The Time of the Now
Dries Verhoeven, “Fare Thee Well!” (Oslo). Photo courtesy of the artist.
I am writing these lines after my first academic year at New York University in Abu Dhabi, one year after the last edition of Fast Forward, the site-specific festival that I imagined and curated for Athens as a critical response to the multifaceted “crisis” in Greece. I am writing these lines during a dematerialized summer shrunk to a disembodied liveliness and to a distanced sociality across space-times. While I am struggling to imagine a theatre that matters. As I always did. But now it seems that it needs to matter differently. It seems that it needs to address differently the urgencies that exist in the here-and-now, present but often latent, confined in between the anxieties of the creation time, the precarious conditions of the production system, the institutional imperatives, and the contested sponsorships. Does the fact that it needs to “matter differently” mean that we need to invent “new” forms and subject-matters? To challenge any exoticization through alienation? To decolonize originality and authenticity? To reconsider sustainability but also post-humanity? To privilege theatre as a social process instead of theatre as commodity? I honestly don’t know.
I am writing these lines as I need to imagine something in order to make it. Theatre is always, for me, a porous, relational common ground where discursive events go hand in hand with poetry and radical aesthetics. Theatre is a translocal space of togetherness, a collective state of mind where unimaginable forms of engagement and emancipation can potentially emerge. Theatre-as-commonality reminds us of the essential role that theatre has played in all times: from the ancient city-states to the struggles for freedom and justice in our “short century” and the ongoing fight for a world that matters — for all, equally.
I am writing these lines thinking that we need perhaps to unmake theatre in order to imagine it — to un-make means, Homi Bhabha writes, “to release from repression, and to reconstruct, reinscribe the elements of the known.”[1] Does that mean that theatre shall assume the responsibility for the unspoken? Shall we collectively envision cultural events that transcend the way that we have shaped our “global” art world? Could we rethink the role of the curator as a public servant at a moment when we don’t even know what “public” means? Is it possible to identify and dismantle the power relationships that shake the artistic field both on the inside and the outside? Shall we reconsider the distribution of resources beyond postcolonial concepts such as the Global South, or essentialist approaches to interculturalism? I honestly don’t know. I am only thinking that we need to re-imagine it.
[1] Homi Bhabha, “The World and the Home”, Social Text (1992, n. 31/32), 146.
Were I to imagine an ideal theatre (which is not, I understand, the proposal – and I’m not about to do it here – but it does beg the question, from the get-go: why imagine anything that is not somehow “ideal”?), I think of moments of cultural impact that were better, I expect, to hear about than to experience, like Woodstock or the Geneva Conventions. I imagine a theatre that can be talked about – and in the telling, amplified. Spend much time around “theatre people” and you’ll discover that this is not, in practice, an unusual occurrence. “Let’s not, and say we did” is our mantra. I exaggerate to make a point.
Let’s talk instead about the theatre that does exist, and must exist.
The theatre that must exist is ugly and unsatisfying, much of the time. It is defined by failed efforts and a bizarre-bordering-on-pathological determination to return to the scene of the crime (in this scenario, artists are the criminals; art is the bullet; guess who the victims are?). Thankfully, funding being what it is in these United States, the gun is rarely loaded.
I know, I sound like Dostoyevsky.
The theatre that must exist, and does exist, is not unlike a visit to the dentist or the DMV. It’s tedious. It requires effort, from the maker and the viewer alike. It tracks the mundane passage of our daily lives, like the weather report. I love this theatre with every ounce of love I have to give, because occasionally – occasionally – it transcends anything I could have possibly imagined for the world. Which is why I prefer not to imagine it at all. I’d rather show up and wait, knowing that something of significance will happen, even if it takes a while.
There’s nothing ideal about it. But it matters. It matters.
My title is “Artistic Director” – a meaningless term, on its face. I do not possess a “curatorial” mind, though I do make choices that lend a certain shape to things, over time. If the theatre that must exist, and does exist, is a sweatshop – and it is – then I’m the shop steward on the midnight shift. Nobody needs a curator on the factory floor. My job (if I can call it a job) is to respond, support, cajole, commiserate, and live among artists who sacrifice everything for a lost cause. We’re putting in the hours, all of us. There is no conscious thematic or contextual basis for anything I do. The work continues and the narrative writes itself. If we’re lucky, there are witnesses. It’s important to be witnessed.
I write this from my studio at the MacDowell Colony in New Hampshire, which is in its way a kind of shrine to the agony (and, I suppose, ecstasy) of solitary effort. The theatre that must exist, and does exist, can be crushingly solitary in the making – and then, crucially, it explodes into something authentically communal. That is the theatre that I do not wish to imagine, but wish to have.