A Reproduction (all the ghosts were children) : Gloss

A Reproduction (all the ghosts were children)

Over the course of A Reproduction something feels familiar yet strange—increasingly both—until it slides into the category of our brain built by Saturday morning cartoons. The language is halting for both the thin white man and the athletic-build great Dane, this week’s mystery having plunged us into the depths of existential ennui characters must feel as they live every day, as pictures of themselves, inside a box of repetition.

How does a person know oneself, when faced with a reproduction or a re-presentation of the self? How can one track one’s own origin, when the current experience is so immediate and present? I know at one point in my life I was shorter than I am now, but I can only ever see a re-presentation of myself reflected back. My actual self feels no taller or shorter than it did when I was twelve. My body may have aged years and years, but my sense of my location in myself is as constant as when I was sixteen.

The thin man and the great Dane spend their lives (can they be called lives if they have no relation to time?) journeying narrative mysteries and then re-journeying those same mysteries with every re-run of each episode. With each retreading of each story, do they form a groove in the narrative fabric of the universe? What’s gained in cycling and re-cycling the bottom of this barrel?

It used to be that when you played a cassette tape or a VHS, each trip the tape took through the machine wore down the invisible grooves of data, so that every visit to that story became less and less clear. They say that the more you remember memories, the less accurate they become. In the “real”,  world, this world of plastic and terabytes, nothing really dies or decays anymore. With each journey for the thin man and the great Dane, the journey has no impact on the data itself.  Nothing changes.

The more I travel this story with them, the more and more familiar it becomes; more and more a part of my imagination, and less and less what it was when I encountered it.


About the Author

Karie Miller is a maker, performer, and scholar raised in Kentucky and throughout the Midwest, USA. Most recently, she devised The Else or Something inspired by the first part of Emile Zola’s Germinal, and completed her dissertation, Practicing a New Hospitality, about the intersection of theatre and care. She holds an MFA in Acting from the University of Virginia, and a PhD in Theatre Performance, History, and Theory from Ohio State University. She is an ensemble member with Chicago’s Sideshow Theatre Company, and currently she is a visiting assistant professor at Dickinson College.