the imagination after thousands of years.   Stories like this give us an identity as an individual, as an individual in a society and as a society. In order to understand our existence and give it meaning, we need them. Even mythical stories from ancient times can express our present self-image, our present identity. Who is the hated Prometheus of our time, who is the visionary? In our time, this seems to be not only the scientist who confronts us with hard facts about the consequences of our consumer behaviour, but also the artist. Some time ago I was in Epidaurus, where the oldest theatre in the world is located. It’s an outdoor theatre where more than ten thousand people have attended theatre performances since the fourth century B.C. We played Elektra and Orestes by Euripides. For two hours, the audience of a thousand people was watching two plays that in my interpretation are about the violent radicalisation of young people. They recognised problems from the ancient Greek stories, that are happening all over the world today. An overwhelming feeling of togetherness arose. The performance mattered. Why is that? Because we as human beings need to belong somewhere. Myths give us characters in which we recognise ourselves, in which we recognise what is going on in our relationships, our families, our villages, our cities, our countries, our world. These stories are there for everyone. They provide insight into the great flows of life. They have the power of delayed reaction. They don’t reflect on current events, they’re not political. They mirror their urgency to an ever-changing reality. Stories are not

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objective facts, they can be interpreted in different ways. They can steer and change a society. A story offers a subjective, not an absolute, truth. The artist is a sounding board for mankind, society, humanity and we can shape our existence, our future over and over again. That is why there has always been art. That’s why we can’t do without art.   And art is also a Pandora’s box in which all evil and doom that can happen to people is stored. A box full of anger, fear, frustrations, forbidden desires. A box we prefer to keep closed. But if we don’t give negative, evil feelings a place – both in our little lives and in our societies – they rot, stink, fester and become pathogenic bacteria. At the end of the Oresteia of Aischylos, the goddess Athena not only establishes a democratic legal system to put an end to the continuing cycle of violence; she also gives the bloodthirsty Furies a place in the new Athenian democratic society. This is remarkable because the Furies are destroyers, driven by anger and revenge. Aischylos already realised thousands of years ago that pushing evil away from a society does not bring a solution. The artist as a necessary, positive and constructive terrorist of our thinking and feeling.   I’m going back to my time in Greece. A visit to Athens is unthinkable without walking on the Acropolis. The trip up starts with the Dionysos Theatre. On the way you pass a place where specific scientific research was done and from the top you can see the Agora, an open public space where people came together to discuss concrete themes that were important to society (we would now call it a parliament). And right next to it there is the Areopagus, an enormous rock on which justice took place. On top is the Parthenon, a temple dedicated to the gods. It is striking that the city of Athens is built around this unique and visionary site. The Greeks were well aware that art together with politics, science, religion and justice gives society an identity. In the meantime, we are constantly questioning art’s right to exist and have pushed it out of the centre of society. A tragic and historical error.  How is it possible that we keep asking the question about the importance of art for our society? Why are artists always pushed into the defensive? The Dutch Bureau for Economic Policy Analysis concluded in 2019 that the cultural and creative sector contributes 25.5 billion or 3.7% to the gross national product, which represents the total monetary value of all products and services produced in the Netherlands. 3,7 % is twice as

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↳101 We produced too much in too little time and too expensive. 328

much as agriculture, slightly less than tourism. In addition, the cultural sector accounts for 320.000 jobs, i.e. 4,5 % of total employment in the Netherlands. Art is therefore vital, first and foremost for the health of our emotional and intellectual lives, but also for the economy. Just as necessary as politics, religion, justice or science. Benjamin Barber, influential political scientist and good friend, wrote: “The urban economy benefits from the arts because it is good for the economy when society flourishes and the community is strengthened, and when a public space is created. But neither artists nor politicians should be forced to make those instrumental arguments only when they stand up for culture.” The problem with our current calculating welfare policy and our economically driven and consumption-oriented society is that it can do nothing with the creative energy of myths.  Art cannot be legitimised by economic arguments alone. It is not because it can be calculated that art matters. It matters because it is a basic human need. It is a human right. Ivo van Hove is an award-winning Belgian theatre director and the director of Internationaal Theatre Amsterdam. His productions have been performed at e.g. the Festival d’Avignon, Edinburgh International Festival, the Venice Biennale, the Holland Festival, Theater der Welt, the Wiener Festwochen, BAM and Broadway New York and The Barbican and West End London.

