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Beck Holden Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 28 1 Visit Journal Homepage The Captive Stage Beck Holden By Published on March 22, 2016 Download Article as PDF The Captive Stage: Performance and the Proslavery Imagination of the Antebellum North . By Douglas A. Jones, Jr. Theater: Theory/Text/Performance series. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2014. Pp. 218. In common American parlance, the word “slavery” tends to be inseparable from the specific institution of chattel slavery in the antebellum South. Astute scholars and critics have, however, worked to draw attention to the ways in which different, less overtly brutal systems may also deserve the name of “slavery” for the ways in which they limit the access people of color have to political agency while relying heavily upon the ongoing presence of minority groups within that system. In The Captive Stage: Performance and the Proslavery Imagination of the Antebellum North , Douglas A. Jones, Jr. reveals how a variety of white northern antebellum performances, ranging from the respectable (lectures and portraiture) to the popular (minstrelsy, plays, broadsides, and sideshows), served to undermine black claims to American citizenship. In doing so, he deftly traces the intensifying white insistence upon black subjugation that drove the northern black intelligentsia from advocating full integration in the 1790s to calls for insurrection and emigration by the 1840s and 1850s. Jones grounds his conception of the northern proslavery imagination in one of Frederick Douglass’s speeches from 1848, in which Douglass discusses the systemic oppression faced by blacks in the North, making them, in his words, “in many respects… slaves of the community” (1). It is this idea of community slavery that shapes Jones’s book; noting that northerners generally abhorred chattel slavery but also considered blacks inferior, he explains: A complex series of assumptions, ideals, and logics . . . deemed African Americans . . . unfit for equal participation in the polity, while . . . ideally suited to serve the personal and collective interests of their white counterparts. In other words, northerners cultivated a proslavery imagination with which to maintain and, over time, widen the gulf between black freedom and full black inclusion. (1-2) He makes a convincing case that this insistence upon black subordination and subjugation points to an essentially proslavery northern psyche. This premise provides a firm base for Jones’s exploration of black antebellum political performances and the white performances that tried to eclipse them. Each chapter of The Captive Stage demonstrates a thorough understanding of its specific historical moment and careful archival research, and Jones’s arguments are consistently clear and convincing. He also demonstrates great breadth in his theoretical influences, smoothly drawing on writers ranging from Plato to Charles S. Pierce to Daphne Brooks over the course of the book; his foremost influence, however, may be Saidiya Hartman, to whom he turns repeatedly in several chapters. Jones’s first chapter shows how the deferential stage negroes in John Murdock’s plays and the mangled dialect of the popular “Bobalition” broadsides sought to render the politically active northern black laughable, at a time when black organizations were using parades and elegant oration to assert their claims to political integration and American citizenship. Next, Jones contests the recent scholarly trend of seeking progressive potential in early minstrelsy, directly challenging W.T. Lhamon, David Cockrell, and other scholars who claim that early minstrelsy privileged class over race and created a working-class alliance across the color line. Jones points out that early minstrels such as Thomas “Daddy” Rice gave openly proslavery speeches after performances and argues that the popular rhetoric regarding the struggles of the white working class in fact hinges heavily upon white supremacy. Jones’s entry into the scholarly debate over minstrelsy is skillfully wrought and highly convincing. Chapter three examines several ways in which George Washington, the slave-owning father of the nation, functioned to justify the continuation of slavery in the northern imagination; this is the chapter in which Jones offers the widest range of examples, including reverent interactions between slaves and images of Washington in popular plays, depictions of slaves in portraits of Washington, and P.T. Barnum’s exhibition of Joice Heth as Washington’s 161-year-old former wetnurse. Jones’s research on Heth in particular breaks intriguing ground, as he focuses upon Barnum’s increasing emphasis upon his ownership of Heth as a slave as the years went on, arguing compellingly that this points to a desire by Barnum’s northern patrons to join him and Washington in wielding the dominating gaze of the slaveholder. Jones’s next chapter looks at a trend he dubs “romantic racialism,” where a branch of white northerners insisted that blacks were simply different from whites, but not necessarily wholesale inferior. Jones reveals, however, how the traits that romantic racialists focused upon, such as docility and innocence, served to shape an imagined society in which blacks required the guidance of whites and still took subordinate roles to whites, buttressing his argument by examining the resistance of white Garrisonian abolitionists to the rise in black insurrectionist rhetoric in the 1840s and by analyzing the black characters from the popular temperance drama Aunt Dinah’s Pledge . His final chapter examines black abolitionist lecturer William Wells Brown and his escape-from-slavery melodrama The Escape; or, A Leap for Freedom . After first charting the relationships among Brown’s earlier narration of his own escape, melodrama as a genre, and the expectations of white audiences, Jones argues that Brown’s play was shaped by the northern proslavery imagination such that it prevented him from imagining a life in the north for his protagonists after their flight from slavery. Although fans of Brown may find this position unpalatable, Jones’s argument is subtle and expertly-woven, a useful contribution to scholarship on Brown that must be taken seriously. Jones’s book is a skillful blend of historical context and performance analysis that serves to complicate our understanding of political performance culture in the antebellum North. By excavating and examining the ways in which northerners imagined black subjugation as a necessity, he both invites America to examine some of its oft-overlooked past sins and helps to reveal some of the history that underpins the systemic racial iniquities that persist today. This book offers a useful methodological model for early-career scholars, while its contents promise to prove highly valuable to scholars wrestling with questions of race and political performance, whether on stage or off. References Footnotes About The Author(s) Beck Holden Tufts University Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue American Tragedian Changes, Constants, Constraints: African American Theatre History Scholarship Performing Anti-slavery The Captive Stage Musical Theatre Studies Reflections: Fifty Years of Chicano/Latino Theatre Transgressive Engagements: The Here and Now of Queer Theatre Scholarship Strangers Onstage: Asia, America, Theatre, and Performance Thinking about Temporality and Theatre Murder Most Queer New Directions in Dramatic and Theatrical Theory: The Emerging Discipline of Performance Philosophy “Re-righting” Finland’s Winter War: Robert E. Sherwood’s There Shall Be No Night[s] Star Struck!: The Phenomenological Affect of Celebrity on Broadway Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Jocelyn L. Buckner Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 32 2 Visit Journal Homepage Introduction: Local Acts: Performing Communities, Performing Americas Jocelyn L. Buckner By Published on May 23, 2020 Download Article as PDF This American Theatre and Drama Society special issue of JADT features four essays that explore what “local” performance means across very different community contexts. Throughout the Americas, communities generate and are informed by performance in ways that reveal, challenge, and strengthen shared understanding about the identity of the local. Performance plays a role in articulating a collective representation of self not only to local residents, but perhaps also to communities outside the realm of the art work’s place of origin. The call for papers for this issue was inspired in part by Jan Cohen-Cruz’s L ocal Acts: Community-Based Performance in the United States [1] . Cohen-Cruz explains that in community-based productions, members of a community are “a primary source of the text, possibly of performers as well, and definitely a goodly portion of the audience … Community-based performance relies on artists guiding the creation of original work or material adapted to, and with people with a primary relationship to the content, not necessarily to the craft” (2). This special issue builds upon Cohen-Cruz’s work to further explore the significance and influence of local and community-based performances, both past and present, across the Americas.This collection not only illuminates performance practices in specific locales by particular constituents; it also creates connections between studies of community performance and other methodologies and theories of theatre and performance studies. The five authors featured here consider performances in artistic residencies, immigrant communities, localized eco-tourism, and indigenous-language theatre. These pieces highlight culturally specific work generated at the local level, advance the argument for studies focused on performance tuned to community rather than commercial appeal, and draw correlations to larger social and artistic phenomena in the process. In “The Architecture of Local Performance: Stages of the Taliesin Fellowship,” Claudia Wilsch Case explores the local and regional impact of performances by members of Frank Lloyd Wright’s residential apprenticeship program. The Taliesin Fellowship encouraged its participants in a range of creative endeavors. Its amateur public performances developed into a popular attraction for local residents hungry for artistic experiences. Case provides detailed analysis of the apprentices’ early concerts and skits alongside film screenings from the 1930s, tracing the development of physical movement pieces inspired by Eastern mystic Georges Gurdjieff in the 1950s which, by the 1960s, had evolved into original dance dramas written and choreographed by Wright’s daughter, Iovanna Lloyd Wright. Case argues that the performances occurring at Taliesin and Taliesin West from the 1930s to the 1970s exemplified the Fellowship’s role in remapping the American cultural landscape. By privileging work developed locally, rather than dispatched from larger cultural centers such as New York, Case illustrates how the Taliesin Fellowship cultivated area audiences’ appreciation for locally crafted performances, reinforcing community ties while also priming them for the US regional theatre movement. Sarah Campbell advocates for a multi-faceted approach to studying Maya theatre in the Yucatán peninsula, arguing that it is often perceived as insignificant due to how it has been treated in scholarship. In “’La conjura de Xinum’ and Language Revitalization: Understanding Maya Agency through Theatre” Campbell considers Maya language theatre as an “art world,” defined as a system of interconnected participants determining the reception and influencing the significance of a piece of art. She highlights how dialogues surrounding Maya identity reflect the ways external alliances intersect with community members and organizations that produce theatre, resulting in varying valuations of this work. To illustrate her point, Campbell provides a compelling argument for considering the context for and ensuing local and critical responses to a community-based performance in Tihosuco, Quintana Roo, Mexico, called “La conjura de Xinum.” Campbell makes the case that one should not dismiss the play as simply a fringe act by a community theatre troupe in rural Mexico; instead, the performance exposes the agency of Maya artists in promoting language and cultural revitalization. By illustrating the interconnected nature of artists, audiences, and scholars/critics, Campbell illuminates the roles of respective participants and their influence on the creation, perception, and valuation of Maya language theatre, both in the community from which it emerges and beyond. In “Exploring the History and Implications of Toxicity through St. Louis: Performance Artist Allana Ross and the ‘Toxic Mound Tours,’” Rachel E. Bauer and Kristen M. Kalz employ performance studies to examine how Ross privileges place, environment, and history in her performance, revealing the long term effects of environmental contamination and its consequences for residents living adjacent to the five stops on her Toxic Mound Tour. By featuring several spaces whose contamination dates back to WWII and Cold War era weapons production, Bauer and Kalz argue that Ross’s tour educates ecotourists on the environmental and health risks that the St. Louis community has assumed in the interest of national safety, thereby rewriting the local history of these spaces and their legacy for today’s community. Sharing their experience as ecotourists in their own community, Bauer and Kalz underscore the significance of featuring place as event to reveal how disparate individuals are linked through a deeper understanding of community spaces and a collective awareness of belonging. Arnab Banerji’s critical analysis of New Brunswick, New Jersey’s South Asian Theatre Festival (SATF) defines the dynamics of the festival’s shared creative community and the immigrant community’s efforts to affirm itself as a major American subculture. In “Finding Home in the World Stage: Critical Creative Citizenship and the 13th South Asian Theatre Festival 2018,” Banerji asserts that the artists involved in the festival are not only celebrating their culture of origin, but also delineating its relationship with their new home culture here in the United States. While the SATF might at first glance be regarded as simply a public performance of plays, Banerji’s analysis of the audience’s engagement with the works, the mindful curation of festival content, and the cultural sensitivity given to the production of the festival, reveals the complex dynamics of immigration and integration at play on stage and in the audience for these performances. Through examining the SATF as a site for individuals of the South Asian diaspora to assert their cultural citizenship as well as an opportunity to perform acts of creative citizenship, Banerji illustrates how these artists appeal to an audience that does not necessarily conform to geographic, linguistic, and socio-cultural boundaries. Banerji’s piece contributes to the growing field of scholarship on South Asian American performance as well as local acts. As much as theatre and academic communities often privilege “professional” nationally and internationally recognized centers of cultural production, the COVID-19 pandemic and the ensuing closure of virtually all productions and performance venues well into 2020 and beyond, has revealed how much we actually rely on local resources and artists for a sense of connection to one another and to ourselves. During these unprecedented times, what so many of us are searching for – and missing desperately – is the reassurance that comes from connection to community. Theatre has survived centuries of crises – from plagues, to world wars, to economic collapses. With each threat, theatre has always managed to realign with the needs of the audience, sometimes by relocating, whether that be to the outskirts of town or to cyberspace, and often by reframing the definition of “local” and where, how, and through whom artistic communities coalesce. The sphere of community held by theatrical performance is proving elastic in the age of the coronavirus, expanding to circle the globe and welcome audiences around the world who are hungrily streaming professionally produced, pre-recorded theatrical content online. Simultaneously, theatre has compressed to include synchronous, intimate, devised Zoom performances for audiences of one who have isolated themselves at home and are desperate for personal, human connection. By reimagining the parameters of production and participation by both artists and audiences, theatre and its communities will not only survive, but it will reinvent itself and its relevance to those looking for themselves and for a sense of belonging. This issue goes to press in the wake of ongoing violence against people of color, specifically the anti-Black violence evidenced in the recent murders of George Floyd, Ahmuad Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and Tony McDade, and many others, alongside the subsequent violence perpetrated against those peacefully protesting their deaths. The idea of community, at the local and national level, is being tested once again. Theatre artists and scholars are uniquely positioned to reflect on systemic prejudices, which are also manifest in the theatre industry at large. As scholars/artists/citizens we have an obligation to aid in the development of new community models both within our industry and at the local level that are committed to supporting and participating in anti-racist protests, pedagogy, and productions; honoring and mourning the lives of those who have been lost; amplifying voices of the marginalized and silenced; and advocating for messages of allyship, equity, and inclusion. Theatre must help heal and build community and I encourage you to find ways to participate in and support this work. As uncertainty and possibility simultaneously loom in the future of theatre and performance, this issue serves as an example of work yet to be done to herald the role of theatre and performance in defining and preserving community at the local level throughout the Americas. This issue was made possible by the support of Lisa Jackson-Schebetta, President of the American Theatre and Drama Society; the stewardship of JADT editors Naomi Stubbs and James Wilson and managing editor Jessica Applebaum; the dedication of members of our Editorial Board who contributed their time and expertise to fostering these essays; and the keen eye of editorial assistant Zach Dailey. I wish readers health and safety in these extraordinary times, and hope this scholarship inspires others to consider their relationship to local acts within their own communities. Editorial Board for Special Issue Dorothy Chansky Mark Cosdon La Donna Pie Forsgren Khalid Long Laura MacDonald Derek Miller Hillary E. Miller Heather S. Nathans Diego Villada References [1] Jan Cohen-Cruz, Local Acts: Community-Based Performance in the United States , (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2005), 2. Footnotes About The Author(s) Jocelyn L. Buckner is an Associate Professor of Theatre at Chapman University in Orange, California. She is the editor of A Critical Companion to Lynn Nottage (Routledge), and a former book review editor and managing editor for Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism . She has published articles and reviews in African American Review , American Studies Journal , Ecumenica Journal , Journal of American Drama and Theatre , HowlRound , Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism , Popular Entertainment Studies , Theatre History Studies , Theatre Journal , Theatre Survey, and Theatre Topics , as well as book chapters in the collections Performing Dream Homes: Theater and the Spatial Politics of the Domestic Sphere and Food and Theatre on the World Stage , and over a dozen entries in The Cambridge Encyclopedia of Stage Actors and Acting . Buckner is also the resident dramaturg of The Chance Theater in Anaheim, CA, and has collaborated with other theatres including South Coast Repertory Theatre, Center Theatre Group, Native Voices at the Autry, as well as London’s Donmar Warehouse and Theatre 503. She is the Vice President of the American Theatre and Drama Society. Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Theatre, Performance and Cognition: Languages, Bodies and Ecologies The Drama and Theatre of Sarah Ruhl A Player and a Gentleman: The Diary of Harry Watkins, Nineteenth-Century US American Actor The History and Theory of Environmental Scenography Introduction: Local Acts: Performing Communities, Performing Americas The Architecture of Local Performance: Stages of the Taliesin Fellowship “La conjura de Xinum” and Language Revitalization: Understanding Maya Agency through Theatre Exploring the History and Implications of Toxicity through St. Louis: Performance Artist Allana Ross and the “Toxic Mound Tours” Finding Home in the World Stage: Critical Creative Citizenship and the 13th South Asian Theatre Festival 2018 Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Megan Stahl Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 37 2 Visit Journal Homepage Middle Eastern American Theatre: Communities, Cultures, and Artists. Michael Malek Najjar. Critical Companions Series. London: Methuen Drama, 2021; Pp. xvi + 237. Megan Stahl By Published on July 1, 2025 Download Article as PDF For over a decade, Michael Malek Najjar has been one of the most accomplished and prolific scholars of Middle Eastern American theatre. His latest monograph, Middle Eastern American Theatre: Communities, Cultures, and Artists , seems a natural extension of his earlier publications on the subject, as it further expands the creative and academic profile of theatrical work generated by Middle Eastern diasporic artists in the United States and Canada. As with much of his previous scholarship, Najjar’s research is grounded in archival materials, interviews, and first-hand observations of productions, the analyses of which are presented in an approachable manner that makes the book suitable for academic and non-academic audiences alike. Through a detailed, incisive exploration encompassing an ambitious slate of plays, theatre companies, and artist testimonies, Najjar assertively positions Middle Eastern American theatre as its own genre—one that is nuanced, multi-faceted, and well deserving of a place in the contemporary theatrical canon. The book’s Introduction effectively synthesizes the complex historical and geopolitical web that surrounds the ancestral homelands of Middle Eastern American theatre practitioners, emphasizing for readers the fallacy of trying to impose any kind of homogenous collective identity on its diasporic populations. Myriad religions, cultures, and countries exist under the umbrella of “the Middle East” which, as Najjar notes, is a term that “carries tremendous cultural baggage that includes colonialism, Orientalism, and perverse notions of the region that have been perpetuated through scholarship, popular entertainment, and the arts” (3). The extreme diversity inherent in the broader Middle Eastern American identity extends to the theatrical output of its artistic diaspora. As such, Najjar argues that the concept of polyculturalism is a more apt framework with which to approach the genre. In contrast to multiculturalism, which is predicated upon the notion of cultures as fixed and indelibly disconnected, polyculturalism recognizes that “people descend from multiple lineages” and celebrates the ways in which “cultures influence one another over time” (11). This reframing not only challenges reductive categorizations, but also affirms the fluid, intersecting identities that are reflected in Middle Eastern American theatre today. The following chapters of the book explore the cultural production of Middle Eastern American theatremakers through this lens of polyculturalism, with a particular emphasis on the work of Arab, Jewish, Turkish, and Iranian American artists. Najjar begins with a chapter that chronicles the endeavors of sixteen production companies in the United States devoted to supporting work of the Middle Eastern diaspora. While this portion of the volume feels rather encyclopedic due to its organizational style, Najjar provides an easily digestible history of the origins of each company, including brief descriptions of representative productions that illustrate the impressive breadth of performance styles offered—from stand-up comedy to Yiddish theatre to plays that star a male actor in drag as a Lebanese matriarch. Najjar makes a point of noting that most of the organizations listed “have produced these works on the stage despite the lack of funding, resources, and personnel” (41), emphasizing the ongoing challenges and chronic underfunding of Middle Eastern American theatre. Najjar organizes the subsequent five chapters thematically, devoting each section to an analysis of a common dramaturgical thread across several plays. The first, “Return to the Homeland Plays,” explores performances that chronicle their creators’ complex journeys to and from their ancestral homelands. While the narrative in each of these plays largely centers on the renegotiation of its creator’s hyphenated identity during the pilgrimage, in production these pieces also function as pedagogical opportunities for American spectators. By sharing their deeply personal accounts, these artists are “translating their experiences for audiences who they believe should know more about what is being done, both political and militarily, in the Middle East, in their name” (72). Four of the five plays investigated in this chapter are solo shows performed by the playwrights which, though not a commonality investigated directly by Najjar, would be a compelling addition to the chapter’s overall assertion that personal theatrical testimony can serve as a powerful political intervention. In contrast to the exploration of familial homelands in Chapter 2, the following two chapters shift focus to life in the Americas. Chapter 3, “Persecution Plays,” examines how Middle Eastern American playwrights address governmental and social persecution in the United States. Najjar effectively situates his chosen texts within the broader landscape of political theatre, highlighting how theatre serves as a means of resistance in the face of extreme discrimination and violence. The subsequent chapter, “Diaspora Plays,” also delves into the complexities of transnational identities, but through a more personal lens. Works such as Heather Raffo’s Noura and Jason Sherman’s Reading Hebron reflect the tensions of navigating American and Canadian society, respectively, while maintaining connections to ancestral homelands. These two chapters are particularly strong in their discussions of how the selected plays blur the boundaries between personal and political, local and global, in ways that resonate deeply with diasporic populations. While there is similar overlap between the narrative of focus of the plays discussed in Chapter 6, “Conflict,” and those in the preceding Chapter 5, “Plays Set in the Homeland,” Najjar’s specific attention to works that address the Israel-Palestine conflict in both chapters feels both remarkably prescient and newly profound. In Chapter 5, Najjar investigates narratives that depict the reality of life in the Middle East as people navigate the strain of war, displacement, and political unrest. “This reimagining of a lost homeland or of a homeland that is being destroyed, occupied, or under siege is,” he asserts, “an attempt by these playwrights to reclaim a lost history or heritage” (131). Chapter 6 engages with the conflicts themselves, paying particular focus to the Israel-Palestine conflict and its position with a lineage of other global struggles. These two chapters underscore how Middle Eastern American playwrights use theatre to challenge dominant perspectives and foster deeper understanding of often-misunderstood conflicts. This theme is carried through the two brief concluding sections of the volume, one of which charts the founding of the Middle Eastern North African Theatre Makers Alliance (MENATMA) in 2019, and the other presents critical perspectives from current directors and leaders in the field. In the Preface to his volume, Najjar makes a point to note that his primary goal in publishing this book is to introduce the work of Middle Eastern American theatre artists to the world “in the hopes that these plays will receive more scholarship, publishing, funding, and productions in the future” (xv). Given the funding freezes impacting the arts and the full-scale attacks on projects that promote diversity and inclusion in 2025, Najjar’s desire for artistic parity seems even more aspirational than when this book was first published in 2021. However, this manuscript is a testament to the resilience and innovation of Middle Eastern American theatre artists in the twenty-first century, and it provides a crucial intervention for scholars and practitioners committed to exploring its continued transformations. This book will undoubtedly serve as a foundational text for those interested in theatre, diaspora studies, and cultural representation in the performing arts. References Footnotes About The Author(s) MEGAN STAHL is an Associate Professor of Theater at Boston Conservatory at Berklee, where her teaching and research focus on plays of the MENASA diaspora, musical theatre, and feminist theatre. Her work has been published in Studies in Musical Theatre , Theatre Journal , Theater Annual , and Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism , as well as in the edited volume (M)Other Perspectives: Staging Motherhood in 21st Century North American Theatre & Performance . She holds an M.A. and a Ph.D. in Theatre and Performance Studies from Tufts University. Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Censorship/Public Censure and Performance Today: Special Issue Introduction Remembering Censorship in the World Premiere of Seán O’Casey’s The Drums of Father Ned: Lafayette, Indiana, 1959 The Stage as Networked Battleground: Dissent and Censorship in Contemporary Canadian Theatre and Performance Censor/Censure: A Roundtable Which of These Are Censorship? The Divide Between Prior Restraint and Soft Censorship How Can an Artist Respond to Censorship? The Dilemma That Faces Contemporary Creatives in the UK The LGBTQ+ Artists Archive Project: A Roundtable Conversation Life is Drag: Documenting Spectacle as Resistance An Interview with Rachel Rampleman Middle Eastern American Theatre: Communities, Cultures, and Artists. Michael Malek Najjar. Critical Companions Series. London: Methuen Drama, 2021; Pp. xvi + 237. Lessons from Our Students: Meditations on Performance Pedagogy. Stacey Cabaj and Andrea Odinov. New York: Routledge, 2024; Pp. 126 Choreographing Dirt: Movement, Performance, and Ecology in the Anthropocene. Angenette Spalink. Studies in Theatre, Ecology, and Performance Series, no. 3. New York: Routledge, 2024; Pp. 116. Fauci and Kramer Our Town Frankenstein Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Deric McNish Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 29 2 Visit Journal Homepage Directing Shakespeare in America: Current Practices. By Charles Ney. London UK, New York NY: Bloomsbury Arden Shakespeare, 2016. Pp. 362. Deric McNish By Published on June 4, 2017 Download Article as PDF Directing Shakespeare in America: Current Practices . By Charles Ney. London UK, New York NY: Bloomsbury Arden Shakespeare, 2016. Pp. 362. Charles Ney’s Directing Shakespeare in America: Current Practices is an illuminating and much-needed resource for directors, scholars, students, and Shakespeare aficionados. Between 2004 and 2015, Ney interviewed a veritable “who’s who” in the American Shakespeare scene. He selected 65 directors to participate in this study, an impressive feat as these are among the most prolific practitioners and artistic directors in the United States. Any of the interviewees in Charles Ney’s book could be the subject of an entire monograph, but Ney demonstrates a remarkable ability to curate this wealth of wisdom in a way that is compelling and easy to follow. Rather than presenting the interviews as self-contained essays, he has taken the much more useful approach of extracting and collating advice from each interviewee and organizing it based on topic. He identifies common approaches and creates convincing categories in which each director can be viewed. The book is engaging as a straight read-through, but it’s equally useful for the reader that wants to skip ahead and explore concise essays on various topics, such as approaches to table work, or how to navigate tech and previews. These practices are invaluable for directors of Shakespeare, but can be more broadly applied as resources for directing any kind of live theatre. A prolific director himself, Ney no doubt has his own informed opinions about how to approach directing Shakespeare, and yet he manages to serve as a fair and impartial conduit for each interviewee’s ideas. He transmits a variety of approaches without prejudice, saying “… there is more that can be learned by setting those judgements aside” (28). He is present in this work, not as a director, but as a keen scholar organizing a chaotic cacophony of ideas. Still, his underlying tone in this book is that of a person with great reverence for the artistic process and great respect for a diversity of approaches. Part I includes an introduction to each director’s career and attempts to identify their major beliefs and aesthetic sensibilities. Part II focuses on preproduction, how the director prepares to work with designers and actors. Part III explores the various approaches to rehearsal, with focuses on table work, staging, speaking the language, and middle stage rehearsals. Part IV, titled “Finishing the Production,” explores tech and dress, as well as the added element of the audience. Ney intends this book “to be a framework in which to view an individual’s work” (1). It accomplishes that and much more. A director can read Ney’s book and apply this framework to their own process. For example, a “Shakespeare as a Contemporary” director takes artistic license to promote the text’s relevance to the present. Conversely, an “Original Practices Director” works as a “director archeologist,” using Elizabethan staging practices to reveal possibilities in the text (31). The “Invisible Director” aims to “erase the traces” of the director (31) while the “Interpretive Director” actively attempts to collaborate with Shakespeare while putting forth a strong artistic vision for the play. For each of these approaches, Ney provides examples of specific directors’ processes. Categorizing directors based on their theoretical or practical approaches is challenging, but Ney makes convincing arguments for his breakdowns, while acknowledging that any individual director will defy those at times, based on the practical demands of their production or the nature of collaboration. These approaches are sometimes contradictory in a way that feels invigorating, as Ney creates a dialectic between powerful voices. The book then presents a breakdown of the common elements of production – selection, casting, concept, table-work, rehearsals, tech, previews, performance, etc. – and each section offers reflective advice from a number of directors. Ney doesn’t allow the discussions to become a collection of disconnected essays, but curates this information, extracting relevant information and placing it in appropriate sections. He develops useful categories and identifies major themes in each chapter. He sometimes identifies which approach is dominant, but never which approach is right. One can assume, based on the success of the interviewees, that every approach delineated has merit. The reader is invited to pick and choose. He manages to contextualize without getting in the way. These directors’ voices shine through. Ney’s contribution is unparalleled, in part because of his specific focus on the rich community of directors in the United States. A 1990 book by Ralph Berry called On Directing Shakespeare featured 12 interviews, including Trevor Nunn and Peter Brook, with no specific geographic focus. The Routledge Companion to Directors’ Shakespeare , edited in 2008 by John Russell Brown, includes interviews with 31 directors (4 of which were American), and each chapter focused on a different director’s approach. Nancy Taylor’s 2005 book, Women Direct Shakespeare in America , focused on feminist performance theory in practice during the 1990s. Elizabeth Schafer took a similar approach in 2000 with her Ms – Directing Shakespeare: Women Direct Shakespeare . Countless instructional books exist that focus on directing Shakespeare, but each of those only focuses on one author’s specific approach. Ney’s book astonishingly avoids privileging one approach over another. This is a study that attempts to truly capture diverse approaches and contextualize them. Each interviewee generously throws open the doors to their process and the result is instructive. There were moments when I craved more examples from specific productions to illustrate points, or to more clearly set up the contrast between directors, but I understand this would have made things lengthier and perhaps cumbersome. This book is an effective snapshot of an incredibly diverse body of work and a must read for Shakespeare directors, scholars, and enthusiasts. References Footnotes About The Author(s) DERIC MCNISH Michigan State University Guest Editor for Special Issue: Bruce McConachie Editorial Board for Special Issue: Meredith Conti Allan Davis John Fletcher Ju Yon Kim Scott Magelssen Julia Walker Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Introduction to American Theatre and Performance in the Anthropocene Epoch Searching for Solutions: Humanizing Climate Narratives in an Age of Global Change and Connectivity Towards a Synthesis of Natural and Human History: Situating the Municipal and Ecclesiastic Viceregal Arches of 1680 Mexico City within the Lacustrine The Anthropo(s)cenography of Ricardo Monti's Marrathon Food Futures: Speculative Performance in the Anthropocene Tú eres mi otro yo - Staying with the Trouble: Ecodramaturgy & the AnthropoScene Ruth Maleczech at Mabou Mines The Theatre of David Henry Hwang. By Esther Kim Lee. New York: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2015; pp. x + 207. Directing Shakespeare in America: Current Practices. By Charles Ney. London UK, New York NY: Bloomsbury Arden Shakespeare, 2016. Pp. 362. Acting in the Academy: The history of professional actor training in US higher education. Peter Zazzali. London, New York: Routledge, 2016; Pp. 219. 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European Stages serves as an inclusive English-language journal, providing a detailed perspective on the unfolding narrative of contemporary European theatre since 1969. Back to Top Article References Authors Keep Reading < Back European Stages 19, Fall, 2024 Volume Visit Journal Homepage Fine art in confined spaces By Aljoscha Begrich and Christian Tschirner Published: November 25, 2024 Download Article as PDF [Editor’s Note: The following essay appeared (in German) in the e-journal nachtkritik.de on August 29, 2024, describing the political tensions surrounding the preparations of a young East German theatre Festival in Saxony as the state was preparing for the elections of September, 2024. In those elections the far right AFD (Alternative for Germany) party won in Saxony and neighboring Thuringia its first significant elections since World War II. The efforts to maintain a liberal, international art-based cultural event under these conditions provide an important chronicle for theatre makers everywhere.] June 2023 In and around the cinema in the film city of Wolfen, which has been empty for years, our festival EAST 2023 will take place. It is a smaller edition of the festival – a weekend packed with art, performance, film and encounters and at the same time the prelude to the next, larger edition the following summer. The festival explores and celebrates "the East" as a landscape of change for people, nature and coexistence. It aims to encourage exchange about the history, present and future of "the East," even beyond East Germany. What does East mean? What is specific, what is international? What can we learn from the past? What ideas and visions are there for the future? This weekend, artists will present some of the participatory projects, recruit participants, give workshops and arrange first rehearsals. The weather is wonderful, the crowds are great, and the atmosphere is great. During dismantling, we talk to the mayor. He thanks us and at same time seems strangely powerless regarding future plans. He doubts that he will win the election. The right-wingers are simply too strong. In the evening, we hear the result of the mayoral election in the neighboring town of Raguhn-Jeßnitz: With 51 percent, the first AFD mayor in Germany is elected there. September 2023 In Bitterfeld-Wolfen, the AFD candidate is 4 percent ahead of the runner-up, the incumbent from the CDU. There will be a run-off election. Resistance is stirring among the population, and an alliance for democracy and tolerance is quickly forged to prevent an AFD mayor. The EASt Festival has supported the alliance from the very beginning. In fact, in the election of the incumbent of the CDU, the mayor, is confirmed in office with 53 percent. The joy is great. Only 47 percent of voters voted for a candidate from a party classified as definitely right-wing extremist. January 2024 We would like to use the city's former fire station as a festival center. The first inspection of this took place in the summer. The mayor welcomed the idea and hoped that it would improve the marketing of the property, which is to be sold. After that, a long back and forth begins, shifting responsibilities and delays. This situation is explained when we find out that the signing of the contract was delayed by internal city discussions about the user fees. At the meeting of the main finance committee on January24, 2024, representatives of the AFD and Pro Bitterfeld-Wolfen demanded that the city charge us a fee for the use of the vacant building. February 2024 We are in the middle of preparations for the festival, which this time will take place on the grounds of the former ORWO film factory in Wolfen. In addition to the use of the former fire station, which is owned by the city, we also want a concert in the council chamber of the Bitterfeld-Wolfen town hall, the former headquarters of the IG Farben Group. The mayor reveals to us in conversation that it was unwise for the festival to expose itself politically when he was elected. It is now much more difficult for him to support the festival. Excuse me? Without the support of the Alliance for Democracy and Tolerance, he would probably no longer be in office? True, but the situation has now become much more complicated. We don't really understand what he means. A few days earlier, there had also been a demonstration in Bitterfeld-Wolfen after Correctiv's revelations about a secret meeting of AFD politicians and right-wing extremists in Potsdam, where plans for the deportation of migrant fellow human beings were discussed. The more than 300 participants had been filmed person by person at close range by the team of the local AfD member of parliament. The member of the Bundestag himself had insulted participants on the fringes of the event, shoved them and punched the face of the mayor, threatening that there would be consequences! Now, in conversation in the town hall, we are supposed to provide assurances that the art shown at the festival will be politically neutral. We don't understand exactly what politically neutral means. The mayor explains to us that the works of art must not contain any explicit political statements. We argue that there is artistic freedom in Germany and that neither we nor he can force the invited artists to political neutrality – however understood. Everything else is censorship. The mayor also rejects censorship. A few days after this conversation, the phone rings: The mayor wants to explain himself once again: He does not want to restrict anything, but there must be no works of art that explicitly oppose certain people and parties. Especially in the council chamber of the city, which is not normally rented out for events, the city must also demand its neutrality requirement from us. We promise him that. There remains a queasy feeling about the situation here on site. March 2024 We receive the first draft of the usage contract for the former fire station. The usage fee is still open. April 2024 On April 8, one day before our program presentation, we sign the contract for the use of the fire station with the city. We pay a symbolic amount of 1 euro. At the press conference, we announce that Lord Mayor Armin Schenk will take over the patronage of this year's festival edition. On April 11, 2024, the mayor will inform the city's main and finance committee about the conclusion of the contract. May 2024 We are talking about the arrangement of the works of art on the course of the festival site. In particular, we are discussing two works by students: Mascha Breuer, from the class for photography and moving images at the Academy of Visual Arts Leipzig, would like to show a photo from her archive showing a calf with a swastika shaved into its fur. The thesis deals with the growth and the associated legitimization and normalization of fascist/racist slogans and symbols in public spaces. The artist wants to place the photo on a wall on the grounds of the film factory, which is littered with right-wing extremist symbolism and slogans, including two swastikas carved into it. Ukrainian artist Alevtyna Melnychuk from the Städelschule in Frankfurt (Main) wants to show mock-ups of Molotov cocktails and instructions on how to make Molotov cocktails, which were distributed in preparation for the imminent Russian invasion in the early Ukraine war. With the beer bottles, as distributed by a beer brewery in Kyiv, she wants to refer to the sudden collapse of normality of civilian life in her country. We are aware that both works could be controversial. We decide to show them anyway. We are now in the construction week of the festival. An employee of the Municipal House of Culture contacts us about whether a permit can be granted for a work of art on the doors of the house. A student shows the diversity of the Cyrillic alphabet – which is not, as is often assumed, only used in Russian – with the sentence "This is not Russian." The employee was afraid that the Kulturhaus will be attacked because of the artwork, since "that would also be a sign of a diverse society, that people who understand the artwork differently throw stones." June 2, 2024 The festival is open. The announced storm comes at exactly the right time, when most of the spectators are already on our guided tours and thus in the dry. As expected, the artworks of the two students are causing a sensation. Residents call the police. An employee of the neighboring kindergarten believes that the photo with the calf is a right-wing extremist provocation or a right-wing extremist work of art (and a right-wing festival in our country?). Even the fire brigade is called. They realize that the beer bottles are by no means real Molotov cocktails. Together with the residents, the police, the public order office, the fire brigade, we discuss what is art and what is not. The police certify that both works are recognizably art, and that therefore – unlike the Nazi graffiti next to the artwork – there is no need for action on their part. The swastikas and slogans are pasted over and painted over by the police. The relationship with the local police and also the kindergarten teacher next door is good and constructive, but in the conversation, it becomes very clear once again that there are no things that can be taken for granted or that communication works differently here than in places like Leipzig or Berlin. We decide – in consultation with the artist – not to show the Molotov cocktails anymore, because without her presence we lack the capacity to deal appropriately with the requests for them. The controversies generated by works of art, we think, should also be conducted responsibly. June 3, 2024 The dramaturg Carl Hegemann, who visits our festival, criticizes our decision. He speaks of increasing self-censorship in the art world and talks enthusiastically about how he brought German neo-Nazis onto the stage 20 years ago together with Christoph Schlingensief in a Hamlet production in Zurich. And how frightened the people of Zurich were. But bringing Nazis onto the stage today – in East Germany – hardly creates a contrast to reality: they are omnipresent and spread their opinions everywhere without being asked and loudly. Hegemann looks thoughtful. Aljoscha Begrich from the festival management had tried something similar with theatre director Oliver Frljić six years ago in a project at the Maxim Gorki Theater: They had dramatized the election program of the AFD. The evening only worked in the very special bubble of the Gorki Theater. Just as Schlingensief's Hamlet with neo-Nazis probably only worked against the secure background of the liberal bourgeoisie of a city like Zurich. In the Gorki Bubble, affirmative criticism worked. However, when two people came out as AFD members in an audience discussion after one of the performances and thanked them for the great production, it was us who were shocked. We were not prepared for something like that. Talk to the right? Applause from the right? The opposite had been intended. Now what? A little later, it became increasingly clear that in order to deal with right-wing extremism, it might be better to go where it is not a marginal phenomenon. In 2020, the Kulturpark e.V. association was founded by Christine Leyerle, Ludwig Haugk and Aljoscha Begrich and work on the EAST Festival began. With the move to such a socially and politically changed environment, however, the reception and entertainment patterns are changing. The reception of autonomous art presupposes a bourgeois understanding of art. And that, as we find again and again, is apparently not or no longer to be taken for granted. It is possible that the east is also a pioneer of a general development here: attempts to exert influence on art. use it or even attack artistic and scientific freedom are increasing throughout the country. They test the boundaries of what can be said and done. In the meantime, an attack on academic freedom from the Ministry of Education and Research is no longer so embarrassing that it is enough for the minister to resign. Ten years ago, this was an unthinkable process. June 6, 2024 The AFD member of the Bundestag for the Bitterfeld-Wolfen constituency files a complaint against us. He claims that the artwork by Alevtyna Melnychuk (which is no longer on display) violates the weapons law and calls for armed attack. He demands the immediate termination of the festival and the resignation of the mayor. This is completely unfounded, but since it is a member of the Bundestag, the news spreads in all media. The chairman of the Pro Wolfen citizens' association is calling for the festival center in the fire station to be vacated immediately. A day later, the AFD member of parliament publishes another statement: His complaint and his demands – as always – would probably lead to nothing. He therefore called on everyone to vote for the AFD in the local elections and the European elections scheduled for the weekend. They are able to weigh up which events belong to Bitterfeld-Wolfen, and which do not. June 7, 2024 The open discussion round "Question of the Day" is about the future of the Bitterfeld- Wolfen region. A number of citizens are speaking out. They talk about the many positive developments in the region. The moderator of the talk, Sylvie Küsten, also addresses Viviana Medina, an artist of the festival, whose Cuban father had worked as a contract worker in the GDR. For her and her son, she says, there is no future in this region, and I'm sure everyone here knows that. Then there was an embarrassed silence. We don't know what to say to that. In one fell swoop, we fell out of the positive narrative about the East that we actually wanted. But the situation is just as bleak. What does this mean for the future of our festival? What security concepts would we need in the future? And for whose future are we working here? June 8, 2024 One day before the loca l elections and the European elections, an automobile demonstration against "the traffic light" will take place in front of the Bitterfeld-Wolfen town hall and thus directly in front of the festival center. It is not registered by the AFD, but by an alliance from Dessau. We inquire in advance at the Mobile Counselling against the Right (MBR) what we have to prepare for. We learn that it is a loose alliance, "conspiracy theorists, friends of Russia, neo-Nazis."Probably not violent, but we would have to reckon with 250 vehicles. According to the findings of the Mobile Advisory Service, the festival itself is not directly targeted by the demo. We are, well, relieved. The MBR offers to be on site as an observer on this day and establishes a connection to the hotline for victims of right-wing violence just in case. The security company we are working with is not available on this day. The public order office and the police see no problem. They explain that there have been many Monday demonstrations recently and never any serious incident. We are planning a puppet parade by American artists Oscar Olivo and Elsa Saade on this day. The police promise to lead the car demo past the puppet parade without contact. So, it doesn't happen. The route is different from what the police had previously communicated and crosses the route of our parade. The parade is stopped by the police and now has to pass the line of cars on the side of the road and end crammed into a small square in front of the Kulturhaus for about thirty minutes. It's a hot day. Their own powerlessness and the sight of hundreds of vehicles – SUVs, company vehicles, cars, trucks – has something apocalyptic and thought-provoking about it. Hardly anyone calls and reacts. The musicians of the puppet parade continue to play, but they don't stand a chance against the sound of car horns and loudspeaker systems, from which aggressive, right-wing propaganda gushes incessantly. Some participants in our parade start dancing demonstratively. Most of them, however, stare stunned in the direction of the vehicles. A POC artist later rightly says that she did not feel protected by us at that moment. Other participants speak of a feeling of being at the mercy of others. We had tried to prepare for this encounter as best we could, but when it took place, we ourselves panicked ourselves and were overwhelmed. The line dancers from Wolfen-Nord, who are participating in the performance Tyrannosaurus Regina by Kolektiv hannsjana, ask us what we thought of the car demo. We tend to be rather cautious with political discussions, so we manoeuvre around; speak of democracy and freedom of demonstration. "I'm not going to let these assholes take my city away from me! You have to stop them now," suddenly shouts one of the dancers in cowboy hats. And yes, a single couple found their way from the right-wing demo to us, got a program booklet and threw money into the donation box. Nevertheless, the encounter with this motorcade and our paralysis in the process seem to us symptomatic of our dealings with the right-wing extremists in general. June 9, 2024 Parallel to the European elections, the local elections will take place in Saxony-Anhalt. The state asso ciation of the AFD, which is classified by the Office for the Protection of the Constitution as definitely right-wing extremist in Saxony-A nhalt, and the citizens' association Pro Wolfen, which is close to it, together get over 50 percent of the seats in the city parliament. Some festivalgoers are shocked and cry: "You can leave again, but we have to live here." Another says: "I'm a tradesman, but I don't want to pay taxes here if they get the money!" But what unsettles us most this weekend are some conversations with well-meaning visitors: They think our festival is great, they are grateful that something like this is taking place in their city and region. But after about 5 minutes, they use words or make statements that we find so racist that it leaves us speechless. This is obviously not done with the intention of provoking – it seems perfectly normal. Continue