Thinking in Structures: Working as a Dramaturg with Robert Wilson

As a longstanding collaborator of Robert Wilson in the field of dramatic theatre and opera, I have always been amazed by his special approach to a given subject. Whether it be a classical or modern drama, a production based on a theme to be developed freely, or an opera, the first thing Bob examines or invents is the structure. 

One example is when Bob started working on Einstein on the Beach together with Philip Glass in the spring of 1975. All they had was the title. An intriguing title. It was clear that in some way this “opera” (I’ll come back to what the term opera means for Bob) was going to deal with Albert Einstein as a seminal figure. Einstein’s discoveries about the relation between time and space, known as the “theory of relativity,” undoubtedly changed the world. Among their consequences were the invention of the atomic bomb and the Apollo mission to the moon. Einstein would be the subject. Einstein was also a musician. There was no text, no plot, no biographical storyline. The character of Einstein was to be represented as a solo violinist in the orchestra pit. The role has often been interpreted by a woman, wearing a wig and mustache. The violinist, regardless of gender, would always be recognizable as Albert Einstein. 

The first thing Bob and Philip Glass did was set up a structure, asking “How many parts is our opera going to have? What will be the duration of each part?” They ended up with a design for the time structure, giving each part a precise length—the first act was to be, for instance, forty-two minutes long, the second one fifty-three minutes, etc. There would be what Bob called “knee plays” in between, which were short scenes that served as junctions between the acts. 

The next step would be for Bob to draw sketches of the set. Glass would then put the sketches on the music stand of his grand piano and start composing. Still no lyrics, no libretto, nor anything resembling the two. In fact, at some point in the completed score, the chorus was given only numbers to sing. No other text was available: “one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. . . .”  It is only at this point that Christopher Knowles came into play, improvising stretches of text for certain scenes. They were cascades of words sounding much like the ones pioneering Dadaists like Hugo Ball or Kurt Schwitters invented. Another element that was added was choreography by Lucinda Childs. The result of all of these elements was a landmark production that would have a tremendous impact on western theatre.

A word about the term opera: Bob would say: “Opera comes from the Latin word for ‘work’: ‘opus.’ That’s what theatre is for me.” When Bob started creating his first works, they had no text nor music. He would call them “silent operas” An example is his Deafman Glance, which premiered in 1971. When describing this form of opera, he would quote John Cage: “The most beautiful music can be found in silence.” During this period of Bob’s work, he declined all offers to stage existing plays. When he met Eugène Ionesco in Paris after the Deafman Glance made a splash in France (titled in French  Le regard du sourd), Ionesco asked Bob to stage his Rhinoceros. It would be forty years later that Bob would take up the proposal: a production in the Romanian city of Craiova in 2014. It was a production I had the privilege to be part of as a member of the team. 

To avoid what Bob would call “ping-pong dialogue,” he introduced the figure of a narrator who recited most of the text. Simultaneously, the actors played the scenes in silence. The desired result was a Brechtian Verfremdungseffekt or “distancing effect.” Brecht had always been a strong influence for Bob. It was not, therefore, unusual that he did so many productions at the Berliner Ensemble, the theatre Brecht founded in Berlin. Among these productions was his acclaimed The Treepenny Opera. 

A narrator figure breaks the fourth wall: he addresses the audience directly and doesn’t try to be in character. The same applied to another production I collaborated with Bob on:  Sophocles’ Oedipus. The special challenge was to bring this ancient Greek tragedy to the Teatro Olimpico, the first roofed indoor theatre of the modern age, built by Italian architect Andrea Palladio in the city of Vicenza. The theatre opened in 1585 with a production of this very play by Sophocles. The set represented the city of Thebes with its seven gates—a set which is still in place. Of course, this set is now a museum; you are not permitted to come any closer to it than one meter. Bob staged a completely new version of Sophocles’ play on another stage that was positioned in front of the 1585 set. Since the Palladio theatre is modeled on the ancient Greek amphitheater, the decision was made to present the production first at the Teatro Grande of Pompey–a performance space dug out of the ashes of the Vesuvian eruption in 79 C.E. Later it was transferred not only to Vicenza, but also to the ancient amphitheater of Epidaurus in Greece. 

In order to avoid dialogue, I proposed reversing the dramaturgy of the tragedy. Instead of Oedipus discovering his past bit by bit through the questioning of people (the “ping-pong dialogue” Bob wanted to avoid), we told the story of the original myth chronologically starting with Oedipus’ childhood, followed by the oracle foretelling that Oedipus was going to kill his father, and so on. I took only Sophocles’ original text (in an early twentieth-century Italian translation) without adding a single word. The text was there but not used as dialogue. 