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A WORLD THAT NEEDS CEASELESS RECONSTRUCTION* / GISÈLE VIENNE THE CONSTRUCTION OF OUR INTIMACY, THE THEATRICALITY OF THE SOCIAL NORM The theatre begins with that which we have so intimately integrated. We can practise it as such, consciously, or without taking it into consideration or without ever really being aware of it. It is the social and normative theatre, this essentialised and naturalised cultural creation, that of our identity. Questioning this social theatre allows us to question the system in which we evolve and which is deployed even in our own flesh. It allows us to think fundamentally about identity and, in doing so, its cultural representations. This representation, which can be called social performativity, includes gender, social classes and racial identities. My relationship to the staging of the bodies, appearances, voices, movements, the quality of their embodiment or disembodiment, their presence and absence, allows me to dialogue with the cultural constructions that shape us even in our greatest intimacy. If the normative ideal attempts to render invisible the social mechanisms of the internalisation of identities by naturalising them, we can aspire that the theatrical act, by its very theatricality, can reveal its artifice. The particular purpose is to stir this movement, provoked by consciousness and the possible act of listening to oneself, which leads to a moving and undefined identity, in my opinion much closer to our reality. It helps to understand the role we play, that we are led and even forced to play, in order to discover the need to deconstruct it, to better attain the movement that builds our identity. THE CONSTRUCTION OF OUR READING OF THE WORLD, THE CONSTRUCTED REALITY THAT WE TAKE FOR REALITY. Art, including theatre, must be the place where we dissect signs, their articulations, everything that makes up our perception and where we can question and shake the constructed reality, a pseudo-reality, product of the shared creation of the representation of reality, which goes from the social norm to the very construction of our perception. This dissection and deconstruction must allow the invention of new hypotheses and possible interpretations of the world, and must constantly question our relation to the moving world. The shared creation

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of the representation of reality can be seen as the creation of a common language that allows us to read and understand the world, acting as a shared reading grid. This language is a way of outlining and organising the world, among an infinite number of other possibilities. They are also ways of telling the world. Inventing new artistic forms means trying to invent new languages that would allow us to read and tell the world differently, through their very form. It is about becoming aware of the construction of our perception and our shared perception through this cultural language. Philosophy, sociology, psychology spark this awareness on a cognitive level, art and theatre have to, through the invention of forms, equally be committed to it through their experience. I try to do this by juxtaposing different layers of reading, which may even be in tension or contradiction with each other. By juxtaposing different formal languages. By provoking a questioning of the signs deployed at the very heart of the staging and during its development. By going through experiences in which the body questions reason, by experimenting and provoking flaws in our reading of the world, because, as Bernard Rimé analyses in his text Emotions at the Service of Cultural Construction: “Emotions are states that signal flaws in the subject’s anticipation systems, or in other words, in aspects of the subject’s models of how the world works.” It is also a question of letting the body and the emotions have their say, of thinking about the development of our intelligence by taking into consideration the intelligence of the body, as well as its subversive relationship to authority and domination games stemming from the social norm and structure, from which it may suffer. To understand more about the authoritarian relationship that may exist between the rational and physical cognitive system. By defusing this authoritarian relationship, it is through these dialogues with the body and emotions that we can develop our knowledge. We are actors, constructed identities, evolving in a pseudo-reality. The theatre should therefore allow this staggering ‘mise en abyme’ in the dissected and reinvented reflection that it sends back to us. In the hope of being able to deconstruct what is written and naturalised, to allow the constant reinvention of oneself and the world in movement, while recognising their inevitable permeability. Creation involves deconstruction, in fact even destruction, observing ruins, enjoying chaos, inventing and building new structures and their new destruction. 332

*Alain Robbe-Grillet, “Un monde à reconstruire sans cesse,” in ‘Préface à une vie d’écrivain’. Gisèle Vienne is a Franco-Austrian artist, choreographer and director. After graduating in Philosophy, she studied at the puppeteering school Ecole Supérieure Nationale des Arts de la Marionnette. She has choreographed and directed performances currently touring in Europe and in the world, and also frequently exhibits her photographs and installations.