talking? But how? There can be no talk of a firewall against the right. We are overwhelmed. We are making a festival for mutual interest, but at what level do we actually have to be interested in primarily racist and sexist positions? It's in our statutes that we don't want that, and we didn't kick anyone out. Where does interest end and where does clear political opposition begin? Have we shown too little flag? June 11, 2024 A few days later, an appointment at the town hall: Here, too, we are overwhelmed. There is no longer a majority in the city in favor of a festival for the next five years. The use of urban areas and buildings is difficult to imagine. But also, disappointment that the festival has developed so politically. We don't understand what is meant. Yes, there was political art, but also a lot of completely non-political offerings from water slides to handicraft workshops to concerts. Too political? The works of art with the swastika and the Molotov cocktails did not have to be, says the mayor. He expects better care there. We say that these processes were supervised and that we did not want a debate about censorship under any circumstances. But the mayor's disappointment is genuine. He can no longer defend the festival in front of the city parliament, that is simply no longer possible. We ask what else would in fact be possible at all, apart from perhaps bouncy castles? Yes, that is also a problem, admits the mayor: Others hold district festivals with bouncy castles and get no money at all. This is another reason why the festival is viewed critically. The envy is already there. Even the fact that we don't get any money at all from the city and the district can be used against us in this perspective: The AFD promotes the impression that in this society certain projects "from those at the top" get money and others don't. We think: yes, in a democracy, democracy-promoting projects are more likely to be supported, while torchlight marches and solstice celebrations are not so well received. But we are not saying that, rather that it should be open to everyone to apply for funds. In our experience, the juries of the foundations are even most happy when impulses come from the regions themselves. We propose to present the festival in the city parliament, to explain once again what positive effects have already resulted for the city in recent years. "Oh, no, not reasonable!" We fall silent in horror. We see a mayor who is not sworn in even eight months after his election because the AFD contested the election. A mayor who does not have a majority in parliament, who is not sure whether his own parliamentary group is still behind him, who cannot follow his own impulses because he has been driven and cornered by the AfD for years. And just as in Bitterfeld-Wolfen, we think this will be true not only here, but also in Staßfurt, Nordhausen, Rostock, Guben, Bautzen... Much of what is discussed in the metropolises no longer arrives here. Or only as a grimace, as a grotesque alien image. June15, 2024 The last festival weekend has begun. With its nationwide forums for art, freedom and democracy, the DaKü Fund is making a stop here in Bitterfeld-Wolfen. Their motto is: “The art of remaining many.” We are proud and happy to be part of this nationwide campaign. But we also have a queasy feeling. The fund comes by with a truck that is used as a stage and is adorned with a large golden heart. They want to appear loud, colorful, glittery. But such a truck, which comes from the capital and sets up for a day as a mobile stage for speeches and workshops in an industrial wasteland, can also be misunderstood. People who drop by for a short time, for whatever purpose, are not very popular here. The DaKü Fund is faced with the challenge of creating a program that works in places as diverse as the Sophiensaele in Berlin and the town hall in Bitterfeld-Wolfen. But between the signs, words and symbols that are understood at the avant-garde Sophiensaele in Berlin and those that are understood here lie – we fear – worlds apart. Self-censorship again? Or justified caution? In addition, the Minister of Culture of Saxony-Anhalt, Rainer Robra, has announced that he will be present on this day. This visit is very important for us because, as a free project, we are dependent on state funds without continuous institution al funding. As the general tension rises, so do the temperatures. The opening of the day is nice: a lot of people from local initiatives have come. The puppet theatre Das Helmi is rehearsing a ghost train scene in cooperation with people with disabilities from the local Diakonie {A German charitable association of Protestant Churches]. The children celebrate our water slide. Speeches are held in front of the poster of the DaKü fund. “The Art of Remaining Many” is on display. But are we still The Many or is that autosuggestion? The conversation with the Minister of Culture goes well. He is very taken with the festival, emphasizes its importance and says that we saw in Sunday's election that posters "against the right" were not enough to have much effect. The inability to solidify this general feeling "against the right" into concrete political projects is certainly at the core of the problem. Otherwise, the day takes a nice course. In the evening there is a punk concert by the local punk band AbRAUM and when football fans come after the end of the public viewing and slide with German flags at midnight together with the punks, children, line dancers and queer hipsters and football fans, we have the feeling that maybe everything is not so bad, and art can be really meaningful. June 16, 2024 The festival ends with a final picnic with over 300 people from Bitterfeld-Wolfen. In many speeches, it becomes clear how important the festival is for the city right now – as a place of encounter, exchange, self-assurance. It provides a space of possibility that gives hope because it demonstrates, at least temporarily, new and different forms of community and coexistence. Sometimes that sounds almost like a moral mandate that threatens to overwhelm the festival and us. Two days later, the AFD member of the Bundestag who had reported us to the city sits in the city parliament. He has a double mandate and uses it in the first session to attack the festival. He quotes sentences from interviews that are supposed to prove that the festival's sponsoring association is not neutral and not worthy of funding. This coincides with his party's strategy of questioning the non-profit status of associations because they are politically active against the right. This is a strategy that has been successful: Many associations in the east are scaling back their political commitment because otherwise they are threatened with the withdrawal of their non-profit status. July 2024 "The most noble task of all art is to cultivate cultural identity. German identity is thus also the result of German art, especially the stage art that takes place in public space," says the AfD election program in Saxony-Anhalt. And "promoting cultural identity" is also something we try to do at our festival when people talk about East German identities, motherhood, queer history or the origin of first names. "At best," the AFD election program continues, "meaningless entertainment, off-the- beaten-path or international things without reference to our country are still shown on our stages." Yes, there may be something to that. Local references, concrete stories of the local people, that also interests us. "The AFD wants to deal with state and tax Local references, concrete stories of the local people, that's also what interests us. "The AFD wants to use state and tax money only to promote art that is fundamentally affirmative of its own German culture," it says in its election program. "As our budget applications have shown, we are willing to advocate massive cuts. Agitation against one's own people does not have to be financed by the state that consists of this people. In this respect, as well as in other points of cultural policy, the cultural-political turnaround that Hungary is making under Viktor Orban is a role model and inspiration for us." – Okay. You can prepare for the worst. End of July 2024 The curatorial team meets for a follow-up discussion. The AFD had over 20% of the votes in Bitterfeld-Wolfen when the first East Festival was held two years ago. Today it is over 40 percent. Have we achieved anything? Is the idea that art can contribute anything to the preservation of democratic structures even correct? Of course, art can't do it alone. As things stand now, it is even to be feared that it will be the first to be destroyed. On the one hand, because cuts are probably to be made again soon, and on the other hand, because it exposes itself to society. It is not only in eastern Germany that artistic and academic freedom is exposed to considerable attacks. And unfortunately, not only on the part of the AfD. Does what we are experiencing in Bitterfeld-Wolfen provide an insight into the future for Germany as a whole? And if so, how can we analyze, share and pass on our experiences? How can we develop strategies of solidarity and resistance in a highly competitive cultural sector? We probably don't have much time left. Image Credits: Article References References About the author(s) Aljoscha Begrich and Christian Tschirner both come from the GDR. Different paths led them to Frankfurt/Main, where they met at the theatre in 2001. Since then, they have worked together in various capacities, among them as dramaturgs at Schauspiel Hannover, and curators of the project "ReEDOcate me!" In the Floating University in Berlin. For the East festival in 2024, they were involved in the curatorial team. European Stages European Stages, born from the merger of Western European Stages and Slavic and East European Performance in 2013, is a premier English-language resource offering a comprehensive view of contemporary theatre across the European continent. With roots dating back to 1969, the journal has chronicled the dynamic evolution of Western and Eastern European theatrical spheres. It features in-depth analyses, interviews with leading artists, and detailed reports on major European theatre festivals, capturing the essence of a transformative era marked by influential directors, actors, and innovative changes in theatre design and technology. European Stages is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents Between Dark Aesthetics and Repetition: Reflections on the Theatre of the Bulgarian Director Veselka Kuncheva and Her Two Newest Productions Hecuba Provokes Catharsis and Compassion in the Ancient Theatre of Epidaurus (W)here comes the sun? Avignon 78, 2024. Imagining Possible Worlds and Celebrating Multiple Languages and Cultures Report from Basel International Theatre Festival in Pilsen 2024 or The Human Beings and Their Place in Society SPIRITUAL, VISCERAL, VISUAL … SPIRITUAL, VISCERAL, VISUAL …SHAKESPEARE AS YOU LIKE IT. IN CRAIOVA, ROMANIA, FOR 30 YEARS NOW Fine art in confined spaces 2024 Report from London and Berlin Berlin’s “Ten Remarkable Productions” Take the Stage in the 61st Berliner Theatertreffen. A Problematic Classic: Lorca’s Bernarda Alba, at Home and Abroad Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Sierra Rosetta Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 38 1 Visit Journal Homepage Redface: Race, Performance, and Indigeneity. Bethany Hughes. New York: New York University Press, 2024; Pp. 272. Sierra Rosetta By Published on January 26, 2026 Download Article as PDF Redface: Race, Performance, and Indigeneity. Bethany Hughes. New York: New York University Press, 2024; Pp. 272. Bethany Hughes’s Redface: Race, Performance, and Indigeneity is the book that the fields of theatre, American, Native, and historical studies have long needed. With clarity and care, Hughes braids together these disciplines to expose the theatrical mechanisms that have produced and sustained the racialized figure of the “Indian” on stage. Hughes names this racialized figure “The Stage Indian,” a term analogous to “Playing Indian,” found in Philip Deloria’s monumental book of the same name, or John Troutman’s “Indianness” from his book, Indian Blues: American Indians and the Politics of Music, 1879-1934 . The term “Stage Indian,” along with her subsequent chapters that masterfully examine this topic, redefine the practice of redface as a robust communal process, one that all sides of the theatrical sphere participate in, and identifies the power of theatre as a central site of American culture. Hughes begins by stating exactly what this book does and does not do. Redface is not a comprehensive history of Indigenous performers or plays. Instead, it is a critical analysis of how Indigeneity was and is made legible through performance and how visual, affective, and narrative codes have transformed into the Stage Indian persona that continues to shape Indigenous representation today, both on and off the physical stage. After reading this book, people will be able to describe how redface is not simply about paint, feathers, or moccasins worn by non-Indigenous people. Instead, it is “a collaborative, curatorial process through which a body is made legible as an Indian” (11). This reframing is central to the book’s contribution, moving the conversation from surface to structure, which transforms the case studies Hughes provides into long-term patterns of embodied colonialism. Redface is not just about appearing Indian; it is about being recognized and named as Indian. The book examines how redface operates through acts of recognition, reinforcing not only theatrical conventions but also legal and political definitions of Indigenous identity. In an incisive argument, Hughes suggests that what audiences often subconsciously seek is not authenticity but the power to determine what is or is not an Indian. The methodological rigor of this book involves Hughes weaving together autoethnography, archival research, production analysis, and performance theory. To name a few, Hughes analyzes costume lists for Nick of the Woods (1838), production photos of Annie Get Your Gun , witness accounts of Edwin Forrest’s infamous portrayal of Metamora, and Indian princess plays that illustrate how Stage Indian conventions were absorbed into theatrical spaces. In Chapter Three, Hughes explains how physical gestures and stage movement, not just dialogue or costume, helped codify the portrayal of the Stage Indian in Edwin Forrest’s portrayal of Indian chief, Metamora, in Metamora . She spotlights Forrest’s Metamora “to understand how strategies for authenticating Indianness have shifted over time and to demonstrate that authentication is inherent to redface” (119). Later chapters trace these codes through other performances, like Hughes’ analysis of the Broadway revival of Annie Get Your Gun in Chapter 4. The structure of Redface is both innovative and an effective praxis of Hughes’s invitation for alternative modes of knowledge reception for scholars in the field doing decolonizing work. In the introduction, she asks: “How do we respond to knowledge production modes that require atypical labor?” (19). Hughes addresses this through her essay, Hinushi Inla , which means “a different path” in the Choctaw language (18). Whereas Hughes’ first four chapters trace the evolution of redface from the 1830s through the twentieth century, Hinushi Inla is braided through the book in non-linear order, providing a necessary counterpoint to the historical narratives presented in the chapters and also inviting readers to disrupt the habit of linear knowledge reception in the academy. One example is while one side of the book examines racial stereotyping in Will Rogers’ career or the blood-quantum logic embedded in casting practices, the other side explores the artistry of Native artists like DeLanna Studi, Hanay Geiogamah, Lily Gladstone, and Hughes’s own relationship to Indigeneity. It was profoundly moving for me, as both a scholar and an artist in the fields of theatre and Native studies, to see how far we have come from Metamora and Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Shows. As a reader, it was also powerful to encounter both history and futurity on the same page. The Hinushi Inla sections loosen the braid of racism to show the gaps in representation and invite even more strands of knowledge to enter the conversation. Even in the twenty-first century, the search for “authentic” Native representation on and off the stage often asks for the same visual codes developed in the 1800s. In Chapter Four, Hughes explores how cutting racist lyrics from Annie Get Your Gun in the 1999 revival may soften the language, but it leaves the representational logic intact: “The revisal reshaped the Stage Indian and connected it to centuries’ long conceptions of blood that continue to delimit Indianness in many ways” (204). Hughes intervenes that fixing redface is more than editing scripts; it demands a new practice of seeing that requires action from all of us. Hughes does not excuse the racist performances of the past, nor does she ignore the ways Indigenous performers themselves have been made to navigate redface for survival. Instead, she humanizes each historical figure the book touches on to illustrate how performers, audiences, and institutions all contribute to the curation and policing of Indianness. The result is an honest account that humanizes historical subjects without excusing harm. In the final chapter, Hughes writes, “There has always been an ‘instead’ of redface. It is up to audiences to choose a hinushi inla ” (101). This call to action is not symbolic but an invitation to participate in a new kind of embodied, relational, and transformative praxis. As a scholar, theatre practitioner, and a reader, I find myself returning to this book in my thoughts and writing for its arguments, research methods, and a demonstration of decolonizing scholarship. Redface: Race, Performance, and Indigeneity is both an invitation and a critique, one that is honest, vital, and restorative toward a different path. References Footnotes About The Author(s) SIERRA ROSETTA is an enrolled citizen of the Lac Courte Oreilles Band of Lake Superior Ojibwe currently completing a PhD in Theatre and Drama, with an emphasis in Native American studies, at Northwestern University. She is also a professional dramaturg, arts journalist, and playwright. Both her artistic and academic passions focus on Ojibwe storytelling, Indigenous resistance, and decolonizing dramaturgy. Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Introduction Fat Suits and Fat Futures: Ob*sity Drag in The Whale “The Star of the Aggregation”: Maggie Calloway’s Performances of Aggregation and Pleasure in Colonial Manila and British Malaya What’s at Stake? Sustaining DEIJ in U.S. Theatre "The Gift That Keeps on Giving": An Interview with Carmelita Tropicana Saying The F Word: A Conversation with Jordan Tannahill Staging Intimacy and Paradox through a Queer Lens: A Conversation with Jen Silverman Decentered Playwriting: Alternative Techniques for the Stage. Edited by Carolyn M. Dunn, Eric Micha Holmes, and Les Hunter. New York: Routledge, 2024; Pp. 212. Race and the Forms of Knowledge: Technique, Identity, and Place in Artistic Research. Ben Spatz. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2024; Pp. 314. Bloody Tyrants & Little Pickles: Stage Roles of Anglo-American Girls in the Nineteenth Century. Marlis Schweitzer. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2020; Pp. 276. Redface: Race, Performance, and Indigeneity. Bethany Hughes. New York: New York University Press, 2024; Pp. 272. The Brothers Size Dead Outlaw 2025 Oregon Shakespeare Festival ZAZ Introduction: New England Theatre in Review 2.0 Greater Boston’s Independent Theatres, 2024-25 Politics Take Center Stage in the Berkshires, 2024-25 Long Wharf Theatre, 2024-25 Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Ariel Nereson Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 26 3 Visit Journal Homepage History is Distance: Metaphor, Meaning, and Performance in Serenade/The Proposition Ariel Nereson By Published on November 16, 2014 Download Article as PDF Ariel Nereson/ In 2007 the Ravinia Festival of Chicago commissioned the Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Dance Company (BTJ/AZ) to create a work for inclusion in their 2009 bicentennial celebration of Abraham Lincoln’s birth.[1] In the process of creating the bicentennial work, Fondly Do We Hope . . . Fervently Do We Pray, the company generated a Lincoln trilogy including the evening-length concert dance Serenade/The Proposition (2008) and a large community piece at the University of Virginia, 100 Migrations (2008).[2] This trilogy examines Lincoln’s legacy in terms of how we (understood as a capacious American public) feel about him as a figure and the effects of his history on our lives today. Here I am concerned with the first work in the Lincoln trilogy, Serenade/The Proposition, and its use of metaphor as choreographic strategy. BTJ/AZ dancer Leah Cox describes Serenade as “a more poetic, less linear type of work” and indeed the piece is heavily imagistic, identifying critical phrases or images from the Lincoln archive, and abstracting movement responses from these fragments.[3] Much of the work’s movement was generated by the company and then directed by Jones, with a script by Jones and Janet Wong, the company’s associate artistic director. The choreography is defined by an impulse to travel through the space; moments of stillness are few and thoroughly earned by an almost relentless drive to move laterally across the stage. The work includes live music incorporating military marches, ballads, hymns, and songs composed from fragments of Lincoln’s letters, as well as projections of American landscapes and prominent figures from the Civil War era. Additionally, Serenade features live narration by Jamyl Dobson of critical events from the Civil War, such as the Richmond riots, speeches and letters of Frederick Douglass, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., and others, and also of the company’s own moments of contact with Lincoln. Recordings of company members recollecting their own and other dancers’ memories are also critical to the work’s engagement with the past through movement. These recordings contextualize the choreography and reflect the personal relationship the company members had to the work. This essay addresses Serenade’s focus on the metaphor “history is distance,” and its implications not only for understanding how historians use the conceptual categories of time and space to craft histories, but also how this metaphor interacts with the notion of a usable past.[4] This focus positions the dancers squarely as historians, choreographing relationships to history that clarify the role our emotions and embodiment play in the proximity of the past from our present selves. In Serenade, using the past is not a matter of rhetoric, but rather of creative practice, of mining the archives (both official Lincoln archives and “unofficial” embodied archives) to make something new. The company’s approach foregrounds the cognitive scientific concept of embodied emotion as a way of reckoning with history and of understanding intellectualized “ideas” (like freedom, liberty, equality) as grounded in lived experience. I place the company’s History is Distance metaphor alongside other metaphors that appear in Serenade, particularly those that occur in Lincoln’s own rhetorical archive, such as his metaphor of the “House Divided” and “Young America” conceit.[5] BTJ/AZ’s engagement with metaphor reflects its cognitive function while pushing forward its use as a narrative, sense-making tool applicable to the work of artists, historians, and the hybrid artist-historians that BTJ/AZ become. Metaphor Across Disciplines Historian John Lewis Gaddis asserts, “science, history, and art have something in common: they all depend on metaphor, on the recognition of patterns, on the realization that something is ‘like’ something else.”[6] BTJ/AZ perform this very commonality in their meditation on Lincoln, engaging with choreographic, historical, and cognitive scientific modes of inquiry. From a cognitive scientific perspective, the use-value of metaphor easily crosses disciplinary boundaries. To generate metaphors about x being y (or like y) is to shape meaning; humans do this unconsciously and could not organize their experiences without doing so. All people involved in understanding the meaning of human experience, and why the social world works as it does, are actively engaged in creating and using metaphors (along with similes, images, and other similar techniques). Metaphor is employed to give shape, often accompanied by narrative, to “facts” so that they might make sense and be meaningful, whether they be scientific facts about how the brain works, historical facts about what decisions were made where and when, or artistic representations of people, places, and things. As one of our primary ways of making sense of our world, metaphors originate in our embodied experience of the world. Serenade is abundant with company-generated metaphors that concern what exactly history is. The most striking and persistent of these metaphors is “history is distance.” In the performance of Serenade, a recorded version of this phrase plays over a quartet for the women of the company. This metaphor is in conversation with a disciplinary one, that of history as the “usable past.” Jones himself sees history through this metaphor, positing the major question of this work as “How can we use Lincoln and his time as a mirror through which we look darkly at ourselves?”[7] If history can be both distance and the usable past, what is useful about that distance? How can distance be characterized through elements of historical inquiry like time and space?[8] Serenade builds on the metaphors generated by Abraham Lincoln himself that are used in a number of speeches to prompt Americans to engage on an emotional level with the state of the union. Throughout Serenade BTJ/AZ’s dancer-historians use metaphor as a sense-making engine driven by embodiment and emotion that revises not only Lincoln’s legacy but also how historical inquiry might be performed. History—the hope of making sense of the past—has often sought to be objective, and objectivity’s corollary, unemotional. As Gaddis explains: “We’re supposed to be solid, dispassionate chroniclers of events, not given to allowing our emotions and our intuitions to affect what we do, or so we’ve traditionally been taught.”[9] Two particular theories, cognitive scientist Antonio Damasio’s somatic-marker hypothesis and philosopher Mark Johnson’s embodiment hypothesis, point to empirical evidence for Gaddis’s skepticism of historians actually adhering to a doctrine of objectivity in practice. Damasio’s experiments have shown that “reason,” if it is truly possible to separate it from emotion, cannot in fact operate without emotion. The somatic-marker hypothesis proposes that “selective reduction of emotion is at least as prejudicial for rationality as excessive emotion . . . on the contrary, emotion probably assists reasoning.”[10] Philosopher Mark Johnson’s embodiment hypothesis echoes Damasio’s claims: “meaning is shaped by the nature of our bodies, especially our sensorimotor capacities and our ability to experience feelings and emotions.”[11] Johnson is even stronger on the connection between emotion and supposed higher-level processes than Damasio, claiming, “there is no cognition without emotion.”[12] Damasio’s somatic-marker hypothesis and Johnson’s embodiment hypothesis have real ramifications to consider for anyone investigating practices of sense-making, history being one such practice and art being another. One such consequence is the realization that activities usually considered under the moniker of the aesthetic are involved directly in cognition, often foregrounding modes of meaning-making outside of, or in complement to, the linguistic.[13] It strikes me that dance, in always already foregrounding the body in motion, makes explicit the implicit connection between movement and emotion, a term whose very definition includes “to cause to move.”[14] BTJ/AZ’s choreographic methodologies are founded upon a recognition that embodiment and emotion underlie our capacities to make sense of the past and present, to reckon with history. “History is . . . ” is a popular refrain throughout Serenade. It isn’t always a metaphor: indeed, often these pre-recorded words are followed by a rather literal history that follows a single person’s biography, sometimes drawn from company members’ lives, and sometimes wholly fictional. The first is Jones’s own history: “It could be said that this history is a person born in 1952 who wakes up in the backseat of a car crowded with children, looks out at the misted morning street, as his father says, ‘We’re in Virginia. Richmond, Virginia.’”[15] The narration consistently refers to history as a human subject—a person born in 1981, a woman, etc. This motif builds to a quartet for the company’s women, danced in front of columns featuring images of American women abolitionists. During this section Cox’s recorded voice speaks a series of poetic phrases culminating in the metaphor “It could be said that this history is distance.” In moving from the personally specific retelling of Jones’s experience to the more generalized metaphor of “history is distance,” the company travel through their own memories of and relationships to Lincoln. Earlier iterations of this “history is” motif follow a central section of choreography, “The Spill.”[16] “The Spill” includes the full company and is a traveling section where dancers move laterally across the stage in staggered distances, so the effect is one of bodies spilling out and covering the space in an expanding amoeba-like formation from the group pose that precedes this action. This choreography introduces two histories, the first embodied by LaMichael Leonard, Jr.: “He thought he was going to attack a theory about history. He remembers a class in third grade about the great man. And it’s not that he’s forgotten it. He just doesn’t remember it. It could be said that this history is someone born in 1981.”[17] Shayla-vie Jenkins dances the second history: “She thought she was going to attack a theory about history. There was the history class in third grade. The class about the great man. But what she remembers is [gesture]. It could be said that this history is a person born in 1982.”[18] “The Spill” is both compelling choreography and a metaphor for the relationship between public and personal histories. The personal histories we hear as Leonard and Jenkins dance solos that utilize the same movement vocabulary come out of a shared choreography wherein our orientation to history is not one of learning and compartmentalizing facts within a linear narrative, but rather navigating the past in a messy, weaving action that necessarily takes place in a present populated with other people. Jenkins’ solo also significantly recalibrates a sticky relationship between history and memory by introducing gesture as the conduit between them. In this section of Serenade “The Spill” bookends Leonard and Jenkins’ solos, framing historical investigation via archive and memory as an embodied endeavor, as well as a pursuit that can, and does, fail occasionally. The solos reflect the emphasis on lateral, right-left travel shared by “The Spill” but demonstrate a more controlled approach to the movement, an attempt at coherent narrative rather than the break, or spillage performed in “The Spill.” In Leonard’s Serenade history, he experiences both a failure to remember but also to forget, occupying a middle ground of ambiguity and ambivalence, with undefined feelings towards and memories of Lincoln’s story. The relationship of Serenade to Lincoln is also ambiguous here: as the company begins the first iteration of “The Spill” a projection of the White House with flames behind its windows frames their action—they thought they were going to attack a theory about history, that of Lincoln as hero.[19] The actual relationship between the work and Lincoln’s legacy is, of course, much more complicated and the choreography references this reality in its shift to the solos, which take place in a rectangle of white light without any projection, mirroring the meditative focus with which Leonard and Jenkins approach their performances. When Jenkins picks up the solo, she expresses a different relationship to history and memory—rather than incomplete forgetting and remembering, her memories are expressed in the body, in motion: what she remembers is a gesture, an arc of one arm over the head and around the shoulder to meet the other arm that turns her body on the spot. This gesture’s meaning is also ambiguous. What I find significant is that this solo’s memory of Lincoln, an alternative to the attack on the theory of history, is embodied first and foremost, and perhaps can only be expressed through embodiment, eschewing the linguistic. As a literally embodied metaphor, “The Spill” reflects the reality that metaphors are not simply imaginative turns of phrase; they are evolutionarily adapted mechanisms for explaining the world around us through language that reflects our embodied, emotion-driven experiences. George Lakoff and Mark Johnson’s work on primary metaphors posits our sensorimotor experiences, such as holding or grasping an object, understanding an object as above or below us, etc., form the basis of the primary metaphors that structure our thought and language. Crucially, these metaphors develop from our embodied nature and human tendency to focus attention on emotion-inciting stimuli. Examples of primary metaphor include Happy is Up, Important is Big, and Affection is Warmth.[20] “The Spill” makes sense as a piece of choreography because its movement reflects our embodied experience of actual spilling. Bodies tumble across the stage from a previously established boundary of static poses on stage right with a relatively fast, haphazard quality. Primary metaphors are structured through our lived experiences of space and time (think of “The Spill” and its use of expansion and speed), however, as cognitive narratologist Patrick Hogan cautions, these experiences are far from objective, no matter how objective time and space may seem as ideas: “our experiences of both space and time are encoded non-homogenously. The principles by which objects and occurrences are selected, the principles by which they are segmented, and the principles by which they are structured, both internally and in embedded hierarchies, are crucially (though of course not exclusively) emotional.”[21] BTJ/AZ’s deployment of expansive and quick movement in a seemingly random trajectory relates to the emotional qualities of spilling as a metaphor: think of memories spilling out, or the literal description of tears spilling over. Spilling implies a failed containment, a movement beyond a boundary, and these actions have emotional implications. The fact that the choreography of “The Spill” leads directly from and into company memories strengthens its emotional impact and suggests a surplus of embodied responses to and memories of Lincoln’s legacy recovered from the archive of the company itself. History is Distance History is Distance is a conceptual metaphor, more sophisticated than primary metaphors but composed from these basics as molecules are formed by atoms.[22] Conceptual metaphor takes place in our consciousness, but, as Lakoff and Johnson remind us, “not all conceptual metaphors are manifested in the words of a language. Some are manifested in grammar, others in gesture, art, and ritual.”[23] BTJ/AZ develop gestural sequences that embody and express the emotional saliency of metaphors like Important is Big or Happy is Up. The complexity of the metaphors in Serenade does not diminish their reliance on embodied emotion in order to make sense. The company’s conceptual metaphor History is Distance builds upon the primary metaphor of Intimacy is Closeness. The intimacy metaphor originates in our lived experiences of vitality affects, such as being physically close to, or near, people with whom we are intimate, such as the experience of infants being held and comforted by people, often family members, with whom they will develop emotional intimacies.[24] These formative experiences also encompass sharing a space with siblings and later roommates, lovers, and other persons with whom we will usually develop emotional intimacy. However, the metaphor History is Distance plays on the intimacy metaphor at its opposite—we are unfamiliar with those things far away from us in both space and time. We use “distance” as a description of our sensorimotor experiences of space and time, such as the terminology of the distant past, or distant lands. If, in Serenade, History is Distance, then there is a necessary emotional repercussion to this formulation in which we are not only removed in time and space from capital-H History, but due to this spatio-temporal distance, we are also distanced emotionally from History and less invested emotionally due to this decreased proximity. The experiential determinants of this metaphor are relatively straightforward: generally speaking, we do not need to emotionally invest in experiences defined by distance in the way we must in those defined by proximity—i.e., it’s in my best interest to invest in people that are emotionally significant to me, like my mother, rather than in people who cannot provide that level of close intimacy, like a celebrity (or indeed a historical celebrity, like Lincoln). Thus History is Distance is not simply a metaphor about the familiar historian’s experience of being distanced in time and space from his or her subject, but also about an emotional distance that spatio-temporal proximity (or lack thereof) prompts. The company reframes this metaphor of History is Distance in ways that circumvent spatial, temporal, and emotional distance in order to make history relevant, personal, and meaningful in the present. As artist-historians, BTJ/AZ are capable of the activities of Gaddis’s historians: “Individual historians . . . are of course bound by time and space, but history as a discipline isn’t. . . . They [historians] can compress these dimensions [of time and space], expand them, compare them, measure them, even transcend them. . . . Historians have always been, in this sense, abstractionists: the literal representation of reality is not their task.”[25] BTJ/AZ move into the world of figurative metaphor rather than literal representation in the poetry of Cox’s text, which works in tandem with the choices of choreography, costume, and set to perform leaps of logic that foreground that, like all human experiences of spatiality and temporality, “distance” is relative: It could be said that this history is a person . . . a woman A woman who is able A woman who is able to say goodbye A woman who is able to fix you right A woman who is able to fix you right after you die It could be said that this history is distance. The distance between that woman and me.[26] This formulation of history refers to an actual historical experience of womanhood during the Civil War—that of women, often the only ones left in a given community, properly dressing and burying the dead.[27] Cox’s words seek a path through the density of historical people and events that lie between the contemporary woman (actually Cox onstage, though the average spectator may not know this) and the historical woman charged with burial of the dead (and represented visually on the columns). Because History is Distance plays on Intimacy is Closeness, this path can be an emotional route, undercutting the impossibilities of time-travel the historian faces. The last line of this short poem is significant, adding a layer to the relationship of History is Distance by making this metaphor, derived from universal primary metaphors, incredibly specific: the distance between that woman and me. The company proposes a common solution to the disciplinary challenge of history: focusing on a figure in order to collapse distance, to develop an emotional intimacy of sorts with a character from the past.[28] BTJ/AZ’s strategy makes sense as a method of making history meaningful because of the spatial schema that structures human experience: Source-Path-Goal. We conceive of achieving any goal through this spatial schema of traveling along a path towards that goal. Our logical systems also build on Source-Path-Goal reasoning, such as the logic of “If you travel from A to B and from B to C, then you have traveled from A to C.”[29] If we think about BTJ/AZ’s logic of “history is the distance between that woman and me” as a variation on the Source-Path-Goal schema, then “me” functions as the source, the starting point of the contemporary time and place, with “that woman” as our goal. History is something that happens in between these things, both intentionally and incidentally on our route to feel towards and to know as much as we can about “that woman.” Meet Me in the Middle Many historians do this kind of activity, focusing on a figure as a way into a larger historical moment. BTJ/AZ intervene in this process by demonstrating how embodiment and emotional response structure the paths between source and goal. A quick review of other primary metaphors shows how fundamental embodiment and human movement abilities are to how we understand the world: Time is Motion, Change is Motion, Causes are Physical Forces, Understanding is Grasping.[30] Our observation and performance of physical actions (walking, grasping, pushing, etc.) structures how we perceive these fundamental aspects of historical inquiry—time, change, and causality. Our understanding of these elements is filtered through selection processes that in turn are guided by emotional response, be it to existing stimuli or emotional memories. If we understand time through motion metaphorically, are there ways to reckon with the temporal distance between the past and present through motion? Can we move into another time, not literally but within a space of understanding? BTJ/AZ attempt this movement through choreographies of entry in and out of historical figures that are structured by the performance of metaphors. BTJ/AZ not only perform heightened conceptual metaphors derived from their lived experiences of primary metaphor, but also demonstrate why Abraham Lincoln’s own linguistic metaphors have such efficacy. The company focuses on two “Lincolnisms”: Young America and the house divided. Lincoln’s “house divided” refers to the Union and its division into warring factions, and its coinage took place preceding the Civil War conflict, which would become the literal manifestation of the ideological warfare to which Lincoln refers in 1858. Serenade’s most significant re-imagining is of the Union as a felt concept, as well as multiple sides united in a common enterprise. The company persistently asks, “What do union and division feel like?” Because of the embodied realism that grounds the company’s approach, feeling and moving are consistently united as processes of understanding. Serenade opens with a long section entitled “Meet Me in the Middle” where dancers face off along the battlefield of the stage, performing phrases that respect an invisible center stage boundary that separates the two sides—perhaps into Union and Confederacy.[31] The dancers are dressed in rehearsal clothes that place them in our contemporary moment, thus the association of Union and Confederacy is an oblique one. The focus instead is on the concept of meeting in the middle. This concept relies heavily on our spatial understanding of the middle as an equidistant point between sides that requires equal effort on all sides to reach. This phrase has come to represent not only a literal meeting in the middle but also felt processes of emotionally arriving at a middle ground with someone who feels oppositely. The opening choreography is a series of propositions for what the process of meeting in the middle feels like in the body. The movements are abstract and travel toward and away from the center, never crossing its boundary. A strong preoccupation with turning, spinning, and circuitous motion characterizes this sequence. All of this circular motion contributes to a sense that the dancers function similarly to Gaddis’s notion of historical figures as “molecules with minds of their own”; whirling subjects that articulate membership in opposing sides but whom nonetheless exist as individuals.[32] Moreover, the direction of circular motion changes frequently, with dancers asked to turn outside over the right then outside over the left before the first turn has been completed. These frequent directional shifts reflect the ability of humans to change, to shift direction and opinions. The shifts also imply an emotional turbulence, of turning an idea around inside the mind, looking at it from all sides, and the emotional response of frustration that process can inspire. The path to meeting in the middle is rarely direct in the company’s vision, and often when one person gets to the middle, nobody is there to meet them. “Meeting in the middle” becomes a challenging activity with little assurance of success, yet the dancers’ choreography continuously compels them to seek this action out. The sequence concludes with a single dancer, Paul Matteson, crossing the boundary. Matteson will later portray Lincoln, suggesting this figure as a case study in “meeting in the middle,” in uniting a divided house. A House Divided Lincoln’s iconic words, “A house divided against itself cannot stand,” delivered in Springfield, Illinois on 16 June 1858, rely upon embodiment in order to make sense.[33] Our notion of standing comes from our own experiences of standing on two feet as stable, resistant, and strong; trying to stand for long on a single foot reveals how important the union of our two feet is to our successful movement through the world. Our spatial reasoning allowed for the evolution of dwelling structures that might also “stand,” depending upon the integrity of beams (or legs). In Serenade BTJ/AZ enact the “house divided” as a trio between Jennifer Nugent, Peter Chamberlin, and Matteson that foregrounds embodiment and emotional response as the foundation of metaphor. Nugent plays mediator between Matteson and Chamberlin as they enact dueling sides. A repeated choreographic motif is of the three standing, linking arms as if in a square dance, with Nugent in the center. Nugent looks out at the audience, and Matteson and Chamberlin look across her body at each other, ready to spring. This tableau, always threatening to strike into action, is a corporeal representation of a house divided, as Nugent plants her feet and tries to stand while the opposing forces of Matteson and Chamberlin repeatedly yank her off balance. This sequence feels like a boxing match with Nugent caught in the middle. The sound score uses the sound of a bell to coincide with each time the trio reaches the motif tableau, and these bells bring a second of stillness, the calm before the storm, before the trio whirls into action again. The metaphor “a house divided” encompasses the entirety of the nation into the conflict: a house divided into opposing sides rather than the opposing sides existing outside of the structure. The company juxtaposes Lincoln’s metaphor with one from Frederick Douglass’s 1862 “The Reason for Our Troubles” speech: “It is something of a feat to ride two horses going the same way, and at the same pace, but a still greater feat when going in opposite directions.”[34] Douglass delivers this metaphor after directly citing Lincoln’s, and while the two turns of phrase share the basic notion of division and opposition, Douglass’s words imply an external figure to the action of opposing sides that Lincoln’s do not. A person rides the two horses, existing separately from them, whereas in a house divided all agents are contained with the house. The dancers embody Douglass’s metaphor as Nugent climbs on the back of Chamberlin, attempting to balance as Matteson pulls her forward towards him. The juxtaposition of these two metaphors reveals how important our material and social environments are in influencing what metaphors will make sense to us and be useful for describing our experiences. In a body-based model of cognition body, mind, and environment, including social and material environments, all work in tandem to produce a meaningful world. This model encompasses an understanding of emotional response as a bioregulatory process that is cross-cultural and transhistorical, though the meanings it may produce vary due to the specific relationships between body, mind, and environment that are historically situated in time and place. Neurological and biological processes impact this understanding as well, but are not deterministic of experience to such a high degree that they cancel out environmental factors. Social and material environments influence individuals’ feelings of belonging and access to various narratives and metaphors as sense-making tools. As Hogan claims, “not every individual or group has the same degree of authority or impact with respect to the social evaluation and preservation of stories.”[35] What is available for selection and inclusion into a historical narrative shifts with socio-cultural embeddedness in time and space. For example, what gets preserved in an archive is certainly a product of a hierarchy of social identity that is grounded in a specific historical spatio-temporality. Individuals’ access to that archive is also a product of a hierarchy of identities. Thus availability of experience is influenced by social identity, which in turn influences the selection of episodes from which an individual constructs a history. Narrative, metaphor, and identity are strongly connected as “narrative organizes both individual and communal identities, [and] shapes and composes memories and expectations” but also as identity influences availability and selection of narrative.[36] While the universal human experiences of gravity, balance, tension, and opposition are consistent in both men’s metaphors due to their necessary grounding in embodiment, Lincoln and Douglass’s varying social environments (though certainly in this point in history they overlapped considerably) and the situatedness of their metaphors in time and space impact how these men use metaphor to describe experience. Lincoln in 1858 was a political insider, active in politics and, as a white male, at the top of a social hierarchy that positioned America as his birthright, as his house. Lincoln’s metaphor clearly displays this sense of ownership over the house and the feeling that the two sides belong to the same “house,” the same nation. Contrastingly, Douglass’s speech positions a third party to the two opposing sides, an outside agent who must attempt to master both horses, both sides. Douglass’s sense of himself as a black former slave likely contributes to his positioning of a third outside figure who nonetheless has agency within the relationship between the opposing sides. Douglass’s metaphor also encapsulates a tension between riding the horses as mastery and riding the horses as challenge, and has an urgency of action embedded within it that likely has to do not only with the stakes of his own past as a slave but also with the different national circumstances of 1862 and 1858.[37] This urgency is reflected in the trio’s choreography with a heightened sense of risk as Nugent attempts to “ride” Chamberlin and Matteson, caught in a bind between needing to alternately control and depend upon them. These two metaphors suggest that lived experience impacts which metaphors seem particularly apt to describe a given person, event, or situation. Moreover, the subtle distinctions between these metaphors speak to how metaphors describe the feeling of a situation like the failed Union and Civil War with an emotional factuality grounded in embodiment. Young America The connection between metaphor and emotion is strengthened through the company’s choreography of “Young America.” Lincoln’s rhetorical figure “Young America” is the trope of his Second Lecture on Discoveries and Inventions, delivered 11 February 1859. It begins, “We have all heard of Young America. He is the most current youth of the age. Some think him conceited, and arrogant; but has he not reason to entertain a rather extensive opinion of himself? Is he not the inventor and owner of the present, and sole hope of the future?”[38] Lincoln’s tone throughout the lecture is winking and Young America’s “horror . . . for all that is old, particularly ‘Old Fogy’” is positioned as a foolish belief that the past has not had any effect on him.[39] The gist of Lincoln’s speech is that we must look backward in order to look forward, that the forward momentum from our great inventions springs from patterns of thought from the past: “To be fruitful in invention, it is indispensable to have a habit of observation and reflection . . . acquired, no doubt, from those who, to him [Young America], were old fogies.”[40] Lincoln’s anthropomorphizing of Young America and Old Fogy concern the relationship between the past, present, and future but also characterize this fraught relationship as one that is emotionally driven. Young America’s “horror” at the past is matched by his “great passion—a perfect rage—for the ‘new.’”[41] Lincoln’s sophisticated conceptual metaphors are necessarily undergirded by Lakoff and Johnson’s primary metaphors, particularly understanding motion as change, since one of Lincoln’s primary topics within the speech is the burgeoning railway system. They are also bound, as are all metaphors, to embodied emotion, to making sense of lived experience via emotional response with the aim of revitalizing history, of accessing “the warm artery that ought to lead from the present back into the past,” in Van Wyck Brooks’s notion of “the usable past.”[42] This “warm artery” gets at the embodied connection between the company’s contemporary moment and the historical time of Lincoln that is choreographed in an opening sequence of Serenade. The section, entitled “Young America,” features Jamyl Dobson as a narrator figure who recites the first paragraph of Lincoln’s second lecture as the company dresses dancer Paul Matteson onstage. The moment before consists of the company dancing “Meet Me in the Middle,” in what look like ordinary rehearsal clothes, sweatpants, tank tops, etc. When Matteson appears center stage in a tight beam of light he wears only briefs, and during the speech company members help to dress him in a deconstructed vision of Lincoln’s sartorial figure. This slow, deliberate transformation through and on Matteson’s body foregrounds corporeality as a route into the past. The rest of the company has already changed offstage into their nineteenth-century garb during the preceding scene change, thus the effect is a literalization of Lincoln’s notion that the past lays the patterns for the future. The “past” in Serenade, cued by a costume change, dresses “Young America.” Interestingly, BTJ/AZ’s use of Lincoln’s metaphorical figure collapses a bit of distance between past and present, as the “past” characters dress Matteson’s “Young America” not in the garb of the future but so that he might time-travel backwards to their own time. The overarching metaphor of Serenade, History is Distance, is not, I believe, meant to be discouraging. For Jones, distance is an opportunity to expend effort in the same direction as someone else: “Why do I distance you like that? I distance you so that you and I have to work to come back together, because I believe that this is the metaphor for what all human intercourse is really about. Falling apart and fighting back together.”[43] The company choreographs these interactions, falling off one another’s shoulders and fighting gravity and balance to get back together again. For Jones, the work it takes to meet in the middle is an emotional labor in addition to a physical one. To be intimate with the past, to fight this distance, requires an emotional closeness that already exists in personal memory. History is Distance structures much of the choreography but is not the only notion of history in the work; histories are also “a place,” “a woman,” “a person born in 1952,” etc. What BTJ/AZ do so well is using personal pasts as entry points into public histories, as paths toward meeting in the middle with Lincoln. In public historians Roy Rosenzweig and David Thelen’s poll of public attitudes toward American history, they found “No more than 24 percent of any racial or ethnic group answered that the history of the United States was the past they felt was ‘most important’ to them, as opposed to 50-60 percent who identified their family’s past.”