What Bob did first was to determine a structure. There were to be five acts; the duration of each was decided without knowing how the parts would correspond to each other in the overall structure. Then these five parts were ultimately placed in relation to each other: the first was echoed in the fifth, the second in the fourth, the third positioned at the center. The five acts were freely improvised during a staging workshop at the Watermill Center in New York. Only when the structure had been established did I suggest elements of the text for each scene, which again would be spoken by a narrator. The titular character was played by a dancer. 

A typical approach to designing the structure of a production involves determining some of the following features: Is a scene (or part) calm or vivid in relation to the others? Is it peaceful or violent? Bright or dark? Fast or slow? Does it accelerate or slow down? Is it crowded or solitary? Is the process deductive or additive? In one scene of Oedipus, for example, the dancers carried folding stairs onto the stage building several rows that were later destroyed by Oedipus in an outburst of despair: the climax of the show. 

Most dramaturgs, especially in the German-speaking countries, tend to concentrate first on the literary text, the musical genre and specific form, or the historical, cultural and artistic background of a subject. Robert Wilson takes a more abstract approach. What he always explores first is the basic structure of the production—visually, dramatically, and musically. In Bob’s words: “Many stage directors tend to study only the text, trying to stage a play or an opera from there. In Western culture, as André Malraux has put it, theatre ‘has been drowned by literature.’ Therefore, it is a shock for the audience if the other elements of theatre are treated as being equally important. Take Balinese theatre, the Indian Katakali, the Peking Opera or the Nô theatre of Japan: they’re all about form.” When conceiving a theatrical production, establishing a structure is a creative process in its own right. In the case of a new opera it can be discussed together with the composer. It precedes the content that this structure is going to be filled with. This may seem arbitrary, but it is always linked to a deep understanding of the subject. When we start discussing an existing work or a subject to draw a new work from, the one question Bob always puts forth is: “What is it about? Say it in one sentence.” A difficult task for a dramaturg like me. We tend to make long speeches. . . . This was not possible with Bob.

There are exceptions to this process, however. I first met Bob back in 2010 at the Zurich Opera House. I had admired his work for decades, but never had the chance to work with him. I was appointed by the house’s management to act as his dramaturg for the production of Bellini’s Norma. Having heard that Wilson has a tendency of being shy with a new collaborator he doesn’t know yet, I resolved before the first meeting not to say a word. When we were all seated around a long table, together with the whole team, he put forth the question: “What is the overture of Norma about?” No one dared to answer. 

After a long silence, I plucked up courage and began to talk. I said, the whole story of this opera is a confrontation between the male principle represented by a beam of sunlight and the female principle metaphorically expressed by the moon—Norma’s famous prayer “Casta Diva” is addressed to the goddess of the moon, whereas the belligerent “Guerra” chorus conjures the help of the Sun, a male god. Musically, the basic contrast between the two can be found already in the overture. While I was pointing out which sections of the overture stood for the two different principles, Bob had taken his pencil and started drawing. After ten minutes I finished speaking. He passed over to me a series of sketches picturing what would happen in front of the closed curtain during the overture and asked: “Do you think this will work?” “Perfectly,” I said enthusiastically. He had translated what I had said into images. The male principle was represented by straight lines, the female principle by circles, with Norma in the center of it. 

Here’s another example from the theatre-with-music genre. In 2015, we did a production called Adam’s Passion. It was based on music by the Estonian composer Arvo Pärt. The venue was the Noblessner Foundation in Tallinn, a former submarine shipyard: a hall measuring 40 meters by sixty. An enormous space. Bob had met Pärt at the Vatican when they were both invited for an audience with the Pope. Bob said: “I’ve always admired your music. I would love to use it for a stage production.” Pärt answered: “I’ve always admired your theatre. Please feel free to use whatever you like of it.” 

During the workshop in Watermill, we listened to a variety of pieces by Pärt. I informed Bob of their structure. In fact, Pärt’s composing methods are strongly based on very abstract formal principles. One example is Tabula Rasa, a composition from 1977. It is structured, among other things, by a chord on the prepared piano that is played eight times—each section opened by this chord is twice as long as the previous. Accordingly, the moments when you hear the chord are stretched out in time. This is something Bob can immediately relate to. 