↳104 It was there that I thought maybe the purpose of theatre was to offer the state of being incomprehensible. 333

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THE CONDITION OF COMMUNITY / DMITRY VILENSKY (CHTO DELAT)

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2nd Picture: Based on Keti Chukhrov /// The Nomadic Theatre of the Communist: A Manifesto published in Chto Delat newspaper ‘The theater of accomplices’, 2009. Dmitry Vilensky is an artist and educator. He is the founding member of Chto Delat (What is to be done?), a platform initiated in 2003 by a collective of artists, critics, philosophers, and writers with the goal of merging political theory, art, and activism. He is also an editor of the Chto Delat newspaper and main facilitator of a School of Engaged Art in Petersburg.

↳095 How to echo, in the elusive and real experience that theatre is, our little stories strongly intertwined with history? 335

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THE FIFTH WALL / MARC-ANTOINE VUMILIA Kisangani 1989, a sunny afternoon. As teenagers, Faustin Linyekula and I wander through the stalls of the second-hand shops at the big market in vain. We are looking for a subversive object, which had already earned a famous singer a prison sentence: a tie. Mobutu had decided that wearing a tie was a transgressive and subversive act, as we wanted it for our school’s show. Faustin managed to find some old ones from his uncle, a Lumumbist revolutionary who had been exiled to Switzerland. Although we knew we could get arrested, we played in front of the governor general of the province finding pleasure in stirring up a hornet’s nest. Nothing happened to us. But why not? Because it was only theatre. The magic of the ostensive action had opened up a space where subversion and transgression had been given rights that the daily life had deprived us of. And so, during our adolescent crisis, we had joined a long chain of eternal teenagers, anchored in the African performative traditions: the kotèba where Bambara actors defy the gerontocracy, the sabar where Wolof women taunt the phallocracy... A year later, on the occasion of a democratic uprising, the multiparty system was restored, as was the right to wear a tie, as if in accordance with the ideas of Augusto Boal, our theatre had been a rehearsal of the revolution. And the tie, although of bourgeois origin, became the distinctive feature of the democrats. And why theatre? Because theatre is somewhat the adolescent soul of our societies. It is something whimsical that allows us to imagine futures, it is something playful that takes itself seriously, it is something impure, it is liminal space, it is the rebel scrubland and the battlefield. Even if the shock of the confrontation with the authorities is tamed there because of a system of mediation, the confrontation is no less direct because it involves the contact of human beings of flesh and blood. But of course I’m talking about ‘my theatre,’ as Christian Schiaretti says: “Everyone makes the theatre they cares for, that concerns them”. People will tell me that theatre does not have a monopoly on heterodoxy. It is true that despite the pandemic, a limited number of artists can still produce a show while more or less respecting the public health measures, and broadcast it in real time on the internet. And they do! But they do it as if they were waiting – waiting for whom, for what? – and these

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↳066 He feels confused about a question that someone just asked him. He gets down on his knees in front of the grave and asks his dead grandmother Eva-Britt. 337

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productions have a taste of ersatz. If theatre is indeed the place from which one watches, one will agree that without the active presence of the one who carries out the act of looking, this art that is supposed to create a world from an empty space, becomes a space of emptiness, impossible to inhabit. The active presence of the spectator is consubstantial to the existence of the performing arts. So why the spectator? Because the transgression is all the more vibrant and cathartic when it takes place in the presence of witnesses and, if possible, authority. The audience is the people’s remission for the revolution ahead. It is the victim, the atoning sacrifice for the sins of society: after having identified the target audience, we attract it, isolate it, and once it is at our mercy in a dark place, we lecture it, titillate it, caress it, exorcise it, and as the icing on the cake, we ask it for applause, which it ends up releasing. He is an applauder, so it doesn’t matter to us whether his applause is polite, relieving, snobbish, or sincere, because it seems that both artists and adolescents suffer from an emotional deficit. However, while we expected only bravos and cheers from it, the audience is also the strange jury, whose fits of coughing, cell phones lighting up, asynchronous laughter, unexpected silences, yawns, reach us in the face like infected spit. The audience is what it is depending on the theatre we want to make, but the fact is that we cannot do without it. Over the past few decades, aesthetics and theories of the performing arts have undergone many shifts, to the point where some people have started to dream of a theatre without actors. Today we are violently reminded that the presence of the spectator, whatever role we want to recognise him or her in, is not a given, and that without it, theatre is a hollow thing. Theatre also reminds us that we cannot separate the flesh from the spirit, that no artifice can satisfy our carnal desire for interaction. Western theatre in particular, has often given a narcissistic image of itself, with aesthetic and theoretical approaches that have only themselves as their goal. And we were surprised that the theatres were emptying! This sociological field has shielded itself so much against the heterodox rebellions coming from subcultures, from the periphery of the empire and from what Homi Bhabha calls the interstices of society, that it asphyxiated itself together with them. This tribe has practiced incest for so long that it became a little more sterile every day. It was about time! This is why a paradigm shift