[44] Moreover, these responses correlated with an increase in “the rhetoric of intimacy that respondents used in discussing the pasts that matter to them.”[45] Thus it would appear that History is Distance accurately describes the emotional value of the past to most contemporary Americans. To return briefly to the entrenched cultural dualism between reason and emotion, despite recent attempts by historians to characterize their discipline as at least somewhat subjective, it’s clear from the reviews of the Lincoln trilogy that the general public still views history as belonging to the realm of reason.[46] Lines like “It helps for audiences to be versed in Lincoln history, but Jones is more interested in their emotional responses”[47] and “Clarity isn’t his goal so much as an absorbing emotional experience”[48] belie the common assumptions that reason and emotion are separate (even oppositional) phenomena and, moreover, that history has more to do with processes of reasoning than emotion.[49] For these reviewers, the wealth of feeling performed onstage undercuts or even negates the work’s stated engagement with history. These critics are not noting failures of the work but rather replicating a familiar dichotomy between history/reason and art/emotion in order to categorize what they viewed. Significantly, these are conscious descriptions of the work, and our conscious articulations are often shaped by prevalent social ideologies (including Cartesian dualism) that may reframe our unconscious emotional responses in a socially suitable way. To my mind, these comments have less to do with an actual opposition between “History” and emotion in the work, and more a conceptual opposition between what we think the work of history is and what emotions do. Civil War historian Nina Silber also reviewed Serenade and expresses an alternate vision of what history might be that articulates how BTJ/AZ’s work moves notions of history forward: “As a historian, I think what I appreciate most about Jones’s work is his very self-conscious understanding of the idea that history is not just something that happened, but is also the story—and often a deeply imagined one at that—that we tell about the past.”[50] Characters are a vital part of storytelling. By focusing on people/characters rather than events as a narrative strategy, BTJ/AZ are able to connect present experiences of “history” to the actual past; for example juxtaposing dancer LaMichael Leonard, Jr.’s attitude towards his classroom introduction to Lincoln, summarized by Dobson as “He thought he was going to attack a theory about history,” with historical accounts of the storming of Richmond.[51] Moreover, tapping into company members’ emotional memories of Lincoln, such as the velvet painting of Lincoln that hung on Jones’s wall as a child, plays on the sense-making metaphor “Intimacy is Closeness” in order to traverse history’s distance. Approaching Lincoln through this metaphor requires an emotional investment on Jones’s part, and emotions are not fixed but rather situational and changeable. Jones describes his own process: “I thought it [the trilogy] would be investigative, prosecutorial . . . about the misinformation of history. I would liberate myself from my own sentimentality. As I began to work with the material, I became more compassionate toward the man and the American project. It made me think about my own heart and my own time.”[52] The History is Distance metaphor worked, for Jones, as a method of connecting the past to the present, of finding the mirror through which we look at our own time. Brooks’s urgent claim, “What is important for us?...The more personally we answer this question, it seems to me, the more likely we are to get a vital order out of the anarchy of the present” finds surprising support in a framework wherein embodied emotional response motivates decision-making and structures sense-making concepts of metaphor and narrative.[53] Jones’s own approach to making the past meaningful in the present adopts “personal” strategies of tracking shifts in situated embodied emotion between Lincoln’s time and our own, in order to discover what is important for us now, when “us,” as a united nation, is longed for but still distant. Ariel Nereson is the Interdisciplinary Arts Coordinator at Vassar College. She recently received her doctorate from the University of Pittsburgh, where her dissertation focused on the relationship between embodiment, historiography, and cognitive science in the work of the Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Dance Company. Her essays and reviews have appeared in Theatre Journal, Studies in Musical Theatre, Theatre Survey, and Slavic and Eastern European Performance. [1] With gratitude, I wish to acknowledge the generosity of Leah Cox and Ella Rosewood at New York Live Arts in providing the archival material upon which this essay builds. Thanks also to Naomi Stubbs, whose feedback strengthened the structure of the essay significantly. [2] BTJ/AZ dancer and education director Leah Cox likened the process of creating Serenade and Fondly to Picasso creating sketches for Guernica before attempting the final painting. While there is substantial overlap in choreography and theme between the two works, Serenade stands on its own and tours as a full work separately from Fondly. Together these works bookend 100 Migrations. Personal interview, 4 June 2013. Cox developed and danced this work alongside fellow company members Antonio Brown, Asli Bulbul, Peter Chamberlin, Shayla-vie Jenkins, LaMichael Leonard, Jr., I-Ling Liu, Paul Matteson, Erick Montes-Chavaro, and Jennifer Nugent. The work remains active in the company’s repertory and is occasionally remounted on university companies. [3] Personal interview with Leah Cox, 4 June 2013. [4] Historian Van Wyck Brooks coined this terminology in “On Creating a Usable Past,” The Dial: A Semi-Monthly Journal of Literary Criticism, Discussion, and Information 64 (11 April 1918): 337. [5] This essay focuses fairly narrowly on BTJ/AZ’s Serenade and specific moments from Lincoln’s history, and does not attempt an overview of Lincoln as a cultural figure in American history and memory. Several studies do so, including Merrill D. Peterson’s Lincoln in American Memory (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994) and Barry Schwartz’s Abraham Lincoln and the Forge of National Memory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), among others. [6] John Lewis Gaddis, The Landscape of History (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 2. [7] Interview with Bill Moyers. Bill Moyers, Bill Moyers Journal: Bill T. Jones Reimagines Lincoln Through Dance. Aired 25 Dec. 2009. Accessible via http://www.billmoyers.com . [8] See Charlotte Canning and Thomas Postlewait, eds., Representing the Past: Essays in Performance Historiography (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2010) for the argument that historical inquiry can be differentiated into five interrelated areas: time, space, archive, narrative (or causality), and identity. [9] Gaddis, The Landscape of History, 16. Historian David W. Blight echoes this association in his claim, “History is what trained historians do, a reasoned reconstruction of the past rooted in research.” “If You Don’t Tell It Like It Was, It Can Never Be as It Ought to Be,” in Slavery and Public History: The Tough Stuff of American Memory, eds. James Oliver Horton and Lois E. Horton (New York: The New Press, 2006), 24, emphasis mine. Blight contrasts history with memory, arguing “History asserts the authority of academic training and canons of evidence; memory carries the often more immediate authority of community membership and experience.” Ibid. See Patrick Hogan’s Cognitive Science, Literature, and the Arts: A Guide For Humanists (New York: Routledge, 2003) for an account of our evolutionary predisposition to forming narrative structures as a sense-making practice, and Hogan’s Affective Narratology: The Emotional Structure of Stories (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2011) for an extension of this argument. [10] Antonio Damasio, The Feeling of What Happens: Body and Emotion in the Making of Consciousness (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1999), 41. Damasio’s somatic-marker hypothesis results from studies done on patients who, due to injury to areas in the brain’s prefrontal cortex, “lost a certain class of emotions and, in a momentous parallel development, lost their ability to make rational decisions,” here identified as “the ability to decide advantageously in situations involving risk and conflict.” Ibid. [11] Mark Johnson, The Meaning of the Body: Aesthetics of Human Understanding (Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 2002), 9. [12] Ibid. [13] See Johnson, The Meaning of the Body, chapter 10, for more of this argument, specifically his rejection of Kantian aesthetics. [14] See Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “emotion” as verb, 1. This particular definition has become obscure in contemporary parlance, yet remains in other linguistic expressions, such as being moved by a performance. The notion of emotions as a causal force, inciting us to literal action, is backed up by the neuroscience of emotions, discussed in Johnson, The Meaning of the Body, chapter 3. Johnson states that emotions function to appraise specific situations an organism finds itself in, “often initiating actions geared to our fluid functioning within our environment. It is in this sense that emotional responses can be said to move us to action” (61). [15] Script of 17 July 2013 performance of Serenade. Provided by BTJ/AZ. All subsequent quotations of the production text are from this version unless otherwise noted. [16] Leah Cox introduced me to this terminology of “The Spill.” Personal interview, 4 June 2013. [17] Serenade script. [18] Ibid. [19] In the beginning stages of the work, the company as a whole was very antagonistic toward the common narrative of Lincoln as a heroic figure. As Leah Cox recollected, “None of us believed in heroes.” Personal interview, 4 June 2013. [20] See George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh (New York: Basic Books, 1999), 50-54 for an extensive list of primary metaphors including the specific subjective and sensorimotor experiences from which they derive. [21] Hogan, Affective Narratology, 41. [22] Lakoff and Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh, 60. [23] Ibid, 57. [24] See Johnson, The Meaning of the Body, chapter 2 for a discussion of vitality affects and Daniel Stern, The Interpersonal World of the Infant: A View from Psychoanalysis and Developmental Psychology (New York: Basic Books, 1985) for the role of emotion and embodiment in the development of a sense of self in infants, including studies of vitality affects. [25] Gaddis, The Landscape of History, 17. [26] Serenade script. [27] Personal interview with Leah Cox, 4 June 2013. [28] Empathy as a historical strategy is a well-known theory of historian R.G. Collingwood. See R.J. Collingwood, The Idea of History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1946) as well as Bruce McConachie, “Reenacting Events to Narrate Theatre History” in Canning and Postlewait, eds., Representing the Past, 378-403 for the relationship of empathy to historical inquiry. [29] Lakoff and Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh, 33. [30] Ibid., 52-54. [31] Leah Cox positions the opposite sides of the stage as Union and Confederacy as concepts the company used in the generation of this choreography, in addition to a felt concept of “democracy” that guided the shaping of this section: “A bit of a democracy figuring out who will be on stage, sharing the stage.” Personal interview, 4 June 2013. [32] Gaddis, 111. [33] Abraham Lincoln, “A House Divided: Speech delivered at Springfield, Illinois, at the close of the Republican State Convention. June 16, 1858,” in Abraham Lincoln: His Speeches and Writings, ed. Roy P. Basler (Cleveland: The World Publishing Company, 1946), 372. [34]Serenade script of 17 July 2013. See Frederick Douglass, “The Reason for Our Troubles,” University of Rochester’s Frederick Douglass Project, accessed 6 August 2014, http://www.lib.rochester.edu/index.cfm?PAGE=4381. [35] Hogan, Affective Narratology, 134. [36] Ibid.,19. [37] For a historical account of Lincoln and Douglass’s overlapping lives and agendas, see Paul Kendrick and Stephen Kendrick’s Douglass and Lincoln: How a Revolutionary Black Leader and a Reluctant Liberator Struggled to End Slavery and Save the Union (New York: Walker & Company, 2008) and John Stauffer’s Giants: the Parallel Lives of Frederick Douglass & Abraham Lincoln (New York: Twelve, 2008). [38] Abraham Lincoln, “Second Lecture on Discoveries and Inventions,” in Collected Works of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 3, ed. Roy P. Basler (Springfield, IL: The Abraham Lincoln Association, 1953), 356. Emphasis in original. [39] Ibid., 357. [40] Ibid., 358. Emphasis in original. [41] Ibid., 357. Emphasis in original [42] Brooks, “On Creating a Usable Past,” 340. [43] Ann Daly interview with Jones in Art Performs Life (Minneapolis: Walker Art Center, 1998), 123. [44] Qtd. in Casey Nelson Blake, “The Usable Past, The Comfortable Past, and the Civic Past: Memory in Contemporary America,” Cultural Anthropology 14, no. 3 (August 1999): 431. See David Thelen and Roy Rosenzweig, The Presence of the Past (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000) for a detailed analysis of the interviews that Thelen and Rosenzweig supervised at the Center for Survey Research at Indiana University in the early 1990s. [45] Ibid. [46] See Gaddis, The Landscape of History; see also William M. Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling: A Framework for the History of Emotions (Port Chester, NY: Cambridge University Press, 2001). [47] Kerry Clawson, “Performance remembers Lincoln,” Akron Beacon Journal, 21 January 2010. E14. [48] Sarah Kaufman, “New Works Redefine Political Movement,” Washington Post, 18 October 2009, accessed 10 October 2013, http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/10/16/AR2009101601485.html. [49] I suspect there is also a significant prejudice against the performing arts’ relationship to reasoning processes that tends to close down that avenue before it has been opened. [50] Nina Silber, “Judicial Review #2: Serenade/The Proposition at Jacob’s Pillow,” The ArtsFuse: Boston’s Online Arts Magazine, 6 August 2010, accessed 6 August 2014, http://artsfuse.org/9241/judicial-review-2-serenadethe-proposition-at-jacob%E2%80%99s-pillow/#nina_silber_review. [51] Serenade script of 17 July 2013. [52] PBS’ American Masters, “Bill T. Jones: A Good Man.” Aired 11 November 2011. Accessible via http://www.pbs.org . [53] Brooks, “On Creating a Usable Past,” 340. History is Distance: Metaphor, Meaning, and Performance in Serenade/The Proposition by Ariel Nereson ISNN 2376-4236 The Journal of American Drama and Theatre Volume 26, Number 3 (Fall 2014) ©2014 by Martin E. Segal Theatre Center Editorial Board: Co-Editors: Naomi J. Stubbs and James F. Wilson Advisory Editor: David Savran Founding Editors: Vera Mowry Roberts and Walter Meserve Editorial Staff: Managing Editor: Phoebe Rumsey Editorial Assistant: Fabian Escalona Advisory Board: Bill Demastes Amy E. Hughes Jorge Huerta Esther Kim Lee Kim Marra Beth Osborne Robert Vorlicky Maurya Wickstrom Stacy Wolf Esther Kim Lee Table of Contents: Ida Wells-Barnett and Chicago’s Pekin Theatre by Karen Bowdre History is Distance: Metaphor, Meaning, and Performance in Serenade/The Proposition by Ariel Nereson Tony Kushner’s Angels in America: Histories, Futures, and Queer Lives by Vanessa Campagna “Persian Like The Cat”: Crossing Borders with "The Axis of Evil Comedy Tour" by Tamara L. Smith www.jadtjournal.org jadt@gc.cuny.edu Martin E. Segal Theatre Center: Frank Hentschker, Executive Director Marvin Carlson, Director of Publications Rebecca Sheahan, Managing Director ©2014 by Martin E. Segal Theatre Center The Graduate Center CUNY Graduate Center 365 Fifth Avenue New York NY 10016 References Footnotes About The Author(s) Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Ida Wells-Barnett and Chicago’s Pekin Theatre History is Distance: Metaphor, Meaning, and Performance in Serenade/The Proposition Tony Kushner’s Angels in America: Histories, Futures, and Queer Lives “Persian Like The Cat”: Crossing Borders with The Axis of Evil Comedy Tour Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Watch Maria Klassenberg by Magda Hueckel, Tomasz Śliwiński at the Segal Film Festival on Theatre and Performance 2024. The film created by the Academy Award nominees: Magda Hueckel and Tomasz Śliwiński is a biographical mockumentary about Maria Klassenberg, a forgotten pioneer of performance art. All of her life the artist has created and presented her works in her apartment in Warsaw. The action of the film takes place at the opening of an exhibition, where the artist’s radical works from the ‘70s and the ‘80s, that up to that point had been seen by the family and friends only, are presented to the wider audience for the first time. The moment Maria Klassenberg’s works finally are discovered by the art world is at the same time the culmination of her personal conflict with her daughter - Aneta Klassenberg, the curator of the exhibition. For Aneta, Maria’s exhibition is a compensation for the lost childhood and the only way to rebuild a close relationship with her mother. The unsettled past shared by the mother and daughter becomes the artist’s final work. Maria Klassenberg has never existed, which doesn’t mean she’s not real. She represents all female artists who haven’t had a chance to make their mark on the art market controlled by men. Her biography and artistic portfolio has been created by a group of Polish theatre and visual art artists: the concept and the very character of Maria Klassenberg has been created by Katarzyna Kalwat (theatre director), with the help form Anda Rottenberg (a curator and one of the protagonists of the film) and Joanna Zielińska, and the archive of the artist’s works from the ‘70s and the ‘80s has been developed by Aneta Grzeszykowska and Jan Smaga. The film features fragments of famous performances from the 20th century, that resonate with Klassenberg’s works. On the one hand this documentary is an artistic recording of the performance-exhibition directed by Katarzyna Kalwat but on the other hand it’s a provocation attempt: how will the modern world of art, which declares gender equity, react to a fictitious female artist who combines in her works feministic motifs found in the 20th century art? Feature Image Credits: Aneta Grzeszykowska, From the Maria Klassenberg archives, 1970-1980, 2019. Cooperation: Jan Smaga. Performers: Anna Rutkowska, Wojciech Żera The Martin E. Segal Theater Center presents Maria Klassenberg At the Segal Theatre Film and Performance Festival 2024 A film by Magda Hueckel, Tomasz Śliwiński Theater, Documentary, Film, Performance Art This film will be screened in-person on May 16th and also be available to watch online May 16th onwards for 3 weeks. About The Film Country Poland Language Polish, English Running Time 62 minutes Year of Release 2024 The film created by the Academy Award nominees: Magda Hueckel and Tomasz Śliwiński is a biographical mockumentary about Maria Klassenberg, a forgotten pioneer of performance art. All of her life the artist has created and presented her works in her apartment in Warsaw. The action of the film takes place at the opening of an exhibition, where the artist’s radical works from the ‘70s and the ‘80s, that up to that point had been seen by the family and friends only, are presented to the wider audience for the first time. The moment Maria Klassenberg’s works finally are discovered by the art world is at the same time the culmination of her personal conflict with her daughter - Aneta Klassenberg, the curator of the exhibition. For Aneta, Maria’s exhibition is a compensation for the lost childhood and the only way to rebuild a close relationship with her mother. The unsettled past shared by the mother and daughter becomes the artist’s final work. Maria Klassenberg has never existed, which doesn’t mean she’s not real. She represents all female artists who haven’t had a chance to make their mark on the art market controlled by men. Her biography and artistic portfolio has been created by a group of Polish theatre and visual art artists: the concept and the very character of Maria Klassenberg has been created by Katarzyna Kalwat (theatre director), with the help form Anda Rottenberg (a curator and one of the protagonists of the film) and Joanna Zielińska, and the archive of the artist’s works from the ‘70s and the ‘80s has been developed by Aneta Grzeszykowska and Jan Smaga. The film features fragments of famous performances from the 20th century, that resonate with Klassenberg’s works. On the one hand this documentary is an artistic recording of the performance-exhibition directed by Katarzyna Kalwat but on the other hand it’s a provocation attempt: how will the modern world of art, which declares gender equity, react to a fictitious female artist who combines in her works feministic motifs found in the 20th century art? Feature Image Credits: Aneta Grzeszykowska, From the Maria Klassenberg archives, 1970-1980, 2019. Cooperation: Jan Smaga. Performers: Anna Rutkowska, Wojciech Żera directors: Magda Hueckel & Tomasz Śliwiński camera: Tomasz Śliwiński, Magda Hueckel, Robert Gajzler, Bartosz Zawadka editing: Tomasz Śliwiński scenography, costumes, lighting: Anna Tomczyńska music: Wojtek Blecharz sound design: Mateusz Adamczyk sound on the set: Mateusz Adamczyk, Kuba Kozłowski graphic design: Magda Hueckel color correction: Lunapark MARIA KLASSENBERG | AN EXHIBITION direction and concept of the art performance: Katarzyna Kalwat text and dramaturgy: Beniamin Bukowski cast: Natalia Kalita, Urszula Kiebzak special appearance by: Anda Rottenberg performers: Tomasz Tyndyk, Justyna Wasilewska consecutive interpreting into English language: Artur Zapałowski production managers: Maria Herbich, Magda Igielska production cooperation: Karolina Pająk producers: Małgorzata Cichulska, Magda Igielska, Agata Kołacz, Roman Pawłowski production: TR Warszawa, 2022 director: Natalia Dzieduszycka artistic director: Grzegorz Jarzyna organizer: Capital City of Warsaw The project is produced with the support of The Foundation for Polish-German Cooperation PRODUCTION OF THE EXHIBITION AND THE PERFORMANCES “Maria Klassenberg. An Exhibition.” direction and concept: Katarzyna Kalwat text and dramaturgy: Beniamin Bukowski set design, costumes and lighting: Anna Tomczyńska music: Wojtek Blecharz cooperation: Anna Grzelewska, Joanna Zielińska venue: Raster Gallery in Warsaw date: 14.11.2020 “Mirror – reconstruction of an undocumented performance by Maria Klassenberg” direction and concept: Katarzyna Kalwat text and dramaturgy: Beniamin Bukowski set design, costumes and lighting: Anna Tomczyńska performers: Justyna Wasilewska, Tomasz Tyndyk In the film, fragments of the following works were used: “Maria Klassenberg’s Archive, 1970-1980 (MIRRORING / DRAWING CLASSES / NO / CONSUME / TRANSFER / CHEW / JAM SESSION / NO BODY)” concept, script, development: Aneta Grzeszykowska performers (archive): Anna Rutkowska, Wojciech Żera cooperation: Jan Smaga TR Warszawa would like to thank Joanka Zielińska for the artistic collaboration on te development of the project About The Artist(s) MAGDA HUECKEL: A visual artist, set designer, scriptwriter, creator of documentaries, and theatre photographer. She is a graduate of the Faculty of Painting and Graphic Design of the Fine Arts Academy in Gdańsk. Her works have been presented at over 40 individual and over 60 group exhibitions in Poland and abroad (including Tate Britain in London, Circulation in Paris, Unseen Amsterdam, Vienna Art Fair). Her works can be found in the National Museum in Wrocław and in numerous private collections. Hueckel is the author of “Anima. Pictures from Africa 2005–2013” and “HUECKEL/THEATRE” (nominations for the 2014 and 2016 Photographic Publication of the Year Awards). She has documented a few hundred theatre performances. Hueckel was awarded scholarships by the Minister of Culture and National Heritage and the City of Sopot and she’s a laureate of the Sopot Muse for Young Artists award. From 2002 until 2004 she was a part of the photographic duo known as hueckelserafin, together with Agta Serafin. She is the Chairwoman and co-founder of the CCHS Foundation of Poland “Lift the Curse”, which was awarded EURORDIS Black Pearl Award 2020. Hueckel is the curator and producer of the “Ondinata. Songs for Ondine” project. TOMASZ ŚLIWIŃSKI: a director and scriptwriter. Graduate of the Directing Department at the Warsaw Film School and Feature Development Lab Programme at the Wajda School. His short movie “Our Curse” (2013) has won many prizes at film festivals all over the world and was nominated for the IDA Award granted by the International Documentary Association. He is a laureate of the “Young Poland” Scholarship Programme (2015) awarded by the Minister of Culture and National Heritage and a scholarship awarded by the City of Warsaw (2019). Śliwiński is a member of the Documentary Directors Guild of Poland and the Vice President of CCHS Foundation of Poland “Lift the Curse”. He is the co-curator and producer of a music project “Ondinata. Songs for Ondine”. Magdalena Hueckel and Tomasz Śliwiński often collaborate on the production of films and artistic projects - Magda Hueckel writes the scripts and is the art director, and Tomasz Śliwiński is the director. Their documentary “Our Curse” was nominated for the Academy Award and won a few dozen awards at international festivals. Hueckel and Śliwiński created together a short film “Ondine” (2019) and short film series titled “Plague Chronicles” (2020). The series won the main prize at the DIG IT contest for the best theatrical activities during the COVID-19 pandemic. Their last production was “Stary” - the documentary about the National Stary Theatre in Cracow. KATARZYNA KALWAT: A director, graduate of Psychology Faculty at the Jagiellonian University in Cracow and the Directing Department at the Aleksander Zelwerowicz Academy of Dramatic Art in Warsaw, holder of scholarships granted by the French Government. Her works often originate from archive explorations and focus on researching the mechanisms of memory and postmemory. She directed a performance titled “Holzwege” (produced by TR Warszawa, 2016), which won the Grand Prix at the 22nd National Competition for Staging Contemporary Polish Plays, and “Reykjavik ’74” (The Wilam Horzyca Theatre in Toruń, 2017), which won the Second Prize at the 19th National Festival of Directing Art “Interpretations” in Katowice. The director is interested in processual forms, works that combine various fields of art, and researching the common ground between performance art and theatre. Katarzyna Kalwat has directed many theatre performances including, among others: “Landschaft. Anatomy Lesson” based on Waronika Murek’s text (The Julius Słowacki Theatre in Cracow, 2017), “Grotowski non fiction” created in cooperation with the visual artist Zbigniew Libera (Contemporary Theatre in Wroclaw and the Jan Kochanowski Theatre in Opole, 2019), an opera composed by Wojtek Blecharz, titled “Rechnitz. The Exterminating Angel” based on a drama by the Nobel Prize winner - Elfriede Jelinek (TR Warszawa, 2019), “Staff Only” project created in cooperation with foreign artists living in Poland (coproduced by Biennale Warszawa and TR Warszawa), “Return to Reims” inspired by Didier Eribon’s book and based on Beniamin Bukowski’s script (Nowy Teatr in Warsaw/Teatr Łaźnia Nowa in Cracow, 2020), and “Maria Klassenberg” (TR Warszawa in cooperation with Galeria Raster, 2020). Kalwat is a laureate of “O!Lśnienia 2021” Cultural Award granted by Onet and the City of Cracow. One of her latest performances is titled “Art of Living” and is inspired by Georges Perec’s “Life: A User’s Manual” (The Helena Modrzejewska National Stary Theatre in Cracow, 2022). ANETA GRZESZYKOWSKA: Born 1974, visual artist. She uses photography and video, focusing on their performative aspect. The leitmotif of her work is the analysis of the processes of self-creation, one of the key themes of art and a fundamental issue for the condition of today’s post-media society. Aneta Grzeszykowska examines the possibility of escaping from identity-shaping cultural and artistic stereotypes. She deconstructs her own image and manipulates it, eventually reaching for its sculptural substitutes. She thus comes closer to the conclusion that self-creation is merely another way of struggling against the mortal nature of the body. Aneta Grzeszykowska has participated in a number of important international exhibitions, such as the Venice Biennale (2022), the Berlin Biennale (2006) and La Triennale in Paris (2012). She has exhibited, among others, at the New Museum and Sculpture Center in New York, Contemporary Art Museum in St. Louis, the Folkwang Museum in Essen and the Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw. Her solo exhibition at Zachęta National Gallery of Art in Warsaw earned her the renowned Polityka’s Passport award (2014). Her works are held in prestigious museum collections, including: Center Pompidou in Paris, Salomon R. Guggenheim Museum in New York, Fotomuseum Winterthur, Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw and Museum of Art in Łódź. She is affiliated with Galeria Raster in Warsaw and Lyles & King in New York. She runs the Performative Photography studio at the Academy of Art in Szczecin. Get in touch with the artist(s) and follow them on social media TR Warszawa international@trwarszawa.pl instagram.com/trwarszawa facebook.com/trwarszawa www.trwarszawa.pl Magda Hueckel, Tomasz Śliwiński hueckel.com.pl instagram.com/magdalena_hueckel instagram.com/tomeon Katarzyna Kalwat instagram.com/katarzyna2193 Aneta Grzeszykowska instagram.com/anetagrzeszykowska https://secondaryarchive.org/artists/aneta-grzeszykowska/ Find out all that’s happening at Segal Center Film Festival on Theatre and Performance (FTP) 2024 by following us on Facebook , Twitter , Instagram and YouTube See the full festival schedule here. "Nightshades" - Veronica Viper Ellen Callaghan Dancing Pina FLorian Heinzen-Ziob Genocide and Movements Andreia Beatriz, Hamilton Borges dos Santos, Luis Carlos de Alencar Living Objects in Black Jacqueline Wade ORESTEIA Carolin Mader Schlingensief – A Voice that Shook the Silence Bettina Böhler The Hamlet Syndrome Elwira Niewiera & Piotr Rosolowski Wo/我 Jiemin Yang "talk to us" Kirsten Burger Die Kinder der Toten Nature Theater of Oklahoma:Kelly Copper and Pavol Liska Hans-Thies Lehmann – Postdramatic Theater Christoph Rüter MUSE Pete O'Hare/Warehouse Films QUEENDOM Agniia Galdanova Snow White Dr.GoraParasit The Making of Pinocchio Cade & MacAskill Women of Theatre, New York Juney Smith BLOSSOMING - Des amandiers aux amandiers Karine Silla Perez & Stéphane Milon ELFRIEDE JELINEK - LANGUAGE UNLEASHED Claudia Müller I AM NOT OK Gabrielle Lansner Making of The Money Opera Amitesh Grover Red Day Besim Ugzmajli The Books of Jacob Krzysztof Garbaczewski The Roll Call:The Roots to Strange Fruit Jonathan McCrory / National Black Theatre/ All Arts/ Creative Doula next...II (Mali/Island) Janne Gregor Chinoiserie Redux Ping Chong Festival of the Body on the Road H! Newcomer “H” Sokerissa! Interstate Big Dance Theater / Bang on a Can Maria Klassenberg Magda Hueckel, Tomasz Śliwiński Revolution 21/ Rewolucja 21 Martyna Peszko and Teatr 21 The End Is Not What I Thought It Would Be Andrea Kleine The Utopians Michael Kliën and En Dynamei Conference of the Absent Rimini Protokoll (Haug / Kaegi / Wetzel) / Film By Expander Film (Lilli Kuschel and Stefan Korsinsky) GIANNI Budapesti Skizo, Theater Tri-Bühne Juggle & Hide (Seven Whatchamacallits in Search of a Director) Wichaya Artamat/ For What Theatre My virtual body and my double Simon Senn / Bruno Deville SWING AND SWAY Fernanda Pessoa and Chica Barbosa The Great Grand Greatness Awards Jo Hedegaard WHO IS EUGENIO BARBA Magdalene Remoundou

Dana Venerable Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 31 3 Visit Journal Homepage Collective Choreography for Weathering Black Experience: Janelle Monáe and The Memphis "Tightrope" Dance Dana Venerable By Published on May 13, 2019 Download Article as PDF During a 2010 tour of the United Kingdom, artist and musician Janelle Monáe visited the BBC Radio 1Xtra show with MistaJam to promote her 2010 album The ArchAndroid and its first single “Tightrope.” Dressed in black riding boots and a military jacket reminiscent of Michael Jackson’s 1980s fashion, she gave MistaJam a dance lesson. What Monáe calls the “Tightrope” dance—choreographed by Ladia Yates in collaboration with Lil Buck and Dr. Rico [1] , but formally credited to “Janelle Monáe and the Memphis Jookin’ Community” [2] —involves mostly footwork reminiscent of West-African Juba dance, the Cakewalk social dance from the nineteenth century, [3] and Jackson’s 1983 Moonwalk dance. The Tightrope dance’s main influence is jookin,’ a social dance style rooted in Memphis, Tennessee, that emphasizes smooth footwork and steps. It concludes with Monáe lifting one foot in the air and moving it in a zigzag or S-like motion, keeping her other foot on the ground while switching her ankle from left to right. Another person behind the scenes recorded her teaching the dance and the show uploaded the footage to YouTube. Despite the video’s low quality, it captures Monáe’s bodily and verbal explanations of the dance. The recording may be just one of many Tightrope dance lessons given by Monáe, perhaps during similar promotional interviews. Here, Monáe presents the dance verbally over the airways and visually through a video that has amassed about 30,000 views. Through this private yet very public performance of movement, she expands the radio space’s potentiality for cultural production. I argue that the Tightrope dance acknowledges in its name and choreography the physical risk of black embodiment in the U.S. and offers emotional stability, physical balance, spontaneity, and support as navigational tactics. In reading Monáe’s explanation of the dance as a choreography of healing, I place her historically and theoretically in a lineage of black women performers and performance theorists, specifically Zora Neale Hurston and Katherine Dunham. In so doing, I archive the Tightrope as a dance as well as an account of human experience that indexes the pain and trauma of black life in the U.S. while proposing motion as a conduit for healing. Monáe’s contributions within the lineage reflect contemporary concerns about racialized embodiment emblematized by the Obama presidency. The Tightrope dance involves citational combinations of small steps from several performers, which encourages and helps to inscribe a collective social choreography of past, present and future black bodies navigating America . [4] Monáe expands the movement to include herself (as well as bodies and identities like hers [5] ) within popular culture—alongside black women vocalists who are also skilled dancers, such as Beyoncé, Ciara, and Janet Jackson—but with a focus on highlighting Memphis’s signature move(s) as ones that, through embodiment, enact survival and triumph. Additionally, I contextualize Monáe’s choreography of black embodiment through racism’s ongoing effects on black women’s bodies and futures. Arline Geronimus’s “weathering” hypothesis proposes that black women’s health in the US deteriorates early and continues to decline due to struggling socioeconomic environments. [6] Geronimus notes an urgent need for collectivity (one of her proposals is the use of black doulas) to combat this deterioration. [7] I integrate this concept with Christina Sharpe’s recent theorization of “the weather” as the climate of antiblackness to establish the atmosphere that Monáe navigates. [8] A close reading of Monáe’s radio show appearance reveals potential sites where the Tightrope dance functions as a healing ritual, a mode of survival, and a collective citational practice, all of which foreground the contributions of black women. Tightroping Terrains To help with “reading” Monáe’s lesson alongside hearing and/or watching, I transcribed the radio segment into a text. Through this transcription, I treat Monáe’s explanation as a form of dance notation. “Make sure you have two legs or two feet, or use whatever you can.” At first Monáe comes off as a bit ableist, saying that participants should have two legs and/or two feet. However, she concludes the same line suggesting moving any body part within personal limits. Her first instruction and tool somewhat reflect a common assumption in the dance world of an able, physical body, yet she emphasizes right from the beginning that anyone is capable as long as they move what they have and use creativity, imagination, and/or personality. A similar approach valuing flexibility is apparent within yanvalou—an embodiment praxis of Haitian Vodou [9] —as Elizabeth Chin reports of Katherine Dunham’s research: “Under life’s often harsh demands…it is better to take on the present situation than to wait until the ‘proper’ tools are at hand.” [10] Monáe prepares her listeners to follow along but also to re-imagine the Tightrope dance for themselves. Monáe teaching the beginning steps of the Tightrope dance to MisterJam.[11] Screenshots by author. “These two feet go in and out opposite. You see how my feet are, you put the heel in front of the arch. So stay like this and go in and out. So first do that, you have to get familiar with that. So then, you’re going to take this front foot, and instead of being so mechanical-like, you gotta be smooth-like…You can do it on all floors.” Monáe makes sure to establish foundational movements and foot positions that allow dancers to build up the Tightrope dance from spaces where they feel most comfortable. She does get technical in terms of placement, reminiscent of the discipline behind codified dance forms, including Katherine Dunham’s technique. The Dunham Technique—inspired by her interests including Haitian folklore, yoga, karate, Balinese dance, Russian folk dance, flamenco, and ballet—was understood by Dunham as a form of social justice anthropology that operates and moves through the body, centering the body as the source of experience and knowledge over text-based theory. [12] The movement of the feet, which develops an openness upward towards the hips, loosens any rigidity and prepares the body for accompanying parts of the dance. The idea of “getting familiar” implies the capability to dance anywhere, on any floor or ground. “Once you get it, you’ll be able to understand this floor.” Not only does Monáe propose that people can do the Tightrope dance on any floor, but she also connects dancing the choreography to navigating social environments and their particular atmospheres. Through dancing, people learn and understand the ground they move upon, as well as the history of those who’ve moved before. By understanding dynamic relationships of the floor and the body, people can hone their abilities to dance within constrained areas and circumstances. Monáe performing the S-like foot movements of the Tightrope dance. Screenshots by author. “Like right now, I don’t have on my saddle oxfords, I have on my riding boots, but that just goes to show [the] tightrope can be done in all shoes, once you get that confidence…So now since we have the basics, you have to be smooth, see how I’m sliding in?” In these lines, there’s a correlation between establishing confidence through wearing clothes/shoes of preference while dancing, but also through the development of “smoothness” once one has the essential beginning steps down. As a verb, “smooth” means to “give (something) a flat, regular surface or appearance,” “modify (a graph, curve, etc.) so as to lessen irregularities,” “deal successfully with (a problem or difficulty)” or to “free (a course of action) from difficulties or problems.” [13] A common connotation is the ability to take on difficulties or problems with grace and eventually “smooth” them out. “Smooth” refers to moving gracefully despite but also because of mental and/or material obstacles. From Dunham’s perspective, achieving this sense of “smooth” evolves from the dancer’s deep self-knowledge, which extends “outward” and allows for “both self-healing and self-protection.” [14] Dunham elaborates: I’m telling you as a friend you must develop your whole body to match. One part to match the other, it is wholistic [ sic ]…you’re not teaching Dunham Technique unless you take each single person and know that person. You have to know that person. By knowing yourself. Then you can feel into it. [15] Self-awareness in movement opens up opportunities for healing, as well as identifying suppressed pain or trauma, interpreted as “smoothing things out” or “being smooth.” The correlation of confidence with “smooth” matters, considering the crisis of confidence black women experience as deeply marginalized bodies and voices navigating routes that are anything but smooth. Monáe demonstrating the Tightrope dance’s flexibility, regarding ability to move across the floor. Screenshots by author. “Now I’m just real smooth…Now let’s just say you keep this [back] foot static…Now the key is the tightrope is an illusion dance. I wanted to give the illusion, while working with kids in Memphis, Tennessee…that you were levitating off the ground, just an inch or two. So basically, this foot actually never touches the ground, that’s the key. That’s why it looks smooth, like I’m not touching the ground, this foot is not touching the ground, it cannot.” Monáe declares she has confidence, smoothness and self-awareness, partly through knowing herself as well as her historical position and her influences. She calls the Tightrope an illusion dance, as she creates the visual effect of levitating, that is inspired by young movers in Memphis, an important place for black dance and music historically in the US. [16] The Tightrope is an optical illusion dance, similar to Jackson’s Moonwalk, as Monáe simulates moving along a tightrope and/or dancing in air. One could also consider the Tightrope as an allusion dance. Through dancing and teaching the Tightrope, Monáe is intentionally and unintentionally alluding to artists before her in a performative citational practice. She draws these allusions choreographically without always verbalizing her sources outright. Monáe’s explanation aligns with Hurston’s theorization of “Negro expression” and Dunham’s evocation of spiritual ancestors through her technique. [17] These interactions of channeling and citation allow for Monáe to honor those who came before her as well as establish new accessible spaces of movement within the black performance archive. Monáe going back and teaching MisterJam the first groundings, movements and positions of the Tightrope. Screenshots by author. “You know you can’t get too high, you can’t get too low, you gotta tip on that tightrope, but never let that foot touch, never let that foot touch the ground, that’s wrong…you can do it on the side, you see?…Are you catching the feet?…Even if I go down, this foot never, never touches the ground…” Here, Monáe quotes the lyrics of her “Tightrope” song. When verbalizing the dance while moving, the lyrics help to theorize the work that her body is already doing. Her questions insist on her self-worth: “Are you watching me and how I can navigate most scenarios? I matter.” This insistence on self, as a black woman, is a form of “weathering.” Monáe repeatedly reminds her audience that she is enough in a world that expects black women to endure pain with ease. Her attention to her foot never touching the floor/ground implies calibrated knowledge of multiple “grounds” in order to develop the ability to remain upright. This type of grounding requires being vulnerable and knowing oneself despite society’s push to conform black women’s bodies into being, moving or presenting in particular ways. Dunham, Hurston, and Monáe resist stereotypes on their paths to freedom through activism and performance, while also understanding freedom’s constraints and demands. [18] Dunham discusses black embodied resistance as building upon personal energy: There is an energy within…we are given the capacity to use it. We use it in a way that is part of our basic culture. We use it in a way that we have been trained to…or maybe we use it in a way that results when all training drops off, and the clear pure strength of the person comes through. And that is the energy of that person, which is put into different forms…but once we discover that energy, I think that such a thing as dance becomes such a delight, because you’re moving on a stream that is you but is over and beyond you. [19] During one of her master classes, Dunham elaborated on her “wholistic” approach to understanding the self through the body and thus understanding energy and how to heal. [20] Monáe’s explanation of the Tightrope dance involves a similar self-awareness of the body moving, participating in a collective development of tactics to heal black women’s bodies as they weather U.S. culture. Theoretical Coordinates—A Flight Plan I began thinking about Monáe’s Tightrope dance as a possibility for healing and liberation after reading Soyica Diggs Colbert’s treatment of the Flying Africans myth [21] and its “black diasporic representations” in music. [22] Her analyses of LaBelle’s fashion during the 1960s and 1970s, Parliament’s lyric transition from sea-ship to space-ship, and Kanye West’s song sequencing, sampling, and lyrics to “I’ll Fly Away” and “Spaceship,” demonstrate black musicians’ manifestation of or connections to flight as liberation. These artists navigate oppression and create routes toward a new world within American geographies through the concept of flying, or lifting black bodies over limited systems of public transport. The fantasy of flying to Africa stems from collective hope while enduring the historical trauma of being black in America since chattel slavery, where gender discrimination, homophobia, mental illness, racial inequality, transphobia, and violence are persistent phenomena. As Colbert notes, the concept of flying happening within bodies through music, as well as social movements on the ground like marches, enables alternative forms of embodiment. [23] Colbert briefly mentions Monáe’s innovative style and “reclamation of black beauty” through her “android” identity. [24] Although Monáe’s fashion is important for her project of acceptance and self-esteem, her choreographic aesthetic and potential also contributes to the evolution of flight within black bodies, as well as offering other frames. In order to further develop how Monáe’s explanation and performance of the Tightrope dance could operate as a work of embodied flight and liberation, in addition to being a form of healing, I compare and connect it to earlier examples within the history and theory of black U.S. American performance. Analyzing and positioning the Tightrope dance as collective choreography, and a mode of healing, stems from a history of black performers and scholars in America, notably black women performers. Notating Monáe’s radio show appearance reveals strong affinities with both Hurston’s theory regarding black community/collectivity as well as Katherine Dunham’s exploration of movement as self-healing in her research and development of Dunham Technique. Hurston and Dunham’s theorizations of the liberatory possibilities of black performance can be usefully triangulated with dance scholar Danielle Goldman’s theorization of improvisation as a practice of freedom, a connection that Monáe’s choreography manifests in its use of improvisational structures. [25] Reading Monáe alongside these cultural anthropologists, dancers, and theorists, as well as considering improvisation as praxis, invites deeper insights into the Tightrope dance’s potentialities. The Harlem Renaissance was one of the first sites where black American artists and innovators began to write about and theorize their performance traditions. Both the Great Migration and the Harlem Renaissance took place during the 1920s, bringing forth black Americans as originators of and contributors to mainstream culture, in both obvious and covert ways. Scholars Thomas F. DeFrantz and Anita Gonzalez describe the rise of commentary regarding black performance by “Negro” and “colored” artists in their introduction to their collection Black Performance Theory . [26] DeFrantz and Gonzalez emphasize scholar and writer Zora Neale Hurston as one of the first theorists to commit herself fully to black performance through her short article “Characteristics of Negro Expression,” which was published in the anthology Negro in 1934. They highlight that her writing, alongside the other researchers of the Harlem Renaissance era, “predicted a broad interest in understanding African diaspora performance. The implications of Hurston’s short essay still stand: black performance derives from its own style and sensibilities that undergird its production. And black performance answers pressing aesthetic concerns of the communities that engage it.” [27] Hurston’s influence is present in Monáe’s explanation of the Tightrope dance choreography as a site for theorizing black expressive culture, and shapes my reading of her dance lesson with MistaJam as notation. In “Characteristics of Negro Expression,” Hurston highlights that action words and drama distinguish black performance. [28] Hurston writes that black people’s greatest contributions to language include their interpretation and use of metaphor and simile, “double descriptives,” as well as the use of “verbal nouns” for adornment such as: “sense me into it,” or “Jooking—playing piano or guitar as it is done in Jook-houses…” [29] She goes on to discuss the differences between “Negro dancers” and “white dancers,” starting with “Negro dance” being angular [30] and asymmetrical due to its musical influences and thus presenting challenges for white dancers: The presence of rhythm and lack of symmetry are paradoxical…Both are present to a marked degree. There is always rhythm, but it is the rhythm of segments. Each unit has a rhythm of its own, but when the whole is assembled it is lacking in symmetry. But easily workable to a Negro who is accustomed to the break in going from one part to another, so that he adjusts himself to the new tempo. [31] She writes that black dancers had to dance through certain limitations, therefore encouraging an adaptive and improvisational style instead of always performing fully rehearsed pieces. [32] Hurston additionally includes a brief dance notation as an example of black dancers’ dynamism and reliance on the audience. [33] Although she observes artists and performers as originators, Hurston also discusses the paradox of authenticity due to the difficulty of tracing origins: “It is obvious that to get back to original sources is much too difficult for any group to claim very much as a certainty. What we really mean by originality is the modification of ideas…While he lives and moves in the midst of a white civilization, everything that he touches is re-interpreted for his own use.” [34] Black artists created through navigating forms of mimicry and re-interpretation, which in turn were re-interpreted by white artists in ongoing cycles of appropriation. [35] This idea of sharing, Hurston notes, is central to black tradition through the role of community and an attendant “lack of privacy”: “It is said that Negroes keep nothing secret, that they have no reserve. This ought not to seem strange when one considers that we are an outdoor people accustomed to communal life.” [36] She also discusses the Jook at length, as both a verbal noun and a space, which is pertinent to the Tightrope dance’s origins: “Jook is the word for a Negro pleasure house. It may mean a bawdy house. It may mean the house set apart on public works where the men and women dance, drink and gamble. Often it is a combination of all these…The singing and playing in the true Negro style is called ‘jooking.’” [37] She writes that black people created dances within Jooks before they circulated to other Jooks and then eventually to mainstream culture, citing the “Black Bottom” dance, originating in “the Jook section of Nashville, Tennessee, around Fourth Avenue,” as an example. Jooking or the Jook is a form of vernacular dance, or “Negro social dance” accompanied by jazz that is “…slow and sensuous. The idea in the Jook is to gain sensation, and not so much exercise. So that just enough foot movement is added to keep the dancers on the floor.” [38] Although origins of social dances are constantly contested, roots in both place and purpose for movement remain significant to discussions within black performance. Hurston’s emphasis on action words and drama connect to the Tightrope dance through its terms: “tightrope,” “tippin’” and joined together through “tip on the tightrope.” Starting with the word “tightrope,” Monáe brings people into the air. Tightroping is like horizontal flying in a way, as one moves their body forward along an unstable route traversing huge gaps of space without substantial support. Sharpe’s “weather,” or an ongoing climate of anti-blackness, is by design unstable, thus tightroping becomes a survival tactic that is a teachable skill and form of preservation. [39] The route Monáe describes could also be on earth or over water, and she assures people that one can do the dance in any shoes. [40] Her description of elevation and “tippin’” on the tightrope points to potentialities of balance and flight as navigational modes instead of a one-time thrill-seeker’s stunt. Possibly through observation of the physical strains previous male-read performers placed on their own bodies (James Brown, Michael Jackson, and Prince all played with balance, flight, and forms of “tippin’” in their choreographies), Monáe says the Tightrope dance can be performed on “any” ground, while incorporating a slight risk with the illusion of levitation. At the same time, she decreases the risk of injury by keeping her feet closer together while dancing. This proximal shift emphasizes sustained awareness and self-care of black women’s bodies. Place and spectatorship also play a role within Monáe’s explanation of the Tightrope dance. In Jayna Brown’s cultural history of African-American women performers during modernism, she positions black vernacular dance as a way to claim a sense of place, relation, and community during the black migration: “For black people, dancing was an analogous creative response to shared and individual experiences of dislocation and relocation, itinerancy, and the fraught negotiations of claiming a geographical space to call home.” [41] Brown further describes how black expressive movement developed “gestural languages” within cities while simultaneously shaping those cities through social exchange, racial dynamics, and the back and forth of dance as gift or commodity. We might understand the radio station as a jook, where Monáe’s dance further develops and/or gains traction. Monáe’s performance involves people learning and recognizing movements as temporarily hers, then participating and eventually contributing their own versions, with variations of tempo and how high or low people lift their limbs. The dance offers opportunities for self-expression and individuality through the ways in which bodies maintain balance while performing it, as well as where and how they choose to move. Goldman’s work on improvisation speaks to the opportunities Monáe creates, such as knowing how to dance on specific “floors” and how to improvise in order to navigate particular experiences and terrains. [42] Monáe’s explanation of the Tightrope dance echoes Goldman’s claims about aesthetic and social choreographies of improvisation and their relationship to notions of freedom: After countless hours watching both live and recorded improvisations (and having been moved greatly in the process), I have come to believe that improvised dance involves literally giving shape to oneself by deciding how to move in relation to an unsteady landscape. To engage oneself in this manner, with a sense of confidence and possibility, is a powerful way to inhabit one’s body and to interact with the world. [43] Goldman further discusses some misconceptions about improvisation, mainly a