We also used a choral piece called Adam’s Lament based on a text by the Russian monk Silouan. The set consisted of a stage with a cyclorama as backdrop (typical for Bob) and a sort of narrow runway stretching out into the audience. The chorus was placed behind the audience in an upper floor gallery. The main character identified as “A Man” was again a dancer; in fact, it was the same artist who interpreted Oedipus: Michael Theophanous. He was naked. During the twenty minutes this section of the production lasted, he walked in slow motion from far upstage to the very top of the runway where he picked up a tree branch with leaves for the next part. 

Adam’s Lament tells the story of Adam after he has been driven out of paradise. The chorus expresses his feelings of guilt. Arvo Pärt attended both the final rehearsal and the opening night. Subsequently, he came to me, extremely upset, and asked: “Why did you change it? At the end of Adam’s Lament, Adam was kneeling down asking God for forgiveness—it didn’t feel like that tonight!” I said: “Well, all the actor does is pick up a tree branch—in the rehearsal, he did it the same way as he did it tonight.” Arvo, who is a man of profound Christian faith, said: “He was not asking God to pardon him?” “No,” I said, “he was picking up a branch.” And the composer answered: “Just as good.” 

This story shows how audience members have their own associations about what they hear and see. As Bob would say: “I never try to tell the audience what they are supposed to feel or think. I am not interested in psychology on stage. I have no ‘message.’ It’s not about ‘interpretation.’ I don’t want to impose an ‘idea’ on the spectator. It’s up to them what they experience. Experience is a way of thinking; Zen philosophy tells us this. I follow what I experience. And I try to stay open.” 

What a relief it was for the German playwright Heiner Müller when Wilson staged his drama Hamletmachine back in 1986. First presented in New York in English, then in Hamburg in the original German, both productions used students still in drama school. Müller had seen many interpretations of his play, which attempted to make sense of his text, which is full of allusions, full of latent meaning. A very dense text, it is highly concentrated. Most of these stagings merely illustrated the text without contributing anything new. 

What did Bob do? He invented a choreography of movements in a set with nothing but tables and chairs. And a tree. Then he had this pattern repeated three times, each time rotating the set by 90 degrees. The audience then could see the identical movements of the group of actors four times, but each time was from a different perspective. The production had a totally abstract structure; at first glance it appeared to have no relation to the play. Yet it resonated with the text in many ways, leaving the audience the freedom to pursue their own associations. 

Regarding the text, when Bob was asked by the Schauspielhaus in Düsseldorf to create a new piece based on Oscar Wilde’s novel The Picture of Dorian Gray, he approached US author Darryl Pinckney.. Darryl had collaborated with Bob for many decades on different projects, among them a monologue in 1989 based on the novel Orlando by Virginia Woolf. Bob knew that it was out of the question to transform the plot of the novel into dialogue. Instead there was to be only one actor and that was Christian Friedel. Friedel was known in the US as a film actor in such movies as The Zone of Interest. Darryl drew phrases from the novel, turning them around in many ways. He also used extracts from Oscar Wilde’s letters and poems by Wilde’s lover Alfred Douglas. The general idea was to tell a story about the painter and his model. Bob also incorporated the story of the famous painter Francis Bacon and his lover George Dyer, a burglar he surprised when Dyer was breaking into his studio. Instead of calling the police, he asked him to become his model. 

The text Darryl created with Bob had three parts. In the first part, he used only sentences in the past tense and the third-person singular: “He fell through the window and it gave him new life.” In the second part, all sentences were in the present tense and the first- person singular: “I look in the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, looking for my maker.” And the third part, still in the present tense, was in the second-person singular: “When you are not on your pedestal you are not interesting.” Thus these very basic structures—the grammatical syntax—came to define the text.

To conclude my remarks, let me draw your attention to another aspect of Robert Wilson’s work. He stated: “My theatre is a formal theatre. For me, in theatre all elements are equally important: movement, dance, gesture, costume, make-up, architecture, sculpture, design, light, words, music . . . all the arts come together in theatre. You may call it Gesamtkunstwerk [total work of art] like Richard Wagner did.” This means that for Bob, each of these elements stands for itself and is treated independently. It also means: no illustration. What one element expresses does not have to be doubled by another element. If a scene is tragic, maybe the actor will play it with a smile and the lighting will be bright. As Bob says: “Black can only be seen against white.” Life consists of contradictions. A Wilson production is, therefore, much more “real” than the many performances aiming at “realism.” Often I have heard Bob say to his actors: “The stage is not a bus stop. You can’t stand or walk on it the same way you do in the street.” True indeed.