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is needed to better take into account the existence of the spectators with all the seriousness that this requires. I call for the era of theatre of the audience, the era of the people, so that, in addition to being the physical and temporal space of liminality of our revolutions, our subversions and our joyful transgressions, the theatre may once again and fully be that of the communion in the flesh and blood of the people. There is a fifth glass wall between the stage and society waiting to be torn down. Marc-Antoine Vumilia is an author, poet, actor and director. He was born in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo and joined the revolution that overthrew Mobutu. After the death of Kabila, he was accused of treason and was sentenced to death, but escaped. He has worked as an author amongst others for shows by choreographer Faustin Linyekula and performed in productions in Europe.

↳045 Theatre is a dead art form. 339

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EVERYTHING IS OPEN / SASHA WALTZ

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NOTES FROM THE DIARY OF SASHA WALTZ, 22ND OF MAY 2020 EVERYTHING IS OPEN Art has to hold It can shift Be flexible and use other stages work with less people. Imagination is the muse of change We will be present in the souls of people (In their memories) All dreams and demands of people shall be given a voice dreams can be written down and staged Singular Single Performers Give a clear voice to the individual. Art is not respected as a system relevant element I was angry about that, fighting that our profession has “Berufsverbot” – that we, the artists are not important or not valid. But that’s our Chance to

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be different to create to act in other ways We can work on promenades We can work with costumes for the public that gives distance We are different already because we perceive(d) The World in different ways We heard The World quiet (down) We heard new Sounds we heard more Silence or we heard Birds and other animals We heard the city silencing from the buzz Being close to the airport, I was counting planes, just six or nine flights per day – probably transporting masks or repatriating tourists I didn’t hear any cars but I heard voices of people

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I spoke with my neighbours, I shared food, I baked cake. We as artists, also independent artists, that are existentially threatened react according to our own character: Some really love the space they have The time to read time to work in a new way with their bodies learn a new technique people are accepting openly the State of Corona (I know that we are talking social difference here; if people are stuck in a 1 room apartment with 3 kids, doing home school and home office or having no work then it’s difficult to rethink life. You are existentially looking how to pass the day.) (not to talk about the situation of the Indian workers having to walk back to their villages under the time of lockdown.) Some people see the crisis as an opportunity The big institutions in the arts are waiting to return to how they worked before Can we radically change the architecture of our creations and the structures we are working for? We can have performances in public spaces and museums where everybody

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can participate If we are honest, we are reaching anyway too few people of all sides of society. So let’s come into the city use stages that are already existing in the city Let’s move to Nature. perform and create experiences In Nature it deepens the perception and consciousness to our environment. We can use the bodies of Nature and have physical contact with trees We can learn the songs of birds and listen to Olivier Messiaen’s music. If we really like to perform a certain piece – let’s stay together in quarantine. For the time that we are rehearsing and performing a piece,

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we will be in an intensive encounter with our colleagues. We could experience a togetherness with the public in quarantine A festival where we create new households with our public. Newartcommunities. The circus of touring is in times of climate change very much in question. Every performance we take has to be compensated. Create networks that can be reached by train rather than planes. If we travel overseas we really have to make sure to have connecting performances in more than one city or country) (add sustainable transfers of art, by working or teaching with the local community. Create Systems, that can be taught rather than show finished products. Share information and knowledge, spread and diffuse your wisdom. Question waste in production that harms the environment.