popular emphasis on improvisation as spontaneous, rather than a learned technique that involves preparation, “…thereby eliding the historical knowledge, the sense of tradition, and the enormous skill that the most eloquent improvisers are able to mobilize.” [44] Goldman adopts Houston Baker’s term of “tight places” to understand distinctions in mobility constraints and possibilities based on race, class, gender, sexuality, and historical shifts in social positions. [45] “Tight places” relates back to Geronimus’s “weathering” through black women’s childbirth experiences and how they usually need assistance within the black community to receive necessary care. Sharpe’s idea of a climate of anti-blackness assists in visualizing what creates and sustains “tight places” of discomfort—such as non-adequate health care for soon-to-be black mothers as well as systematic oppression against black women—and how these communities improvise and find alternative routes in order to survive. Goldman calls improvised dance a “vital technology of the self—an ongoing, critical, physical, and anticipatory readiness that, while grounded in the individual, is necessary for a vibrant sociality and vital civil society,” that has potential to affect the dancer as well as the social landscape that the dancer both dances within and weathers. [46] Viewing improvisation as a type of technology or tool further contributes to my analysis of Monáe’s explanation and performances of the Tightrope dance as sites for healing and navigation. Monáe uses the Tightrope dance to redefine Baker’s “tight places.” The dance as a way of navigation opens up space by improvising alternative modes of thinking about access and identity. Improvisation and its possibilities for individuality within choreographic structures are prioritized in the Tightrope’s performances in the radio station and beyond, including larger-scale produced performances and the official music video wherein Monáe and accompanying dancers move in multiple directions, while adding their own micro movements in between group choreography. The “Tightrope” music video, directed by Wendy Morgan, begins with Monáe in an asylum called “The Palace of the Dogs,” which doesn’t believe dancing is healthy and the people living there are constantly monitored. Monáe sets the tone by temporarily avoiding the surveillance, which include tall, cloaked beings with mirrors for faces, reminiscent of Maya Deren’s 1943 short experimental film Meshes of the Afternoon [47] and “tightropes” her way to an open room to dance freely with other artists like herself. The Palace here symbolizes any “tight place” where one confronts themselves and their social position of not being acceptable or worthy of acknowledgment, and still maintains balance. The other residents of the palace join Monáe during both the initial introduction of the Tightrope dance and during the breakdown and improvisation near the end of the video. They develop their own variations of the Tightrope’s balance-based choreography. The “Classy Brass” section of the video involves all the residents dancing. Monáe reminds listeners that life is a tightrope for creative marginalized communities, as a deeper voice in the background sings what I decipher as: “well it’s a thin line…I mean white line…you and your right mind,” while Monáe is singing “gotta keep my balance” and “something like a Terminator.” She provides vocal runs to her own mix, concluding with a melody of her singing “Happy Birthday” and saying “Do you mind if I play my ukelele?” repeatedly, which works to celebrate black existence and experience. [48] During her performance of “Tightrope” on the reality television show So You Think You Can Dance , her back-up dancers come out right before the chorus and do the Tightrope in different directions while she focuses on vocals. During the song’s breakdown, Monáe performs improvisational footwork. The ensemble dances in a circle, giving everyone a chance in the spotlight. One dancer does the Moonwalk across the floor while wiping sweat off their forehead with a white handkerchief. They all get in a line and do the Moonwalk moving forward instead of backward in four directions before concluding the performance with an emphasis on the Tightrope dance. In addition, during her performance at the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize Concert in Oslo, Norway, her back-up singers do variations of the Tightrope dance. [49] Individuality and knowing oneself are key in executing the Tightrope throughout performance, as every dancer has a different approach and their own experiences that contribute to their interpretation. Katherine Dunham’s ethnographic research in Haiti and development of her own dance technique supports a reading of the Tightrope dance as a form of healing and spiritual connection to the self. Scholar Elizabeth Chin positions Dunham’s dance within the context of healing, [50] performance, and social resistance, arguing that Dunham proposed a radical reimagining of anthropology through “(black) bodies dancing (black) ethnographic knowledge…putting anthropology on its feet, into bodies, and onto stages.” [51] Throughout her lived experience as a black woman, Dunham was inducted into “the performative requirements of blackness” and the ways in which blackness functioned for white people to both define and manipulate. [52] She was invested in the physical and spiritual elements of yanvalou not solely for its “Africanness” and form, but also because it aligned with her vision of healing and understanding the world. [53] The Tightrope dance develops moving through and gaining the ability to weather past, present and future movement(s) as a healing praxis for both the self and the community. Monáe and her dancers make footwork a site for black pleasure, spontaneity, stability, and support instead of drudgery. Dunham stated that she had to “take something directly” if she wanted to fully express a culture, similar to Monáe’s practices of appropriation and interpretation of Memphis jookin’: “The techniques that I knew and saw and experienced were not saying the things that I wanted to say. I simply could not, with purely classical ballet, say what I wanted to say…to capture the meaning and the culture and life of the people, I felt that I had to take something directly from the people and develop that.” [54] Within her Dunham Technique, the emphasis on breath as that which “sustains what we’re putting forth” [55] provides an aesthetic practice akin to Sharpe’s emphasis on the importance of aspiration for black bodies and the need for freedom to breathe, as well as move, within and through “the weather.” [56] Chin further explains the significance of yanvalou to Dunham’s practice, emphasizing its never-ending cyclical structure and circular motions. [57] Dunham’s understanding of breath and circling have particular resonance with Monáe’s dance. Circles, cycles, and circling back are significant within the Tightrope dance’s choreography. The dance includes an S-like tracing of the foot in air, very similar to the figure of infinity represented and repeated during bodies-in-yanvalou. The senses of infinity as well as being whole within the symbols traced in these dances emphasize the persistence and strength of the black community throughout history. They bring forth reminders and strategies of collective embodiment that guide black people through surviving the highs and lows of an anti-black climate. “And I’m still tippin’ on it” [58] —Tightroping the Black Public Sphere Monáe theorizes the Tightrope dance as a collective, conceptual, and embodied antidote for living and moving in the US while black. For example, her articulation for possibly performing the movement “on all floors” and “in all shoes, once you get that confidence” might suggest moving through a local corner store or a school hallway with higher self-esteem and awareness of self-worth. However, Monáe’s performance, when contextualized through black performance history and theory, dance, and popular culture, invites further analysis of moments when movement contributes to healing historical traumas. Well-known signature moves within black popular music performance are mostly male-dominated and not always choreographed by the performers themselves, despite people often associating or interpreting the creation of dances with artists who repeatedly make them popular, visible or “put them on the map.” [59] A notable example is Jackson’s version of the Moonwalk dance [60] that choreographer Jeffrey Daniel first taught him, which evolved from tap dancer Bill Bailey’s performance of the move he called the “backslide” from the 1943 film Cabin in the Sky [61] and The Electric Boogaloos’ late 70s interpretation of the “backslide.” [62] Jackson’s performances of the Moonwalk, as well as James Brown’s quick footwork and overall physicality while conducting his backing band, are strongly reminiscent of soul performer Jackie Wilson, and Prince’s splits, turns and jumps also stem from his contemporaries, Brown and Wilson. Despite Wilson’s strong influence on black popular performance, people reductively termed him “the black Elvis.” [63] Wilson, however, did not take issue with being likened to Presley. [64] As Presley acknowledged rhythm and blues music as one of his main influences, it’s plausible to summarize the interrelationship between these male performers as one wherein white artists appropriate, interpret, re-circulate, re-introduce within and return these styles to black collective performance culture rather than being the originators. [65] These signature moves, and the struggle for black artists to legally claim their origin as Anthea Kraut describes, embody and signify not only artistic expression, but also black pain and trauma. [66] The steps require endurance and physical virtuosity, involving risks that could injure the body with repeated performance and make it more difficult to keep moving or indeed living. [67] In her lesson, Monáe proudly demonstrates the seemingly straightforward dance, while MistaJam (as well as myself) initially struggle to follow along. Although tricky, the Tightrope dance allows one to move across the floor without jumping onto or off of something, focusing on balance and themes of emotional/physical stability over alternative terrains of risk. Her explanation of the Tightrope dance is inspired by and engages a black performance lineage of masculine-dominated signature moves, while contributing to the tradition of black women performance theorists who describe dance as collective culture. She, along with Yates, helped to revitalize Memphis’s dance culture, as well as foreground black women and queer black bodies within collective movements and the black women performers who document and theorize them. Through her positioning within multiple lineages, Monáe’s performance moves back and forth between appropriation and interpretation, allowing for a complicated yet generative tension akin to Dunham’s practices, as she sings in the lyric “Now put some Voodoo on it.” [68] In a 2017 interview Lil Buck said that he supported Monáe giving collective credit to the Memphis Jookin’ Community for choreographing the Tightrope dance, since putting Memphis’s jookin’ back on the map emphasized the dance style as part of “Memphis’s identity.” [69] He added that Yates wanted to choreograph updated “old school” dance styles, along the likes of Brown and Jackson but with more jookin’, [70] thus the Tightrope dance also functions as a new interpretation—through Yates and Monáe’s subjectivities as black women choreographers and dancers—of jookin’ within a mainstream framework of social and vernacular dance. [71] The Tightrope dance, accompanying song, and explanation help to move Monáe and listeners toward expressive improvisation regarding ways of moving and ways of being through or alongside modes of socialized performativity. Further, “Tightrope” is a method and a response to the stresses placed upon black public figures in all realms of American society. At the time of “Tightrope’s” release, Barack Obama was serving as the first black president of the U.S., and Michelle Obama as the first black First Lady. For Monáe, the Obamas represent a huge historical victory that strongly impacted her music. [72] “Tightrope” references Obama’s much-needed capacities of constant emotional centeredness, regulation, and stability in his presidential role. In a 2012 interview Monáe stated, “President Obama absolutely inspires me. He’s inspired a lot of my music…I wrote ‘Tightrope’ because it talks about dealing with balance—don’t get too high, don’t get too low—and that’s one of the things that I noticed about President Obama…He stays very centered.” [73] Monáe performed the song and dance as tribute to the struggles involved with making one’s own way through Sharpe’s “weather,” including traversing to the most powerful leadership position in the US. Michelle Obama, through her speeches and her wellness campaign, also influenced Monáe’s vision of collective awareness and black female strength. Monáe’s aesthetic praxis and the Obamas’ self-representation in the political public sphere met during the 2014 event “Women of Soul: In Performance at the White House,” circulated on PBS, which featured Monáe’s performance of “Tightrope.” While performing, she explained the meaning of the song, including the Obamas’ influence, and her joy in getting to perform at the White House alongside other powerful women in music. She almost entirely focused on singing the lyrics, emphasizing the chorus. Monáe went down into the audience and sang to people individually, incorporating Brown’s lyrics, a form of citation through sound and voice, while also being unapologetically herself. Black public figures, from Hurston, to Monáe, to the Obamas, create and teach methods of survival in the most unreasonable of circumstances through navigating an embodied middle ground—or tippin’ on a tightrope between highs and lows—creating lineages of performers who allow for healing through their collective-signature movements. References [1] MY COMEUP WORLD, “Lil Buck On Getting His First Break Working With Janelle Monáe,” 6:02, posted on Jan. 30, 2017, YouTube, https://youtu.be/uUv5M7iry8Q. Monáe brought in Ladia Yates to choreograph, and Yates then contacted Lil Buck and Dr. Rico. They all co-choreographed it together, and both Buck and Yates share the experience of relocating to Memphis at young ages where they both started jookin’. [2] MTV. “MTV Video Music Awards 2010,” MTV.com , Sept., 12, 2010. The music video for “Tightrope” was nominated for the Best Choreography VMA in 2010, crediting the Memphis collective instead of the specific individuals involved. [3] For more on the cakewalk, see Megan Pugh’s America Dancing: From the Cakewalk to the Moonwalk (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015), Soyica Diggs Colbert’s chapter “Reenacting the Harlem Renaissance” from In The African American Theatrical Body (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), and Jayna Brown’s Babylon Girls: Black Women Performers and the Shaping of the Modern (Durham: Duke University Press, 2008). [4] For more on the navigation of black bodies through dance, see Brenda D. Gottschild’s The Black Dancing Body: A Geography from Coon to Cool (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003). [5] The Tightrope dance, through Monáe’s theory, becomes a rich cultural site for further analysis, for example there’s potential for an explicit engagement with queer studies, since her explanation of the dance has intersectional implications along with moments of what José Muñoz calls disidentification, particularly as gender, race and sexuality intersect. For more information, see José Esteban Muñoz, Disidentifications: Queers of Color and the Performance of Politics (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999). [6] A.T. Geronimus, “The Weathering Hypothesis and the Health of African-American Women and Infants: Evidence and Speculations,” Ethnicity & Disease 2 no. 3 (1992). [7] Linda Villarosa, “Why America’s Black Mothers and Babies Are in a Life-or-Death Crisis,” The New York Times , Apr. 11, 2018. [8] Christina Sharpe, “The Weather,” in In the Wake: On Blackness and Being (Durham: Duke University Press, 2016). [9] Elizabeth Chin, “Dunham Technique: Anthropological Politics of Dancing through Ethnography,” in Katherine Dunham: Recovering an Anthropological Legacy, Choreographing Ethnographic Futures (Santa Fe: SAR Press, 2014), 84, 91. [10] Chin, “Dunham Technique,” 93. [11] BBC Radio 1Xtra, “Janelle Monae teaches MistaJam the Tightrope,” 3:40, posted on May 18, 2010, YouTube , https://youtu.be/h9VtQWSdXho. Screenshots by Dana Venerable. [12] Chin, “Dunham Technique,” 81-82, 87. [13] Oxford English Dictionary s.v. , “smooth,” https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/smooth. [14] Chin, “Dunham Technique,” 90. [15] Ibid. [16] For more about Memphis and black cultural production, see Katrina Hazzard-Donald’s Jookin’: The Rise of Social Dance Formations in African-American Culture (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1990). [17] Chin, “Dunham Technique,” 98. “…yanvalou claims an unbroken kinship with African cultural forms and content. This kinship is generational, and just as over generations the faces and stories of a human family change while remaining part of that family, so the dances change over generations as well. Like the families that carry them, the dances have moved across oceans and many centuries.” [18] Ibid., 86, 98-99. Chin explains that Dunham Technique “is designed to inculcate in dancers a set of principles that have everything to do with persevering in impossible circumstances. As a form of resistance, the technique accurately diagnoses problems and discourses of power about race, about bodies, about anthropology, and about social theory.” [19] Library of Congress, “Katherine Dunham on the Circle of Energy,” Video Clip #40 , 1:14, posted on September 2002, https://www.loc.gov/item/ihas.200003847/ [20] Chin, “Dunham Technique,” 90-91. “When somebody sees you, sees you dance, sees you dance well, you can remove from them many of their anxieties, their doubts, their feelings of being earthbound—any number of things can be removed. So dance, but for heaven’s sake do it with everything in you, mind, body, and spirit. Don’t ever think just of your body.” [22] Soyica Diggs Colbert, Black Movements: Performance and Cultural Politics (New Brunswick, Rutgers University Press, 2017), 23. [23] Alternative texts that discuss the significant connections between black embodiment, movement, flight, and liberation include EmBODYing Liberation: The Black Body in American Dance (Piscataway: LIT Verlag, 2001); Anthea Kraut’s “Re-scripting Origins: Zora Neale Hurston’s Staging of Black Vernacular Dance,” 59-78; Dorothea Fischer-Hornung’s “The Body Possessed: Katherine Dunham Dance Technique in Mambo,” 91-112; Alison Goeller’s “(Re) Crossing Borders: The Legacy of Alvin Ailey,” 113-124, and Angela Gittens’s “Black Dance and the Fight for Flight: Sabar and the Transformation and Cultural Significance of Dance from West Africa to Black America (1960-2010),” Journal of Black Studies 43 no. 1 (2012): 49-71. [24] Colbert, Black Movements , 49-50, 7. [25] Danielle Goldman, I Want to be Ready: Improvised Dance as a Practice of Freedom (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2010). [26] Thomas F. DeFrantz and Anita Gonzalez, “From ‘Negro Expression’ to ‘Black Performance,’” in Black Performance Theory (Durham, Duke University Press, 2014), 2. [27] Ibid. [28] Zora Neale Hurston, “Characteristics of Negro Expression,” in Negro (1934), 49. “The Negro’s universal mimicry is not so much a thing in itself as an evidence of something that permeates his entire self. And that thing is drama. His words are action words. His interpretation of the English language is in terms of pictures. One act described in terms of another. Hence the rich metaphor and simile.” [29] Hurston, “Characteristics,” 52. [30] Ibid., 54. “Everything that he touches becomes angular…Anyone watching Negro dancers will be struck by the same phenomenon. Every posture is another angle. Pleasing, yes. But an effect achieved by the very means which a European strives to avoid.” [31] Ibid., 55. [32] Ibid., 56. [33] Ibid., 55-56. “For example, the performer flexes one knee sharply, assumes a ferocious face mask, thrusts the upper part of the body forward with clenched fists, elbows taut as in hard running or grasping a thrusting blade. That is all. But the spectator himself adds the picture of ferocious assault, hears the drums and finds himself keeping time with the music and tensing himself for the struggle. It is compelling insinuation. That is the very reason the spectator is held so rapt. He is participating in the performance himself—carrying out the suggestions of the performer.” For more on Hurston and dance, see Anthea Kraut’s Choreographing the Folk: The Dance Stagings of Zora Neale Hurston (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008). [34] Ibid., 58. [35] “Sampling does not take place in a vacuum, and the exchange of dance almost never occurs on an equal playing field. As recent dance scholarship has shown, the history of dance in the United States is also the history of white ‘borrowing’ from racially subjugated communities, almost always without credit or compensation,” Anthea Kraut, Choreographing Copyright: Race, Gender and Intellectual Property Rights in American Dance (Oxford University Press, New York, 2015), 4 . [36] Hurston, “Characteristics,” 60. [37] Ibid., 62-63. [38] Ibid., 63. [39] Sharpe, In the Wake, 106. [40] BBC Radio 1Xtra, “Janelle Monae teaches MistaJam the Tightrope.” [41] Brown, Babylon Girls , 15-16. [42] Goldman, I Want to be Ready . [43] Ibid., 5. [44] Ibid. [45] Houston A. Baker, Turning South Again: Re-Thinking Modernism/Re-Reading Booker T. (Durham, Duke University Press, 2001). [46] Ibid., 22. [47] Colleen Claes, “Janelle Monae: Avant-Garde Film Geek (‘Tightrope’ Video),” open salon , Apr. 4, 2010, https://web.archive.org/web/20120706044921/http://open.salon.com/blog/colleenclaes/2010/04/04/janelle_monae_avant-garde_film_geek_tightrope_video . There’s an interesting connection here, as Deren worked closely with Dunham early in her career. Judith E. Doneson, “Maya Deren,” in Jewish Women: A Comprehensive Historical Encyclopedia , Mar. 1, 2009. https://jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/Deren-Maya . [48] Janelle Monáe, “Tightrope [feat. Big Boi] (Video),” 5:12, posted on Mar. 31, 2010, YouTube, https://youtu.be/pwnefUaKCbc . [49] So You Think You Can Dance. “Season Seven, Week Eight.” Fox Broadcasting Company, Aug. 4, 2010. Janelle Monáe, “‘Cold War,’ ‘I Want You Back,’ ‘Tightrope,’” 2011 Nobel Peace Prize Concert, Oslo Spektrum, Oslo, Dec. 11, 2011. [50] Chin, “Dunham Technique,” 99. People have used her technique for healing purposes, like original Dunham company member Tommy Gomez. Gomez went through two open-heart surgeries and had the bottom half of his right leg amputated in 1993, and the Dunham Technique helped him adjust and move through these obstacles. [51] Ibid., 81. [52] Ibid., 84. [53] Ibid., 84, 91. [54] Library of Congress, “Katherine Dunham on need for Dunham Technique,” Video Clip #38 , 0:40, posted on September 2002. https://www.loc.gov/item/ihas.200003845/ . [55] Library of Congress, “Katherine Dunham on Breathing in Dunham Technique,” Video Clip #39 , 1:01, posted on September 2002. https://www.loc.gov/item/ihas.200003846/ . [56] Sharpe, In The Wake . [57] Chin, “Dunham Technique,” 94. “The yanvalou is a never-ending cycle, and if viewed from a certain perspective, the body-in-yanvalou traces the figure of infinity again and again as the dance is performed. Cosmic cycles of the universe, the snake eating its tail, the circuits of life and death, seasons, love and loss, a rippling wave that holds within itself the potential for a devastating tsunami, the shrugging of the earth’s mantle resulting in a cataclysmic earthquake—the yanvalou is all of these and more. And additional circles can be layered onto the ones already described.” [58] Janelle Monáe. “Tightrope (feat. Big Boi).” Genius. Accessed April 2018. https://genius.com/Janelle-monae-tightrope-lyrics . [59] For more on appropriation of signature steps, see Danielle Robinson’s Modern Moves: Dancing Race During the Ragtime and Jazz Eras (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), and Susan Manning’s Modern Dance, Negro Dance: Race in Motion (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004). [60] For more on the Moonwalk, see Pugh’s, America Dancing: From the Cakewalk to the Moonwalk . [61] Kostas Kofinas, “The First Moonwalk Onstage! Bill Bailey 1955,” 1:46, posted on Sept. 13, 2017, YouTube, https://youtu.be/s3sn0ezbKk8 . Cabin in the Sky , Directed by Vincente Minnelli and Busby Berkeley, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1943. [62] All Things Considered, “‘Bad’ Choreographer Remembers Michael Jackson,” NPR , June 26, 2009. [63] Greg Kot, “Putting the Right Sin on Elvis, Jackie,” Chicago Tribune , July 31, 1992. [64] Ed Masley, “It’s Good To Be King,” Pittsburgh Post-Gazette , August 15, 2002. [65] Ed Masley, “Elvis may have been the king, but was he first?” Pittsburgh Post-Gazette , July 4, 2004. [67] This is true regarding Prince’s hip and joint injuries: “…Repetitive extreme or high impact actions are likely to cause injury when executed by anyone during the ongoing practice of dance or athletics. Especially without a careful regimen of strength training and warm-ups, as hips are the main axis of all leg movement, they can place intolerable stress on the joints, often resulting in osteoarthritis…” Carla Blank, “Prince: Pain and Dance,” in CounterPunch , May 6, 2016. [68] Janelle Monáe. “Tightrope (feat. Big Boi).” Genius. Accessed April 2018. https://genius.com/Janelle-monae-tightrope-lyrics . [69] MY COMEUP WORLD, “Lil Buck On Getting His First Break Working With Janelle Monáe.” [70] Ibid. [71] For more on vernacular dance, see Marshall and Jean Stearns’s Jazz Dance: the Story of American Vernacular Dance (New York: Macmillan, 1968). [72] Caitlin McDevitt, “Janelle Monae: I’m inspired by Obama,” Politico , Feb. 29, 2012. [73] Ibid. Footnotes About The Author(s) DANA VENERABLE is a PhD student in English, and an Arthur A. Schomburg Fellow at the University at Buffalo—SUNY focusing on critical race theory, dance studies (especially jazz and tap), performance, poetics, and sound. She’s interested in the ways communities and events choreograph, constitute and/or manipulate movement, and how movement complicates identities, land/space, language, and senses of home. Dana has written for VIDA Review, Zoomoozophone Review, The Dartmouth, and Mouth Magazine, and recently performed in UB’s first MFA dance concert. For her poem “Church Bus,” she was nominated for the 2017 “Best of the Net” award by Sundress Publications. Editorial Board for Special Issue: David Bisaha Meredith Conti Leah Lowe Inga Meier Robert Vorlicky Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Introduction: Embodied Arts Collective Choreography for Weathering Black Experience: Janelle Monáe and The Memphis "Tightrope" Dance Unruly Reproductions: The Embodied Art of Mimicry in Vaudeville "Must Be Heavyset": Casting Women, Fat Stigma, and Broadway Bodies Choreographies of the Great Departure: Building Civic Bodies in the 1914 Masque of St. Louis Defiant Indigeneity: The Politics of Hawaiian Performance. Stephanie Nohelani Teves. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2018; Pp. 220. Ellen Stewart Presents: Fifty Years of La MaMa Experimental Theatre. Cindy Rosenthal. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2017; Pp. 198. In Search of Our Warrior Mothers: Women Dramatists of the Black Arts Movement. La Donna L. Forsgren. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2018; Pp. 200. Memory, Transitional Justice, and Theatre in Postdictatorship Argentina. Noe Montez. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2017; Pp. 239 + xi. Big Deal: Bob Fosse and Dance in the American Musical. Kevin Winkler. New York: Oxford University Press, 2018; Pp. 368. Historians on Hamilton: How a Blockbuster Musical Is Restaging America’s Past. Renee C. Romano and Claire Bond Potter, eds. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2018; Pp. 399. Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Jessica Brater Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 32 1 Visit Journal Homepage Mabou Mines Tries Again: Past, Present, and the Purgatory of Performance Space Jessica Brater By Published on November 7, 2019 Download Article as PDF The American avant-garde company Mabou Mines inaugurated its refurbished theater in the East Village’s 122 Community Center by conjuring performers who are trapped on stage. Glass Guignol: The Brother and Sister Play , which opened in November 2017, was created from works by Tennessee Williams and Mary Shelley and conceived by founding co-artistic director Lee Breuer and artistic associate Maude Mitchell. Mitchell and longtime Mabou Mines collaborator Greg Mehrten play (among other roles) Clare and Felice, the brother-sister acting duo from Williams’s The Two-Character Play (1967). In the original and in Mabou Mines’s riff, the sibling actors have been abandoned by the rest of the company and are caught in a meta-theatrical loop of improvisatory performance, possibly because they rely on their touring income to survive. In Glass Guignol , this improvisation-under-duress includes short and long form citations of Williams’s works. Breuer and Mitchell imagine literary references as ready-mades, repurposing flashes of Williams and Shelley to pose questions about the relation of artist to creation, just as, for example, Dada’s controversial commode did in a concept long credited to Marcel Duchamp but more recently attributed to Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven. [1] Glass Guignol ’s theatrical reframing of fragments from well-known artworks is especially poignant on location in the company’s first purpose-built theater in its half-century long history. As actors in exile, Clare and Felice underline Mabou Mines artists’ epoch as nomads during the extended period of 122 Community Center’s remodeling. In 2013, the City of New York began a $35 million renovation of 122 Community Center on 1 st Avenue and East 9 th Street, a nineteenth-century former schoolhouse where Mabou Mines has resided since 1978. The space was slated to reopen in 2016. The company had planned to present two premieres in their refurbished space in winter and spring 2017: Faust 2.0 , directed by co-artistic director Sharon Fogarty, and Glass Guignol . By summer 2017, the building had not yet passed code for occupancy. In a climate increasingly hostile to arts funding, the delay caused additional financial duress for a company already familiar with the relationship between risky artistic choices and economic instability. Co-artistic directors confronted an absence of ticket income, the loss of grant funding contingent upon production, and deferred opportunities to tour completed productions. The itinerant state all but suspended the radical spectacle for which Mabou Mines is renowned as they found themselves in a sort of performance purgatory. What was supposed to be a watershed moment became a dream indefinitely deferred. Mabou Mines artists are likely to feel that the space was worth waiting for. Gay McAuley asks what “the physical reality of the theatre building” tells artists “about the activity they are engaged in and about the way this activity is valued in society.” [2] New York City’s substantial investment in the company is a resounding response. The refurbished 122 Community Center provides a distinctly different scenographic environment for the company’s activities. Sleek and modern, the interior now resembles the many gut-renovated pre-war buildings in New York City. A steel and glass overhang above the new lobby entrance is reminiscent of the Pershing Square Signature Theater’s design by Frank Gehry Architects, though the city contracted with Deborah Berke Partners for this renovation. Although Mabou Mines has performed in state-of-the-art theaters in New York and beyond, its recent productions began and ended in their small office and adjoining slightly dilapidated ToRoNaDa studio in 122 Community Center. These spaces, shabby but spirited, served as a tangible connection to Mabou Mines’s origins in a pre-gentrified East Village. On a preview tour of the new space with co-artistic director Fogarty (we wore hardhats), I could not help but feel nostalgic for the demolished interior architecture and slightly nervous about what a polished backdrop will mean for Mabou Mines’s revolutionary artistic aims. “Try again. Fail again. Fail better,” says the narrator from Beckett’s novella Worstward Ho , staged by the late Mabou Mines co-artistic director Fred Neumann in 1986. [3] Here, as elsewhere in his writing, Beckett forthrightly acknowledges a process of perpetual trial and error—a creative purgatory—as organic to artistic exploration and the human experience. Mabou Mines artists gravitated early to Beckett’s work, staging eight of his texts between 1971 and 1996. [4] The company’s attraction to his writing is rooted in a corresponding philosophy that embraces uncertainty as an element of artistic creation. Co-founders JoAnne Akalaitis, Lee Breuer, Philip Glass, Ruth Maleczech and David Warrilow as well as current co-artistic directors Breuer, Fogarty, Karen Kandel, and Terry O’Reilly have long been engaged in the business of taking calculated theatrical risks. These ventures, always both aesthetically ambitious and financially hazardous, have frequently resulted in critical disparagement and/or financial insolvency. Mabou Mines artists have regularly viewed risk as necessary to the creation of avant-garde work. The company has almost always been willing to stake economic stability and critical praise for a claim of unfettered artistic discovery. This claim is most readily apparent in the company’s investment in a creative process that absorbs, reiterates, and modifies previous approaches, while simultaneously adopting new techniques and adapting them to new spaces. When Mabou Mines stages a production in front of the audience, this encounter becomes an opportunity for artists to understand and evaluate which aspects of the process have achieved their objectives in performance. This appraisal continues retroactively, as when Breuer expressed dissatisfaction in 2014 about acting choices Maleczech made in her 1990 OBIE-award winning performance as Lear under his direction in Mabou Mines’s gender-reversed production of Shakespeare’s play. [5] Breuer’s assessment of this critically lauded performance demonstrates the scant regard company members have for external evaluation. But perhaps more importantly, Breuer’s scrutiny of previous artistic decisions suggests that the company’s desire to conquer uncharted artistic territory requires a constant practice of self-assessment and refinement, akin to the “Rep & Rev” process Suzan-Lori Parks has described in her own work. In Mabou Mines’s (and Beckett’s) world of creation, future artistic possibilities depend upon an artist’s willingness to confront the implications of past choices. The result is a process and product that are one and the same and a project that is ongoing, never “finished.” As a consequence, the company sees process and product as fluid, rather than as binary. Each Mabou Mines production is only fully visible in the moment of performance, after which elements of projects continue on their orbits. The ToRoNaDa—more equipped for rehearsal than for performance and yet not originally designed for either—underscored the company’s synergy of process and product. If, as Laura Levin suggests “identity is, both consciously and unconsciously, constituted through space,” Mabou Mines’s new theater invites the possibility of a reimagined personality for the company. [6] What will happen to Mabou Mines’s reiteration and modification of past impulses, times and spaces in a new, exclusive, purpose-built theater? As McAuley points out, theatre “space is, of course, not an empty container but an active agent; it shapes what goes on within it, emits signals about it to the community at large, and is itself affected. … The theatre building…provides a context of interpretation for spectators and performers alike.” [7] In order to imagine how the new space may re-energize the company’s aesthetic, it is crucial to consider the effect of performance spaces on the company as they move away from an old space and return to a new one. Ghosts of Performance Spaces Past It is probably impossible to create a complete rupture between the Mabou Mines of the present and its East Village past. Mabou Mines artists simply cannot escape their own geography; their performance history dots the East Village—ghosting it, in Marvin Carlson’s terms. The company’s temporary inability to move forward made Mabou Mines’s link to its history all the more palpable. The delay in presenting planned new work thrust the company into a liminal state of expectation; the set for Glass Guignol stood idly on the company’s new stage as spirits of future performances hovered hopefully around the construction site, mingling with the specters of past performances. Such past productions established a record of revolution, paving the way for the company’s recognition as a fixture of counter cultural “downtown” performance. Because the East Village functions as a palimpsest for Mabou Mines’s history, the company’s relationship to its history is in this respect inherently site-specific. Their presence in the East Village has likewise shaped the story of the neighborhood. As Kim Solga, Shelley Orr, and D.J. Hopkins argue, “performance can help to renegotiate the urban archive, to build the city, and to change it.” [8] Though the company debuted uptown at the Guggenheim Museum with The Red Horse Animation in 1970, the production was sponsored by the mother of downtown performance, La Mama’s Ellen Stewart. In 1971, Breuer directed Samuel Beckett’s Come and Go under the Brooklyn Bridge in a performance that anticipated Maleczech’s 2007 piece Song for New York —here the audience viewed the reflections of the performers in the East River. After years as East Village nomads, Joseph Papp invited co-artistic directors Akalaitis, Breuer, Glass, Maleczech, Fred Neumann and Warrilow to take up residency at the Public Theater in the mid 1970s. Thus, unabashedly avant-garde performance was institutionalized within the structure of New York theater, albeit in a marginalized position—Papp described Mabou Mines artists as his “black sheep.” [9] Those black sheep used the stability of the Public’s performance space to produce work on a larger scale than previously possible, although they continued to pursue more intimate works as well. Red Horse and the company’s early forays into Beckett were minimalist spectacles. In the Public’s Old Prop Shop, Akalaitis and company’s sprawling Dead End Kids (1980) was devised by more than thirty multidisciplinary collaborators and featured a cast of fifteen. The company’s residency at the Public lasted into the mid 1980s. Mabou Mines’s bold and diverse aesthetic aims, spurred by its collective structure, meant that the company continued to exploit the rawness of failure and success in emergent downtown performance spaces. Another Beckett text, Maleczech’s performance installation based on the short story Imagination Dead Imagine , was presented at the Wooster Group’s space, the Performing Garage, in 1984. Mabou Mines was part of a movement of New York avant-garde companies activating new spaces, often ones that were unequipped for the mechanics of performance. “Theatre artists,” McAuley points out, “are frequently obliged to work in buildings designed for earlier periods, and this can cause problems if there is too great a distance between the practice of theatre as predicated by the building and practices deemed appropriate to the present by the artists (and spectators) involved.” [10] The Mabou Mines artistic directors are among those theatre artists McAuley describes. In order to imagine how a new, technologically sophisticated space might alter Mabou Mines’s aesthetic, it is crucial to consider the ways in which the company’s former spartan site in 122 Community Center contributed to past works. For thirty-five years, the company’s administrative operations were run out of a tiny office and productions were rehearsed, workshopped, and often presented in the adjoining, bare bones ToRoNaDa studio. The ToRoNaDa was a large rectangular classroom with giant windows, midnight blue walls and a basic lighting grid named in honor of four deceased collaborators: Tony Vasconcellos, Ron Vawter, Nancy Graves, and David Warrilow. Appropriately enough, it is also a nickname for “no bull.” [11] It accommodated approximately 50 seats. The walls opposite the windows were lined with built-in cabinets fronted by chalk boards—relics of the room’s past life as a classroom. A loft space over an improvised office in the northeast corner of the room doubled not only as storage for lighting equipment but also as a staging area, featuring prominently in works such as Belén: A Book of Hours (1999), when Monica Dionne was stationed there as she provided contemporary commentary on the history of the notorious Mexican women’s prison. In this case, as in many others, the ToRoNaDa’s poor theater aesthetic provided a springboard for creative choices that were critically lauded; performers Liliana Felipe and Jesusa Rodriguez were honored with OBIE special citations and Julie Archer was nominated for the American Theatre Wing’s Hewes Design award. This charmingly dilapidated home, though constant, was insufficient for supporting the company’s integration of technology with live performance. Though Archer used projections artfully in Belén , her projection design for Lucia’s Chapters of Coming Forth by Day (2011; premiere 2007 at Colby College), based on the life of Lucia Joyce and directed by Fogarty, found a more sophisticated backdrop down the hall from the ToRoNaDa at Performance Space 122’s larger theater. A consideration of the history of this institution and other peers in the East Village contextualizes the growing pains Mabou Mines is experiencing as it faces its future in a refurbished space. The company has long shared the building with Performance Space 122, Painting Space 122, and the AIDS Service Center. Performance Space 122, better known as PS122, and now known as Performance Space New York, was founded in 1980 and quickly became integral to East Village theater and hosted artists including Karen Finley, Holly Hughes, Spalding Gray, Penny Arcade, and Carmelita Tropicana. Its past, like Mabou Mines’s, is intricately connected to its geography. The organization proudly acknowledges its role in East Village history on its website: “As decades passed the city became cleaner, safer, greener and more expensive, and the neighborhood gentrified. Although PS122 became an ‘institution’ during this time, it also managed to retain its gritty non-conformist character.” [12] PS122 audiences grew intimately familiar not only with its bold programming of audacious artists, but also with its awkward horizontal layout and the Ionic columns that intruded into the stage pictures. The institution bills its new, custom spaces as “column-free.” These larger theaters “raise the roof to feature a two-story ceiling allowing for more agency for artists and more expansive experiences” for viewers. [13] In a sign of how significant the renovation is for Mabou Mines’s fellow tenants, PS122 has changed its name to Performance Space New York: a new name for a new architectural and artistic life. The changes to the interiors and inhabitants of downtown performance sites are not limited to 122 Community Center. The Old Prop Shop is no more. Richard Foreman bequeathed his Ontological-Hysteric Theater at St. Mark’s Church, itself the former site of Theatre Genesis, to Incubator Arts, a new generation of artists who were unable to sustain the space. The Living Theatre has gained and lost three East Village spaces, closing their 14 th street space in 1963, its Third Avenue space in 1993, and residing at its Clinton Street theater from 2008 to 2013. The Living has now returned to the nomadic state embedded in its history. La Mama has been more successful at putting down permanent spatial roots, expanding into two large buildings of prime property. This, too reflects institutional emphasis; as a producer, Ellen Stewart prioritized real estate from La Mama’s founding. New York Theatre Workshop, founded in 1979, opened its own scenery, costume, and production shop in 2011. Recent advances by La Mama and NYTW have been supported by the Fourth Arts Block (FAB) Cultural District, founded in 2001 by neighborhood cultural and community groups. The organization’s mission included the purchase of eight properties from the City of New York to “secure them as permanently affordable spaces for non-profit arts and cultural organizations.” [14] The refurbished space Mabou Mines inhabits includes a high-tech, 50-seat performance venue, a modern office, dressing rooms, storage space, and two rehearsal studios. Audiences no longer ascend well-worn stairs with intricate, wrought iron detailing in a dank stairwell, but enter instead through an airy and modern lobby and glide up to the theater in an elevator. The move into a deluxe suite marks the dawn of a new era for Mabou Mines in more ways than one. Maleczech died in 2013, leaving Breuer as the last remaining co-founding artistic director at the company’s helm. But both Glass Guignol and Faust 2.0 continue the company’s tradition of radicalizing classic works. And both take up recent and present company concerns, confronting the pleasure and pain of waiting as Clare and Felice tread water onstage and Faust postpones the consequences of mortality. It remains to be seen how the spectacle of a swanky, gut-renovated East Village building will continue to foreground risk for a company founded by a group of artists who once shared an apartment and worked as short order cooks in the same restaurant. After all, as McAuley suggests, “the point of access to the building, the foyers, stairways, corridors, bars and restaurants, the box office, and of course the auditorium are all parts” of the audience experience, “and the way we experience them has an unavoidable impact on the meanings we take away with us.” [15] Mabou Mines artists are unlikely to be terribly concerned about this. A space that will support the needs of their adventurous exploitation of technology and distinctive integration of design elements in early phases of development is surely overdue for the half-century-old company. Levin offers a useful claim in support of Mabou Mines’s colonization of renovated real estate: “While performance critics often view the absorption of self into setting as a troubling act of submission – reading ‘blending in’ as evidence of assimilation or erasure…it can also facilitate socially productive ways of inhabiting our physical and cultural environments.” [16] In this sense, the company’s absorption into a refurbished habitat signals a “socially productive” and crucial cultural acknowledgment of their contribution to the East Village in particular and to New York City at large. Attainment in Other Spaces Although the ToRoNaDa was undoubtedly a hub of creativity for Mabou Mines and served as an occasional performance space for full productions, its schoolroom aesthetic and limited technical capabilities meant that the company presented most performances off-site. The co-artistic directors’ early and sustained affinity for Beckett’s works reflects, in part, the resonance they found in the playwright’s ability to dramatize a perpetual state of limbo. This is certainly echoed in the company’s commitment to taking artistic risks regardless of the critical consequences, but also in Mabou Mines’s transitory relationship to the many performance sites away from 122 Community Center where its work has been presented. While the Living Theater’s work has always been suited to their nomadic existence, this is not necessarily the case for Mabou Mines (even the company’s name refers to a specific place in Nova Scotia). Although it is atypical for artists to rehearse regularly in performance spaces prior to technical rehearsals (the cost would be prohibitive), the resulting geographical split between process and product presents a particular challenge for Mabou Mines’s synthesis of the two, in part because the company emphasizes the early integration of design elements. This artificial divide is likely to have affected Mabou Mines artists’ goals as well as critical reception of works performed away from the ToRoNaDa. Confronting the unknown quantity of off-site space thus presents yet another risk the company has been willing to take. While its many awards and critical successes are likely responsible for the upgrades to Mabou Mines’s home, it may be its so-called failures that truly reveal Mabou Mines’s avant-garde mettle. As Beckett writes in Three Dialogues , “To be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail, that failure is his world… .” [17] But to what extent do Mabou Mines co-artistic directors take critical reception into consideration? Maleczech claimed she mailed negative reviews to a post office box unread. One way to understand how Mabou Mines artists evaluate their process and product given their healthy disregard for critical accolades is to examine works that others perceive to have failed but which make a significant contribution to the company’s sustained artistic priorities, despite a tension between their goals and the performance space in which they have found themselves. In the productions examined here, negative reviews are attributable, in part, to fundamental misunderstandings about the relationship between the company’s marriage of process and product and a lack of sensitivity to variables presented by the performance space. I will rely primarily on reviews from the New York Times , in part because the company’s critical ups and downs are most readily apparent in the context of a single source and because, for better or worse, the Times wields an outsized influence as an arbiter of theatrical taste. It is also useful to consider how Mabou Mines artists conceptualize their relationship to the audience in considering their creative values and prerogatives. Maleczech presented an ambitious project in 2007 that represents a logical progression of many of the company’s collective origins and impulses. Song for New York: What Women Do While Men Sit Knitting was organized around original poems about New York City, and produced site-specifically on a barge docked in the East River in Long Island City, Queens. Admission was free; Maleczech described the performance as her gift to the home that had given so generously to her as an artist. The landscape of reviews is mixed, but Claudia La Rocco, writing for the New York Times , panned the production in no uncertain terms: “This self-proclaimed ‘celebration of New York City’ by the collaborative theater ensemble Mabou Mines does not inspire. It does not satisfy. It does little more than prompt head shaking at all the very hard work and passion that must have been squandered in getting it off the ground.” [18] This is resounding critical disapproval. But what does Song for New York mean in the context of the company’s taste for adventurous collisions between process and product? As audience members arrived at Gantry State Park for performances of Song for New York , they could enter a photo booth and have their pictures taken with a pinhole camera as part of an interactive design (by former co-artistic director Julie Archer) that emphasized New York as a hometown. Spectators then gathered on the dock for the show. Maleczech had commissioned five artists to write poems, one for each borough. Some of the writers, such as Migdalia Cruz and Patricia Spears Jones, were seasoned playwrights. Another, Kandel—now a Mabou Mines co-artistic director—is primarily a performer. All of the writers and featured performers were women who represented a range of cultural backgrounds. Poems were set to live music. A chorus of men delivered interludes, or “yarns,” inspired by the city’s bodies of water as the barge—and the performance itself—rocked gently on the East River. Maleczech’s thank you note to New York was nothing if not writ large. While La Rocco’s review of Song for New York gestures towards an acknowledgment of Mabou Mines’s collective structure, it does not engage the relationship between product and what, even after thirty-seven years, remained a radical way of working in an unusual space. The text was not devised by the Song for New York company; each writer worked independently on her own contribution. This is precisely how Mabou Mines co-artistic directors operate. Productions initiated by artistic directors are produced in a queue. Often, co-artistic directors collaborate on developing new work, as Archer did in designing the barge and shore set for Song for New York ; but there is no requirement that co-artistic directors be artistically involved in every project. In this case, Breuer and O’Reilly did not collaborate. Such artistic independence and choice are hallmarks of the company’s self-defined success. [19] Song for New York is equally revealing of Mabou Mines’s staunch commitment to artistic risk. In inviting Kandel, known for her performance work, to participate as a writer, Maleczech demonstrated a zest for interdisciplinary exploration. The decision to commission women writers and performers of varied cultural backgrounds takes subtle yet unmistakable aim at patriarchal historiographic and artistic convention. Here, widely diverse female voices tell the story of a great American city. This is a more inclusive Walt Whitman for the twenty-first century. Maleczech envisioned performance on an epic scale, integrating a male chorus and live music and refusing to give up on the idea of the barge space even in the face of dire economic consequences and logistical nightmares. [20] In her invocation of New York City’s waterways alongside its diverse population, she evokes Levin’s idea of a “performance’s ‘environmental unconscious,’” a “notion of ‘site-specificity,’ central to space-sensitive performance practices” that “call attention to marginalized entities (human and non-human) and thus directly engage with the political dimensions of art making.” [21] While this production may not have satisfied the New York Times , Song for New York insists upon the political nature of public space and demonstrates avant-garde ideals in its embrace of an interdisciplinary way of working, its rejection of inherited societal standards, and its rebuff of bourgeois economic and logistical concerns as well as conventional spatial expectations. The complexity of the site for this production also tested the company’s organizational agility, perhaps preparing them for their unforeseen extended exile from 122 Community Center. Finn (2010), directed by Fogarty, also disappointed an establishment New York Times critic. Following in the company’s tradition of adaptation, Finn is a technologically ambitious live-action video game riff on the Celtic legend of Finn McCool described by Jason Zinoman as “soul-less.” It was presented at New York University’s enormous, state-of-the-art Skirball Center for the Arts. In his review Zinoman contrasts Mabou Mines’s use of technology unfavorably with the Wooster Group’s, arguing that “most theater companies fail to integrate video as well as the Wooster Group does.” [22] The Wooster Group, probably Mabou Mines’s closest peer in sustained theatrical invention, has had its own permanent space in which to rehearse and perform since its founding. When Wooster Group audiences arrive at the Performing Garage, they already have a context for the work they will see there and the company is in the enviable position of rehearsing where they frequently perform. Meanwhile, the cavernous Skirball Center, which seats 867, is strikingly dissimilar to the modest ToRoNaDa. Although Finn was not Mabou Mines’s debut at the Skirball Center—the company had presented Red Beads there in 2005—the space is not one that audiences and critics automatically associate with the company. The effects of this estrangement between performance and performance space for artists, audiences, and critics, are perhaps unquantifiable, but nonetheless significant for a