questions and answers

Mariah has a bunch of questions for us playwrights and admin types, which means I should probably answer since I follow 2AMt on Twitter and spam them with my stuff.

1. Playwrights: have you ever had a play produced as a result of submitting it to a theater with an “open submission” policy? (And if you submitted it to Theater A, and Theater A did a reading of it, to which a rep from Theater B came, and Theater B produced the play, that doesn’t count.)

Nope. Every play I wanted to do I had to put it up myself. I explain why in more detail below.

5. Playwrights: how vital do you consider readings and workshops to your process? Do you feel it actually improves your play? When it works, why does it work? When it doesn’t, why doesn’t it?

I consider readings an important part of my revision and rewriting process. There's something about hearing the words out loud and seeing the action in real time. I wouldn't say it improves the play so much as reveal it. Until some actors get their hands on it, I don't have a firm idea of what I'm really working with.

7. Playwrights: do you agree with Itamar Moses that it’s more productive to get artistic directors, rather than literary managers, to see your work? Or have literary managers/departments actually been responsible for your work getting produced? Or have both been the case at different times?

As far as I'm concerned, gatekeepers are gatekeepers. I believe it's more important for those gatekeepers to be aware of what they're bringing to their understanding (or misunderstanding) of particular works and how that impacts what they consider stageworthy. My solution has been to ignore them altogether and pursue self-production because, based on what the people who'd be able to open those doors have not been telling me, it'd be a waste of my time to bother with them.

10. Playwrights: do you find that doing rewrites in rehearsal/preparation for a reading or workshop is preferable/more productive to doing rewrites in rehearsal for a production?

Generally I prefer doing rewrites between performances (of whatever type). Each of the 3 readings of Tulpa had a VERY different script. For me, that works very well because it's easier for me (and people who follow my stuff) to follow the evolution of a particular play.

Scott needs help

He's not raising hell like he's supposed to. Check out this post over at Theatre Ideas. And look at this post. Where's the indignation? Where's the outrage? Where's the call to tear down NYLACHI domination of American theater?

*shakes head*

Scott, you're losing your touch. I'ma pray for you.

Next thing you know, Don's gonna stop telling people to grow balls.

Scott Walters is running outta Theatre Ideas!

Food for thought from Theatre Ideas (Rerun: On Possiblity):

What is your possibility? What is the crossroads where you find yourself at this stage of your life or work in the project around which we are assembled? What declaration of possibility can you make that has the power to transform the community and inspire you?

Helene Cixous, where have you been all my life?

Somebody just turned me on to Helene Cixous, and from there I "discovered" écriture féminine. All this time I've been searching for a way to describe what and how I write, and all I had to do all along was learn French.

Anyway, I'm working my way through the Laugh of the Medusa resource page and a couple of essays.

Something that I'm wondering, before delving into it, is how we can expand our aesthetic discourse to include  écriture féminine. Clearly the Aristotelian approach (aka Dead White Guy method) doesn't work for the very reasons Cixous says: it's made by and for [White] men, [non-White] women's ways of experiencing and perceiving the world are by definition excluded. Liz Lerman's method opens up a new way of approaching and understanding theatre. Are there other methods out there? Can we create a method? Is attempting to explain or understand theatre from the perspective of écriture féminine doomed to failure by irony?

Japanese aesthetics and Black American theatre

Something I want to talk about: applying Japanese aesthetics to Black American theatre.

I'm intrigued by the possibilities of making theatre from a non-Western (or, to be more precise, non-Aristotelian) aesthetic. Of course, contemporary American theatre diverges from Aristotle's Poetics to the point that non-Aristotelian drama could be considered mainstream. Yet there is still something unmistakably Western about it, especially compared to the Japanese theatre I've seen - and I don't mean just the spoken words.

There seems to be no . . . space in Western theatre. And I mean this as an observation, not a criticism. Every moment has to be filled with sound or activity - always something to look at or listen to. Don't get me wrong, it can make for some exciting theatre. But for me, it can also make for exhausting theatre. Sometimes I want something more like what I talked about in my "Bonsai theater" post.

And yet . . . I'm also creating Black theatre - to be specific, Black American theatre. It's not just because I talk about race or include Black characters or endorse non-traditional casting. Without going so far as to endorse racial essentialism, Black people I've come across have a distinct way of relating to the world that's very different from what I've encountered in White people. I've talked about it before, but I can't put my finger on exactly what that is. However, it is something that makes understanding and applying Japanese aesthetic concepts instinctive for me, something that has a tremendous reflection in my style.

Like I mentioned way back when, my style is layered and subtle - there are powerful undercurrents to everything I write. At this point in time, it's likely that I have neither the skill nor the tools to adequately bring them to the surface without ruining the effect. Unfortunately, I'm not blessed with a great deal of cleverness. I'm more of a term paper than pop quiz sort of person. In all likelihood, I'm one of those writers who has to be closely involved with the actors and directors to make my pieces work, at least for the time being. Ironically, this seems to be the sort of thing the Homing Project is about.

Butoh!

I recently discovered - or rather, rediscovered - a word for the kind of movement I'm going for.

It's Butoh, a Japanese avant-garde dance (form? technique? philosophy?) "tradition." Check out a video from one of the more renowned Butoh groups here.