Yes, I know we are NOT performing at all at this moment. We need a break, be still-to have the chance to equilibrate. Humans are now humble in front of the power of Nature A small virus has taken the world in his hand. Now the World has silenced We have slowly understood that we as humans are close to humus We have been confronted to our mortality. It’s our meeting with death We are humus / earth ourselves, we are the earth, we are interconnected in the pandemia. Interdependent more than ever. Now we are in the same boat – the ark And we are stepping out of the boat when we see the sign (white dove) ... but he hung on for seven more days … Statistic mountains waves of infection.

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After all this will we step out transformed? it is great to step out of what we know so well about our profession, if we are not in an existential survival mode Live online dances, festivals and meetings around the world are just the beginning. We are now all doing projects we didn’t have time before it’s a time for archive reflection and refocus on what is necessary. There is an uncertainty that brings spontaneity We are living in the moment, when we were used to plan our life for years ahead. I always felt imprisoned by the thought of 3 mountains of work in front of me. I enjoy the moment were I don’t know Everything is open also in the arts we have followed the market We produced too much in too little time and too expensive let’s produce in longer periods, more careful emphasis on the people, the actors, dancers, singers. Play en-suite rather than repertoire, Institutions have to radically reform. Institutions are supposed to be there for the arts but it’s the other way around the art is serving the institutions. We shouldn’t accept the inequality of artists employed in permanent ensembles anymore and the insecurity and precariousness of independent

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artists and ensembles. We need a basic income (Grundeinkommen)! Why Art? we seem to be unnecessary We are having a climate crisis – fires, storms, floods, draughts – we are in the middle of a biodiversity crisis, losing thousands of species, we have a pandemic, a locust plague in Africa, hunger and war and murder out of racism

and Art...? SOMETIMES I want to give up And work in a garden grow vegetables and be an activist rather than an artist And HELP Sasha Waltz is a choreographer, dancer and director. She studied dance and choreography in Amsterdam and New York. Together with Jochen Sandig she founded the company Sasha Waltz & Guests in 1993 and the Sophiensæle in 1996. From 2000-2004 she was a member of the artistic direction of the Schaubühne am Lehniner Platz. In her current choreographic work Waltz focuses on the condensation of collaborative processes, such as the synchronous development of choreography and music (e.g. ‘Kreatur‘, 2017).

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↳048 The more art, especially the performing arts, takes on the role of wanting to be of benefit to society, the more it opens itself up to regulation by state bodies. On the other hand – who would want art that believes itself to be completely free of the gravitational fields of social conflict? 349

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WHY NOT / MIET WARLOP

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Miet Warlop is a Belgian visual artist and theatre maker. She is known for her performances between absurd gigantic theatre and exquisite tableaux vivants. Her performance ‘Mystery Magnet’ won the Stückemarkt Theatertreffen Prize for new forms of theatre and has played more than 100 times all over the world. In 2014 she started her own legal structure Irene Wool.

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TOUGH LOVE / JOANNA WARSZA FROM THEATRE TO VISUAL ARTS AND BACK As a theatre curator who moved to visual arts some years ago, I have always been sensitive to the contempt expressed by contemporary artists and curators about the general concept of theatre: I don’t get it, it’s unbearable, old-fashioned – were just the more subtle expressions I would regularly hear. Quite often I would also witness some kind of boosting about one’s own ignorance of the field: theatre, that damn thing or I have no idea about the performing arts. Expressing this kind of hot air seemed, in the visual arts context, somehow more appropriate in relation to theatre than for instance to literature or film. And yet in the last ten years we have lived through a performative turn and a huge dose of attraction between visual and performing arts, getting to know each other again after a few decades. Today it is even hard to imagine a large-scale exhibition without choreography. Performing arts festivals repeatedly ask visual artists to stage plays (e.g. Tania Bruguera or Chto Delat) and big museums regularly commission theatre makers, inaugurate performance departments and ‘rediscover’ artists that have been long established in the field (eg. Boris Charmatz, Xavier le Roy or Isabel Lewis). What is it that museums offer that theatre doesn’t? And vice versa? Just like curtains that have disappeared from the theatres and moved on to contemporary art centres as objects of contemplation, I wonder what else can be positively redeployed from theatre to arts? Some years ago I spoke about this love and hate relationship with Catherine Wood, performance curator at Tate Modern in London, one of the key persons responsible for the ‘re-rapprochement’ of the disciplines. She said that the fascination of visual artists bringing readymade formats of theatre or choreography was often based on borrowing it in a non-expert way. “The motivation has a lot to do with artists trying to overcome the obsolete connotations of a body-centric performance art from the 1970s as very self-oriented medium and finding formats to experiment with communality and sharing. Artists look for ways of gathering, of being together, and making art experiences – the performative context offers them that (…). But art allows itself the freedom to steal,