company that is at once process-driven and technologically ambitious. Zinoman also fails to acknowledge that Mabou Mines was on the vanguard of technological innovation in the American avant-garde with the Red Horse Animation before the Wooster Group was founded. For this production, Philip Glass’s specially designed flooring amplified the sound performers’ bodies made as they came in contact with it. Hajj (1983), written and directed by Breuer and featuring Maleczech, was one of the first American productions to combine video with live theatrical performance. The OBIE-award winning Hajj was a result of a collaboration with SONY that allowed the company to work with state-of-the art equipment. In fact, it was partially developed at the Wooster Group’s Performing Garage, where Imagination Dead Imagine , groundbreaking in its holographic vision, would also be presented. Writing for the New York Times in 1983, Mel Gussow lauds Mabou Mines for its integration of video in Hajj : “the pictures in this mysterious piece – contrasting, overlapping, coalescing -demonstrate the virtuosity of video as an instrument in live performance art.” [23] Zinoman’s review omits Finn ’s context within the company’s pioneering history of utilizing cutting-edge stage technology. For the company, however, Fogarty’s encounter with video gaming is a part of a logical progression in an ongoing engagement with technology—one that its longtime space was incapable of adequately supporting. Audiences, too, have sometimes found Mabou Mines’s work perplexing. This befuddlement is often tied to the inventive nature of the work. In one such case, audience confusion derived from the technological accomplishments Zinoman overlooks. A representative of Actor’s Equity Association attending Imagination Dead Imagine sought to confirm that the performer who played the hologram was being treated properly. This hologram was a pre-recorded image of Maleczech’s daughter, Clove Galilee, dissected into three parts—to produce a single holographic image of that size was not technologically possible at the time. The result was the largest hologram ever to be featured on stage at the time of Imagination Dead Imagine’s premiere. Maleczech recalled showing the holographic equipment to the Actor’s Equity Association envoy to demonstrate that there was no one inside. Here Mabou Mines’s innovations outpaced at least one audience member’s technological literacy. In another instance, spectators were uncomfortable with stylistic interventions the company introduced to a classic text. When the company presented a workshop of Lear (1987), initiated by Maleczech and directed by Breuer at the George Street Playhouse in New Brunswick, New Jersey, half of the audience walked out. Although Maleczech ultimately won an OBIE for her performance, the production confronted spectators with a number of disruptions: a gender reversed cast featuring a female Lear (long before Glenda Jackson), a drag queen Fool (played by Greg Mehrten), dogs as Lear’s retinue, and golf carts tricked out as sports cars to transport performers around an American Southern setting. Here too the juxtaposition between site and content may have augmented the gap between expectation and reality for audiences. But as Richard Caves writes, “The smaller the pecuniary rewards of normal creativity, the more attractive are the highly uncertain and largely subjective rewards of assaulting the aesthetic frontier.” [24] Maleczech once lamented that many contemporary artists assume they “know what the audience wants to eat for dinner.” [25] Mabou Mines simply serves what is on their menu. This may suggest that the company does not consider the audience. Rather, Mabou Mines artists set high expectations for both spectators and themselves, challenging us to meet them in the middle in performance. Breuer identifies a dialectical relationship between audience reception and his work. Maleczech, meanwhile, described a process of attracting the audience’s attention without pandering to them: “you startle them or you push what you are doing so far that you get them to laugh, or you do the opposite of what you’re doing, and you have them for a second, and then you lose them again.” [26] Both approaches suggest an experience of performance that is reciprocal without being coerced. In Mabou Mines’s new space, the potential risks (or lack thereof) for artists and audiences are also evenly balanced. Artists will have tools that more easily and comfortably accessible, and audiences will know what to expect technically and architecturally at 122 Community Center, marking a departure from Mabou Mines’s history of producing in a variety of New York City venues. Will this lull spectators (and critics) into a state of comfort that is at odds with the alertness Breuer and Maleczech seek? Despite the potential excitement of what Sarah Bess Rowen described as a “masturbatory bubble cycle” [27] —a bubble machine resembling a bicycle positioned between Mitchell’s legs during a ready-made of Williams’s A Cavalier for Milady —Alexis Soloski complains in her review of Glass Guignol for the New York Times that the production fails to surprise the audience. In this brand-new theater, many of Mr. Breuer’s gestures, like a mostly nude Christ or Meganne George’s fetishwear costumes, point back to the company’s 1970s and 1980s heyday. This is shock treatment with a low current.Mabou Mines was always an exemplar of the theatrical avant-garde. The company is nearly 50 now. Maybe its members have slowed down. Maybe the rest of us have finally caught up. [28] Soloski’s critique suggests that the company may confront a new audience mentality attuned to its new space, one that requires a recalibration of the relationship to critical reception. But as is usual for Mabou Mines artists, Breuer and Mitchell seem to have accounted for this possibility; the company takes up the question of critical failure in its project description: “Glass Guignol explores the nature of the creative process, its triumphs…and its terrors.” [29] Despite Soloski’s concerns, Glass Guignol is best contextualized as part of a meta-conversation within the company’s work, and Breuer and Mitchell’s in particular. Coming on the heels of their celebrated 2011 production of A Streetcar Named Desire at the Comédie Française, which marked the first time in the theater’s 330 years that a play by an American writer was presented there, Glass Guignol continues Breuer and Mitchell’s interrogation of Williams’s work. Glass Guignol also takes up an artistic engagement with the history of Parisian theater, referencing the Grand Guignol—Paris’s late-nineteenth to mid-twentieth century “bucket of blood” horror theatre—in its title and utilization of the grotesque. This stylistic affiliation is evident throughout the performance. Aside from Mitchell’s encounter with the bubble-cycle, at one point in the performance an actor dressed as a chained gorilla in a tutu makes an appearance; an S & M Nijinsky also materializes only to become the Gentleman Caller. These fleeting, cacophonous, and often opaque references are themselves homages to ghosts of Duchamp (but perhaps von Freytag-Loringhoven) and Alfred Jarry—two French artists renowned for playful, well-choreographed chaos, whose philosophies were foundational to Breuer in developing Glass Guignol . Glass Guignol also articulates an explicit but obscure link between the Grand Guignol and Tennessee Williams. As Annette Saddick notes, “In a page typed by Williams and dated August 1982, located in the archives of the Harvard Theatre Collection, he announces his plan for what he calls ‘Williams’ Guignol ,’ three evenings in repertoire of late plays in this tradition.” [30] In addition to “The Two Character Play,” the company also cites the relationship between Williams and his sister Rose as a guiding narrative in Glass Guignol ’s patchwork of references to plays, short stories, and poems by the writer. This microscopic engagement with intricacies of theatre history is typical of Breuer’s method of radically resurrecting classic works, as when he was inspired by Zora Neale Hurston’s connection between African-American church traditions and Greek tragedy in creating The Gospel of Colonus (1983), an adaptation of Oedipus at Colonus set in a gospel church. Nevertheless, the juxtaposition inherent in Soloski’s critique between a half-century old company and the experience for audiences in a slickly renovated space remains. Once again, Beckett has expressed the challenge Mabou Mines artists face. “We are disappointed at the nullity of what we are pleased to call attainment,” he writes in his essay Proust , “But what is attainment? The identification of the subject with the object of his desire. The subject has died—and perhaps many times—along the way.” [31] What will rise from the ashes on Mabou Mines’s next try in their new space? A New Generation Mabou Mines is not only at a longitudinal crossroads, but also at a philosophical one. Breuer is the only founding co-artistic director remaining at the company’s helm. Julie Archer, who began working with the company in the late 1970s and became a co-artistic director in 2005, resigned her post in 2013, following Maleczech’s death. O’Reilly and Fogarty have been artistic directors since 1973 and 1999, respectively, and remain with the company. Kandel, who first worked with the company on Lear , is the newest co-artistic director. This transition from artistic associate to guiding voice will surely invite permutations of past investigations as well as fresh endeavors, but she is hardly a newcomer to the company. One radical way to consider the company’s ever-changing aesthetic is to consider the work of a new generation of artistic associates in Clove Galilee and David Neumann. Significantly, both are children of Mabou Mines artists: Galilee is the daughter of Breuer and Maleczech and Neumann is the son of Fred Neumann and the late artistic associate Honora Fergusson. Both founded their own performance companies that have co-produced new work with Mabou Mines since 2015. These co-produced pieces, Imagining the Imaginary Invalid and I Understand Everything Better , present intergenerational, meta-theatrical and meta-historical questions about the future failure or success of Mabou Mines. Wickets , another production by Galilee’s company, takes sustained Mabou Mines priorities in new directions. By briefly examining these artistic contributions by Neumann and Galilee, we can begin to speculate on what we might see on the company’s new stage in its reconfigured space. Of the offspring of Mabou Mines artists, Galilee has been the most frequent collaborator on Mabou Mines productions. Her company, Trick Saddle, co-founded with her wife Jenny Rogers, has produced or co-produced several bold productions. Wickets (2009) re-conceptualizes Maria Irene Fornes’s canonical feminist play Fefu and Her Friends , setting it on a trans-Atlantic flight by installing a recreated 1970s airplane in New York’s 3-Legged Dog (3LD) Art and Technology Center. Fornes’s characters become flight attendants. Seated as passengers, the audience goes along for the ride on this fictitious feminist flight. In a clever alteration of Fornes’s five environments, performers stage scenes in the nooks and crannies on the plane: aisles, galleys and bathrooms become playing areas. Here Galilee and Rogers escalate the tension Fornes exposes between women’s public and private selves. Wickets , developed as part of Mabou Mines/Suite residency program, follows in the footsteps of the company’s interest in adaptation. Feminist representation has also been a sustained priority for the company, and here we see Galilee and Rogers in the process of exploring original ways to stage feminism. This new generation of feminist artists brings a fresh perspective that may be gradually incorporated into Mabou Mines’s shifting process and product. Trick Saddle’s foray into new terrain brings with it the usual critical attempt to parse failure and success. In an otherwise positive review for the Village Voice , Garrett Eisler notes, “There’s much for Fefu fans to dispute in this radical adaptation…and, inevitably, many details just don’t translate,” citing in particular the production’s titular airborne game of croquet. [32] In TimeOut , Helen Shaw also praises Wickets but takes the production to task for evading “Fornes’s free-floating dread,” finding it excessively “sweet.” [33] It is too soon to know precisely where Galilee’s Generation X perspective on feminism will take the company’s aesthetics, but the journey is undoubtedly underway. Imagining the Imaginary Invalid was initiated by Maleczech for Mabou Mines based on Molière’s Imaginary Invalid and Versailles Impromptu as well as the history of medicine. Galilee, who began as a collaborator, became the lead artist and Trick Saddle a co-producer when Maleczech died before the project was completed. Galilee’s keenest contribution was her insistent underscoring of Maleczech’s absence. In a certain sense, the production, which never came to fruition in Maleczech’s lifetime, stages the failure of the human body and the limits of medical intervention. In a doctor’s office scene during which Maleczech declines further treatment for cancer, Marylouise Burke plays Maleczech, Christianna Nelson plays Galilee, and Galilee plays the doctor. This dislocated round-robin casting is a visceral reminder that the real Maleczech is not there, as is a chair that sits empty on stage for much of the performance. Galilee’s intervention in Imagining the Imaginary Invalid follows in the footsteps of another Mabou Mines production in its meta-theatrical representation of personal family drama: Hajj was based in part on Maleczech’s regret about an unpaid debt. Her father died before she had the opportunity to repay the money he lent her to her to fund her first directing work, Vanishing Pictures . Fittingly, Imagining the Imaginary Invalid was staged at the Ellen Stewart Theater at La Mama: another old company’s new space. David Neumann’s co-production with Mabou Mines also exteriorizes his private process of mourning parents who were public figures of the theatre. Neumann, a Bessie-award winning director, choreographer, and performer, founded the Advanced Beginner Group, which “utilizes experimental dance-making approaches with a humorous outlook and an inclusive layering of disciplines to create complex, thought-provoking dance works.” [34] I Understand Everything Better , which premiered at the Abrons Arts Center in 2015, was inspired by Hurricane Sandy and the death of Neumann’s parents in 2012. Honora Fergusson passed away quickly in July of that year, while Fred Neumann was in the throes of a long decline into dementia. “‘He would have terrible dreams,’” David Neumann told the New Yorker ’s Joan Acocella, “‘He’d wake up and tell me. He was driving in the mountains and there was all this furniture in the road. He didn’t know how to get past it.’” Acocella documents the younger Neumann’s correlation to Hurricane Sandy: “Meanwhile, on the TV, weathermen would stand on beaches and report that the hurricane was moving north.” [35] She also makes note of another parallel: Fred Neumann’s ignominious aging process and his history of performing Beckett’s unflinching exposure of mortal fragility with Mabou Mines. While David Neumann does not reference Beckett explicitly in his piece, he embodies the link between the storm and his father’s decline by playing both a meteorologist and “a man of distinction.” As Gia Kourlas writes for the New York Times , the production “dances around dementia and double meanings – the cleanup of a storm, the cleanup of a body….” [36] Those familiar with Fred Neumann’s fluency in Beckett’s works can connect the dots easily enough. I Understand Everything Better is also linked to Mabou Mines’s aesthetic in its pastiche style, evident in its juxtaposition of comedy and pathos and blend of Japanese dance-theatre techniques, weather reports, and family history. Imagining the Imaginary Invalid and I Understand Everything Better dramatize Galilee and Neumann’s process of grappling in artistic terms with the personal and aesthetic legacies of their parents. These productions are thus apt metaphors for Mabou Mines’s current liminal state in its newly minted space under the guidance of an updated composition of co-artistic directors and artistic associates. Galilee and Neumann’s works show us both where the company is now and suggests where it might be going. How will the next generation of Mabou Mines artists “try again” in the refurbished 122 Community Center? Both came of age as artists in upgraded performance spaces in the East Village and in newer, sophisticated spaces for alternative work that appeared in surrounding neighborhoods; Neumann has worked regularly in a number of capacities at NYTW and Wickets premiered at 3LD in lower Manhattan. Although Guignol baptized the new theater, it was work by a former Mabou Mines resident artist that spoke particularly poignantly about the ebb and flow of the company’s past and future. Mallory Catlett’s This Was the End , a cerebral rumination on Uncle Vanya , was presented at the refurbished space in June 2018. Catlett developed the piece between 2009 and 2011 as a resident artist in SUITE/Space, a residency program that provides artists with space, mentorship, and funds to create new work. Mabou Mines resident artists worked in the ToRoNaDa studio prior to the renovation, and Catlett came to rely upon the built-in cabinets along the wall in her spatial conception of the piece. “I knew the building was going to be renovated,” Catlett writes in her director’s note, “so I asked Mabou if I could take it and they said yes. This wall carries with it a history of their generosity. Think of all the things that happened in front of it.” [37] This Was the End was commissioned by and presented at the Chocolate Factory in Queens in 2014. Catlett stored the cabinet in her parents’ barn before returning it to the reconfigured 122 Community Center for this revival. Catlett employs several strategies to distort the relationship between past and present. She casts older actors to play the typically youthful Sonya and Yelena; Black-Eyed Susan as the former and Rae C. Wright as the latter. As a result, not just Vanya, but Yelena too seems to be a fly stuck in amber. Any hopes we had that Sonya might have escaped are dashed; the three are trapped where Chekhov left them in 1898 but now aged (as Chekhov’s characters are in Brian Friel’s Afterplay [2002]). The production also features prominent performers from the history of downtown New York performance: in addition to Black-Eyed Susan, a founding member of Charles Ludlam’s Ridiculous Theatrical Company, Paul Zimet, a member of the Open Theater, plays Vanya. There is a jarring juxtaposition between the rugged East Village history that Black-Eyed Susan and Zimet personify and the sleek interior of the updated building. And then there is the cabinet. Extracted from its schoolhouse surroundings, the cabinet appears to float in the cavernous, ageless black box, the last ice cap in the melting Antarctic of a twenty-first century East Village. But the cabinet does not appear exactly as it did in the ToRoNaDa—the interior has been embellished in size to accommodate the presence of more than one performer. For those familiar with the original built-in, the revelation that even the cabinet has been renovated augments the strange sensation that actors and audience are caught outside of temporal boundaries. One performer, G Lucas Crane, remains inside the cabinet for the entire performance, playing cassette tape recordings of Sonya, Vanya, Astrov, and Yelena back to them. This archivist is literally, corporeally, stuck in the past. The use of the old cabinet in this new-old space emphasizes what McAuley describes as “the constant dual presence of the performance space and the fictional world or worlds created. The space the spectator is watching during the performance…is always both stage and somewhere else. … [H]owever convincing the fictional world may be, the stage itself is always also present at some level of our consciousness.” [38] Here, Catlett simultaneously evokes 122 Community Center pre- and post-renovation, engaging in what Levin might describe as “a mischievous tactic of” spatial “infiltration.” [39] Video work by Crane and Ryan Holsopple further warps our sensibilities. As the performers climb in and out of the cabinet and circle it, looking for someone or something, pre-recorded images of the performers doing the same thing flicker eerily on the cabinet’s façade and on the actors as we watch Chekhov’s characters try to catch up with or outrun other versions of themselves. “We were working with Uncle Vanya ,” Catlett explains but also with Proust’s notion of time as the convergence of past and present, which came from optics—the popular science of his day. The stereoscope showed how our eyes worked to create three-dimensional perception and Proust applied this to memory. In the studio we were projecting and mapping this wall onto itself—playing with the idea of blur and convergence. [40] In a certain sense, This Was the End fills in the dramatic dots between Chekov and Beckett. Time and habit have worn Catlett’s characters into threadbare versions of the originals who are still waiting. “There is no escape from the hours and the days,” Beckett writes on Proust, Neither from tomorrow nor from yesterday. There is no escape from yesterday because yesterday has deformed us, or been deformed by us. The mood is of no importance. Deformation has taken place. Yesterday is not a milestone that has been passed, but a daystone on the beaten track of the years, and irremediably part of us, within us, heavy and dangerous. [41] In Guignol , Breuer and Mitchell stage the artist as Frankenstein as they transmogrify The Glass Menagerie ’s Laura into a monster, stitching Mitchell into a gruesome, larger-than-life puppet. Catlett’s monster is a theatre purgatory where Chekhov, Beckett, and Mabou Mines co-artistic directors come and gone collide with East Village architecture of the past and present. In Mabou Mines’s new space, This Was the End bids a fond farewell to 122 Community Center as we knew it. In an homage to the ToRoNaDa, Fogarty says that the new theater was initially painted midnight blue, the color Archer selected for the walls of the former studio. But the blue walls were quickly painted over with black for the Guignol set. A flash of blue remains on the ceiling, just visible behind the lighting grid. This is for the best; should the company insist upon a distinction between its past and future, it would betray the boundaries of its own avant-garde perspective which refuses to categorize process and product in oppositional terms. For Mabou Mines artists, as for Beckett, “The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.” [42] The purgatory of performance space can be ecstasy as well as agony. Each day in Mabou Mines’s new theater is an opportunity to try again. References [1] Josh Jones, “The Iconic Urinal & Work of Art, ‘Fountain,’ Wasn’t Created by Marcel Duchamp But by the Pioneering Dada Artist Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven,” OpenCulture.com, http://www.openculture.com/2018/07/the-iconic-urinal-work-of-art-fountain-wasnt-created-by-marcel-duchamp.html . Accessed July 17, 2018. [2] Gay McAuley, Space in Performance: Making Meaning in the Theatre (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999), 69. [3] Samuel Beckett, Worstward Ho in Samuel Beckett: The Grove Centenary Edition , Volume IV, edited by Paul Auster (New York: Grove Press, 2006), 471. [4] Mabou Mines was founded in 1970. For thorough discussion of the company’s founding and its work in the 1970s, see Iris Smith Fisher, Mabou Mines: Making Avant-Garde Theater in the 1970s (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2011). [5] Lee Breuer, in discussion, “Ruth Maleczech: Art + Impact,” Martin E. Segal Theatre Center, CUNY Graduate Center, New York, NY, 7 April 2014. [6] Laura Levin, Performing Ground: Space, Camouflage, and the Art of Blending In (Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan, 2014), 7. [7] McAuley, 41. [8] Kim Solga with Shelly Orr and D.J. Hopkins, “Introduction: City/Text/Performance” in Performance and the City , edited by Kim Solga, Shelly Orr, and D.J. Hopkins (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 6. [9] “History,” Mabou Mines website. For thorough discussion of the company’s founding and its work in the 1970s, see Fisher. [10] McAuley, 38. [11] For more information on the origins of the studio’s name, see “Program History/Artist Alumni,” Mabou Mines website, www.maboumines.org/residency/program-historyartist-alumni . Accessed 29 August 2017. [12] “About,” PS122 website, www.ps122.org/about. Accessed 21 August 2017. [13] Ibid . [14] “Mission,” FABnyc website, fabnyc.org/mission. Accessed 21 August 2017. [15] McAuley, 25-26. [16] Levin, 14. [17] Samuel Beckett, “Three Dialogues” in Samuel Beckett: The Grove Centenary Edition , Volume IV, edited by Paul Auster (New York: Grove Press, 2006) 563. [18] Claudia La Rocco, “An Affectionate Shout-Out to New York,” review of Song for New York by Mabou Mines, The New York Times, 3 September 2007, www.nytimes.com/2007/09/03/theater/reviews/03song.html . Accessed 9 August 2017. [19] For a more extensive examination of Mabou Mines’s collective structure and aesthetic and a number of productions discussed here, see Jessica Silsby Brater, Ruth Maleczech at Mabou Mines: Woman’s Work (New York: Bloomsbury, 2016). [20] Maleczech’s original vision was to present the performance on docks in Manhattan, Brooklyn, the Bronx, and Staten Island, as well as in Queens. But the cost, which included a hefty fee for both the barge and the tug needed to move the barge, was prohibitively expensive, even if the company had been willing to charge for tickets. [21] Levin, 27-28. [22] Jason Zinoman, “Celtic Tale Becomes Video Game for the Stage,” review of FINN by Mabou Mines, The New York Times , 5 March 2010, www.nytimes.com/2010/03/06/theater/reviews/06finn.html. Accessed 9 August 2017. [23] Mel Gussow, “‘Hajj,’ A Journey by Monologue,” review of Hajj by Mabou Mines, The New York Times , 11 May 1983, www.nytimes.com/1983/05/11/theater/theater-hajj-a-journey-by-monologue.html . Accessed 10 August 2017. [24] Richard E. Caves, Creative Industries: Contracts between Art and Commerce (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2000), 204. [25] Ruth Maleczech, interviews conducted by the author between July 2011 and March 2012. [26] Ibid. [27] Sarah Bess Rowen, “Through the Looking Glass Darkly: Lee Breuer and Maude Mitchell’s Glass Guignol: The Brother Sister Play,” review of Glass Guignol by Mabou Mines, The Huffington Post , 14 December 2017, https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/through-the-looking-glass-darkly-lee-breuer-and-maude_us_5a32d032e4b0e7f1200cf93e . Accessed 21 June 2018. [28] Alexis Soloski, Review of Glass Guignol by Mabou Mines, The New York Times , 17 December 2017, https://www.nytimes.com/2017/12/11/theater/review-glass-guignol-tennessee-williams-mabou-mines.html . Accessed 25 June 2018. [29] “Glass Guignol: The Brother Sister Play,” Mabou Mines website, www.maboumines.org/production/glass-guignol-the-brother-and-sister-play. Accessed 2 October 2019. [30] Annette Saddik, “Glass Guignol: the Brother and Sister Play,” Theatre Review, The Tennessee Williams Annual Review, Number 17, tennesseewilliamsstudies.org/journal/work.php?ID=154 . Accessed 2 October 2019. [31] Samuel Beckett, “Proust” in Samuel Beckett: The Grove Centenary Edition , Volume IV, edited by Paul Auster (New York: Grove Press, 2006), 513. [32] Garrett Eisler, “Wickets is Faux Site-Specific Performance at Its Best,” review of Wickets by Trick Saddle, The Village Voice , 14 January 2009, www.villagevoice.com/2009/01/14/wickets-is-faux-site-specific-performance-at-its-best . Accessed 26 October 2017. [33] Helen Shaw, “Wickets,” review of Wickets by Trick Saddle, Time Out New York , 12 January 2009, www.timeout.com/newyork/theater/wickets. Accessed 26 October 2017. [34] Advanced Beginner Group, “About,” www.advancedbeginnergroup.org/advanced-beginner-group . Accessed 23 October 2017. [35] Joan Acocella, “David Neumann’s I Understand Everything Better,” The New Yorker , 13 April 2015, www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/04/13/dance-a-perfect-storm-joan-acocella . Accessed 23 October 2017. [36] Gia Kourlas, “In ‘I Understand Everything Better,’ Ruthless Elemental Forces,” review of I Understand Everything Better by David Neumann, The New York Times , 20 April 2015, www.nytimes.com/2015/04/21/arts/dance/review-in-i-understand-everything-better-ruthless-elemental-forces.html . Accessed 24 October 2017. [37] Mallory Catlett, “Director’s Note.” Program for Mallory Catlett’s This Was the End at Mabou Mines, New York, NY, 2018, 2. [38] McAuley, 27-28. [39] Levin, 15. [40] Catlett. [41] Beckett, “Proust,” 512. [42] Ibid., 515-516. Footnotes About The Author(s) Jessica Brater is an Assistant Professor and Coordinator of the BA and MA programs in Theatre Studies at Montclair State University. She is also a Community Engaged Teaching and Learning Fellow at Montclair. Forthcoming publications include chapters in Analysing Gender in Performance (Palgrave), the Great North American Stage Directors and American Theatre Ensembles series (both Bloomsbury) and The Cambridge Companion to American Theatre since 1945. Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Worldmaking: Race, Performance, and the Work of Creativity Black Movements: Performance and Cultural Politics Law and Sexuality in Tennessee Williams’s America Stolen Time: Black Fad Performance and the Calypso Craze Staging Family: Domestic Deceptions of Mid-Nineteenth Century American Actresses Excavating American Theatrical History: Branden Jacobs-Jenkins’s Neighbors, Appropriate, and An Octoroon Mabou Mines Tries Again: Past, Present, and the Purgatory of Performance Space Rehearsing Bereavement with Laughter: Grief, Humor, and Estrangement Affect in Sarah Ruhl’s Plays of Mourning Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Mohamadreza Babaee Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 35 2 Visit Journal Homepage Playing Global (re)Entry: Migration, Surveillance, and Digital Artmaking Mohamadreza Babaee By Published on May 26, 2023 Download Article as PDF fig. 1: The installation room for Global (re)Entry. 2D game and multimedia installation. “Unforgetting” exhibition, University of California, Santa Cruz, Apr. 2022. Photo by author. "Have you ever held a grenade in your hands?” The participants read on a monitor screen in a room with a view of the Pacific Ocean (fig. 1). A projector screen obstructs the view and displays the live footage of the participants from a bird’s-eye angle. With white walls, a desk, a chair, and a desktop computer and monitor, the room seems desolate. An ambient soundtrack is playing in the background, projecting various sounds that travelers usually hear in any US airport: the occasional announcements, suitcases being dragged on smooth floors, the beeping sound of various scanning machines, and the occasional roarings of airplanes taking off. If the participants sit behind the computer long enough, they could hear the ambient soundtrack of the airport fading into distant notes of a piano playing in an empty alley, birds chirping in a dim forest, and raindrops falling onto thirsty leaves. The question on the screen remains visible until the participants decide to use a “Cosmic” tool to change it. If they click on the cosmic tool icon on the right side of the screen, hover the mouse over the question, and hold down left-click, the question visually morphs into the same text, with one important difference (fig. 2): “Have you ever held a kitten in your hands?” fig. 2: The redesigned immigration form question. Global (re)Entry, 2D game and multimedia installation. And such is the core mechanic in Global (re)Entry , a video game-multimedia installation that gives the participants an opportunity to rewrite the racially presumptuous questions that immigrants need to answer in their change-of-status petition forms and in-person interviews. [1] Made in collaboration with recent University of California, Santa Cruz (UCSC) alumni, [2] the project was first on display as a part of “Unforgetting,” an MFA exhibition of digital arts and new media projects on display at UCSC from Apr. 22 nd to May 1 st , 2022. The different projects—ranging from video games to multimedia performances—seek to address the common themes of lost histories, hidden realities, and haunting. “The artists,” writes Yolande Harris, an artist-scholar and the exhibition’s curator, “are questioning and actively participating in the destruction of old systems of oppression by imagining new systems in their place.” [3] The system in question in Global (re)Entry is the US immigration system, particularly the process through which an immigrant can petition for residency in the US. While the legal pathway to becoming a permanent resident remains a privileged route to which many undocumented immigrants have no access, Global (re)Entry aims to point out the deficiency and impracticality of legal procedures in the US immigration system built upon historical prejudice and racial bias. In Global (re)Entry , I take a critical and parodic look at the Global Entry program designed by the US Customs and Border Protection agency. Similar to other Trusted Traveler programs, Global Entry allows “low-risk” US citizens and permanent residents to use an automated machine to receive their clearance for crossing international borders. The conditions through which Global Entry considers a traveler as low risk are not disclosed publicly and are open to interpretation and bias. My project borrows textual and visual assets from the US Department of Homeland Security’s (and the associated agencies’) online documents to simulate and repurpose the traveler screening program. The player needs to answer several questions in the game to receive their travel clearance card. However, their resistance to participating in state-sponsored security theatres unlocks a new gameplay branch that leads the player to a utopian way of reimagining the US immigration system. While players can play the game to learn more about unfair border control strategies and oppressive state policies targeting immigrants, they can also creatively redesign discriminatory US immigration forms and generate pro-immigrant, antiracist manifestos. Before discussing the conceptual development of Global (re)Entry in relation to my performance background, I need to elaborate on why I am discussing this project in the special issue of a theatre and performance studies journal. This issue invites reflections on new work development with attention to how theatre artists respond to the realities of the ongoing global pandemic. I designed Global (re)Entry as a playful digital intervention into discriminatory US border politics. Although the project represents my training as an artist in experimental game design, my current work is in continuation of my years-long practice as a theatre director. I started my journey as an artist by designing, directing, and supporting experimental theatre and performance pieces about the memories that immigrants leave behind, the human impact of financial sanctions on Iran, diasporic experiences of queer people of color, and fearmongering and Islamaphobia that ensued after the terrorist attacks of Sep. 11 th , 2001. Over time, I moved away from traditional understandings of theatre to embrace postdramatic and multimedia ways of staging diverse immigrant experiences. Digital mediums and technologies play a central role in my recent projects, but I need to clarify that this digital turn in my practice is not an inevitable assimilation into the techno-utopian rhetorics hailed by megacorporate amalgamations around the country (and the world). Instead, I embraced digital methods of representation and creative intervention as I became increasingly weary of the limited access a live performance space offers to the audience. How could I make more performances about/for immigrants and refugees while many of them did not have the privilege of being in the performance space? The shortcomings of designing a performance around the physical notion of space led me to adapt digital forms of communication, representation, and intervention. Without a doubt, going through a global pandemic, which severely reduced social gatherings, contributed an additional layer to my rationale for opting for a digital sense of performance space as a site of potentials apt for facilitating human-computer interactions. [4] Global (re)Entry represents my investment in interactive digital art as a conditionally more accessible medium [5] while remaining strongly tethered to my experience as a performance maker and scholar. [6] In the following pages, I offer a brief description of Global (re)Entry as a collaborative work of art inspired by my learnings in performance theory. That is not to say that I consider the project a performance piece. Rather, I want to delineate my conceptual itinerary to clarify the significance of performance discourses in my current new work development in digital arts and new media. I am less concerned with disciplinary demarcations and more with the value of interdisciplinary creative production. The initial idea for Global (re)Entry arose from a simple question: What is a utopian vision of the US immigration system? José Esteban Muñoz’s foundational study of utopias informs my investment in utopian art making. Writing on the contemporary politics of queer of color identity formation, Muñoz believes that minoritarian individuals should imagine their lives beyond what he calls the “quagmire of the present.” It is the present-focused thinking that, according to Muñoz, stops the oppressed from imagining a better future outside the contemporary tyranny of systems. Muñoz proposes a “utopian modality” in which feelings, thoughts, and actions follow a utopian function for “fragmenting darkness” and illuminating a “world that should be, that could be, and that will be.” [7] Muñoz dismisses abstract ideas of utopia as they remain dormant in the realm of fantasy. Instead, he calls for concrete conditions of utopia that can invoke a “not-yet-conscious” potentiality, presenting the collective wish of a group that looks back at the “no-longer-conscious” past and renders hopeful “potential blueprints of a world not quite here, a horizon of possibility.” [8] Inspired by such ideas, I approached several immigrants of color that I knew personally and asked them about their utopian visions of the US immigration system. They all expressed a wish to replace the US Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) with a network of support that facilitates border crossing, not border policing. Concomitant to their utopian thinking was a wish for educating more US citizens about the gross flaws in the legal pathway to becoming a resident and the mental, emotional, and material toll the process could take. Global (re)Entry gives the participants an opportunity to take a critical look at the US immigration system and creatively redesign it in utopian ways. Therefore, the project represents what Claudia Costa Pederson calls “utopian ludology,” a critical-creative perspective that considers games as “places of the radical imagination,” sites that take playfulness as “enabling interactions that afford the necessary freedom to generate new kinds of thinking, feeling, and empowerment to concretize a future that dominant culture renders unthinkable.” [9] Games imbued by concrete ideas of utopia, Pederson asserts, can be “tools of persuasion,” which “open up the question of alternatives” and “reject the mimetic ideals… and commodity models of the video game industry.” [10] While I hesitate to label Global (re)Entry as merely a “persuasive game,” I am inspired by persuasive game designers who use video games for “cultural and social change” and “do so in recognition of the persuasive power of the medium, which is based on its appeal to fantasy and imagination.” [11] Utopian survival strategies of the queer of color, as theorized by Muñoz, shaped how I approached making the game. I could certainly try to make a live performance piece about border crossing (something that I had done in the past), but I could not comfortably make art for immigrants, fully knowing that many of them could not cross the myriad of borders to partake in the privilege of live physical co-presence. I remain cognizant of the ongoing debates in the field as to what constitutes liveness, namely Philip Auslander’s provocative assertion that live experiences are culturally and historically codified in relation to technological changes. [12] But if we allow ourselves to decenter our scholarly polemics in favor of making room for lived experiences of those with less transnational mobility, the question at hand might become as simple as who is in the room and who is not. As I mentioned before, digital liveness and digital spaces continue to be subject to the same question, as not everyone has equal access to entering a digital room, but I take the odds of more people worldwide having access to the internet to download a small-size, low-tech video game over US government easing up on admitting more immigrants to the country. fig. 3: Screenshot from a cutscene inside the game. Global (re)Entry. 2D game and multimedia installation. In addition to queer of color critique, I also used critical discussions of border surveillance to design Global (re)Entry . While I borrowed from scholars in different humanities fields, performance theory continued to play an essential role in my development process. Trusted traveler programs such as Global Entry are ostensibly designed to facilitate easier border crossing experiences, but in fact, they are just a ruse for easy screening of travelers and separating them into potential suspects and trustworthy users. [13] Since Homeland Security agencies are exempt from racial profiling rules, [14] race plays a vital role in designing and implementing border surveillance strategies. Writing on the surveillance of Blackness in the US, Simon Browne uses “racializing surveillance” as a term to describe systematic moments “when enactments of surveillance reify boundaries along racial lines, thereby reifying race, and where the outcome of this is often discriminatory and violent treatment.” [15] Browne contends that racializing surveillance is a “technology of social control” and suggests “how things get ordered racially by way of surveillance depends on space and time and is subject to change, but most often upholds negating strategies that first accompanied European colonial expansion and transatlantic slavery that sought to structure social relations and institutions in ways that privilege whiteness.” [16] Expanding her analysis into the racialized practices of surveillance at US airports, Browne uses the concept of “racial baggage” to identify situations in which certain acts and certain looks at the airport weigh down some travelers, while others travel lightly.” [17] Trusted traveler programs, Browne continues, are clear evidence of how racializing surveillance is practiced at airports to identify, separate, pat down, and investigate the racial baggage some travelers carry across borders. [18] In the racializing matrix of airports, questions of privacy become contested. The state watches travelers, but in that watching, not all travelers are equally suspect. As Jasbir Puar delineates, “the right to privacy is not even on the radar screen for many sectors of society, unfathomable for whom being surveilled is a way of life…the private is a racialized and nationalized construct, insofar as it is granted not only to heterosexuals but to certain citizens and withheld from many others and from noncitizens.” [19] Furthermore, Puar uses the Foucauldian notion of panopticon to suggest that the ever present surveillance technologies throughout borderlands forcefully encourage self-regulation of a sort that is “less an internalization of norms and more about constant monitoring of oneself and others, watching, waiting, listening, ordering, positioning, calculating.” [20] Performance, communication, and feminist studies scholar Rachel Hall similarly focuses on the notion of self-regulation at airports to frame airport security as a “collaborative cultural performance” that requires some passengers to continuously perform “voluntary transparency.” [21] Transparency, in Hall’s critical opinion, is a privilege, the “new white,” that if performed successfully, will grant the traveler with a moment of innocence. [22] However, Hall continues, not all travelers are given equal access to such privilege; within the post-9/11 context, military and security experts design “mediated spectacles of diabolical opacity” to produce “the stubbornly noncompliant, noncitizen suspects in the war on terror.” [23] In sum, there is a clear connection between how the state surveils populations and creates racial categories. Surveillance at airports is a racializing act that seeks to produce transparent travelers and suspect figures of the national adversary. The ubiquitous implementation of surveillance technologies at airports regulates self-monitoring practices requiring travelers to disclose their information voluntarily. Those who successfully perform their transparency might achieve a temporary moment of innocence, but travelers with racial baggage need to struggle against a racist state that considers them likely perpetrators of violence. Global (re)Entry fictionally simulates and repurposes the Global Entry trusted traveling program to (on top of encouraging utopian thinking) draw attention to intrusive methodologies that the Homeland Security agencies incorporate to produce prejudiced surveillance data, specifically about immigrants of color. The game starts as an invitation for voluntary performances of transparency, as theorized by Hall. The participants are asked to submit to an intrusive screening process requiring their biometric data. However, in line with the utopian performance-making rhetorics that undergird the projects, participants can refuse to perform transparency and, as such, unlock an alternative gameplay path that leads to creatively redesigning discriminatory US immigration forms. I use digital technologies and mediums to create interactive art about marginalized experiences. I cautiously navigate this path and remain vigilant about digital accessibility limitations, particularly in the global south. The new projects I develop represent my increasing interest in digital arts and new media. I, however, continue to also identify as a performance maker, an artist of color whose creative journey demonstrates an intertwined and growing web of performance and game design skills. As long as the adapted medium and methodology can empower me in my commitment to increasing representations of immigrants of color, the new work development process personally remains a dynamic terminology applicable to all artmaking practices. In Global (re)Entry , I follow an artistic mission that draws from the power of representation to enable utopian thinking as a necessary first step toward creating change in society. The utopian thinking that Global (re)Entry encourages is my intervention in the ongoing ostracization, surveillance, deportation, incarceration, and murdering of immigrants that state forces commit at US borders. In the face of such destructive realities, my project does not call for neoliberal reformations of the US immigration system. Instead, Global (re)Entry dares to ask the participants to muster the radical audacity, subversive creativity, and insurgent hopes necessary for entirely disabling a killing machine cloaked as the US immigration system. References [1] You can play Global (re)Entry at https://www.mbabaee.com/global-re-entry . [2] Music and sound by Madeline Doss, 2D art and UI by Fion Kwok, and Unity programming by Avery Weibel. [3] “Digital Arts and New Media | MFA Program at University of California, Santa Cruz,” accessed January 9, 2023, https://danmmfa.ucsc.edu/ . [4] Nadja Masura, Digital Theatre: The Making and Meaning of Live Mediated Performance, US & UK 1990-2020 , Palgrave Studies in Performance and Technology (Springer International Publishing, 2020), 42. [5] I acknowledge that access to digital technology remains unequal, particularly in Global South. Steven Dixon, for example, writes that even though new digital technology and internet revolutionized performance forms across the US in the 90s, such revolution was absent or less tangible in other parts of the world with less to no resources for building the digital infrastructure that the new digital age demanded. For more, look at Steve Dixon, Digital Performance: A History of New Media in Theater, Dance, Performance Art, and Installation (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2015). [6] Although the project was originally presented as a multimedia installation, it is available online to players around the world. [7] José Esteban Muñoz, Cruising Utopia (New York University Press, 2009), 1. [8] Muñoz, Cruising Utopia , 22, 25, 97. [9] Claudia Costa Pederson, Gaming Utopia: Ludic Worlds in Art, Design, and Media (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2021), 6. [10] Pederson, Gaming Utopia, 184. [11] Pederson, 222. [12] While Auslander initially made this comment in Liveness: Performance in a Mediatized Culture (1999), he later revisited his argument to clarify that he does not believe technologies (vs. the people) to be the determining agent in what is live. For more, look at Auslander, Philip. “Digital Liveness: A Historico-Philosophical Perspective.” PAJ: A Journal of Performance and Art 34, no. 3 (2012): 3–11. [13] See Matthew Longo, The Politics of Borders: Sovereignty, Security, and the Citizen after 9/11 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018). [14] See Nicole Nguyen, Suspect Communities: Anti-Muslim Racism and the Domestic War on Terror (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2019). [15] Simone Browne, Dark Matters: On the Surveillance of Blackness (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2015), 8. [16] Browne, Dark Matters , 16, 17. [17] Browne, 132. [18] Browne, 135. [19] Jasbir K. Puar, Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times , 10th ed. (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2017), 125. [20] Puar, Terrorist Assemblages , 156. [21] Rachel Hall, The Transparent Traveler: The Performance and Culture of Airport Security (Duke University Press, 2015), 12. [22] Hall, The Transparent Traveler , 14. [23] Hall, 46. Footnotes About The Author(s) MOHAMADREZA BABAEE is a Visiting Assistant Professor in the Department of Theatre, Drama, and Contemporary Dance at Indiana University, Bloomington. Their interdisciplinary scholarship and transmedia practice primarily focus on issues of migration and surveillance, particularly in connection to the Middle Eastern and Iranian diasporas in the US. Their first manuscript project, tentatively titled Modded Diasporas: Performing Iranian Identity , combines performance studies and critical game theory to explore how Iranian immigrants modify the circumstances of their systematic oppression to turn them into empowering opportunities, tools, and mediums. Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Chevruta Partnership and the Playwright/Dramaturg Relationship The Heart/Roots Project and a Pandemic Pivot From Safe to Brave—Developing A Model for Interrogating Race, Racism and the Black Lives Matter Movement Using Devised Theater The Front Porch Plays: Socially-Distanced, Covid-Safe, Micro-Theatre Making Up for Lost Time: New Play Development in Academia Post COVID 19 Meet Me Where I Am: New Play Dispatches from the DC Area México (Expropriated): Reappropriation and Rechoreography of Ballet Folklórico Effing Robots Online: The Digital Dramaturgy of Translating In-Person Theatre to Online Streaming Emergent Strategy Abolitionist Pedagogy in Pandemic Time How to Make a Site-Specific Theatrical Homage to a Film Icon Without Drowning in Your Ocean of Consciousness; or, The Saga of Red Lodge, Montana Playing Global (re)Entry: Migration, Surveillance, and Digital Artmaking Reviving Feminist Archives: An Interview with Leigh Fondakowski Sarah Gancher and Jared Mezzocchi : How Collaboration is Dramaturgy Between Playwright and Multimedia Creator (Re)Generation: Creating Situational Urban Theatre During COVID and Beyond Starting with the Space: An Interview with Patrick Gabridge Pandemic Performance: Resilience, Liveness, and Protest in Quarantine Times: Edited by Kendra Capece, Patrick Scorese. New York: Routledge, 2023; Pp. 188 The Cambridge Companion to American Theatre Since 1945: Edited by Julia Listengarten and Stephen Di Benedetto. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021; Pp. 273. Democracy Moving: Bill T. Jones, Contemporary American Performance, and the Racial Past. Ariel Nereson. Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press, 2022; Pp. 290. Borderlands Children’s Theatre: Historical Developments and Emergence of Chicana/o/Mexican-American Youth Theatre. Cecilia Josephine Aragόn. New York: Routledge, 2022; Pp. 158. Aural/Oral Dramaturgies: Theatre in the Digital Age. Duška Radosavljević. New York, NY: Routledge, 2022; Pp. 224. Feeling the Future at Christian End-Time Performances. Jill Stevenson. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2022; Pp. 243. Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Robert Thompson Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 36 1 Visit Journal Homepage The Politics of Trance: Victoria Woodhull and the Radical Reform of Platform Mediumship Robert Thompson By Published on November 26, 2023 Download Article as PDF Trance mediumship was a popular form of entertainment and potential source of spiritual education for audiences throughout most of the nineteenth century. Performing in trance began with public demonstrations of mesmerism in which a mesmerist would put a subject into an altered state of consciousness using a series of hand motions. Encouraged by the tales of Edgar Allan Poe in which entranced subjects forestalled death and reported visions of the afterlife, audiences came to expect amazing supernatural feats at these demonstrations. ([1]) In the 1850s, trance performance blossomed into a national obsession with the rise of spirit mediumship. Like the mesmeric subjects before them, a host of mostly female mediums began performing in a similarly dissociative state except that they claimed to be possessed by the spirits of the dead. Mediums would take their place at a rostrum or platform, fall into trance, and then follow their audience’s prompts in answering questions on science, philosophy, and religion in the voice of their possessing spirits. A panel then judged—based on what the medium had to say—whether the spirits had truly spoken through the medium or not. One of mediumship’s most infamous and colorful platform performers was the women’s rights advocate and free love radical Victoria Woodhull. ([2]) In addition to her mediumship, she was the first woman to run for president, operated the first woman-owned stock brokerage, and wrote for a newspaper she ran with her sister, The Woodhull and Claflin’s Weekly. Woodhull fit all of these undertakings into the space of about five years in a public career that burned brightly before flaming out. She arrived fairly late to trance performance, giving her first spirit-inspired lectures in 1870, and she made significant alterations to the frame of the performance to suit her purposes. Whereas traditional trance mediums foregrounded the spontaneity of their performances in making the case that their lectures were directly inspired by a supernatural source, Woodhull read from notes that her spirits had helped her to prepare in advance. These notes touched on questions of politics, sex, and marriage at a time when her fellow mediums had begun to turn their attention to more metaphysical and religious questions. While other mediums were discussing the nature of God and the fate of the soul, Woodhull was arguing for a woman’s right to divorce her husband and to vote. The content and form of Woodhull’s spirit-inspired lectures were deeply intertwined. To borrow from anthropologist Barbara Myerhoff, the standard trance performance was transformative in that it sought to close the gap between the visible world of the performance and the invisible world of the spirits, rendering the spirits actually present in the body of the medium. ([3]) By contrast, Woodhull employed a more transportive style in which she did not bring her spirits into the room but rather suspended her audience’s disbelief in them long enough to make the case that they were the true origin of her ideas. She employed a kind of Brechtian theatricality insofar as she performed in a way that raised her audience’s awareness that they were experiencing an event that had been planned in advance. I argue that this gave her spirits plausible deniability in the face of her radical ideas while she maintained enough of their supernatural presence to give weight to the politics she espoused. At a time when audiences were still fairly new to hearing a woman speak about her own ideas, this style of platform speech allowed her to shift the audience’s focus from seeking proof of a supernatural presence to an engagement with terrestrial social and political principles. By making her human influence more palpable in her spirit-inspired performances, Woodhull was able to use trance mediumship as a platform to deliver a this-worldly message about sex and gender and to espouse a progressive vision for the future. Unfortunately for her, this performance strategy also gave her little cover in the face of the controversies she stirred up and ultimately led to her undoing as a national public figure. A Brief History of Trance Performance Trance as a genre of performance began with demonstrations of mesmerism. In 1836 and 1837, the French-born mesmerist Charles Poyen, inspired by Franz Anton Mesmer’s experiments in magnetic trance, traveled New England with his mesmeric subject, Cynthia Gleason. Poyen demonstrated his ability to put Gleason into a deep trance by passing his hands from her shoulders to her hands and argued that this trance was a means of curing disease and relieving pain. ([4]) The inability of observers to wake the mesmeric subject or somnambulist was an important feature of the demonstration. Gleason was subjected to sounds and sensations intended to rouse her like smelling agents, feathers, and the firing of a pistol, but only the mesmerist, Poyen, could bring her back to consciousness. ([5]) Mesmer, who invented the mesmeric technique in eighteenth-century France and demonstrated it at the French court, believed that this deeper state was achieved through the influence of the mesmerizer’s magnetic power over a fluid inside the subject, but nineteenth-century American mesmerists tended to understand mesmerism as a purely psychological act. Practitioners discovered that mesmerized subjects could access dimensions of knowledge not ordinarily accessible to the conscious subject. The fact that the somnambulist was unconscious but still able to communicate allowed their observers to peer into the hidden depths of the mind. Mesmerists developed a popularly disseminated idea that “the ‘deeper’ levels of consciousness opened the individual to the qualitatively 'higher' planes of mental existence.” ([6]) Historian Robert C. Fuller describes audiences, investigators, and practitioners marveling at the unconscious subject’s ability to perform feats of “telepathy, clairvoyance, and precognition.” ([7]) Gleason, for example was able to identify objects held behind her when Poyen asked her to allow her mind to “leave the brain” and “come out of the body.” ([8]) Academic psychology was only in its infancy and would not properly address the concept of the unconscious until the 1880s, leaving mesmerists to define the mesmerized state as a possible opening onto transcendent realms of knowledge. By the 1840s, trance had become the subject of a growing public fascination. In 1845, Edgar Allan Poe published “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar” about a man at the point of dying who is kept from death while spending months in a mesmeric trance. Poe may have been inspired by watching “the Poughkeepsie Seer,” Andrew Jackson Davis, perform a lecture while mesmerized. ([9]) In 1847, Davis published The Principles of Nature, Her Divine Revelations, and a Voice to Mankind, transcribed while he was in a trance state. Davis was building on the precedent set by Poyen and Gleason as well as the example of eighteenth-century Swedish mystic Emmanuel Swedenborg. ([10]) While entranced, Davis claimed to be able to enter a state like death and travel to other dimensions of being, namely the “Spirit World” where he was educated on the nature of existence. ([11]) Davis struggled to achieve popular recognition in the first years of his career, but he soon became a pivotal figure in the further development of trance performance because of his involvement with American spiritualism. Modern spirit mediumship began as a popular religious movement and form of entertainment on March 31, 1848 when the Fox family first communicated with a series of mysterious taps sounding throughout their home in Hydesville, New York. Sisters Kate and Margaret Fox spoke to the taps as if the taps could hear them and persuaded the disembodied intelligence producing the taps to repeat sounds and count on their cue. ([12]) News of the mysterious taps spread and soon the sisters became national celebrities, touring the country performing “rapping séances.” The Fox sisters’ mediumship became the prototype for physical mediumship which focused on physical manifestations of spirit communication like tapping sounds, tilting tables, and eventually materialized spirit bodies while Davis paved the way for a new genre of public speaking done in the voice of the spirits of the dead. By arguing in his Principles of Nature that he was able to visit a spirit world while in trance, Davis had presaged mediumship by over a year. ([13]) And so when spirit mediumship captured broad interest via the Fox sisters, he quickly attached himself to the movement, becoming a leading proponent and practitioner of what came to be called trance or platform mediumship. In this way, the spiritualist movement appropriated mesmerism's trance state, replacing the mesmerist's influence with the spirits of the dead and offering those spirits as the explanation for the trance subject's superhuman understanding. As a male performer, Davis was an outlier. While there were male trance speakers, most public demonstrations of trance communication were performed by women. Women were thought to have spiritual “sensitivities” and considered to be natural outlets for spirits to communicate through. In her feminist analysis of historical spiritualism, Ann Braude points out that, “[i]n mediumship, women’s religious leadership became normative for the first time in American history.” ([14]) In the mid-nineteenth century women were discouraged from speaking publicly but the performer's effacement by her spirits created an opening. As Braude argues, the fact that these women spoke as their spirits and not as themselves eased social tensions and made their performances more permissible. ([15]) A potentially threatening form of border-crossing defined the practice of mediumship. Mediums crossed the line between the living and the dead and, in the case of female mediums, gender lines. To deflect any censure that might come from violating these taboos, the medium put the focus on her spirits. The more the spirits could become co-present with the audience through the performance, the less challenging these transgressions became. Placing the focus on the relative reality of the spirits emphasized the audience’s critical role in judging the performance and enhanced the impression that trance was for entertainment. Mediums sought to prove themselves like circus performers attempting a daring feat or magicians performing a baffling illusion. After a short introduction, often including a prayer and hymn, the medium would take center stage channeling one or more spirits who would proceed to address the crowd. Usually, this central lecture or discourse was followed by a question-and-answer session. Here was where the critical, entertainment function was most apparent. The historian R. Laurence Moore describes how mediums were evaluated: They invited the audience to choose a jury from among themselves that would in turn select a topic of discourse for the medium. Announcing the subject to the medium, the audience then gave her a few moments to enter trance. Once in a trance, she would proceed to talk, usually for longer than an hour. The address constituted the test of her powers. ([16]) The topics chosen for trance lectures tended to be scientific (chemistry, physics, naturalism, or agriculture) or philosophical, theoretically beyond the medium's knowledge and intellectual capacity. From the audience’s perspective, this assured that the medium would have to rely on the spirits in order to adequately address the topic at hand. Not only the content of mediums’ speeches but also the style of their delivery was necessary to persuade audiences. Trance mediums had to mitigate the impression that the performance being given was theatrical in the sense of being scripted or otherwise rehearsed. Historian Simone Natale argues that trance allowed mediums to connect their performances with the “dreams, illusions, and artistic inspiration in the automatic actions of the brain and perceptual organs” which leant them a quality of authenticity for nineteenth-century spectators. “An aesthetics of creative absorption” gave the performance a feeling of spontaneity and detracted from any sense that the medium was carefully executing a trick to fool the audience. ([17]) According to theatre scholar Alice Rayner, the “theatrical occasion” is “a repetition of the loss at the edge of or alongside consciousness.” ([18]) What is lost is full conscious awareness of an originary moment that was never there in the first place. Theatre raises the audience’s awareness of the gap in time between the moment of perception and the subsequent conscious reflection on an experience. It emphasizes the fact that the meaning of the originating event—in this case, the medium's grand spiritual revelation—is always contingent on the humans who process and interpret it. In so doing, it “returns the event to its original condition of passage and persistence, of being unrecoverable and a repetition.” ([19]) Trance mediums fully dissociated and in so doing sought to deny any repetition in their performances by performing their spirits as immediately present. While their display was theatrical in the sense of being performed on a stage for an audience, it also sought to deny its own theatricality—in Rayner's sense of the word—by framing the performance as wholly spontaneous. Theatricality was particularly fraught in the mid-nineteenth century. Mediums traded on their authenticity—the promise not to be faking the spiritual intelligence they claimed to channel—but actors carried a stain of inauthenticity wherever they went. In his seminal study of anti-theatricality, Jonas Barish argues that Romanticists accused theatre artists of being insincere. Lord Byron, for example, had a penchant for closet drama because he felt that production “not only trivializes plays and introduces irrelevancies, it desecrates; it defiles the artistic integrity of the original script.” ([20]) For Byron, his poetic vision was most pure in the interior of his own mind, and the more it became exteriorized, the more it was subjected to the inherent profanation of expression. This attitude was likely spurred by a growing tension over actors' melodramatic performance style which was often highly theatrical, as opposed to the more natural ideals of the Romantics. According to David Grimsted, actors had to move quickly from role to role often with little or no rehearsal time and so the actor “almost had to have a set of mannerisms ready-made with which [s]he could embellish any character.” ([21]) Barish argues that the rising attitude among audiences and actors through the Romantic period was that the theatre “threatens to sap [actors'] authenticity, and its inescapable artificiality must be combatted with all the naturalness at the artist's command.” ([22]) These were the seeds that would ultimately blossom into Konstantin Stanislavski's system for psychological realist acting at the turn of the century. The Traditional Trance Medium( )For trance mediumship’s more successful performers, audiences discovered their authenticity in the gap between their humble and unsophisticated origins and the knowledgeable and sophisticated performances they gave for their audiences. Women were regarded as less worldly and informed, making their spirit-inspired revelations on scientific and philosophical questions all the more amazing. Many mediums’ performance of self had focused on their lack of education and skill. Trance mediums wanted spectators to believe that they were not capable of performing their spirits' messages without otherworldly intervention. The impression they created was that they were not clever enough to fake their spirits, and so when the spirits communicated complex theological or scientific truths through them it was more plausibly supernatural because the medium lacked the knowledge and skill to pull off the spirits' level of understanding and erudition on her own. As a teenager, Cora Scott Richmond, one of America’s most prominent trance performers, succeeded in persuading the chemist James J. Mapes—who received “marvelous scientific answers” to the questions he put to her spirits—and this spring-boarded her to national attention. ([23] )Richmond, born in 1840 near the town of Cuba in Allegheny County, New York, moved with her family to Wisconsin where she was raised on a farm. Her biographer, Harrison D. Barrett, described her as “in no way different from other country girls, reared and educated as country girls are.” ([24]) She discovered her mediumship before she was ten and began trance speaking when she was only eleven, giving up school at the age of twelve to devote herself full-time to trance performance. ([25] )Nettie Colburn, best known as the medium who served Mary Todd Lincoln, was sick for much of her childhood in Hartford, Connecticut, so much so that she received almost no formal schooling. After learning of her mediumistic power at a séance, she began trance speaking in 1856 at the age of fifteen. ([26]) Both Colburn and Richmond had no vocation or training outside of mediumship, and according to the ethos of the day, weren’t worldly enough to fool a crowd of men. To further erase themselves in favor of the spirits, mediums often described themselves as absent for the spirits’ performance. Trance writer and medium Achsa Sprague fell ill with rheumatic fever at the age of 20 but after seven years made a full recovery and credited her health to the intervention of the spirits. ([27]) She went on to become a spirit-inspired poet and trance lecturer until her death in 1861. In her trance-written poetry, Sprague described her first days as a medium in “The Angel's Visit:” “Enrapt, like one inspired of old, / Forth from her lips such teachings rolled, / Till lost to self the voice would say, / ‘Tis Angels speak to you to-day. / This form has languished long in pain, / But we have given it life again...’” ([28]) In her poem, Sprague referred to herself in the third person as “this form” which became “lost to self.” It wasn’t Sprague who lectured but rather the angels or spirits addressing her audiences directly using her voice. In 1897, Cora Scott Richmond published an account of her “Psychic or Supermundane Experiences” describing what happened to her when she entered the trance state. She said, “while passing into this state I experience no physical sensations that are describable; a sense of being set free, of passing into a larger realm.” ([29]) She traveled to another metaphysical plane, meeting spirits and encountering “visions of surpassing loveliness that no language, no gift of art, even with genius portraiture, could describe.” ([30]) Like Sprague, Richmond's spirits performed the work of speaking to her audiences while Richmond's consciousness was elsewhere; receiving a mystical education in the spirit world. Through these various techniques of self-effacement, the medium sought to literally become her spirits in the presence of the audience, but in order to fully realize this metamorphosis, the medium had to shut down the audience's critical gaze. If the audience was watching and listening in order to question whether a spirit was truly present then the spirit could only ever half emerge during the performance itself. And so, despite the fact that mediums were evaluated by a panel of jurors and critiqued in the newspaper, they argued that when the spirits spoke in performance, their speech was beyond what the performance could convey and so beyond human judgment. ( [31]) Achieving this transcendence was the work of several decades. In the early days of her mediumship when Richmond was seventeen years old, she concluded a speech in Newburyport, Massachusetts by saying, “We think this will be conceded by all minds who reason from the strict rule of philosophy and of logic. We think it must be conceded by all who view the human soul as being the child of Deity, by all who claim to worship a heavenly Father and a divine God.” ([32]) In other words, her message could be validated with human rationality if the humans in question had a spiritual basis to their understanding. Three decades later, she asserted that the spirits, communicating from beyond the limits of time and space largely resisted being encapsulated within the terrestrial confines of the language, let alone performance. Her spirits said that “[r]evelation proceeds from the unknown, the absolute, to the known; from the boundless, limitless, to the limited, the relative, the enchained.” ([33]) Their “enchained” revelations, given through Richmond, were incapable of teaching any of the most significant truths about the spirit world: “No external thing can reveal God. The Soul alone, being of the nature of God, perceives God. Nothing can teach that there is God.” ([34] ) Richmond’s effort to move her spirits further and further beyond the limits of human understanding may have been a response to a culture increasingly hostile to trance performance. While trance mediumship succeeded, for a time, in capturing an American audience, by the 1870s, it began to suffer from a rising prejudice against the value of altered states of consciousness among proto-psychologists. In the decade after the Civil War, conscious control or will became a major feature of psychological thought in America. In his Principles of Mental Physiology, the influential neurophysiologist and ardent critic of spiritualism W. B. Carpenter devoted an entire chapter to the significance of the will. For Carpenter, our judgments, beliefs, and worldview are governed by a controlling will which consciously selects the ideas that best suit our perspective: “[t]he records of ‘absence of mind’ afford abundant examples of the absurd incongruities which occur, when the Will is temporarily prevented by the mental preoccupation from summoning Common Sense to check the ideas which external impressions suggest.” ([35]) A passive medium like Richmond or Sprague failed to exert “self-direction” on their mental experiences by virtue of the fact that they had no control over the trance state and opened their mind to an infinitely variable supply of beliefs and ideas which may or may not have been entirely absurd. According to historian Cathy Gutierrez, Davis recognized that “both trance and insanity occupy the nebulous ground of alternative consciousness” and attempted to save trance. Davis argued that the entranced were not suggestible whereas the insane could be easily influenced by others' stronger will. ([36]) But for Carpenter, there was no difference between subjecting oneself to the influence of the spirits and the will of a living person. The medium was like the dreamer and should not trust any of the impressions she received while her consciousness was inoperative. According to the historian of psychology S. E. D. Shortt, “[m]ost [alienists] would have accepted Carpenter's notion that the control of mind ultimately rests with the will.... For Victorian neurology, as for social theory generally, the essential capstone was the concept of individual volitional control.” ([37]) Spiritualism, which pre-dated Darwin's Origin of Species and the rise of materialist neuroscience, was ill-equipped to address rapid changes in the standards of empiricism as they moved steadily toward the establishment of formal academic psychology in the 1880s. ([38]) If dissociative states were viewed as the source for extreme error and insanity then mediumship required a new approach to the role of consciousness. Victoria Woodhull’s Radical Mediumship Victoria Woodhull took up the platform to deliver trance lectures fairly late in the genre’s development, but her career represented a revolution in what trance mediumship could achieve. In the 1870s, Woodhull broke with the standard protocols of mediumistic performance in order to promote radical cultural change. She had worked as an actor before taking up mediumship, and for Woodhull, theatricality proved central to her unique approach to mediumistic performance and allowed her to promote an agenda that pushed beyond the already progressive attitudes of mainstream spiritualists. Woodhull spoke to Congress on the topic of women's suffrage and ran for president in 1872. She published the first English translation of the Communist Manifesto and she advocated for free love which at the time meant a woman's right to divorce her husband and enjoy voluntary and pleasurable sexual encounters. She was accused of being a polygamist and a prostitute and jailed on obscenity charges. And she claimed to do all of this at the direction of the spirits of the dead. Unlike the chronically ill Sprague or the rural Richmond, Woodhull's entry into public life began with a short stage career. In her late teens or early twenties, she was living in San Francisco with her first child and husband, a carousing, alcoholic physician named Canning Woodhull. According to Woodhull's contemporary and biographer Theodore Tilton, her husband made hardly any financial contribution to the family, and so to help support herself and her child she took a job as a cigar girl. But Woodhull was too “blushing, modest, and sensitive” for the job. ([39]) Luckily, around this time she met an actress named Anna Cogswell who was looking for a seamstress “to make her a theatrical wardrobe.” ([40]) But Woodhull didn't earn enough making dresses to support her family and so Cogswell suggested that she try her hand at acting. Her first role was as the Country Cousin in New York by Gas-light and she went on to perform for six weeks in a variety of roles, earning fifty-two dollars. Her final role was in The Corsican Brothers, adapted by Dion Boucicault from the French original by Alexandre Dumas, pere. Suddenly, during the ballroom scene, a spirit voice addressed Woodhull, calling her to come home, and she gave up acting to rescue her sister, Tennie, from her abusive parents. ([41]) Woodhull received word from her spirits that she should “repair to Indianapolis, there to announce herself as a medium, and to treat patients for the cure of disease.” ([42]) She was raising money in part to liberate Tennie. Tennie was also working as a healing medium, but her father “add[ed] to much that was genuine in her mediumship, more that was charlatanry,” including selling lye as a cancer cure and burning away the skin of his clients. Using the money she raised, Woodhull “clutched Tennie as by main force and flung her out of this semi-humbug, to the mingled astonishment of her money-greedy family, one and all.” ([43]) With her sister by her side, Woodhull launched into a public career that was rooted in trance mediumship but ranged widely from politics to the stock market to the newspaper business. While Woodhull's stage career was short, Tilton made a point of praising Woodhull's ability to memorize. According to Tilton, “the text was given to [Woodhull] in the morning, she learned and rehearsed it during the day, and made a fair hit in it at night.” ([44]) At the time Tilton was writing his biography of Woodhull, the pair were friends and so this tidbit about memorization likely came from Woodhull herself and was included with her approval. She was proud of her skill, but her skill posed a direct challenge to the spontaneity trance mediums traditionally projected onto their performances. The fact that Woodhull was in the regular habit of memorizing lines would have introduced an opportunity to create a fraudulent trance performance that she had rehearsed in advance except that Woodhull made no claim to direct and immediate spiritual inspiration on the platform. Woodhull took ownership of her skill to prepare, memorize, and perform her lectures because she made a significant change to the frame of the trance performance. Woodhull did not perform as her spirits but rather with her spirits, trading on the audience's impression that her speeches were supernaturally inspired while maintaining her conscious presence in the room as a performer. Woodhull performed as herself, reading from the spirit-inspired notes transcribed in advance of her speaking engagements. She spoke about her spirits in the third person in contrast to more traditional trance mediums, whose spirits spoke in the first person. Richmond, who was frequently controlled by a group of spirits, used pronouns like “we” and “us.” Sprague spoke of herself while in trance as “our own medium.” ([45]) By contrast, Woodhull talked in terms of being educated by her spirits in advance of her lectures. In her speech, “The Elixir of Life,” for example, she argued for women's sexual and political freedom based on the authority of “Spirits, who have never deceived me, have informed and shown me why it must be so.” ([46]) Woodhull did not so much compose in the voice of her spirits as write in conjunction with their voices. While this may seem like a small distinction, it actually held major implications for the way Woodhull performed and was perceived by her audiences. To begin, Woodhull's manuscripts, whether composed consciously or unconsciously, did not comprise the whole of her remarks. Critics frequently observed how she would put down her notes and speak extemporaneously. The Newburgh Telegraph, for example, described how “She began her lecture by reading from [her] manuscript, but gradually warming with her subject, she placed the manuscript on the table, and spoke as she felt, citing numerous dramatic incidents in her extended career since she began the 'Social Crusade,' as proofs of the peculiar views she holds.” ([47]) The Argus of Albany, New York reported that Woodhull delivered her “peroration... without looking at the manuscript” and Albany's Evening Post said that “[w]hen Mrs. Woodhull speaks without notes, she is a better orator than either Anna Dickinson or Olive Logan.” ([48] )At her speaking engagements, Woodhull’s spirits served a background role, writing Woodhull's manuscript before the performance but leaving Woodhull to consciously convey, elaborate, and express her own opinions on their theories as herself. While Woodhull was generally more consciously aware than her fellow trance performers at her speaking engagements, her style should not be read as a complete break with traditional trance performance. Tilton contended that, like Richmond and Sprague, Woodhull was entirely beholden to her spirits. She “lived her life” according to their dictates and entered into the spirit realm on a daily basis. ([49]) As for her lectures, “every characteristic utterance which she gives to the world is dictated while under spirit-influence, and most often in a totally unconscious state. The words that fall from her lips are garnered by the swift pen of her husband, and published almost verbatim as she gets and gives them.” ([50]) Tilton’s description of Woodhull's process was very likely her biographer's attempt to respond to the at least partially true assertion that Woodhull's speeches were written for her by her second husband, James Harvey Blood, and the social reformer Stephen Pearl Andrews, a frequent contributor to Woodhull and Claflin's Weekly. ([51]) The key distinction between Woodhull and other female trance mediums is that Woodhull's spirits did not dictate her speech while in performance but in advance of the performance. If her critics are any indication, Woodhull largely succeeded in maintaining the aura of spiritual inspiration while assigning her spirits an offstage role. An admirer at the Cincinnati Inquirer observed that the “expression of her face sometimes, when she got warmed up to her subject, grew almost spiritual.” ([52]) Writing for the spiritualist publication The Banner of Light, Allen Putnam said, Mrs. Woodhull may, for aught we know, be herself very able—may be a highly talented human being. But she avows, and we believe that, in the main, her higher, bolder, more startling and yet coherent productions are passed through her brain by an expanded, disembodied intelligence. Consequently, we are surveying her as the instrument of some super-mundane being or beings, and not as a self-controlling actor and speaker. ([53]) Whereas other trance speakers like Richmond and Sprague explicitly performed in a dissociative state as their spirits, Woodhull created an ambiguous performance that blurred the line between the medium and her spirits. Her audiences were often unsure as to whether they were listening to Woodhull the orator or spirits speaking through her. This ambiguity shifted the audience's focus from the truth claims of the spirits to the talents of the speaker herself. Critics and commentators frequently noted Woodhull's skill as an orator. The Evening Post writer said that Woodhull “would have made a glorious actress. She has just the looks and brain-power necessary to become the early and successful rival of any actress who ever lived.” ([54]) The Ohio State Journal said “Mrs. Woodhull possesses a voice, an enunciation and a manner that would have made her a fortune upon a tragic stage. At times she grows terribly earnest and fires off her words as if they were red hot and unpleasant occupants of her mouth.” ([55]) Woodhull encouraged this association with the theatre by having her sister, Tennie, read a scene from Macbeth before her 1875 lectures. While Woodhull was willing to share credit with her spirits for the content of her performances, she succeeded in taking sole credit for the quality of her delivery. All of this served to render Woodhull’s performances a more secular affair in contrast to her fellow trance mediums. Richmond framed her trance lectures with prayers and hymns, foregrounding the religious dimension of trance speech. Woodhull opened her performances with Shakespeare or the poetry of Richard Sheridan. Woodhull's ability to convey a this-worldly perspective while maintaining a connection to her spirits had much to do with how she situated the moment of spiritual revelation in relation to the moment of performance. Richmond and Sprague may have been personally enlightened by the spirits but their spirits performed as themselves, having no use for the medium's own understanding. Since Woodhull performed as herself, her personal enlightenment was the originating event that she recreated and repeated in her performances. As such, the lecture’s higher meaning was not hidden in the mysterious realm of the spirits but brought down to earth in the person of the medium who claimed a full understanding of what the spirits meant to convey. This is the difference between the oracle and the augur. The oracle speaks in the voice of the gods, but her message can be incomprehensible and often requires further interpretation. The augur interprets the signs etched by the gods in this world in a way that is fully comprehensible but subject to human error. The spirits reside in an unconscious or subliminal space and the medium straddles the unconscious and conscious mind, tending toward one side or the other depending on the depth of the trance. In Woodhull's performances, the intervention of her conscious will allowed her to appropriate the sacred power of the spirits to achieve terrestrial ends. Conscious use equates to profane use, cutting up the infinite truth of the transcendent source by enchaining it in a finite vessel. Woodhull was focused on wielding her spirits for practical ends, and the greatest truths for Woodhull had their test in creating actual change in the human world. Her most celebrated causes were the sexual liberation and political enfranchisement of women. In 1870, she spoke to a special committee of Congress, arguing that women already had the right to vote since the 14(th) and 15(th) amendments—passed to end the socio-political disenfranchisement of African Americans following the Civil War—guaranteed that right for all citizens. She argued that, The right to vote cannot be denied on account of race. All people included in the term race have the right to vote, unless otherwise prohibited.... Men are also essentially just; and when the thought shall really come home to them, with the cogency of conviction, that they have, through thoughtlessness, been all along acting unjustly to their mothers and wives and daughters, by depriving them of political rights, it may happen that there will come up a great swelling-tide of reactionary sentiment which will make a sudden revolution. ([56]) This speech made no reference to the spirits or supernatural motives or designs but was, rather, a fairly straightforward argument for her cause. In 1872, she was nominated as the presidential candidate of the Equal Rights Party, even though the government still denied her right to vote in the election. As a candidate, her speeches dwelled on grand themes like freedom and justice but remained heavily rooted in practical politics. She argued that “no personal merit or demerit can interfere between individuals so that one may, by arbitration or laws, be placed unequally with another” and “every individual is entitled to all the natural wealth that he or she requires to minister to the various wants of the body.” ([57]) Just as Woodhull hybridized the form of her trance performance—being neither fully dissociated nor fully separated from her spirits—she also hybridized her content. Her practical goals maintained some connection to spiritual ends. As an advocate for free love—which, to Woodhull, meant a woman's right to seek out a healthy monogamous relationship—she argued that men and women should be allowed to dissolve their marriages at any time for any cause. In her 1875 lecture “Breaking the Seals; The Key to the Hidden Mystery” she told her audiences that a spiritual-sexual apocalypse she envisioned was presaged in the Bible, which, when read using her spirits' “cabalistic key” described the means by which individuals could achieve immortality. The key involved interpreting the Garden of Eden as a metaphor for the human body and sexual congress as the union of creative forces to generate an “elixir of life” or a “perfected blending of the positive and negative creative powers, from which shall come the constant rejuvenation or building up of the body.” Woodhull held this secret back from her audience: “do you ask what is the process by which this is to be gained? This I am not permitted to tell now. But I know what it is. I have been shown by the spirit of truth all things that relate to this wonderful mystery.” ([58]) She suggested that her listeners return to their Bibles and, using the clues she had provided them with, discover the secret for themselves. Significantly, the secret belonged first to the spirits and then to Woodhull, but it remained a secret. The truth, this “Elixir of Life,” came closer to this world but, in line with the ambiguity of Woodhull's spiritual inspiration, kept one foot in the other world. It had practical consequences—life-enriching sexual union—and could be known in practical terms, but it remained secret and required spiritual and intellectual work to discern. In her “Elixir of Life” lecture which she toured with in 1873, Woodhull envisioned a literal closing of the gap between the spiritual and human worlds, hinging on practical changes to social codes and sexual habits. Nineteenth-century marriage, which condemned women to sexual slavery, had precipitated “growing disgust sexually, between the sexes.” ([59]) Social and political circumstances in the form of women's disenfranchisement were holding the spirits back from bringing an apocalyptic new age to the people of earth. Many couples joined in happy sexual unions were required to create a supernatural erotic energy, welcoming the spirits to descend to earth and sanctify humanity: “[i]t will be readily understood that, when the final union has occurred; when Spirits become materialized, and human beings become Spiritualized, that the bodies in which both shall appear will be of the same etherealized material.” ([60]) In this vision, otherworldly spiritual designs and this-worldly practical designs overlapped in a perfect synthesis and Woodhull's political program became a spiritual quest, realizable through human political and social change. The Orator as Effigy Woodhull’s radical secular and spiritual quest would eventually lead to her downfall as a public figure. Joseph Roach argues that when a performer troubles society's boundaries, she can function as a surrogate or effigy sacrificed on the altar of a culture's superfluity: “‘burning in effigy’ is a performance of waste, the elimination of a monstrous double, but one fashioned by artifice as a stand-in, an ‘unproductive expenditure’ that both sustains the community with the comforting fiction that real borders exist and troubles it with the spectacle of their immolation.” ([61]) Woodhull's secularization of trance as a form of entertainment coupled with the artifice and theatricality of her performances rendered her as just such a stand-in. She became expendable; a curiosity and sideshow that ultimately had to be dispensed with for society to carry on as usual. Unlike Richmond or Sprague, Woodhull did not seek to displace herself with her spirits as a crosser of boundaries. By embodying the medium's conscious empowerment and advocating for women's social and sexual liberation, Woodhull directly attacked the effacing premise that had made female trance mediumship possible. This profaned the spirits through practical use for political and terrestrial ends and crossed well beyond the heavily-patrolled borders of religious and sexual propriety, forcing a crisis that demanded a monstrous double—Woodhull herself—be burned in effigy. Her various causes were often too progressive even for the spiritualists or women's rights advocates she circulated among. Suffrage leaders like Susan B. Anthony and leading spiritualists were uncomfortable aligning themselves with Woodhull's free love politics, and so those politics rested firmly on Woodhull's own shoulders. Actors are not responsible for the actions and opinions of their characters, but by performing as her spirits' knowledgeable interpreter, Woodhull collapsed the distinction between herself and her source, serving as both actor and character. In turn, she became responsible and let her spirits off the hook for all of the things her audiences disliked about her speeches. In an editorial from the Troy Daily Whig, a writer professed to having been at least partially won over by hearing Woodhull speak and meeting her afterward. Comparing her to Joan of Arc and Emmanuel Swedenborg, he interpreted her spirits as a kind of inherent genius but questioned whether Woodhull was putting that genius to good use: “[s]he has such an intense nature... that I presume she sees visions—as many angels as St. John perhaps—as many devils as Luther.... she is an abnormal growth of democratic institutions—thoroughly sincere, partly insane, and fitted to exaggerate great truths like self-denying love, into theoretical free love and some practical mischief.” ([62]) The writer believed that Woodhull saw visions but that she embellished them, distorting her spirits’ inspiration through her own mischievous designs. Woodhull understood that she was quickly falling into the role of sacrificial victim and sought to replace herself with a substitute. Substitution is common in the use of both ritual and mythological sacrifices. In the history of ritual sacrifice, poor children were substituted for the children of kings, animals were substituted for humans, and bread for animals. In mythology, Artemis substituted a deer for Agamemnon's daughter Iphigenia, and the God of Abraham accepted a sheep in place of Isaac. ([63]) In theatre, ancient heroes try and fail to locate a scapegoat for the divine curses that haunt them; Renaissance protagonists often bring down a series of other characters on their way to the grave; and melodramatic heroes seek villains to die in theirs or their loved one’s places. Woodhull’s choice for substitute was a novel and convenient one: the abolitionist preacher Henry Ward Beecher. Beecher and Woodhull happened to both include Theodore Tilton in their close circle of friends. Beecher was having an affair with Tilton's wife, Elizabeth, and in 1872 Woodhull discovered the poorly kept secret. Beecher had been speaking out vehemently against Woodhull's radical free love politics, and Woodhull saw this affair as an opportunity to reveal her opponents' hypocrisy. Being in overlapping social circles with Beecher, she attempted to persuade him to get out ahead of her plan to expose the affair and confess in a joint public address, officially aligning himself with the free love movement. Beecher appeared to be willing to go along with Woodhull, or at least so she believed, until the last moment when he failed to show at their speaking engagement. This prompted Woodhull to take to the pages of the Woodhull and Claflin's Weekly to publish news of his marital transgressions. ([64] ) But airing Beecher’s affair kept Woodhull in the role of her own champion. She had failed to coerce Beecher into standing in front of her as a substitute. Woodhull’s article drew the attention of notorious moralizer Anthony Comstock who prosecuted Woodhull, her sister, and her husband. ([65]) Comstock had them charged with distributing obscene materials through the mail because of a secondary article in the Beecher issue about two wealthy men debauching a pair of teenage girls. Comstock's raid and destruction of Woodhull's office and subsequent libel suit depleted her financial resources and imperiled her health. She was arrested and briefly jailed which gave Woodhull another opening for a theatrical display. Having been released from the Ludlow jail, a second order for her arrest had been issued and the police planned to apprehend her at a scheduled speaking engagement. Woodhull dressed as an old Quaker woman and worked her way to the front of the crowd, throwing off the disguise as the crowd gathered around her, shielding her from the police for the duration of her speech. ([66]) “I come into your presence from a cell in the American Bastille,” she said, painting herself as a revolutionary, “to which I was confined by the cowardly servility of the age.” ([67]) She participated in a series of very public trials in which she was prosecuted by Comstock and sued by L. C. Challis—one the men she and her sister had accused of corrupting teenagers. This culminated with Tilton's lawsuit against Beecher in 1874 and 1875 for which she served as a witness. The Comstock prosecution and scandal that followed wore Woodhull down and eventually put an end to her political and speaking careers; an immolation in the name of her sexual and spiritual border-crossing. ([68]) In 1877, she sailed for England and never regained the celebrity she'd enjoyed as a radical mediumistic orator. Woodhull utilized a progressive style of paradoxically conscious trance performance as a vehicle to spread a progressive social agenda. She knew from the reactions of her detractors that her viewpoints were radical. Even if she had chosen to present free love and women's enfranchisement in the form of direct spirit communication, her highly critical audience would have quickly discredited both her and her spirits. Whether driven by ego or cunning, she chose to put herself between her spirits and her audience. In this way, her spirits were able to maintain a kind of authority even in the face of audiences who disagreed with her. While this routine succeeded in keeping Woodhull and her politics in the spotlight for much of the first half of the 1870s, it could not be sustained forever. Operating on the vanguard, her role was to introduce the public to ideas they had never before considered. These ideas included new approaches to sex, marriage, and the family but also the nature of performance and consciousness. Often viewed as an aberration and curiosity by her contemporaries, Woodhull is better interpreted as a free-thinking innovator, willing to adopt and share unpopular opinions and happy to play to fans and critics alike as long as she could draw a crowd. References 1. Edgar Allan Poe, “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar” (1845) and “Mesmeric Revelation” (1849) in The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe (Charleston, South Carolina: CreateSpace Independent Publishing, 2016). 2. “Free love” in the 1870s generally referred to more liberal marriage laws rather than the communal partner-sharing of the 1960s. 3. Barbara Myerhoff, “The transformation of consciousness in ritual performances: some thoughts and questions” in By Means of Performance (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 247. 4. Charles Poyen, Proofs of Animal Magnetism in New England (Boston: Weeks, Jordan, and Co., 1837). 5. Poyen, Proofs, 130-131. 6. Robert C. Fuller, Americans and the Unconscious (London: Oxford U. P., 1986), 36. 7. Fuller, Americans, 31. 8. Poyen, Proofs, 138-139. 9. John DeSalvo, Andrew Jackson Davis: The First American Prophet and Clairvoyant (Morrisville, North Carolina: Lulu, 2005). 10. Swedenborg experienced a series of dreams or visions which became the basis for his own Biblical theology. Mesmerists took inspiration from the fact that Swedenborg's revelations had come in an altered state of consciousness. See A Compendium of the Theological Works of Emmanuel Swedenborg (New York: Swedenborg Foundation, 1974). 11. Andrew Jackson Davis, The Principles of Nature, Her Divine Revelations, and a Voice to Mankind (New York: S.S. Lyon and William Fishbough, 1847). Davis said, “there is another distinct principle, which appears and is evident to me as Spirit. Also there is a mediator, or medium connecting the spirit with the body. This mediator I know as sensation. And when this medium becomes disunited, there is a physical dissolution, and a spiritual elevation to a different sphere of existence” (42). 12. D. M. Dewey, History of the Strange Sounds or Rappings, Heard in Rochester and Western New York and Usually Called the Mysterious Noises! Which are supposed by many to be communications from the spirit world, together with all the explanation that can as yet be given of the matter. (Rochester: D. M. Dewey, 1850), 15. By rapping through the letters of the alphabet, the taps eventually identified themselves as having been produced by the spirit of a peddler who had been killed by some previous owners of the house and buried in the basement. 13. Davis argued in his Principles of Nature that “the free, unshackled spirit... can receive impressions instantaneously of all things desired,--and with its spiritual senses, communicate with spiritual substances.” Of his own mesmerized state, he said, “When you ask me a question, I am then existing in the medium or sphere of the body; but in investigating and finding the answer, I pass to the sphere where I can associate with the truth and reality” (43-44). 14. Anne Braude, Radical Spirits: Spiritualism and Women's Rights in Nineteenth Century America (Bloomington: Indiana U. P., 1989), 82. 15. Braude, Spirits, 82. 16. R. Laurence Moore, In Search of White Crows: Spiritualism, Parapsychology, and American Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1977), 113. 17. Simone Natale, Supernatural Entertainments: Victorian Spiritualism and the Rise of Modern Media Culture (University Park, Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2016), 27. 18. Alice Rayner, Ghosts: Death's Double and the Phenomena of Theatre (Minneapolis: U. of Minnesota Press, 2006), 17. 19. Rayner, Ghosts, 26. 20. Jonas Barish, The Antitheatrical Prejudice (Berkeley: U. of California Press, 1985), 334. 21. David Grimsted, Melodrama Unveiled (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), 94. 22. Barish, The Antitheatrical Prejudice, 347-348. 23. Arthur Conan Doyle, The History of Spiritualism (George H. Durhan, Co., 1926; Reprint, New York: Arno Press, 1975), I: 134. 24. Harrison D. Barrett, Life Work of Cora L. V. Richmond (Chicago: Hack and Anderson, 1895), 8. 25. Braude, Radical Spirits, 86. 26. Nettie Colburn Maynard, Was Abraham Lincoln a Spiritualist? Or Curious Revelations from the Life of a Trance Medium (Philadelphia: Rufus C. Hartranft, 1891), 1-23. 27. Athaldine Smith, “Achsa Sprague and Mary Clark's Experiences in the First Ten Spheres of Spirit Life,” (Springfield: Star Publishing, n.d.) 28. Achsa Sprague, The Poet and Other Poems (Boston: W. White and Co., 1864), 300-301. 29. Cora L. V. Richmond, “Psychic or Supermundane Experiences,” The Arena (July 1897). 30. Cora L. V. Richmond, “Psychic or Supermundane Experiences,” The Arena (July 1897). 31. In one of the harshest criticisms Richmond received, the Christian Inquirer said that her performance was “chiefly a prolonged school-girl's essay, with allusions to the fragrant flowers, and bespangled with talk about the glittering stars. Now and then there was a striking sentence, but as a whole it was vague, sentimental and exceedingly weak” (21 August 1858). 32. Cora L. V. Hatch, “A Discourse on the Immutable Decrees of God and the Free Agency of Man,” delivered in City Hall, Newburyport, Mass. 22 November 1857. http://www.interfarfacing.com/ ImmutableDegreesFreeAgencyMan.htm (accessed 9 August 2022). 33. Cora L. V. Richmond, The Soul in Human Embodiments (Richmond, 1888; reprint, St. Louis: MAS Publishing, 1999), 10. 34. Richmond, Soul, 13. 35. W. B. Carpenter, Principles of Mental Physiology, with their applications to the training and discipline of the mind and the study of its morbid conditions (London: Henry S. King and Co., 1875), 391-392. 36. Cathy Gutierrez, Plato's Ghost: Spiritualism in the American Renaissance (London: Oxford U. P., 2009), 163. 37. S. E. D. Shortt, Victorian Lunacy: Richard M. Bucke and the Practice of Late Nineteenth-Century Psychiatry (London: Cambridge U. P., 1986), 117. 38. Wouter Hanegraaf, New Age Religion and Western Culture: Esotericism in the Mirror of Secular Thought (New York: SUNY Press, 1997), 471. 39. Theodore Tilton, “Victoria C. Woodhull: A Biographical Sketch,” The Golden Tracts no. 3 (New York: Office of the Golden Tracts, 1871), 17. Although Tilton would go on to resent Woodhull for her role in the Beecher scandal, at the time he wrote his biography of her, they were close friends. This gave him unique access to the details of Woodhull's personal life but also colored his narrative heavily in her favor. 40. Tilton, “Victoria C. Woodhull,” 17. 41. Tennie Claflin was born Tennessee Claflin but changed her name to Tennie C. after leaving her parents'; home with her sister. Tilton, “Victoria C. Woodhull,” 17-19. 42. Tilton, “Victoria C. Woodhull,” 19. 43. Tilton, “Victoria C. Woodhull,” 22. Woodhull had a contentious relationship with her immediate and extended family throughout her life. 44. Tilton, “Victoria C. Woodhull,” 17-18. 45. See, for example, Cora L. V. Tappan, “The History of Occultism and its Relations to Spiritualism,” Banner of Light 39, no. 22 (26 August 1876): 1. 46. Victoria C. Woodhull, “The Elixir of Life; or, Why Do We Die? An Oration Delivered before the Tenth Annual Convention of the American Association of Spiritualists, at Grow’s Opera House, Chicago, Ills., by Victoria C. Woodhull, September 18, 1873” (New York: Woodhull & Claflin, 1873). 47. Woodhull and Claflin's Weekly 9, no. 8 (23 January 1875). Woodhull made a regular habit of reprinting notices about her performances in her own newspaper. In reprinting these reviews, she tacitly approved of or gave the impression that she approved of their characterization of her. 48. Woodhull and Claflin's Weekly 10, no. 14 (4 September 1875). 49. Tilton, “Victoria C. Woodhull,” 8. 50. Tilton, “Victoria C. Woodhull,” 9. This process is a direct echo of the way in which Andrew Jackson Davis composed his Principles of Nature with his scribe, William Fishbough. This suggests the possibility that Woodhull was intentionally assuming a more masculine trance role. 51. Myra Macpherson, The Scarlet Sisters: Sex Suffrage and Scandal in the Gilded Age (New York: Hachette Book Group, 2014), 54-55. 52. Woodhull and Claflin's Weekly 9, no. 10 (27 November 1875). 53. Banner of Light (20 November 1875). 54. Woodhull and Claflin's Weekly 10, no. 14 (4 September 1875). 55. Woodhull and Claflin's Weekly, 10, Number 26 (27 November 1875). 56. Victoria C. Woodhull, “The Memorial of Victoria C. Woodhull, to the honorable Senate and House of Representatives of the United States in Congress assembled, respectfully showeth regarding women voting” New York, 1870. https://www.loc.gov/item/rbpe.12800900/ (Accessed 9 August 2022). Some members of the women's suffrage movement were annoyed with Woodhull for having brokered this address to a congressional committee because they viewed her as an attention-seeking upstart who had not yet earned her place among them. 57. Victoria C. Woodhull, “A Speech on the Impending Revolution,” in Selected Writings of Victoria Woodhull, ed. Cari M. Carpenter, (Lincoln: U. of Nebraska Press, 2010), 67. 58. Victoria Woodhull, “Breaking the Seals; The Key to the Hidden Mystery an oration delivered by Victoria C. Woodhull, First in Martin House, Albany, N. Y., Friday Evening, Aug. 2 1875, and since at various other cities in the east,” Woodhull and Claflin's Weekly 10, no. 17 (25 September 1875). In this speech, Woodhull took a strange turn toward occultism, using a 'cabalistic' key to reveal the Garden of Eden as a metaphor for the human body. She gave this speech at the same time that Helena Blavatsky and Henry Olcott had attracted the notice of America's spiritualists with their new Theosophical Society which drew heavily on Egyptian occult themes in its early days, and so it's likely Woodhull was attempting to capitalize on a new vogue for occultism. That having been said, the speech's reference to an “elixir” helps to create continuity with her earlier work on “The Elixir of Life.” 59. Victoria C. Woodhull, “The Elixir of Life; or, Why Do We Die? An Oration Delivered before the Tenth Annual Convention of the American Association of Spiritualists, at Grow’s Opera House, Chicago, Ills., by Victoria C. Woodhull, September 18, 1873” (New York: Woodhull & Claflin, 1873). 60. Woodhull, “Elixir.” Woodhull loops all the way back to trance's mesmeric roots by discovering her “elixir” in the magnetic poles of two sexual partners. Complementary positive and negative poles cure disease in the afflicted partners and promote health and longevity. 61. Joseph Roach, Cities of the Dead (New York: Columbia U. P., 1996), 41. 62. E. H. G. C., Reprinted in the Banner of Light 30, no. 4, (7 October 1871), 2. 63. Gabriele Weiler, “Human Sacrifice in Greek Culture” in Human Sacrifice in Jewish and Christian Tradition, ed. Diethard Romheld, Armin Lange, and Karin Finsterbusch (Leiden: Brill, 2007). 64. Woodhull and Claflin's Weekly (2 November 1872). 65. New York Times (3 November 1872). 66. Woodhull and Claflin's Weekly (23 January 1873). 67. Victoria C. Woodhull, “The Naked Truth or the Situation Reviewed,” in Selected Writings of Victoria Woodhull, ed. Cari M. Carpenter, (Lincoln: U. of Nebraska Press, 2010), 125. 68. Woodhull was in such terrible shape at the nadir of the scandal that news circulated that she had died. Later, corrections were issued that she was only seriously ill. New York Times (7 June 1873). For his part, Beecher's reputation survived Woodhull's attempt to expose him. To this day, a statue of Beecher stands in Cadman Plaza in Brooklyn, New York. There is, to my knowledge, no corresponding statue of Woodhull. Footnotes About The Author(s) Robert C. Thompson is Associate Professor of Theatre and the Director of Performing Arts Programming at Chesapeake College on Maryland's Eastern Shore. He publishes on paranormal tourism and American occultism and is the host of Occult Confessions, a history podcast about alternative religious traditions. Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Community Circles and Love Triangles: Gun Violence and Belonging in Oklahoma! and West Side Story Decommissioning the School-to-Prison Pipeline: Anna Deavere Smith’s Notes from the Field and Dominique Morisseau’s Pipeline More than a Props List: Redefining Material Culture as Survival and Pleasure in Lynn Nottage’s Ruined The Politics of Trance: Victoria Woodhull and the Radical Reform of Platform Mediumship Beyond Text: Theater and Performance in Print After 1900 Emily Mann: Rebel Artist of the American Theatre Made Up Asians: Yellowface During the Exclusion Era Performance in the Zócalo: Constructing History, Race, and Identity in Mexico's Central Square from the Colonial Era to the Present Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Is it possible for a room to be empty when your memories keep breaking through the walls? Alison Clancy’s drone-pop-psych-Americana piece So Brutal It Feels Like Home puts you in a liminal space where ghosts ricochet off every surface. This is about the same thing that makes wild dogs howl. Three dancers, Clancy’s live ethereal vocals and electric guitar, and multi-spectrum lighting and shadows transport us from ecstatic vistas to the bottom of the well. Landing somewhere between a rock show / dance concert / performance installation the work is haunting in its simple brutality, emotional intimacy and physical virtuosity. PRELUDE Festival 2023 DANCE So Brutal It Feels Like Home Alison Clancy Dance, Music English 30 min 8:00PM EST Friday, October 13, 2023 Elebash Recital Hall, The Graduate Center, 5th Avenue, New York, NY, USA Free Entry, Open To All Is it possible for a room to be empty when your memories keep breaking through the walls? Alison Clancy’s drone-pop-psych-Americana piece So Brutal It Feels Like Home puts you in a liminal space where ghosts ricochet off every surface. This is about the same thing that makes wild dogs howl. Three dancers, Clancy’s live ethereal vocals and electric guitar, and multi-spectrum lighting and shadows transport us from ecstatic vistas to the bottom of the well. Landing somewhere between a rock show / dance concert / performance installation the work is haunting in its simple brutality, emotional intimacy and physical virtuosity. This piece was created with support from Susannah Lee Griffee and the NY State Dance Force Choreogrpaher's Initiative Award Content / Trigger Description: Dreaming of beauty and collective catharsis, Alison Clancy designs projects bridging between worlds... Haunting solo music performances weave tapestries of electric guitar into expansive, brooding drone-psyche Americana. Incantatory vocals reveal delicate vulnerability and gritty volatility. Alison summons ghosts from machines. Performances often incorporate expressionistic choreography in collaboration with virtuosic dancers. Alison's choreographic work is informed by a deep relationship with classical ballet, but subverts technique in exploration of primordial sensuality. Illuminating the authority of each body's authentic story, the essence of performers are invited to burn and melt the form. Alison's approach is equal parts visceral and visual, often incorporating cinematic custom lighting and video installations. 2022 recipient of the New York State Dance Force Choreographer's Initiative Award. www.alisonclancy.com https://www.instagram.com/_alison_clancy_/ https://www.facebook.com/ClancyMedia Watch Recording Explore more performances, talks and discussions at PRELUDE 2023 See What's on

