Time lost along the way: Gone or Lost?
Let’s imagine a duration without regular pattern. Nothing in it is recognizable, nothing ever recurs. It is just a duration […]
Let’s imagine a duration without regular pattern. Nothing in it is recognizable, nothing ever recurs. It is just a duration […]
The audience waits in dim light. They hear the sound of paper fluttering, sliding, and crinkling, before they see […]
The remembered theatre used to be, and could be again, made of a simple composition. It begins with a worn […]
What if we define values, principles, and methodologies, resisting the pressure to define outcomes? What if we focus on what drives us and on how we want to live and work together, but leave the imagination open to the concrete shapes our collaboration can take?
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?).
Dangling in mid-air like a thrust-out tongue, an oval-shaped rocky surface extends from the mouth of a cave to form a rough-hewn apron stage in the middle of a mountain.
Duse’s superpower: her capacity to disappear, leaving only her plaster hands as evidence that she was a material presence in the world. Disappearance. Reproduction. She knew the theatrical drill.
"These People Have Contributed Materially in Many Ways to Make Our Music What it is. Please Do Not Hold it Against them."
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The play begins / The play does not begin.