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to experiment, for good and bad. Theatre people might think this is bad theatre, I don’t know.”1 Question of taste aside, certainly theatre can be a mirror to the art institutions and offer it a few unexpected gifts. Which ones? Let’s start from the obvious, namely the human presence. Humans are still predominantly a primary material in the performing field, while art centres turn out to be, both in their functioning and the architecture, over-determined by the primate of storing and circulating objects. For example, certain lifts can only transport pieces of art, there are no rooms to relax, nor to gather. It was not until recently that Tino Sehgal (a migrant from the performing arts) noticed that symbolically only the paintings on the wall are supposed to produce meaning, while the guards spending their days next to it are not. Museums desperately need more human-centric support and display structures, and more engagement with the social and the collective. That’s why, in corona times, theatres are supposed to stay closed while museums are open. But why is that? Because the first are for the people and by the people (the post-human theatre aside) and the latter are for objects, which cannot get contaminated by the virus. Museums are in the process of finding out that they need more of body skills to add to their conceptual way of thinking. Again Catherine Wood: “When we started doing a performance programme at Tate in 2003, after a long break since the sixties and seventies, the institution was very entrenched. The directors were conceptually open to the idea of live art, but all the institutional structures of art handling, visit services, marketing, any of the practical stuff were completely geared to the exhibition as the major form involving bringing objects to display, conservation, and handling. (…) We were working against what the institution was set up to do.”2 This point obviously also reveals the status of performance and time-based art in the history of art. Secondly, theatre can offer some mindfulness and a sense of commitment in the scattered attention economy. It was very liberating some years ago to realise that when entering an art centre, I curate my own 1 2

‘Empty Stages, Crowded Flats. Performativity as curatorial strategy’. Edited by Florian Malzacher

and Joanna Warsza, Alexander Verlag, Berlin, 2017 . Ibid.

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↳009 Aeschylus was chosen to write the victory celebration of the Greeks over the Persians. He instead produced the most heartrending lamentation for the mothers & widows of the slain Persian warriors. Why? To achieve catharsis. 354

itinerary. It was up to the visitor to decide what to see and for how long, which video to watch till the end and which to skip. And additionally the small talk was permitted all along. Theatre, even in its most advanced or destructuralised forms, demands often more engagement. It still wants you to do the old-fashioned act of switching off your mobile, shutting up and sitting in the darkness. Theatre actually cries for all of your attention. Perhaps some more focus on the very content, on being more art-centric, could help art free itself from its chains of endless special previews, sneak peaks, VIP tours and other infrastructural frames. Thirdly, why not think of art in minutes and not only in square metres? Theatre’s primary medium is time, since it is so linked to the collective presence and it is unfolding in time, and not just within a place. What if contemporary art was adapting more minutes, privileging moments of publicness. The opening of the exhibitions often give the feeling of the end, while they are just the beginning. An introduction of some dramaturgical thinking could change this timeline, as does the public programing, making people understand that an exhibition is not only two floors but also six weeks, almost tangible temporality. Having said all that, art needs theatre, as much as theatre needs art. Bordering each other is a necessity. Objects travel onto the stages and chase humans away to the museum lobbies. And from there, there’s one more way: beyond disciplinary zoning towards more planetary dimension in arts and in general. Joanna Warsza is a Polish programme director of CuratorLab at Konstfack University of Arts in Stockholm, and an independent curator interested in how art functions politically and socially outside the white cubes. She was the artistic director of Public Art Munich 2018, curator of the Georgian Pavilion at the 55th Venice Biennale and associate curator of the 7th Berlin Biennale among others.