Isaiah Matthew Wooden Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 38 1 Visit Journal Homepage The Brothers Size Isaiah Matthew Wooden By Published on January 26, 2026 Download Article as PDF The Brothers Size By Tarell Alvin McCraney Co-Directed by Tarell Alvin McCraney and Bijan Sheibani The Shed (Co-Produced with the Geffen Playhouse) New York, NY September 6, 2025 Reviewed by Isaiah Matthew Wooden In the nearly two decades since Tarell Alvin McCraney’s The Brothers Size debuted Off-Broadway as a part of the third Under the Radar Festival, the evocative three-hander has garnered considerable praise for its trenchant, poetic dramatization of some of the lasting questions shaping the lives and relationships of Black men in the United States. Audiences and critics alike have found much to admire in McCraney’s shrewd fusion of ancient tales drawn from Yoruba cosmology with given circumstances and dramaturgical devices of his own making that invite reflection on such themes as brotherhood, masculinity, vulnerability, love, and freedom. No doubt adding to the play’s appeal are the rich opportunities it affords the actors portraying its central trio—Ogun Size; his younger brother, Oshoosi Size; and Oshoosi’s close friend and former cellmate, Elegba—to flex an extraordinary range of performance muscles. The play’s return to New York City in 2025 in a co-production by The Shed and the Geffen Playhouse reaffirmed its status as one of the most compelling and resonant dramas to spotlight and interrogate the intricacies of the inner lives and social worlds of Black men. Co-Directed by Bijan Sheibani and McCraney, and featuring three actors who have achieved notoriety for their stage and screen work, André Holland (Ogun Size), Alani iLongwe (Oshoosi Size), and Malcolm Mays (Elegba), this revival was remarkably elegant in its simplicity, relying mostly on the physical and vocal agility of its performers to bring expressive clarity to the details of their respective characters’ at once mythic and mundane journeys. The integration of live music by Munir Zakee and choreography by Juel D. Lane enhanced the overall rhythm of the performance while also reinforcing the sense of call-and-response that McCraney’s striking incorporation of spoken stage directions aims to evoke. Suzu Sakai’s spare set design, which was anchored by an improvised circle marked out with a white, chalk-like substance in a clear nod to the symbolic spaces central to various syncretic spiritual traditions of the African diaspora, further bolstered the production’s invitation to audience members to embrace their roles as co-creators of the storytelling. This necessarily created space for some of the play’s more distinct features, including its setting in a fictional town in the Deep South at some point in the “distant present,” to accrue fresh significance, while also allowing Holland, iLongwe, and Mays to embody their characters with incredible specificity and vitality. André Holland (Ogun Size). The Brothers Size , The Shed, New York, August 30-September 28, 2025. Photo: Marc J. Franklin. Courtesy The Shed. Given Holland’s longstanding connection to The Brothers Size and to McCraney’s work more broadly—he played Elegba in the 2009 staging of the play co-produced by The Public Theater and the McCarter Theatre Center, and also starred in the McCraney-penned films Moonlight (2016) and High Flying Bird (2019)—it was especially moving to witness the layered complexity he brought to his portrayal of the elder Size brother. While Oshoosi often admonishes Ogun for moving through life with unnecessary hardness, Holland was deliberate about endowing the character with charm and tenderness. His insistence on surfacing the character’s multidimensionality made moments like his recollection of the suffering endured by his former lover, Oya, or his account of always getting blamed for Oshoosi’s troubled behavior during their youth, reverberate long after the action had shifted focus elsewhere. The sensitivity of Holland’s performance came into sharpest focus in what remains one of The Brothers Sizes’s most touching and restorative scenes. When Oshoosi yet again finds himself teetering on the brink of captivity by a criminal legal system that views all young Black male life as fungible, the elder Size brother commands that his sibling flee their distressed hometown as soon and as fast as possible. The boom and quake in Holland’s voice as Ogun vowed to deny his younger brother up to three times when the Law came looking for him, deepened the emotional intensity of the duo’s final embrace and, in so doing, further distinguished Holland as one of the most dynamic interpreters of McCraney’s sublime language. iLongwe and Mays likewise proved adept at surfacing the idiosyncrasies and subtleties of McCraney’s dramaturgy. The tremendous energy and vigor of iLongwe’s Oshoosi served to punctuate how the character’s relentless yearnings to make freedom mean something often complicated his everyday life. Indeed, while Oshoosi’s articulated aims to acquire a car and find a woman registered as pretty straightforward, at least at first blush, iLongwe’s nimble portrayal called attention to the ways they were symptomatic of his much larger aspirations to imagine and enact possibilities unencumbered by carceral and other oppressive logics. This accounted for the powerful hold that Mays’s spry and clever Elegba seemed to maintain over Oshoosi’s life. Much like the orisha of the same name, Elegba often appears at key moments of decision-making in the play, reminding Oshoosi of the beauty and power inherent in choices. Mays’s portrayal of Elegba as simultaneously sweet and crafty amplified his allure for Oshoosi while shedding light on why Ogun remained so deeply suspicious of the pair’s friendship. Malcolm Mays (Elegba), Alani iLongwe (Oshoosi Size), and André Holland (Ogun Size). The Brothers Size , The Shed, New York, August 30 – September 28, 2025. Photo: Marc J. Franklin. Courtesy The Shed. The minor script revisions McCraney made for the production underscored the crucial role that love—familial, platonic, erotic, and otherwise—can play in sustaining the bonds between Black men. These updates, paired with McCraney and Sheibani’s sleek staging, Adam Honoré’s subdued lighting, and Dede Ayite’s practical costumes, not only sharpened the overall storytelling but also accentuated the play’s enduring emotional and thematic resonances. Simultaneously and significantly, they enabled the production to make a persuasive case for why The Brothers Size ’s stirring explorations of Black men’s interiorities and vulnerabilities marks it as a singular and transformative work of twenty-first-century theatre. References Footnotes About The Author(s) ISAIAH MATTHEW WOODEN is a scholar-artist, writer, and Associate Professor and Chair of Theater at Swarthmore College. He is the author of  Reclaiming Time: Race, Temporality, and Black Expressive Culture  (2025) and co-editor of  August Wilson in Context  (2025),  Tarell Alvin McCraney: Theater, Performance, and Collaboration  (2020), and “Manifestos for Black Theatre, Then and Now,” a special section of  Theatre History Studies  (2024). Additionally, he served as the volume editor for the Methuen student edition of  A Raisin in the Sun  by Lorraine Hansberry (2025). Wooden’s articles and essays on contemporary art, drama, and performance have appeared in numerous scholarly and popular publications. As a director and dramaturg, he has collaborated on projects in venues ranging from the Uganda National Theatre to the Kennedy Center, including works by Lorraine Hansberry, Branden Jacobs-Jenkins, Tarell Alvin McCraney, Lynn Nottage, and Robert O’Hara. Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Introduction Fat Suits and Fat Futures: Ob*sity Drag in The Whale “The Star of the Aggregation”: Maggie Calloway’s Performances of Aggregation and Pleasure in Colonial Manila and British Malaya What’s at Stake? Sustaining DEIJ in U.S. Theatre "The Gift That Keeps on Giving": An Interview with Carmelita Tropicana Saying The F Word: A Conversation with Jordan Tannahill Staging Intimacy and Paradox through a Queer Lens: A Conversation with Jen Silverman Decentered Playwriting: Alternative Techniques for the Stage. Edited by Carolyn M. Dunn, Eric Micha Holmes, and Les Hunter. New York: Routledge, 2024; Pp. 212. Race and the Forms of Knowledge: Technique, Identity, and Place in Artistic Research. Ben Spatz. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2024; Pp. 314. Bloody Tyrants & Little Pickles: Stage Roles of Anglo-American Girls in the Nineteenth Century. Marlis Schweitzer. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2020; Pp. 276. Redface: Race, Performance, and Indigeneity. Bethany Hughes. New York: New York University Press, 2024; Pp. 272. The Brothers Size Dead Outlaw 2025 Oregon Shakespeare Festival ZAZ Introduction: New England Theatre in Review 2.0 Greater Boston’s Independent Theatres, 2024-25 Politics Take Center Stage in the Berkshires, 2024-25 Long Wharf Theatre, 2024-25 Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Nicole Hodges Persley and Heather S. Nathans Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 33 2 Visit Journal Homepage Introduction to "Milestones in Black Theatre" Nicole Hodges Persley and Heather S. Nathans By Published on May 11, 2021 Download Article as PDF This special issue of the Journal of American Drama and Theatre was initially envisioned as a celebration of the inimitable Errol Hill’s contributions to Black Theatre in American history. Hill’s centennial asks us to reflect on the long history of American performance and the impact of Black lives on the American theater. Errol Hill did not revise American theater history by making it more “inclusive.” He challenged the systemic racism of American theater by providing evidence of a thriving Black arts practice that helped to shape the foundations of American theatrical traditions from musical theater to dance. However, when colleagues from the American Theatre and Drama Society, the Black Theatre Association, and the Black Theatre Network began developing this issue, we were all reeling from the effects of the COVID-19 pandemic. We did not have the theater to help us process this international trauma and loss. Theaters around the world were shuttered indefinitely due to pandemic lockdowns and quarantines. ATHE’s 2020 conference was supposed to take place in Detroit, Michigan, one of the country’s most densely populated Black cities. Instead that summer found us mourning and grappling with death and darkness via Zoom. Facing our limitations, fragilities, anger, and discontents, we attempted to make sense of what we were experiencing as a collective of theater-makers while paying close attention to the racially specific atrocities the pandemic and perpetual climate of anti-blackness did to our Black and Brown colleagues and friends. While we formulated this issue, we watched the ongoing international public protests in response to the murder of George Floyd. The daily theatrical loop of trauma and death streaming onto our phones, tablets, televisions, and Zoom screens felt unbearable. By August of 2020, an unconscionable number of Americans had lost their lives to COVID-19 with those numbers disproportionately representing deaths in Black and Brown communities. At the same time, international audiences witnessed the unrelenting barrage of anti-Black deaths including Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Elijah McClain. As every day seemed to bring a deluge of fresh pain or disaster, colleagues from across ATDS, BTA, and BTN came together to support a group of scholars whose work documents Black Theatre’s histories of resistance, pride, courage, and triumph. Working on this special issue of the Journal of American Drama and Theatre celebrating “Milestones in Black Theatre” has opened up opportunities to reimagine the parameters of the field. It has also highlighted the inadequacy of one journal issue to represent all of the extraordinary accomplishments and developments in Black Theatre Studies. Rather than curating a more traditional journal format with four or five articles, we deliberately broke open the structure to encourage short thought pieces, manifestos, explorations of new work, interviews, roundtable discussions, and reimaginings of familiar material. We also sought to represent a broad swath of scholars in Black Theatre — both well-established voices and those newer to the conversation. Additionally, we developed a Spotify playlist to accompany the issue (available at: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6GVG9zV2bK1JC9Xn1kzhS6?si=9ea0067b0eb1409d ). This playlist invites readers into a sonic landscape as an alternate methodology and archive. It asks how we can think through milestones and approaches in new and unfamiliar ways? We hope that it will inspire you to add songs or to curate your own lists around your research. We launch the issue with a series of interviews from award-winning scholars and leaders, including Harry Elam, David Krasner, E. Patrick Johnson, Bernth Lindfors, Sandra Richards, Sandra Shannon, and Harvey Young. Their numerous contributions to Black Theatre Studies adorn many of our bookshelves and grace our syllabi. Each of these scholars in turn hailed a host of new voices—marking the rise of successive generations in the field and those are included in a section entitled “Afterviews.” A cluster of articles from Elizabeth Cizmar, Baron Kelly, Khalid Long, and Nathaniel Nesmith offers new insights into histories of Black artists, including Glenda Dickerson, Earle Hyman, Elaine Jackson, Ernie McLintock, Frederick O’Neal. A pair of short essays by Michelle Cowin Gibbs and Eric Glover presents contrasting interpretations of Zora Neale Hurston and Langston Hughes’s The Mule Bone . Two manifesto-style pieces from Omiyemi Green and Lisa Thompson confront assumptions about career trajectories in Black Theatre and the academy, Black Theatre pedagogy, and the particular challenges Black women have faced in the field. Another cluster of essays by Bernth Lindfors, Olga Sanchez Saltveit, and Isaiah Wooden prompts readers to expand their theoretical and methodological lenses, including rethinking familiar documentary sources, boundaries between Black and Latinx theater, and how scholars can mine the archive for previously undiscovered treasures. We close the articles section with a roundtable discussion that reflects on the role of the artist-scholar in the current moment. It looks back on the legacy of earlier artist-scholars, including Errol Hill, and it also asks how contemporary artist-scholars imagine their legacies. We invite readers to envision new possibilities that will not be measured only against what we have now. The issue closes with a special selection of book reviews focusing on new directions in Black Theatre, compiled by JADT Book Review Editor Maya Roth, as well as a list of the Errol Hill Award-winning books and articles over the past twenty-three years. The Errol Hill Award, launched in 1997, recognizes, “outstanding scholarship in African American theater, drama, and/or performance studies, as demonstrated in the form of a published book-length project (monograph or essay collection) or scholarly article” ( astr.org ). We hope that this special issue will prompt debate and will also invite those just beginning their work in Black Theatre into the field. We also hope that it will serve as a useful benchmark for the historical moment in which we find ourselves. References Footnotes About The Author(s) NICOLE HODGES PERSLEY Associate Professor, University of Kansas HEATHER S. NATHANS Professor, Tufts University Editorial Board: Guest Editors: Nicole Hodges Persley and Heather S. Nathans Guest Editorial Team for this issue: Mark Cosdon, Stephanie Engel, La Donna Forsgren, Javier Hurtado, Mia Levenson, Khalid Long, Derek Miller, Monica White Ndounou, Scot Reese Co-Editors: Naomi J. Stubbs and James F. Wilson Advisory Editor: David Savran Founding Editors: Vera Mowry Roberts and Walter Meserve Editorial Staff: Co-Managing Editor: Casey Berner Co-Managing Editor: Hui Peng Advisory Board: Michael Y. Bennett Kevin Byrne Tracey Elaine Chessum Bill Demastes Stuart Hecht Jorge Huerta Amy E. Hughes David Krasner Esther Kim Lee Kim Marra Ariel Nereson Beth Osborne Jordan Schildcrout Robert Vorlicky Maurya Wickstrom Stacy Wolf Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Introduction to "Milestones in Black Theatre" Prologue to the Issue and a Thank-you to Errol Hill Earle Hyman and Frederick O’Neal: Ideals for the Embodiment of Artistic Truth Newly Discovered Biographical Sources on Ira Aldridge Subversive Inclusion: Ernie McClintock’s 127th Street Repertory Ensemble 1991: Original Broadway Production of Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston's Antimusical Mule Bone Is Presented A Documentary Milestone: Revisiting Black Theatre: The Making of a Movement A Return to 1987: Glenda Dickerson’s Black Feminist Intervention Dancing on the Slash: Choreographing a Life as a Black Feminist Artist/Scholar Playing the Dozens: Towards a Black Feminist Dramaturgy in the Work of Zora Neale Hurston Guadalís Del Carmen: Strategies for Hemispheric Liberation “Ògún Yè Mo Yè!” Pathways for institutionalizing Black Theater pedagogy and production at historically white universities Interviews and Afterviews on “Milestones in Black Theatre” Talking About a Revolutionary Praxis: A Conversation with Black Women Artist-Scholars in the Wake of COVID-19 and Black Lives Matter Tarell Alvin McCraney: Theater, Performance, and Collaboration. Sharrell D. Luckett, David Román, and Isaiah Matthew Wooden, eds. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2020; Pp. 252. Casting A Movement: The Welcome Table Initiative. Claire Syler and Daniel Banks, eds. New York: Routledge, 2019; Pp. 266. The Theatre of August Wilson. Alan Nadel. Metuen Drama Critical Companions Series. London; New York: Methuen Drama, Bloomsbury Collections, 2018; Pp. 224. Shakespeare in a Divided America: What His Plays Tell Us About Our Past and Future. James Shapiro. New York: Penguin Press, 2020. Pp. 221. The Theatre of Eugene O’Neill: American Modernism on the World Stage. Kurt Eisen. Methuen Drama Critical Companions Series. London: Methuen Drama, 2017; Pp 242 + xiv. Errol Hill Award Winners 1997-2020 Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Madeline Pages Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 34 1 Visit Journal Homepage Theatre of Isolation Madeline Pages By Published on December 9, 2021 Download Article as PDF Conceiving of a theatre of isolation presents the performance scholar with a conundrum akin to a tree falling in a secluded forest. As it is so often distinguished by the presence of the group, of collective and communal exchange, the theatre as an art form seems diametrically opposed to isolation—physical, social, mental, emotional, spiritual. How can theatre relate to the world while maintaining a state of isolation from it? And where does isolation lead if and when it ends? I offer theatre of isolation as a category of performance that engages with these questions and one that implies a tension between the social engagement of theatre, which is often thought of as having a social function, and social isolation. In 2020, theatre artists were living in that tension. I believe their work proved theatre and isolation can coexist. I also believe theatre of isolation is not a temporally bounded category but one we can use to see this coexistence of socially engaged art with isolation in the work of theatre makers from other times. The 1970s in the US was an era of aftermath. American society faced as one (though by disparate means and with differing attitudes) the shock of the Vietnam War as it was witnessed on television, national financial decline, and the continued, violent subjugation of marginalized people. The political struggles of the 1960s, in a sense, continued through the 1970s, prolonged and deepened without relief as one decade spilled into the next. Given this climate, a desire for isolation or at least the expression of that desire in art, strikes me as unsurprising. For this essay, I have chosen to look at three artists, Adrienne Kennedy, Peter Schumann, and Jack Smith, whose theatre from the 1970s is isolated from the dominant culture—white, male, heterosexual, conservative, capitalist—of the time. Isolation of this type may be reflected in physical space, and I pay close attention to both real and imaginary architectures of isolation. However, my analysis is more broadly concerned with social isolation—how it happens, what it looks and feels like, and its effect on artistic expression. The result of this isolation is not necessarily an increased understanding of the self, of one’s identity, but a kind of solace that primes the individual for the monumental task of breaking new ground and resisting oppression. Such a claim is not new. Theatre of isolation can be classified alongside the antisocial and the anti-relational in performance studies, particularly as such terms are debated among scholars of queer studies. [1] However, I wish to distinguish isolation from the antisocial and align my analysis with the asocial as theorized by Summer Kim Lee in “Staying In: Mitski, Ocean Vuong, and Asian American Asociality.” The asocial, according to Lee, complicates and expands the state of antisociality of the subject, as a momentary choice to resist the social in order to “shift and reconstellate one’s relations to . . . the socialities with which one is entangled,” rather than deny or resist relationality completely. [2] “Staying in” is what Lee calls the performance of asociality in which the subject chooses to be alone rather than be out with others. In Lee’s formulation, to have the need and desire for time away from others, from an outside . . . does not hold up a depoliticized fantasy of autonomy. . . . Rather, it points toward the desire to want to relate, to show up for another, but when one is ready, and in ways that alter the horizon of what constitutes the social, and the political projects, collectivities, affiliations, and models of care borne out of it. [3] “Staying in,” then, is a self-reflexive performance of asociality, an enactment of “the ambivalent and rich aspects of solitude” for the purposes of protection and preservation, but also preparation for political and social engagement. Particularly for individuals who identify with a minority group—Lee speaks specifically to the effects for Asian American people—staying in offers “sustained and sustaining ways . . . of moving through a world that is messy, damaging, hurtful, and exhausting.” [4] Staying in appears to be the antidote to the psychic exhaustion caused by the normalization of oppression, but does not preclude political engagement or outward expression, as in forms of public art. Lee further argues that staying in is in fact “enfolded within . . . acts and desires of going out” to participate in “radical, collective, organized action [that has heretofore characterized minoritarian political critique] within the social worlds in which we live.” [5] Such collective actions have been inherited by contemporary culture through glorified histories of the protests and insurgency of the 1960s. From that decade’s legacy emerged a “compulsory sociability,” the belief that “one’s political investments and acts of solidarity must be located in the realm of the social.” [6] As Lee conceives it, staying in as a mode of performance rejects the assumption of compulsory sociability but not the collective pursuit of social justice. [7] Staying in inverts the common conception of the antisocial or isolated individual as outside —outside of the world, disengaged, or perhaps a mere spectator. Instead, the individual staying in is staying inside , and by choice. What defines an “insider” is not, as the prevailing use of term implies, the power of being part of the majority but isolation from the outside world while one remains within it. Furthermore, this kind of social isolation is personal, and consciously undertaken; from it one can derive some agency, defining one’s own terms of engagement. This unconventional inside/outside dichotomy becomes important for what follows. I am, as the three artists I will discuss in depth here are, always keeping an eye on the outside context as I delve into solitary spaces of imagination and creative practice. This outside, on the macro level, is the US in the 1970s. The dominant scholarly narratives of American culture in the 1970s, and particularly those narratives that focus on the theatre of the era, provide contradictory summaries of the artistic landscape: it is sometimes monopolized by the echoes of Tom Wolfe’s 1976 essay on “The Me Decade” and the nihilistic glamour of Andy Warhol, or, conversely, by artists characterized as community-oriented survivors scraping by in the middle of a national financial crisis. Hillary Miller argues that these analyses submerge “very necessary labors of institutionalization . . . in histories of downtown theatre that focus on the 1970s political separatism on the one hand, and myopic investigations of the self and identity on the other.” [8] Marc Robinson prefers to look at the American art world in the 1970s as in transition, in flux and unfixed, a decade of indeterminacy, which is a description that this essay may heighten and, hopefully, expand by offering up a possible explanation for that instability (at least for the artists I hone in on). [9] I argue that the lack of fixity stems from, as this brief summary of seventies historiography suggests, a conflict between the solitary and the collective. Therefore, my own research on the decade is caught somewhere in the middle of the academic fray, seeking to spotlight what Will Kaufman claims are the concerns of the decade’s drama with “social exclusion, isolation, and exhaustion,” while denying any notion that isolation as aesthetic counteracts activism and community solidarity. [10] Adrienne Kennedy, Peter Schumann, and Jack Smith are three markedly different artists, and their individual experiences of social isolation cannot be conflated. Whereas Schumann, as I will discuss in detail later on, isolates himself by choice, Kennedy’s (and Smith’s, to a certain extent) isolation begins as the result of exclusion. What I believe these artists have in common (other than being contemporaries) is that the theatre of isolation mirrors the social isolation of the artist, which I will argue further in what follows. All three have received, and continue to receive, no shortage of attention, making them familiar to many readers. This allows me to focus on my point of contact: the theme and aesthetics of isolation within their theatre. I adopt Lee’s approach to how individual artistic works both reflect, and are aesthetically influenced by, the artist’s state of isolation, physical or otherwise, from the social world. In the sense that all three were working in the American Northeast in the 1970s, the scope of this essay is narrow and reveals my own blind spots as a scholar. This essay is not intended to be an encompassing study. It wants conversation: conversation with Lee and other queer theorists and historians, with other artists, and with present and future performance and criticism. I address this essay to future works in particular, in the hopes that the category of theatre of isolation will be a useful tool for the theatre of the present. “I always just could very easily become a character in the movies or in a book.”[11] Adrienne Kennedy seems to stand alone in scholarship. On the surface she may be an odd choice for this essay, given that she appears to be very much a part of the scene in the seventies. She was involved with the playwrights’ coalitions New York Theatre Strategy (NYTS) and the Women’s Theatre Council (WTC) and her plays were performed at major downtown theatre hubs like The Public and La Mama. However, she continues to be treated at least from a historical perspective as constantly new and emerging, or else already dead and being revived, in spite of the actual trajectory of her career as a playwright. Though already the winner of an Obie, in the late 1970s she was, as alluded to by Miller, still a new artist to the likes of Joe Papp, who produced the premiere of A Movie Star Has to Star in Black and White in his New York Shakespeare Festival in 1976. Stephen J. Bottoms, on the other hand, chooses to mention only the revivals of her work, which seems to devalue the new plays she wrote in the seventies. In overviews of women playwrights and feminist theatre, such as Brenda Murphy’s essay for The Cambridge History of American Women’s Literature , Kennedy is little more than a footnote: her name introduces the “explosion of playwriting in the 1970s that accompanied the second-wave feminist movement,” but none of her plays are mentioned. [12] Then there are the places Kennedy is not named at all: in James Smethurst’s 2005 book on the Black Arts Movement (BAM) in the 1960s and 1970s, for example, Jack Kerouac’s name pops up five times and Kennedy’s does not appear once. She is rarely counted among members of the BAM, though she was in conversation with the movement’s leading artists. At the same time, her race and gender have contributed to her elision from other histories of New York theatre in the 1960s and 1970s. [13] Kennedy’s resistance to grouping, her lack of “group-ness,” at a time when groups, collectives, and movements appear to be the central critical-historical focus, may in part explain the scholarly tendency to read her plays as self-contained or autobiographical. Kimberly W. Benston, for example, writes that “autobiography . . . is the very signature of Adrienne Kennedy’s impossible though endless quest for a clarifying and stabilizing source.” [14] Kennedy is thus placed in a room of her own, unsurprising for a writer whose introspective style of drama abounds with isolated rooms, frames, and other physical spaces as recurring metaphors. [15] Thus, Kennedy’s particular theatre of isolation is characterized by the isolation chamber of the imagination, i.e. the funnyhouse. Beginning with Funnyhouse of a Negro (1964), Kennedy devises the “funnyhouse” as a psychological isolation chamber where characters that look and sound very much like their author grappling with the mystery of the self. In Funnyhouse , the self is subsequently broken up into multiple, “ideal selves,” from Patrice Lumumba to Jesus. In her later works, the “funnyhouse” is given different names (the sleep deprivation chamber, for example), yet its structure persists as indicative of the same interior: that of the writer’s mind. Luckily, we have snippets of the writer’s mind for comparison: that is, Kennedy’s prose texts, such as People Who Led to My Plays , which give context to the sense of isolation in plays like Funnyhouse . There is a potential danger, however, in reading Kennedy as self-contained if it means downplaying the influence of outside sources. As suggested by the epigraph to this section, as well as the subject matter of People Who Led to My Plays , the books, movies, and other media Kennedy consumed are inseparable from her imagination and the spaces in her plays. Particularly in her plays from the 1970s, Kennedy is mining the American media, and showing onstage the complex relationship between the media and Black people. An Evening with Dead Essex (1973), for example, was the result of an obsession in the early 1970s with the way news reports depicted Mark Essex, the Black nationalist who killed nine people in two attacks in New Orleans in December 1972 and January 1973. “I feel like Mark Essex,” she told Paul K. Bryant-Jackson and Lois More Overbeck in a 1990 interview, carrying her own “tremendous rage against American society.” On the one hand, as an African American she was forced to be bicultural, to read white culture as fluently as Black, despite being violently written out of that culture. Benston remarks, “Much like her heroines, Kennedy’s work seems driven by a search for an incandescent touchstone of self-reference, some primal image, story, or scene, that would heal the self’s constitution as wound or lack, its entrapment in dramas scripted from elsewhere.” [16] On the other hand, Kennedy says, “I think that as a black person in America, you almost have to force yourself on society.” [17] Kennedy’s books and movies, and even the true story of Essex, are the “dramas scripted from elsewhere,” and Benston interprets them as a trap of false identity. But it is perhaps this sense of falseness, when Kennedy wrestles with it in her plays, which is most illuminating of how the outside world operates against her and other Black people, particularly women. In A Movie Star Has to Star in Black and White , the Kennedy funnyhouse transforms into the silver screen of Golden Age Hollywood cinema, more enthralling to Kennedy and exclusive of her conception of self than any other “drama scripted from elsewhere.” In the play’s opening speech the audience is told that Clara plays “a bit role,” standing outside the frame and the action between characters representing cinema stars Marlon Brando, Bette Davis, Paul Henreid, Jean Peters, Montgomery Clift, and Shelley Winters. [18] Even when Clara steps into the scene, her “lines” are read by one of these white Hollywood icons and she is separated from both the movie world and her own life as her diary entries, recounting her family’s history and present relationships, are read aloud and subsumed within their reenactment of famous films. The black and white movie scenes are juxtaposed with scenes of Clara’s parents and husband, who “all look like [black and white] photographs” she keeps of them. The play is always attempting to fit these two spaces, the screen and picture frame, together, but regularly fails. For example, the hospital bedroom of Clara’s brother, in which she and her mother discuss her happiness or lack thereof, is at odds with the bedroom in which the characters of Marlon Brando and Jean Peters perform the teach-me-to-read scene from the film Viva Zapata , the one in “constant twilight” while Brando and Peters “star in dazzling wedding night light.” [19] The simultaneity of these contrasting scenes heightens the disconnection between Clara’s life and that of the movies, as well as between mother and daughter in their conversation, as mother insists that her pregnant daughter is unhappy without a settled domestic life while daughter cites her professional successes as a playwright as cause for great happiness. It is significant that when Clara speaks, she is almost always talking about herself as a playwright. This choice leads easily to a feminist interpretation of the play as dramatization of the difficulties of being a woman—read mother and sexual object—and an artist at once. It is twice as difficult for a Black woman, with the models of womanhood forced upon her by white culture. As Deborah R. Geis argues, “Tension between immersion and angry confrontation of the Hollywood world experienced by Clara in this play embodies the ambivalent spectatorial status of the African American woman whose subjectivity risks being undermined by her identification with an exclusionary cultural apparatus.” [20] The struggle for self-definition with these slippery models, which promise “fulfillment and female power” [21] but fail to address its limitations, then becomes a central concern of the play. I’m not entirely convinced, however, that it is Clara who is experiencing the tension Geis describes. As Clara says, her image as spectator comes not from her but from her husband Eddie: “Eddie says . . . that my diaries make me a spectator watching my life like watching a black and white movie.” [22] For Clara, writing is both her dream and her way of understanding her reality. Through writing she copes with family traumas such as her brother’s hospitalization, her parents’ divorce, her own divorce, and a miscarriage, on top of daily experiences of a racist and segregated society. Her life as such does not fit into the movie scenes—she cannot watch herself there. Instead, she must write her life in, and direct the stars from the wings in how to insert the language of her life into their filmography. The cohesion Clara and Winters achieve in the final moments of the play suggests that such a writing is possible to an extent. It is successful, however, only in the sense that each woman’s end is equally evocative of a desperate situation. In these last moments, Clara and Winters speak simultaneously of the possibility of Clara’s brother’s death. Then, when it is revealed that her brother will not die, Clara describes almost falling down the front steps of the hospital, her crying mother in her arms, in a scene of family sorrow-tinged relief (her brother will live but paralyzed and with brain damage). Simultaneously, Winters drowns as at the end of the film A Place in the Sun . Both Clara and Winters, in their separate worlds, are drowning. Clara’s writing and orchestration of the film stars and Kennedy’s writing of Clara are also united, in their exemplification of what Margo Natalie Crawford calls “black public interiority.” Black public interiority, a similar contradiction to my theatre of isolation that Crawford explains, caught the BAM between viewing introversion as elitism and “constantly performing ways in which the personal could be collective and inner mental space could be shared as people deconditioned their minds together.” [23] As a playwright in the 1970s, Kennedy was accused of such elitist introversion and yet her plays so powerfully publicize, in the act of performance, inner mental space. She engaged with the BAM principles and with white culture though neither of them would have her. In both cases she appears superficially as a spectator, as Eddie calls Clara, when in truth she was inside it all, constructing a funnyhouse to contain and showcase the complexities of that insider state. “[Art] needs to be EVERYWHERE because it is the INSIDE of the WORLD.”[24] It is difficult to argue that any period in the history of Peter Schumann’s Bread and Puppet Theatre is asocial in Lee’s sense, a respite from direct engagement, when their reputation is so closely linked to political protest and other forms of activism. The 1970s, however, saw a break in the company and, perhaps, a moment of redefining what it means for the Theatre’s art to be “ inside of the world.” In 1970, Schumann moved from New York City to the small town of Plainfield, Vermont and, as company founder and linchpin, essentially reconstituted Bread and Puppet as a solo project. Schumann had become increasingly critical of the audiences and politics of the city where his company’s homemade bread and giant carnivalesque puppets had commanded street actions of the Resistance Movement of the 1960s. [25] “We the Schumanns,” he wrote at the time, “are ready for a bigger slower style of motion, air breathing and vegetable growing included.” [26] Many of his collaborators, all but two of whom he left behind in New York, perceived the move as “copping out.” In their eyes, Schumann was abandoning the collective spirit that had defined Bread and Puppet since 1961 in order to join the well-to-do intellectuals and resort entrepreneurs migrating to Vermont for a taste of the majority white wilderness. [27] But as an artist Schumann had “outgrown the addressive-moralistic mode” that defined his street theatre of the 1960s. [28] At Cate Farm, the location of the Goddard College artist’s residency Schumann had secured in Vermont, he could develop a new, personal style. The Bread and Puppet Theatre of the Vermont days, as I will argue, exhibits an isolation through disillusionment—the disillusionment Schumann had with the forms of political activism that consumed him in the 1960s. Schumann’s move to rural Vermont would have a profound influence on his work up to the present day. As an out-of-towner and an immigrant to the US, Schumann was unlikely to find communion in Plainfield. The Cate Farm period can be defined by distance from the audience, from coherent narrative and authorial power, and from the crowd . Lee notes that isolation “dynamically affords one the time and space needed to evade forms of sociability that late liberalism and subsequent formations of political resistance demand.” [29] The isolation Schumann experienced afforded him the time and space to reevaluate his performance practices, which in the early Vermont days he tailored to his new circumstances. When there was an audience, it was made up of small-town Vermonters and students, and some of the Goddard performance experiments he conducted with student volunteers had no audience at all. This was a far cry from the socially, racially, and generationally diverse crowds in the streets of New York, an audience who Schumann saw as ideal for political theatre. [30] For the Plainfield audience, Schumann eschewed direct address and adopted the more traditional staging of the elevated proscenium, restoring a physical distance between audience and performance. He no longer saw the need for the conscious, aggressive alienation of the audience that characterized his New York street agitations. He wasn’t making theatre for his audience anymore but for himself and alienation could be achieved simply by embracing the isolated place he already inhabited as an immigrant to rural America. The first of the proscenium performances at Cate Farm were the five Grey Lady Cantatas ( Grey Lady Cantatas II-VI, 1970–1975). In these Cantatas , Schumann had a new preoccupation, which is encapsulated in the image of the Grey Lady puppet crying a crystal tear in Grey Lady Cantata II (1971): an individual—or The Individual—as the central subject in a story of suffering. Grey Lady Cantata II consists of a series of tableaus featuring an increasingly isolated Grey Lady figure, whose life is made barren by the removal of all other people and objects until finally she dies. The Grey Lady, as well as most of the other performers, are large-scale puppets that completely obscure their human puppeteers. The few human performers, in turn, imitate the cold puppets, with grey-painted faces and the stiffness of automatons. The grotesque and opulent style of the puppets, the puppet-like acting style of the humans, and the use of marionette-type mechanization for removing props and changing scenery de-emphasize the presence and power of human authors or performers and prevent the audience from fully identifying with the suffering being. Furthermore, Schumann wrote no dialogue which might have humanized the Grey Lady puppet or provided some authorial insight. “The story is definitely the audiences’ job, not ours,” wrote Schumann: “We have no free delivery of interpretations, librettos, symbols, special philosophies. We have a physical fitness apparatus of colors and other wonders of perception. Audience does the sport, the skis and knapsacks of theatre.” [31] Grey Ladies (the name given to American Red Cross volunteers who provided non-medical care, particularly during World War II) and other references to war might easily be connected with the many works of Schumann’s that were explicitly anti-Vietnam War. However, as Schumann explains, that’s a story for the audience to write. Stefan Brecht, a prolific chronicler of Bread and Puppet’s history, speculates that the obscurity of Grey Lady Cantata II was a device ensuring the “privacy” Schumann had desired when he left New York. [32] Although Schumann’s work had always attempted to preclude audience identification and pacification, the plight of the Grey Lady strikes a more introspective, unprecedented note than other of his works—and seems to reflect the artist’s own state of mind. [33] In the evolution of Schumann’s theatre, Cate Farm was a period of transition between the agitprop street theatre and the contemplative, moralistic tone and style that would distinguish his work from the late 1970s on. After moving again in 1974, this time to Dopp Farm in the even more rural Vermont town of Glover, Schumann would actually return to much of what characterized his earliest works: the movement of parades, marches, and circuses; “gigantic language” and spectacle; and, most importantly, subject matter that responded in the form of direct address to global politics. While at Goddard College, however, Schumann seemed to abandon his social activism for a time in favor of introspection. Schumann’s preference for The Individual as subject connects to what Brecht describes as presentation of a representation, without exhortation, a quiet succession of images without a transparent director’s note. However, Grey Lady Cantata II presents the extreme of individuality as source for great suffering and suggests the individual’s need for the collective. The crowd was still Schumann’s purported enemy and the perceived enemy of all individual thought and artistic freedom, but such a production suggests that he harbored a desire to embrace relation and collectivity if for no other reason than that it was a necessary tool in the fight for the good of society. Schumann was clearly troubled by the tension between denouncing the crowd and identifying individuality as sickening and deadly. He hungered for some other way, some middle ground. When he moved to Glover, he disbanded the Vermont Bread and Puppet that had formed around him in Plainfield and also turned away from the obscuring style of the Grey Lady Cantatas. It seems that what Schumann took away from his early years in Vermont and the intense isolation in the work of that period was the energy to reenter the fight for good in earnest. The early Dopp Farm period began with a series of morality plays, but shortly thereafter the enormous Domestic Resurrection Circuses—arguably the most iconic performances in the company’s history—blossomed. The influence of Scott Nearing, the philosopher of capitalist secessionism and “living the good life” who inspired the American back-to-the-land movement of the late 1960s (and who happened to be Schumann’s relative by marriage), in the Circuses and other post- Grey Lady works is evident. Schumann’s work in the late 1970s cried out for the “decent life” to abide by what he understood as the values of good and addressed a “universal” neighborhood as audience-recipients. The fact that Schumann’s morally didactic theatre emerges after the reserved Grey Lady Cantatas recalls Lee’s definition of asociality as a means of taking stock of political projects and perhaps altering one’s plan of engagement. In a 1994 interview with John Bell for Theater magazine, Schumann acknowledged the dangers of the ecological romanticism that attracts many people to isolated green places like his farm in Vermont: the evils of capitalism had to take thematic precedence, he said, though he lamented that this world is not a place in which his work could be focused on the idyllic setting. [34] At the time of the interview it had been almost twenty five years since Schumann moved to Vermont, and in the intervening decades, he had eschewed the aesthetics of solitude and suffering in productions like Grey Lady Cantata II for community-oriented spectacles imbued with his utopian ideals. There is irony in fighting mass systems of oppression from such a place of solitude atop a misty green mountain, but from Schumann’s perspective, he was back in the mud. “I want to be uncommercial film personified.”