I'm not married to the form of Butoh (even though it is fucking awesome), but I love what lies beneath it. I'm completely infatuated with how Butoh approaches performance, how it embodies ideas, objects, and creatures instead of just expressing them. Butoh is the essence of what I want to communicate to those who put on my work. I want to write in a way that's "empty" - that is, not imposing a form or meaning, but allowing it to reveal them via performance. Perhaps, for a better visual metaphor, a script that's like water - substantial yet without form.

I was going somewhere with this at first, but I lost my thought. Hm. I guess I'll expand on it later.

And more Japanese theater!

I've been on a real kick with Japanese theater. Don't know why, but it appeals to me in a way American theater doesn't. At the very least, it's given me some way to refer to other styles when I talk about the play I'm doing, which is experimental to say the least. With the works I've looked at lately, I've gained more confidence in the uniqueness of what I'm doing and how I'm approaching my current piece.

There's something about the totally obvious theatricality of Japanese theater that makes me engage with it. I want my audience to have this same experience (more on this later). Somehow, being invited not to take the work literally did something to my brain. It sort of told my rational mind to shut the fuck up and concentrate on what's really going on instead of getting sidetracked by ephemera such as lights, sets, and costumes. Not that those aren't important, but they have no need to be completely plausible or logically consistent. In fact, too much consistency in the externals sometimes detracts from my enjoyment of the story, as if perhaps I was distracted from the deeper truths within it.

The main issue I'm having - and I wonder if Noh theater artists have the same problem - is how to translate the substance of the piece from my head to the page. When I envision the transformations and interactions going on in the story of the play I'm working on, they work very well. I can even imagine the stage, the lighting, even the audience. But how do I get that across on the page in a way that opens potential collaborators to its possibilities? You have no idea how frustrating it is when I say that this-or-that changes into such-and-such, only to have people go, "Do you mean for this to be on a projector?" and look at their blank or disbelieving faces when I say, "No."

Part of it, I think, is a preoccupation with naturalism, even in works that are clearly fantasy. There's a certain lack of engagement with the imagination, as if imagination is something that happens to you rather than something you bring with you wherever you go. Somehow, even with the clear invitation to leave behind our everyday notions of reality, we need to be consumed with an illusion.

Another thing I'm not always sure I know how to answer is, "What's your play about?" I may have mentioned this before, but I don't really write plays for plot or character. I write to create worlds (as in types of realities) for my audience to experience. If I had to pin it down, my enjoyment of a piece hinges heavily on the world it creates. Character, plot, setting, and so forth reflect that world - or rather, are manifestations of it - but they aren't things in and of themselves. It doesn't have to be overtly fantastical, either. Think Spike Lee (especially his early stuff like School Daze) or Quentin Tarantino (particularly Pulp Fiction). Even at their most seemingly realistic, there are hints of a different world, usually reflected through how characters speak and interact.

But the question remains: How do I write in such a way as to help people - especially performers and crew members - make that leap?

Bonsai Theater

Nature is the ultimate theater.

There is no 4th wall. The very act of living is a drama. Being itself tells a story. Forests, oceans, deserts, mountains - all have eons of narrative, ages of plot behind them.

So it shouldn't be a surprise that I got a lot of inspiration about the style of my play from the Bonsai exhibit at Brooklyn Botanical Garden. I'd love to visit it at night when there aren't so many people around, just to look at the bonsai.

Like the geek I am, I read the little display plaques talking about where bonsai come from, how they're shaped, what they mean. What intrigued me the most about what I learned was the idea that bonsai are more than just living sculptures. They are actors in an unspoken story. Their shapes suggest an entire landscape, even a story.

So as I was looking at the bonsai, I thought of them as miniature models for a story. I took in the details about each one, wondering what its story was. A trunk bent at a severe angle recalls a powerful storm that razed the land. A blue bowl was more than an aesthetic touch - it was the suggestion of water. What body of water? Where? What happened near or beneath the tree? Who or what was involved?

It made me think about my play and how it's presented to the audience (I thought about Matt's play too, but in a different context).

The process is quite Zen, "empty," because the active part is invisible, only grasped by the imagination, never by the overt display. The point is to engage the audience's own ability to create story by suggesting narrative rather than imposing one upon them. The performance is meant to help the audience see the unseen.

(Digressing to talk about Matt's play . . .

In retrospect, it makes me think of birdsong. Now, what kind of birds is up for grabs - but the constant repetition suggests parrots, mockingbirds, cuckoos, and other "chripy" birds (as opposed to, say eages or owls). I'm not saying Matt's play is about birds. It's just the connection I made when I heard birds in the garden.)

But the question remains: How can we apply bonsai to theater?

Clearly, if we're working from a text there has to be a kind of narrative, doesn't there? I'm not so sure.

Let us imagine that I'm just giving you small slices of the overall story, something like fractured dreams, where the audience is meant to connect the dots, to imagine the story behind the performance. Of course, American audiences are used to having things spoon-fed to them. Actors tend to relish roles they can sink their teeth into. Directors and designers might have a feld day with the freedom they have - or they may simply become overwhelmed by the sheer number of possibilities. Or worse yet, they don't recognize this freedom then fall back on convention and cliche (as in, remaking my play in Walt Disney's image).

I could use a little perspective here. Actors, directors, designers - what do you think?