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INCOMPREHENSIBILITY / APICHATPONG WEERASETHAKUL At the Naoshima island, there are several on-site art installations. One morning I entered a public bathhouse by Shinro Ohtake and was jolted by its brilliant white – white walls, floors, and ceilings. The space was decorated with erotic memorabilia throughout. They were screened, painted, imbedded, stenciled, onto the mirrors, light boxes, sinks, glass beads, faucets, toilets. This ivory landscape was being invaded by multi-coloured species of plants, animals, and humans, destined to a celebratory lovemaking, seeding. Seaweeds, octopuses, skin-tight divers, jellyfish, protozoa, bikini girls. All artifacts were the replicas or actual porn memories from the yesteryear, exploding, lamenting in a bathhouse/laboratory full of naked bodies. In the middle of the room stood a lone elephant wrinkled with years. After the perplexity of the encounter, I was in a meditative state as if I was sitting in a lotus position. But I was standing, fully aware of my feet on the tiles, my eyes, my neck, my ears. Momentarily I was robbed of my memories. I stopped projecting backward and forward. My sense of attachment disappeared. It was there that I thought maybe the purpose of art, of cinema, of theatre, like a few other human inventions such as science and speed – was to offer the state of being incomprehensible. And that the mind is offered an escape out of time thus deactivate it, at least for a few moments.  Apichatpong Weerasethakul is a Thai film director, screenwriter and producer (Kick the Machine). In his work he deals with memory and subtly addresses personal politics and social issues. He has won numerous international prizes, including a Golden Palm (Cannes Film Festival, 2010) for his feature film ‘Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives’, making it the first Southeast Asian film to win this prestigious award.

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↳042 Even God wasn’t content to publish and spread his thoughts and commandments by dictating them to prophets of all types, but apparently found their embodiment through a son necessary and meaningful. 357

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ESCALATION! / ZENTRUM FÜR POLITISCHE SCHÖNHEIT

ESKA LAT ION!

SEIT 11 JAHREN MIT AGGRESSIVEM HUMANISMUS IM WIDERSTAND. RADIKAL GEGEN RECHTS. DA, WO ES WEH TUT!

NUR MÖGLICH DURCH KOMPLIZINNEN UND KOMPLIZEN. JETZT SPENDEN UND MITMACHEN: WWW.ZPS-SPENDEN.DE

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*Translation: ESCALATION! For 11 years with aggressive humanism in resistance. Radically against the right-wing. Center for Political Beauty (Zentrum für Politische Schönheit /ZPS) is an association of action artists. They aim to draw attention to humanitarian issues and the protection of human lives through artistic interventions. “Art must hurt, provoke and rise in revolt,” they state. In 2017 the ZPS unveiled their installation, a reduced-scale replica of the Holocaust Memorial in Berlin, on a leased plot of land next to the house of the AfD politican Björn Höcke, who had shortly before publicly called the Holocaust Memorial a “shame”.

↳092 Every time we stage, we should factor in the possibility for it to become an actual revolution. 359

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THE ART OF UNMASKING / DOMINIQUE ZIEGLER

The human being is a collective animal. It is a constant difficulty to carry out the project of living together without bloody, authoritarian or racist excesses, without blatant inequalities, to be found in all latitudes and at all times. Another continuous constant is the need for each human group to practice the catharsis of its own functioning (and dysfunction). The dramaturgic transposition of the injustices experienced within the social entity soon became an absolute necessity for all human beings. From the antics of the Cro-Magnon man to the satires of Aristophanes, from the buffoon of the Middle Ages to the existentialist theatre of JeanPaul Sartre, theatrical commentary has always represented an essential space of freedom, of breathing, of narration, of denunciation and of proposition within a given society. Theatre is essentially political, even when its actants are unaware of it. And so the amateur troupes that today stage Feydeau, Labiche or their heirs of the Théâtre de Boulevard, are only restoring, behind the apparent farce, the perception by an author, at a precise moment in history, of his petty-bourgeois micro-society. For Molière, the theatre served to educate his contemporaries about their shortcomings while entertaining them at the same time. Not afraid to take risks, Molière attacked religion, patriarchy and the violence of power in the seventeenth century. No one escaped the sharp pen of this brilliant investigator of the soul and society, both a witness of his time and a harbinger of the revolutionary upheavals to come. It is striking to see to what extent the Molière lexicon contributes to defining the political and health situation linked to Covid-19 in the various press analyses or on social networks. We talk about diagnostics like Diafoirus to criticise the unpreparedness of the various ministries of health in the world, to laugh at the incorrect predictions of media experts. And of course Tartuffe immediately comes to mind and in the writings of any informed commentator, when Macron or one of his Western clones promises us a bright future, a new system based on equal opportunities, respect for nature, etc. As a reminder, Diafoirus is the name of two characters in the play The Imaginary Invalid, two doctors, father and son, both presumptuous and incompetent, whose remedies make the patient’s condition worse. Tartuffe, in the play of the same name, is a depraved and

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↳084 The first thing I did under 2002 Israeli military invasion and curfew in the West Bank was to go back to dancing after years of interruption. 361

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↳097 Who is the hated Prometheus of our time, who is the visionary? 362

profiteering religious man, practising the opposite of what he preaches. He has become the equivalent of a hypocrite, but at a higher level of duplicity. How astonishing to see that Molière’s genius is so powerful that his X-ray of the human race remains strikingly topical four centuries later! In times when wearing a medical mask is strongly recommended, we must, according to Molière’s jurisprudence, take an interest in the other mask, that of the politico-economic elite, the mask we were unable to tear off in time in order to avoid the serious situation we are living in. It is indeed through the Tartuffian mask that politicians and economists of all stripes have succeeded, over the last few decades, in fooling people, in pushing people to submit to a system that could only lead to deep trouble. A quick overview, on a European scale, of the supporters of all-out neo-liberalism shows us that more than half of them emerge from the socialistic harem! Under the fallacious pretext of democratic alternation, supporters of the same ideology have succeeded one another in key positions, with different masks serving the same ultra-minority caste. Theatre is the art of unmasking; by playing a character, by putting on a real or figurative mask, the actors send the lies of society back to the public. The theme of theatre is, in essence, that of the lies of those in power. Theatre, like history, can teach us to spot the different masks already used by the enemies of the human race, to identify those that have already been used and to be aware of the new panoply in the making. But the theatre itself, prey to financial difficulties and to its own need for survival, can compromise itself with society, lose the link with the people, become a bobo-elitist institution, with the same left-wing veneer as that of the ruling class. This is why it is sometimes difficult to disentangle the true from the false also in the cultural sphere, that sometimes embellishes itself with a false rebellious guarantee. How can we maintain the effective and truthful character of a genuine popular political theatre? How to speak to audiences from all social backgrounds, while surviving in the midst of ephemeral trends and fashions? This is the challenge for committed playwrights today! Dominique Ziegler is a Swiss author and theatre director. His plays have been performed in Geneva, Paris, Brussels, Biel, Avignon, Toronto and elsewhere. He is also a regular columnist for the Swiss French-language daily newspaper Le Courrier since 2011. 363

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↳001 Answers can only come through experimenting and rumination. 365

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Edited by Kaatje De Geest, Carmen Hornbostel and Milo Rau Proofreading: Eline Banken, Kaatje De Geest, Carmen Hornbostel, Lesley Van Damme, Sophie Vanden Broeck Translations: Gregory Ball, Eline Banken, Sara Claes, Kaatje De Geest, Plator Gashi, Thomas Haskell Simpson, Dorien Heerink, Carmen Hornbostel, Michael Labuhn, Paula Maier, Ziad Nawfal, Tanita Pepermans, Julie Reniers, Keyvan Sarreshteh, Andreea-Maria Soricu, Daniel Tunnard, Stijn Van Asch, Lesley Van Damme, Sophie Vanden Broeck Graphic concept: L8 Hickethier / Teirlinck / Kjær Layout: Nina Wolters The first volumes of the Golden Books were Global Realism (2018), Lam Gods/The Ghent Altarpiece (2018), Orestes in Mosul (2019) and The Art of Resistance (2020).

© All rights in the texts and pictures remain vested in the authors.

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