[35] Wading through secondary source material on Smith, I feel acutely the struggle to understand the introverted Jack Smith and to interpret his enigmatic theatre. With little surviving film documentation of Smith’s performances to go on, the archive of Smith’s theatre feels like a load of conflicting gossip and indecisive speculation. John Matturri and Rachel Joseph both describe the material elements of Smith’s performances—the “homeless objects” or “glittering junk”—as emblematic of the inherent impossibility of fixity. Smith’s orientalist aesthetic (“Egyptiana”), remarked on by Michael Moon, Marc Siegal, and Juan Suárez and compared by Dominic Johnson with Sun Ra’s “intergalactic esoterica,” is either camp or an authentic belief based in Maria Montez monotheism. [36] Matturri recalls Smith’s “generous acceptance . . . of collaborative input” and the audience’s “relaxed receptive attention” at performances in spite of their length, frequent interruptions, and arbitrary conclusion, which are at odds with the stories (which I will discuss further on) about Smith’s verbal abuse of spectators. [37] These and other writings on Smith seem to depict a different version of the artist. However, it is José Esteban Muñoz’s formulation of the artist as “the exemplary figure of the queer utopian artist and thinker who seeks solitariness yet calls for a queer collectivity” that seems the truest, and his conception of Smith’s theatre as utopian stands as a direct challenge to the inclusion of Smith in an anti-relationist archive of gay male artists. [38] Muñoz acknowledges two sides of Smith, the solitary and the collective, that are so often kept apart, yet are very clearly both present in his oeuvre. Smith’s infamous filmography of the 1960s captures the crazed, queer collective and Susan Sontag called Flaming Creatures “a lovely specimen of . . . ‘pop art,’” lumping Smith in with a whole art movement addressing the American culture of the day. [39] The theatrical performances he began in the 1970s, many of which were one man shows, represent the other, solitary side of Smith. These intensely lonely performances of the 1970s are Smith’s theatre of isolation, but even as they capture Smith’s increasing personal and creative isolation, at their heart is the anti-capitalist utopia Smith dreamed of for all people like him. [40] Smith spoke distastefully and fearfully in interviews of the archive (specifically, the Anthology Film Archives) as the “vault.” The vault was unyielding, petrifying, and antithetical to Smith’s preferred venue in the 1970s: his own apartment. In 1970, Smith announced that he would open his living space in downtown Manhattan to audiences for free shows. J. Hoberman described the “Plaster Foundation” (as Smith’s home performance venue was called) as squalid, with a gaping hole in its ceiling and an accumulation of junk and debris on the floor, to which Smith lovingly tended in the performance series “Plaster Foundation of Atlantis.” Over the rubble Smith hung fairy lights, placed cardboard palm trees, and constructed an artificial lagoon complete with a waterfall. In other words, he built Atlantis, which mythic paradise featured prominently in his imaginative writings and performances, out of a dilapidated East Village apartment. The Plaster Foundation was both the precursor to and the absolute antithesis of Andy Warhol’s Factory, which promised consumerist glamor where the Foundation spat on it. Warhol may have been an “insider” in the eyes of the broader public, but Smith was tuned in to the ugly truths of the system that produced it and he dug into them on his stage. Smith’s style of performance crumbles like the ceiling of his apartment and is as inhospitable to the audience as a junkyard. Performances were held late at night and often began hours after their expected start time. Much of what audiences watched, which may or may not have been part of the intended performance, was the arrangement of the set and other anti-theatrical antics such as Smith pretending to vacuum up the mountains of cement and plaster for hours on end. The action was frequently interrupted by further fussing with sets and costumes and the script was liable to be spontaneously rewritten by Smith mid-speech. Some Plaster Foundation visitors like Richard Foreman read this as evidence that Smith’s imagination and editorial eye were always one step ahead of the audience. The fussing and adjusting was performance, striving for and failing at perfection in front of the audience. In such performances as The Secret of Rented Island (1976) (of which only a slideshow and audio recording remains), an adaptation/queering of Ibsen’s Ghosts , Smith carries the script in his hand as he interacts with a supporting cast of costume pieces and stuffed animals each representing an alternating set of characters. Script and inanimate actors, which “moved in and out of and were often simultaneously both within and outside of various roles,” [41] disrupt the interchange of character and performance, thereby exposing Smith as himself, alone and potentially vulnerable. The irony of Smith inviting audiences into his home was that he seemed to want nothing more than to be left alone. If no one showed up to his place for a performance, those who knew him have said Smith would go on without an audience. These may have been the greatest performances he ever gave, as he was purportedly paranoid and plagued by anxiety in the presence of others—and by their mere existence in his psychic universe. He was known to abuse audiences, calling them “sofa-roosting cabbages,” and sometimes he failed to show up for a performance in the hopes that the audience would leave him alone. [42] He was both pathologically afraid of others’ criticism and persecution and assured of their duplicity: his living space featured a “hate wall,” upon which he “scrawled animosities towards friends and supporters.” Performances like What’s Underground About Marshmallows? featured nefarious figures inspired by Smith’s personal enemies, such as film critic Jonas Mekas. Smith viewed Mekas, among others, as a capitalist vampire whose motivations were antithetical to Smith’s own mission to construct an uncommercial utopia, and he believed that it was because of his foes that he was forced to “live in squalor all day long, playing hide-and-seek with others.” [43] Dominic Johnson sees in the first-hand accounts of Smith’s performance space echoes of Anthony Vidler’s critical writings on the “architectural uncanny” that “conspicuously renders architectures to be no longer homely.” Furthermore, “in Smith’s domestic performances . . . the nostalgic associations that lived spaces may garner are pitted against the threatening or subversive oppositional structures that often encroach upon them. The set of processes by which architectures become strange are deployed as a neat proxy . . . for the ways in which they approximate other social and cultural tendencies towards estrangement.” [44] Johnson identifies sexual difference as one of these so-called “social and cultural tendencies towards estrangement,” thereby comparing Smith’s space to the estrangement he experienced as a queer person in a heteronormative society. I agree with Johnson’s comparison and see the uncanny space also as definitive for Smith’s particular theatre of isolation. In contrast to the worlds in his films, which were built by way of the accumulation of writhing bodies, the transition to these home performances in the 1970s shifts settings to a one-man island. Even surrounded by audience members, it is difficult to imagine how anyone else could have authentically reached Smith’s Atlantis. The only extant and complete reconstruction of a Smith performance that I know of is a recording of Ron Vawter’s ROY COHN/JACK SMITH , as performed at The Kitchen in New York in 1993. In the production, Vawter parrots the voice of the real Jack Smith, coming through a neon yellow earbud connecting tape-deck to Vawter’s ear, as he recites the lines from Marshmallows, which premiered in the last year of the queer 1970s: 1981, the year the first positive cases of AIDS were reported in the US. Smith ominously foreshadowed the next decade of queer history and both his and Vawter’s deaths due to complications of AIDS, with the line “they love dead queers here.” [45] Wearing him in performance like an ill-fitting shirt, Vawter pulls Smith out of the closet and refashions him as a tragic hero of the queer underground. In fact, Vawter described his portrayal of Smith as “homosexual ‘closet’-performance,” and when one considers Smith’s relationship in regard to performance space, the invocation of the closet seems apt. [46] In a sense, Smith’s theatrical performances of the 1970s were staged within his own personal closet-space, but rather than being a hiding place, it becomes legible to other queer people like Vawter. In Marshmallows , Smith says the “worst of all” is that nobody thinks he is acting. The solution is to “go back into the vault.” [47] However, Smith could not hide from Vawter and his reading of Marshmallows as an overtly political, liberatory performance. Smith’s films were far more successful, at least in terms of making him a known entity, than his solo theatrical performances. His move to a more solitary artistic medium and to the role of “lone lunatic” is perhaps what led to Smith’s failure in the society of the straight and normal . The theatrical performances are, in my opinion, his most radical attempts at what Muñoz identifies as escape through “refusal of a dominant order and its systematic violence,” precisely because they were so much a product of Smith’s personal cosmology. [48] Not only did he play himself, but he enacted his personal brand of queer utopia. His performance of self was so convincing to him that living in the real world became untenable. The failure to transform the real world into one’s fantasy, argues Muñoz, is the typical plight of the queer utopian. However, something of that desire lives on in Vawter’s performance and casts Smith as an icon of collective queer world-makers. Conclusion Jack Smith, the anxiety-riddled queer filmmaker-turned-performer, tried to build utopia in the trash heap of capitalist society. Peter Schumann, an immigrant who got his start in agitprop avant-garde performance, took his puppets out into rural America when the social and political pressures of the New York art scene became too great. Adrienne Kennedy, a Black woman playwright in the overwhelmingly white commercial theatre, gave audiences rare glimpses into a fractured mind simultaneously inside and excluded from society. I have described the theatre of these three artists, in terms of its aesthetic as well as the process of its creation, as a product and a reflection of social isolation of the mind and/or body—and particularly the mind and/or body of the artist. I have tried to demonstrate, however, by tracing the trajectory of each theatre maker beyond their theatre of the 1970s, that this isolation was not an escape route but a troubled state of being at the heart of the social and political issues of the decade and a means of reinscribing one’s relationship to the collective. The plays and performances that I have examined operate on the artistic insights of the individuated while speaking to the issues of the collective. Theatre of isolation is not theatre that speaks only to itself. Categorizing such diverse works as A Movie Star Has to Star in Black and White , Grey Lady Cantata II , or What’s Underground About Marshmallows? as theatre of isolation allows scholars to question how these works go beyond isolation and how they might draw individuals together and, as Lee says, “alter the horizon of what constitutes the social.” [49] For the theatre of Kennedy, Schumann, and Smith, the 1970s was an era of isolation, but what happens at the end of, or after, an era? One could turn to these three artists again, and examine Kennedy’s Sleep Deprivation Chamber , Schumann’s Domestic Resurrection Circuses, or Smith’s tragic death and status as queer icon for a few examples of going out, again. “After” is the topic for a different essay and for another time. [50] However, thinking about theatre of isolation in the past is unavoidably connected to thinking about isolation in the present. When theatre artists who have been working in isolation during the COVID-19 pandemic no longer need to do so, how we will think about what has been created during this time and how “after” art will be changed by it are questions that are sure to consume the historian. Beyond theorizing the screen or Zoom as a medium—or perhaps as a way to fold those elements in with other considerations—we might look at today’s theatre of isolation as not merely constitutive of social distance. How have perspectives on society and community been changed? By making aesthetic connections to antecedents like Kennedy, Schumann, and Smith, we might find examples of where theatre might go from here. References [1] I’m thinking especially of Leo Bersani, Lee Edelman, Jack Halberstam, Robert L. Caserio, José Esteban Muñoz, and Tim Dean, all of whom participated in a panel on the “The Antisocial Thesis in Queer Theory” at the 2005 MLA Annual Convention, as well as scholars, like Tavia Nyong’o, who have written about punk aesthetics through the lens of queer studies. [2] Summer Kim Lee. “Staying In: Mitski, Ocean Vuong, and Asian American Asociality,” Social Text 37, no. 1 (1 March 2019): 27. [3] Ibid., 31. [4] Ibid., 28. [5] Ibid., 31-32. [6] Ibid., 30. [7] Ibid., 33. [8] Hillary Miller, Drop Dead: Performance in Crisis, 1970s New York (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2016), 15. [9] From a lecture in Robinson’s course “American Performance in the 1970s,” at Yale University. [10] Will Kaufman, American Culture in the 1970s (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2009), 72. [11] Paul K. Bryant-Jackson and Lois More Overbeck, “Adrienne Kennedy: An Interview.” Edited by the authors in Intersecting Boundaries: The Theatre of Adrienne Kennedy (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988), 9. [12] Brenda Murphy, “American Women Playwrights.” In Dale M. Bauer, ed., The Cambridge History of American Women’s Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press , 2012). Perhaps unsurprisingly, Barbara Ann Teer and the other “warrior mothers” of the Black Arts Movement are not even named, though their work has been reclaimed in other recent scholarship. See La Donna L. Forsgren, In Search of Our Warrior Mothers: Women Dramatists of the Black Arts Movement (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press: 2018). [13] I have not been able to track down concrete sources, but Kennedy’s exclusion from BAM scholarship could be connected to her lack of interest in the movement’s organizing structures, or to her work not being considered (by BAM members) to reflect the movement’s values. In the Forward to The Alexander Plays , Alisa Solomon writes, “During the 1960s and 1970s, many within the activist African American community insisted that [didactic, militant plays about race were] what their playwrights should have been writing. In those years Kennedy was criticized by activists for not working hard enough in the movement. . . . They objected to her characters, who were confused about their identity and place in the world, and who did not proclaim an uncomplicated pride in being black” (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1992, xii). Claudia Barnett cites Solomon, as well as scholars who argue against the use of a feminist label for Kennedy’s works, in support of her argument that Kennedy defies expectations and stereotypes connected to Blackness and/or womanhood. See Claudia Barnett, “‘This Fundamental Challenge to Identity’: Reproduction and Representation in the Drama of Adrienne Kennedy” Theatre Journal 48, no.2 (1996): 141–155. [14] Kimberly W. Benston, “Locating Adrienne Kennedy Prefacing the Subject.” In Paul K. Bryant-Jackson and Lois More Overbeck, eds., Intersecting Boundaries: The Theatre of Adrienne Kennedy (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988), 115. [15] bell hooks makes an explicit connection between Kennedy and Virginia Woolf, reading Kennedy’s prose as a celebration of women’s confessional writing akin to A Room of One’s Own . See bell hooks, “Critical Reflections: Adrienne Kennedy, the Writer, the Work.” In Paul K. Bryant-Jackson and Lois More Overbeck, eds., Intersecting Boundaries: The Theatre of Adrienne Kennedy (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988), 180. [16] Benston, “Locating Adrienne Kennedy,” 115. [17] Bryant-Jackson and Overbeck, “Adrienne Kennedy: An Interview,” 7. [18] Quotations from A Movie Star Has to Star in Black and White come from: Adrienne Kennedy, Adrienne Kennedy in One Act (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988). 81. [19] Ibid., 92. [20] Deborah R. Geis, “‘A Spectator Watching My Life’: Adrienne Kennedy’s A Movie Star Has to Star in Black and White .” In In Paul K. Bryant-Jackson and Lois More Overbeck, eds., Intersecting Boundaries: The Theatre of Adrienne Kennedy (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988), 171. [21] Ibid., 173. [22] Kennedy, Adrienne Kennedy in One Act , 99. [23] Margo Natalie Crawford, Black Post-Blackness: The Black Arts Movement and Twenty-First Century Aesthetics (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2017), 169. [24] From “The WHY CHEAP ART? Manifesto,” Bread & Puppet, Glover, VT, 1984. [25] Silvia D. Spitta,“Revisiting the Sixties and Refusing Trash: Preamble to and Interview with Peter Schumann of Bread and Puppet Theater,” boundary 2 36, no. 1 (1 February 2009): 110. [26] Here, Schumann presumably uses the royal first-person plural, as he did not initially relocate his family. But the plural “Schumanns” could also be read as his referring to his whole “company” with his own name. Quote from Bread and Rosebuds by Peter Schumann, 25 April 1970. In Stefan Brecht, Peter Schumann’s Bread and Puppet Theatre, vol. 2 (London: Methuen, 1988), 18. [27] Brecht, Bread and Puppet Theatre , 12. As of 2020, Vermont is 94.3% white—one of the top three whitest states in the country. [28] Brecht, Bread and Puppet Theatre , 15. [29] Lee, “Staying In,” 33. [30] Brecht, Bread and Puppet Theatre , 48. [31] Schumann quotes from an unpublished mss., “possibly an intra-company summation, dated Cate Farm, March 9, ’72.” In Brecht, 175. [32] Brecht, Bread and Puppet Theatre , 180. [33] Spitta, “Revisiting the Sixties,” 116. [34] John Bell, “Uprising of the Beast: An Interview with Peter Schumann,” Theater 25, no. 1 (1 February 1994): 42. [35] From dialogue of Jack Smith’s performance What’s Underground about Marshmallows? . Quotes taken from performance recreation by Ron Vawter, as part of his piece ROY COHN/JACK SMITH, as recorded in: Jill Godmilow, dir., Ron Vawter Performs Jack Smith: What’s Underground About Marshmallows? (1993). [36] Dominic Johnson, “Jack Smith’s Rehearsals for the Destruction of Atlantis: ‘Exotic’ Ritual and Apocalyptic Tone.” Contemporary Theatre Review 19, no. 2 (1 May 2009): 177. [37] John Matturri, “Jack Smith: Notes on Homeless Objects,” Criticism 56, no. 2 (Spring 2014): 281. [38] Judith Halberstam identifies this archive, in her short forum response “The Politics of Negativity in Recent Queer Theory” as including the likes of, “in no particular order, Tennessee Williams, Virginia Woolf, Bette Midler, Andy Warhol, Henry James, Jean Genet, Broadway musicals, Marcel Proust, Alfred Hitchcock, Oscar Wilde, Jack Smith, Judy Garland, and Kiki and Herb.” In PMLA 121, no. 3 (May 2006): 823–4. [39] Quotes from Susan Sontag’s Against Interpretation pulled from: Douglas Crimp, “Our Kind of Movie”: The Films of Andy Warhol (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2012), 132. [40] José Esteban Muñoz, Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity (New York: New York University Press, 2009) , 170. [41] Matturri, “Jack Smith,” 284 [42] From the documentary Jack Smith and The Destruction of Atlantis (2006), directed by Mary Jordan. [43] Godmilow, Ron Vawter Performs , 1993. [44] Johnson, “Jack Smith’s Rehearsals,” 169. [45] Here, I suggest the “queer seventies,” in the U.S., as beginning in 1969, with the Stonewall Riots in New York’s Greenwich Village, and the ending with the first reports of AIDS cases in 1981. [46] Godmilow, Ron Vawter Performs , 1993. [47] Ibid., 1993. [48] Muñoz, Cruising Utopia , 172. [49] Lee, “Staying In,” 31. [50] In addition to Lee’s discussion of what happens “after,” Joshua Chambers-Letson’s recent book After the Party: A Manifesto for Queer of Color Life (New York University Press, 2018) is dedicated to the question this essay does not answer. Footnotes About The Author(s) Madeline Pages is a dramaturg and MFA Candidate at the former the Yale School of Drama. She is currently partnering with the Yale Center for Collaborative Arts and Media (CCAM) to conduct research and performance experiments around the history of astronomy, astrophysics, and human space travel. She is also collaborating on a new opera I AM ALAN TURING , composed by Matthew Suttor and inspired by the life and writings of mathematician Alan Turing. Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Performance and the Disney Theme Park Experience: The Tourist as Actor. Jennifer A. Kokai and Tom Robson, eds. Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019; Pp. 292. The Risk Theatre Model of Tragedy: Gambling, Drama, and the Unexpected. Edwin Wong. Victoria, Canada: Friesen Press, 2019; Pp. 363. Susan Glaspell’s Poetics and Politics of Rebellion. Emeline Jouve. Iowa City, University of Iowa Press, 2017; Pp. 258. Radical Vision: A Biography of Lorraine Hansberry. Soyica Diggs Colbert. New Haven: Yale, 2021; Pp. 273. The Mysterious Murder of Mrs. Shakespeare: Transgressive Performance in Nineteenth-Century New York “What Will Be Changed?”: Maxwell Anderson and the Literary Legacy of Sacco and Vanzetti Theatre of Isolation “A Certain Man Had Two [Kids]”: Tragic Parables, “The Prodigal Son,” and Edward Albee's The Goat “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells [Her] Story”: An Intersectional Analysis of the Women of Hamilton Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Karl Kippola Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 28 1 Visit Journal Homepage American Tragedian Karl Kippola By Published on March 22, 2016 Download Article as PDF American Tragedian: The Life of Edwin Booth. By Daniel J. Watermeier. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2015; Pp. 464. More has been written on Edwin Booth than any other American actor. Three popular biographies lionize Booth in the late-nineteenth century. Another four in the mid-twentieth century, one of which ( Prince of Players , 1955) was even made into a movie, perpetuate his tragic legacy. Charles Shattuck’s several, more scholarly, works on Booth, beginning in the late 1960s, revived interest. In the last quarter century, fascination with Booth has grown: Gene Smith’s American Gothic: The Story of America’s Legendary Family—Junius, Edwin, and John Wilkes Booth and L. Terry Oggel’s Edwin Booth: A Bio-Bibliography (both in 1992), Nina Titone’s My Thoughts Be Bloody: The Bitter Rivalry Between Edwin and John Wilkes Booth That Led to an American Tragedy (2010), Arthur W. Bloom’s Edwin Booth: A Biography and Performance History (2013), the more popularly focused Good Brother, Bad Brother: The Story of Edwin Booth and John Wilkes Booth (2005) by James Cross Giblin and The Assassin’s Brother: The Tragedies of Edwin Booth (2013) by Rebecca Wallace. With Between Actor and Critic: Selected Letters of Edwin Booth and William Winter (1971), Daniel J. Watermeier established himself as a formidable archivist and an authority on Edwin Booth. American Tragedian , dedicated to the memory of his mentor Shattuck, represents the culmination of Watermeier’s lifework on Booth and the American theatre. He effectively contextualizes the period, details the events, and explores the strengths, limitations, and temperament of “the last truly great American tragedian and Shakespearean actor” (362). Several recent works primarily and reductively view Edwin through the lens of his infamous brother. American Tragedian addresses the assassination in only six pages and wisely keeps the spotlight on the titular Booth. When Edwin returned to the stage a year after Lincoln’s death forced an early retirement, “It was as if the American psyche, scarred by years of war and then the shocking assassination of an esteemed president, needed to invest its collective suffering into a single individual. . . . Booth’s personal suffering . . . became emblematic of the nation’s suffering” (127). Watermeier honors the inescapable impact of John Wilkes’ act, but unwavering focus on Edwin encourages a more complex understanding of both the actor and the country. Previous Booth biographies often privileged limited aspects of his career, but Watermeier’s study is remarkably comprehensive. Readers finally experience Booth’s complete story, with scrupulous accuracy and documentation. Watermeier is at his best when he contextualizes and analyzes, fully capitalizing on the forty-year relationship with his subject and sources. Edwin as Hamlet wore his father’s portrait on a chain around his neck. When Watermeier posits, “It was as if his own father was King Hamlet, a tangible memento stimulating a complex emotional memory that fueled the believability of Edwin’s performance” (22), we receive genuine insight not only into Booth, but also into an acting process decades ahead of its time. Watermeier skillfully contextualizes the complex and often contradictory responses to Booth in his analysis of the “Joint Star” tour with Lawrence Barrett (a pair he convincingly identifies as pioneering “theatrical capitalists” [331]), which closely coincided with President Grover Cleveland’s own “Good Will Tour.” Cleveland had chosen not to intercede in the impending executions of anarchist assassins convicted in the 1886 Haymarket Riot, and “against these local events, Booth as Brutus [in Julius Caesar ]—whether heroic martyr or tragically misguided conspirator—may have had a special resonance with Chicago playgoers” (322), polarized in their response. If the book has a weakness, it lies in synthesis and interpretation. Too often Watermeier merely reports weekly theatres, roles, and box-office receipts, in lieu of complex analysis. Watermeier details the powerful connection that Booth shared with his audiences—an affinity that sometimes reached the level of obsession. Booth’s physical beauty, combined with his passionate and soulful portrayals, especially fascinated a number of young women and men who returned dozens of times to view his performances, to connect with him on a personal level, and to write voluminously and fanatically in their attempts to comprehend, if not demystify, his magical power. While Watermeier reports the fascination, he never truly grapples with the reasons behind it. Booth was born with a lucky caul, yet tragedy clung to him. Booth entered the profession when the first generation of serious American actors were in decline. Criticized for lacking tragic power, he aspired to a refined and intellectual approach that fortuitously matched temperament with the soon-to-be-dominant middle class and the sacred domain of the cultural elite. Booth consciously sought to elevate and ennoble audiences through repertoire selection, realistic stagecraft, and popular publishing of his acting texts. He built and managed Booth’s Theatre, arguably the finest in the world, to showcase his artistic ambition; yet, he was undone by bad choices and timing: “He did clearly put his trust too readily into the wrong partner and financial advisors, and, equally damaging, he overestimated his ability through hard work and substantial income to control the situation and unforeseen events—principally, the Panic of 1873” (175). In choosing his title, and in the focus of his study, Watermeier sees Booth as tragic, and tragedy did follow the actor in the death of his father, two wives, and infant son, as well as a crippling carriage accident, John Wilkes’ shooting of Lincoln, and an assassination attempt on his own life. Yet Watermeier frequently reveals playfulness, and often deliberate anti-intellectualism, in Booth’s private correspondence and poetry. Booth said of himself, “I was always of a boyish spirit. . . . But there was always an air of melancholy about me that made me seem much more serious than I ever really was” (358). Watermeier lets Booth’s self-assessment pass without comment or analysis, yet this contradiction between the man and his public perception seems key to a complete picture. While somewhat conservative and traditional, American Tragedian remains scrupulously researched and documented, accessibly written, and complete in scope. This comprehensive biography presents the clearest picture yet of its endlessly compelling and maddeningly elusive hero. References Footnotes About The Author(s) Karl Kippola American University Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue American Tragedian Changes, Constants, Constraints: African American Theatre History Scholarship Performing Anti-slavery The Captive Stage Musical Theatre Studies Reflections: Fifty Years of Chicano/Latino Theatre Transgressive Engagements: The Here and Now of Queer Theatre Scholarship Strangers Onstage: Asia, America, Theatre, and Performance Thinking about Temporality and Theatre Murder Most Queer New Directions in Dramatic and Theatrical Theory: The Emerging Discipline of Performance Philosophy “Re-righting” Finland’s Winter War: Robert E. Sherwood’s There Shall Be No Night[s] Star Struck!: The Phenomenological Affect of Celebrity on Broadway Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Arnab Banerji Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 32 2 Visit Journal Homepage Finding Home in the World Stage: Critical Creative Citizenship and the 13th South Asian Theatre Festival 2018 Arnab Banerji By Published on May 21, 2020 Download Article as PDF The South Asian Theatre Festival (SATF) is held annually in New Brunswick, New Jersey. The thirteenth edition of the festival was held on August 4th and 5th, 2018 at the George Street Playhouse. The festival featured seven one act plays in four Indian languages beside four short segments of improvised and devised performances. The festival, now an important fixture in the socio-cultural calendar of the Indian diaspora in the New York-New Jersey area, is not only a celebration of South Asian theatre, but also a confident stride made by the community to organize itself as a significant American subculture. The 2018 edition of the festival and the plays that it offered made it abundantly clear that the artists in the diaspora are ready to celebrate their identity distinct from and yet firmly intertwined with their home culture of the United States. This critical take on the festival offers an insight into the various layers of performance that were evident during the 2018 edition. True to the nature of any South Asian event in the diaspora, the SATF was not simply a theatre festival but became an extended community affair. Packed into the George Street Playhouse lobby were several vendors selling jewelry, clothing, and even insurance and finance products. One of the halls in the playhouse was temporarily converted into a cafeteria where patrons took a break between watching plays to sip on tea and feast on deep fried Bengali delicacies like the vegetable chop. [1] The fair-like atmosphere at the George Street Playhouse made one forget, after crossing the threshold of the auditorium, that this was not suburban India, where theatre festivals like SATF are a regular feature of the milder winter months. The SATF opens up room for the South Asian community to claim cultural citizenship in the United States. In doing so, it becomes an act of creative citizenship by the diasporic subject. In 2008 playwright Sudipta Bhawmik observed that, “[i]n parts of the [United States] , the South Asian population has reached the critical mass to be able to sustain a South Asian-only kind of theatre and arts”. [2] With a large concentration of South Asian Americans, the New York-New Jersey area certainly boasts the critical mass that Bhawmik describes in his comment. And the playwright’s prediction seems to have held its ground in the case of the SATF and the popularity that it has enjoyed over the last fourteen years. The festival by virtue of using the more inclusive South Asian in its title rather than Indian or Bengali has also been able to appeal to an audience and a group of performers that do not always and necessarily conform to those geographic, linguistic, and socio-cultural boundaries. In the discussion that follows I examine the SATF as a space for the South Asian diaspora to claim cultural citizenship and how the festival itself is an act of creative citizenship. I argue that each play presented at the festival and the festival itself are creative acts corresponding to various levels of cultural and creative citizenship substantiating the South Asian American claim to achieving cultural citizenship in the adopted homeland. Scholarship on South Asian American theatre is scant. The scholarship that exists is often focused on the more visible and public examples of South Asian theatre. Essays by Aparna Dharwadker (2003) and Sudipto Chatterjee (2008), while taking insightful peeps into South Asian community-based theatres, spend time examining artists who are crossovers in the American mainstream or on the cusp of breaking into it. While an analysis of recognized artistic voices certainly adds to the conversation on South Asian American theatre, it does so at the expense of the everyday creative acts that form the mainstay of the diasporic subject’s confident strides towards asserting cultural citizenship. Theodore Zamenopoulos, Katerina Alexiou, Giota Alevizou, Caroline Chapain, Shawn Sobers, and Andy Williams write in their 2016 article that, “[c]reative acts are […] expressions of originality and meaningfulness within a certain context”. [3] Overall, the South Asian Theatre Festival, as well as each performance within it hold specific meanings for specific sections of the community within the context of their diasporic experiences. Zamenopoulos, et al. continue to elaborate on one of the challenges surrounding any discussion of creative acts: conflating creativity with “an exceptional product, process, or person”. [4] Dharwadker and Chatterjee seem to have stepped into the same trap even as they set out to look at everyday acts of creativity in their analyses. The ensuing discussion, like the festival at its center of inquiry, recognizes that “creativity is also a general human capability”. Taking a cue from Jean Burgess’s “vernacular creativity,” Zamenopoulos et al add to the potential of creative acts, calling them acts “that help to unearth a hidden potential in a given situation”. [6] The SATF appears to be no more than a public event featuring plays on the surface. Yet a closer analysis of audience participation, festival curation, and the overall presentation of the festival reveals that there is significantly more at play than what meets the eye in a surface evaluation. Dharwadker and Chatterjee’s assessment of local community-based South Asian American theatres gets mired in contemporary dramaturgical concerns not addressed by these community-based theatres themselves. Both scholars seem to be searching for an exceptional product, process, or artist at the expense of evaluating the creative acts playing out in the local desi stage. Ashish Sengupta,on the other hand, erroneously conflates mainstream South Asian thespians like Ayad Akhtar with the large number of South Asian community theatres peppered across the United States as part of the same continuum. [7] Sengupta, of course, has the disadvantage of being at a geographical and therefore critical distance from the subject of his inquiry. A professor at the University of North Bengal in India, for Sengupta, the South Asian roots of Ayad Akhtar are no different than those of the anaesthesiologist Manoj Shahane, who dons a playwright and a director’s mantle outside of the operating theatre. In reality though, and as I hope to demonstrate, Shahane’s theatre is a far cry from those of artists like Akhtar. Akhtar and other artists like him (Asif Mandvi, Ranjit Chowdhry, Aditi Brennan Kapil etc.) are representative examples of what Royona Mitra refers to as the “New Interculturalism,” Shahane’s theatre is fueled by a completely different and distinct set of motivations. [8] Mitra studies British choreographer-dancer Akram Khan’s body of work and the ways in which it seamlessly integrates Khan’s astute understanding of the South Asian kathak and his formal training in Western modern dance. The resulting New Interculturalism, Mitra demonstrates, celebrates cultural similarities without discounting differences. [9] Akhtar, Mandvi, Chowdhry, Kapil, and others represent the New Interculturalism in American mainstream theatre. They are definitively moored in their South Asian milieus but taking confident strides to change the ways mainstream American drama represents the subcontinent. Although an intriguing subject unto itself, plays by seasoned and celebrated artists like the roster presented above, are representative of the exceptional that Zamenopoulos, et al. mention. Conflating them, as Sengupta does in his analysis, with everyday creative acts of cultural citizenship is therefore erroneous and misleading. Before delving into the particulars of how this suburban New Jersey festival galvanizes a community together, it is imperative to understand what I mean by cultural citizenship and what constitutes creative acts. Toby Miller writes, “the last two hundred years of modernity have produced three zones of citizenship, with partially overlapping but also distinct historicities”. [10] Miller’s “three zones of citizenship,” political, economic, and cultural, correspond to the history of the South Asian diasporic subject in the United States, which is a history that has its roots in the nineteenth century British system of indenture and immigrant labor, as discussed by Vinay Lal and others. [11] But for the present context, I will look at two pivotal historical episodes from the twentieth century that shifted the ways of South Asian immigration and integration into American society. In its 1923 verdict on the United States v. Bhagat Singh Thind case, the Supreme Court, referring to Section 2169, revised statutes, had opined that the “Naturalization Act ‘shall apply to aliens, being free white persons, and to aliens of African nativity and to persons of African descent.’” [12] The following Immigration Act of 1924 further specified that, “no alien ineligible to citizenship shall be admitted to the United States”. [13] These two pieces of legislation effectively ended Indian immigration to the United States for nearly four decades. The Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 significantly altered this by declaring that “No person shall receive any preference or priority or be discriminated against in the issuance of an immigrant visa because of his race, sex, nationality, place of birth, or place of residence.” The new legislation re-opened the doors for South Asians to claim legal and uncontentious political citizenship in the United States. Vinay Lal writes, “The vast bulk of Indians arrived in the US following the immigration reforms of 1965, and though they occupy a disproportionately significant and highly visible place in the professions, Indians also ply taxis in New York and dominate the Dunkin Donuts franchises around the country.” [15] In 2017, there were nearly 4.1 million South Asian Indians in the United States with seventy percent of the population above sixteen employed in, “management, business, science, and arts occupations” with a median household income of $114, 261. [16] As is evident from above, in the five decades since South Asians attained political citizenship, they have made significant strides towards economic citizenship too, becoming one of the most successful ethnic minorities in the United States. Yet the third zone of citizenship, cultural, has eluded the community for a long time. Cultural citizenship calls for “flexible citizens” who are able to navigate the transcultural and intercultural worlds that we inhabit today. [17] Miller says, “it does appear as though more and more transnational people and organizations now exist, weaving political, economic, and cultural links between places of origin and domiciles.” [18] Although South Asians are one of the most well-educated ethnic groups in the United States, the community has thus far fit itself smugly into the melting pot metaphor. This means that the community has chosen to not distinguish itself as a subculture, focusing instead on living up to Franklin Roosevelt’s insistence on the “swift assimilation of aliens” through the “language and culture that has come down to us from the builders of the republic.” [19] The SATF challenges the narrative of assimilation and opens up a space where the transnational/transcultural South Asian diasporic subject can counter the mainstream American cultural hegemony. In other words, the festival corroborates Miller’s observation that the United States cannot continue with its cultural nationalism of being a “Monolingual Eden.” [20] The SATF space for claiming cultural citizenship is facilitated through acts of creative citizenship involving the production, creation, and consumption of theatre that is aesthetically similar, yet culturally distinct from the theatre in the country of origin as well as the country of domicile. Before examining the acts of creative citizenship witnessed during the SATF and discussing how each performance in the festival fits into various levels of creative citizenship, it is imperative to understand the many layers of cultural citizenship at play within the South Asian community. In the South Asian context, cultural citizenship is itself multi-layered. Each generation of immigrants has their own version of cultural identity that they want to claim within the same space of the festival. For some, the festival and especially the plays performed in it represent a nostalgic hook, a reminder of the country left behind at the time of the start of the diasporic movement. For others, the festival is the opportunity to relive an idyllic irrecoverable past left behind in India. And yet for others, the festival is an opportunity to find themselves and their culture being valued, nurtured, and adapted to its current environment, that of the adopted homeland. These multiple levels of cultural citizenship are celebrated over the course of the festival through creative acts. These creative acts, as Zamenopoulos, et al. demonstrate happen at four levels: doing, adaptation, making, and creating. The festival itself is of course an example of doing which Zamenopoulos, et al. define as “acts with the purpose of ‘getting something done.’” [21] The various plays individually fit the other criterion of creative acts, making the festival an act towards claiming creative citizenship. In the examples that follow, I map the various levels of creative acts onto the layers of cultural citizenship that I outlined above. I have written elsewhere describing the beginning of the diasporic movement as a crisis that is eventually mitigated by social dramas of community events in the adopted homeland. [22] The older generation of South Asian immigrants, especially the first wave that arrived in 1965 or immediately thereafter, did not seem to have the recourse to resolve the crisis of their diasporic movement. These community members were pioneers of the new wave who created the diasporic version of “South Asian-ness,” themselves existing in what Victor Turner calls “an instan[ce] of pure potentiality,” allowing the generations that followed an avenue to mitigate their crises. [23] Certain performances at the SATF like A King’s Tale: Shiladitya , which draw on a well-known children’s book Rajkahini by Abanindranath Tagore (1871-1951), serve as a conduit for the older generation of South Asian immigrants to witness stories that connect them to a distant and yet beloved past left behind in India. A King’s Tale becomes the nostalgic hook from the structure outlined above for this section of the audience. Seeing younger members of the community, children born and raised in the United States, assume the roles of princes, princesses, and sages from the Indian folklore allow older immigrants to not only celebrate their presence in the United States but also the success and resilience of the community for having been able to pass on vital cultural knowledge intergenerationally. For the community, therefore, it does not matter that the performance of this particular play did not rise to a professional caliber or that an operatic piece was forcibly appended to it. All of these dramaturgical concerns, which bothered the critic and the theatre educator in this correspondent, were dwarfed under the celebration of children successfully embracing, albeit temporarily, their South Asian-ness. This play, directed by guest director Parthapratim Deb, from India, became an act of doing with some adaptation (the operatic addition) to cater to the section of the audience for whom the festival is the nostalgic hook to a distant past. For a different section of the audience the festival is itself a social drama, a set of redressive actions that facilitate social reintegration into the diasporic forms of South Asian-ness. This section of the audience, comprising students turned professionals, or professionals seeking a creative outlet, forms the largest spectator subgroup at the festival. Consequently, the material catering to this section of the audience is very often either sourced directly from, or owes serious allegiance to, the homeland. In other words, this is the section of the audience that is seeking to relive the irrecoverable past left behind in the homeland, in this case, South Asia. The homeland continues to hold a position of extreme significance for the South Asian consumers of festivals like the SATF. A large majority of the attendees are first generation immigrants and suffer from what Anita Mannur has described as “the desire to simultaneously embrace what is left of a past from which one is spatially and temporally displaced, and the recognition that nostalgia can overwhelm memories of the past.” [24] Strategies of negotiation with this in-betweenness have resulted in a longing for ethnic authenticity which has propelled diasporic subjects to turn towards the home to provide cultural markers of continued belonging. These take the form of tours by performers from the homeland which “add to the memory archive of the diasporic community and create a new bridge to ‘home.’” [25] Other coping strategies take the form of creating “social dramas.” These take the form of the annual Durga Puja amongst South Asian Bengalis or the Navaratri observation amongst Gujaratis, etc. These celebrations seek to restore the rupture caused in the continuum of performing ethnic identity by the diasporic movement from the homeland to the host country. [26] In SATF 2018, the Spotlight Columbus production of popular Bengali playwright Tirthankar Chanda’s Achin Doshor (The Unknown Partner) catered to this white-collared middle-class audience. Spotlight Columbus, or Spotlight, has been a longtime supporter of the SATF and since 2014 has been hosting their own version of the festival in Columbus, Ohio to cater to the burgeoning South Asian population in the midwestern town, a growing demographic that comprises of the second category of audiences mentioned above. [27] The performers at the 2018 Spotlight offering were all amateurs with a majority holding day jobs as software professionals and graduate students of the Ohio State University. The group invited noted Bengali actor Debshankar Haldar from Kolkata to direct this play. Haldar is a much celebrated and feted stage performer in Kolkata. This performance of Achin Doshor demonstrated Haldar’s astute understanding of Bengali Group Theatre and its characteristic qualities. [28] He directed a flawless albeit ordinary script with finesse and careful attention to specific comic moments. These moments punctuated the narrative at regular but never overbearing intervals, ensuring that the narrative’s forays into everyday middle-class “Bengaliness” and its pitfalls were highlighted, laughed about, and then ultimately glossed over. The play’s frequent jokes landed well with the Bengali-speaking audience while those unfamiliar with the language were invited to follow along with supertitles. It was interesting to observe the ease with which Spotlight has been able to recreate a performance culture in the American Midwest that comes remarkably close to the Bengali Group Theatre in Kolkata. The Bengali Group Theatre makes a virtue of its poverty and amateur status. [29] While Spotlight’s financial health was not available for scrutiny, it was evident that almost the entire group was comprised of amateurs with a passion for the stage. In fact, Haldar, now a successful stage professional, was an amateur himself when he made his first foray into performance nearly three decades back in Kolkata. Haldar’s shepherding of the 2018 Spotlight presentation was a rite of passage for this young performance company, one that mimics the redressive action of the Turnerian model towards mitigating the crisis of the diasporic movement. In this instance, the redressive action took the form of being able to successfully recreate a slice of urban India and its many foibles in America, thus allowing the dominant section of the audience to relieve their idyllic Indian past. Several other plays over the course of the two-day festival also targeted this section of the audience. The highlight of these offerings was the adaptation of Federico Garcia Lorca’s Blood Wedding , led by Indian thespian Mahesh Dattani, titled Rakt Phera . The Hindi adaptation of Lorca’s 1932 masterpiece Blood Wedding is a translation of the Spanish classic by Indian playwright Abhinav Grover. The performance was directed by the noted Indian-English playwright Dattani and presented by the Indian Cultural Society of New Jersey (ICS). Dattani, recipient of the Sahitya Akademi Award,one of India’s highest literary recognitions, for his anthology Final Solution and Other Plays in 1998, is also an accomplished director. His films Morning Raaga , and Mango Souffle were critical successes. Dattani has been directing for some time with North American performance companies and on North American college campuses and this was the veteran thespian’s third presentation at SATF. Dattani’s directorial vision lived up to his reputation as a master craftsman. The audience trickling into the theatre were greeted with a haunting light scheme bouncing off smoke and haze on a stage space, empty except for a few small stools. Haunting music, part of Vikram Kumar and Aditya Datey’s original score for the piece, pervaded the environment. In this version of the play, the action shifts from the Spanish countryside to North West India, at the borders of the states of Rajasthan and Haryana. The socially conservative and deeply religious content of the play finds a perfect home in its new setting. Rajasthan and Haryana are notoriously conservative and are often the subject of national and international news thanks to their ignominious human rights and women’s rights records. [30] The ensemble excelled under the able guidance of the seasoned director. Rakt Phera revealed an imaginative directorial vision that encompassed every theatrical element, from lighting, to music, to scenic elements, to create a truly excellent if not always engaging theatrical experience. The adaptation of a foreign context to a completely novel one echoed the creative act of adaptation. Zamenopoulos, et al. define this creative act of adaptation as “acts with the purpose of ‘making things my own.’” [31] The ICS adaptation of Blood Wedding succeeded in transporting the Spanish classic to a new South Asian context while not compromising the narrative integrity of the original. Not unlike the Spotlight presentation of Achin Doshor , Rakt Phera was an attempt for South Asian immigrants, otherwise employed, to recreate a cultural space for themselves in their adopted homeland. It was an interesting choice to adapt a foreign text to cater to a South Asian milieu. The adaptation reverses the diasporic processes undergone by South Asians adjusting to life in a foreign land. The Spanish idiosyncrasies of the original are replaced with their Indian counterparts in the same way that the South Asian diasporic subject has to adapt to life in their adopted homeland. And yet the act of adaptation shifts the message of the Lorca original to address gendered violence in South Asia. The shift echoes the ways in which South Asians, or any other diasporic community, alters the adopted homeland ever so slightly with their presence. It was not clear how familiar the audience was to Lorca or his work, but it was evident from their response that Rakt Phera had succeded in transporting the audience to North West India. Lorca was not the only European author lending creative inspiration at the festival. The festival also featured Four Walls , a stage adaptation of novelist Dr. Rajeev Naik’s Manoos Ghar (A Doomed Home). Manoos Ghar is a freewheeling South Asian American adaptation of Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll House . Four Walls , the stage adaptation of Naik’s novel, was done by writer/director Manoj Shahane. Shahane, an anesthesiologist by the day, has been involved with South Asian American theatre in all imaginable capacities for more than a decade. The play, presented by the New Jersey-based Theatrix, took the story of Ibsen’s Torvald and Nora and located it in an upwardly-mobile South Asian diasporic residence in the United States. The content, context, and setting for the play fit well with current hot button issues in the South Asian diaspora community, including domestic abuse. The adaptations of Lorca and Ibsen represent the diaspora’s journey from the creative act of adaptation to that of making. The creative act of adaptation as defined by Zamenopoulos, et al. is akin to improving a ready-to-eat meal, by say, adjusting condiments, or adding a splash of lime. Whereas the making refers to creative acts undertaken “with the purpose of making things ‘with my own hands’ (such as cooking a recipe from scratch).” [32] Lorca and Ibsen’s original narratives serve as the recipes for Grover and Shahane’s theatrical adaptations. The theatrical adaptations (different from the creative act of adaptation) make the original narratives their own by situating them in a South Asian socio-cultural context. The final play that embodied the creative acts of adaptation and making was the finale performance of the festival. Nirastra (Unarmed) was presented by Epic Actors Workshop and directed by Golam Sarwar Harun and Gargi Mukherjee. The story takes its cue from the Magsaysay award-winning Bengali author Mahasweta Devi’s short stories on the denotified tribal communities of India. The play puts a special emphasis on the story “Draupadi,” which first appeared four decades ago in 1978 as part of a set of loosely connected political narratives Agnigarbha (The Womb of Fire). [33] In their freewheeling adaptation of this story along with others by Mahasweta Devi, Harun and Mukherjee took the specificities of the stories and gave them a more universal framework. In their version, the firebrand tribal woman Draupadi, or Dopdi Mejhen as she is colloquially known in the forested hinterlands of tribal India, stands in for a whole community of oppressed people. Dopdi and her husband Dulan, played emotionally by Harun and Mukherjee respectively, fight on behalf of the disenfranchised tribal people even as government forces aided by local money-lenders launch a severely repressive counter-strike to quell any rebellion. Eventually, Dulan is brutally gunned down while Dopdi is arrested. While under arrest, the Senanayak, the unscrupulous chief of the government forces, played admirably by Sajal Mukherjee, leads a gang rape of Dopdi. In a moment of severe retaliation, Dopdi strips her clothes and offers her body to her oppressors while screaming, “Are you a man? There is no man here to be ashamed of. I’ll not let anyone put a cloth on me. What more can you do? Kill me?” [34] Both Mukherjee and Harun are well-known names in the South Asian American theatre community in the New York and New Jersey areas. Both hold daytime jobs as advertising executives and have appeared in critically successful South Asian American films. The producers, Epic Actors’ Workshop, have nurtured South Asian theatre in its diasporic home over the last several decades. Although the group primarily produces work in Bengali, it has made concerted attempts to attract the larger South Asian community as supporters and stakeholders in the work of promoting and upholding South Asian theatre in the United States. Not unlike the performances of Achin Doshor and Rakt Phera discussed above, Nirastra was also aimed at audiences seeking reintegration into the diaspora version of South Asian-ness and reeling under the crisis of the diasporic movement. Mukherjee’s heart-rending disavowal of the hyper-masculinity of the state represented by the oppressive police chief Senanayak at the end of the play therefore takes on several more layers of meaning beyond a fearless heroine’s last act of resistance. At that moment, Dopdi Mejen rejects any and all state machinations, including those of repressive immigration regulations that continue to deny the South Asian diasporic subject unencumbered access to political and economic citizenship. The clarion call that emanates metaphorically from the hearts of the tribal hinterlands of India is also a firm affirmation that in spite of all odds, the South Asian subject is here to firmly celebrate their cultural ubiquity unfettered by the need to assimilate. The title of the play, Nirastra , meaning unarmed, is symbolic perhaps of resolute steps that the community has taken and continues to take to become equal stakeholders in the evolution of America as a modern nation-state. For the older generation of South Asians who use the festival as a nostalgic hook to connect with their South Asian-ness, plays that correspond to the Zamenopoulos, et al. model of adaptations and making (i.e. Achin Doshor , Rakt Phera , Four Walls , and Nirastra ), are opportunities to update their vocabulary on what constitutes the cultural ethos of the homeland since the beginning of their diasporic movement. As an audience, this generation responds to the dramatic ingenuity of the presentations, even if the content does not hold as much significance for them. In a similar vein for the white-collared audiences seeking redressive action through the festival and its contents, and arguably the largest section of the audience, a presentation like A King’s Tale is an indulgence to allow the second and third generation South Asians to regale the older members of the community. Not unlike the response outlined above, this section of the audience is hardly moved by the folklore but rather celebrate being able to offer the community elders the opportunity to celebrate intergenerational knowledge transfer. In addition to the above, the third section of the audience, drawn from a wide heterogenous cross-section of the community, use the entirety of the festival as an act of celebrating creative citizenship. For this section, the redressive action represented by SATF as a whole supersedes the dramatic merits (and demerits) of individual presentations at the festival. The mere act of being able to celebrate their South Asian-ness while soaking in the festive atmosphere of the occasion is a resounding reminder of the community taking confident steps towards cultural citizenship in their country of adoption. Aparna Dharwadker warned and reminded South Asian American theatre enthusiasts that a new theatrical language cannot emerge in the diaspora unless the theatre practice “distances itself from the culture of origin and embraces the experience of residence in the host culture.” [35] I contend that most South Asian American theatre artists have embraced the experience of being resident in the host culture. It is only that they have adopted a more circuitous route to celebrate their presence in the United States. Playwrights like Sudipto Bhawmik, amongst a few others, have tried including the diasporic experience in their vernacular plays. [36] However, the plays have continued to be written with, primarily, a South Asian audience in mind. It is so because, as the discussion above has demonstrated, the community is still grappling with achieving cultural citizenship while negotiating with the crisis of the diasporic movement. For the community, the performances and the festival become critical creative acts towards achieving cultural citizenship in their adapted homeland. To substantiate and complement the claim of creative acts towards cultural citizenship further, I now turn to the Subhasis Das-led “Theatre in Break” team, an experimental breakout performance component that continually accompanied the more traditional performances at the SATF. The team’s work took performances outside of the proscenium’s confines and into one of the banquet halls of the George Street Playhouse. The celebratory nature of this experiment was evident from the way the space had been set up to resemble a cheery children’s party. The performance segment (a total of four segments would be presented over the two days) was based on classic improvisational workshop modules and Augusto Boal exercises. Das drew on his experience of working with Badal Sircar and his company Satabdi in Kolkata to inform these routines and practices. [37] In the first segment, titled “Hamelin – a Musical Path,” Das and his crew of actors demonstrated basic improvisation exercises based on the prompt “Yes, And….” Audiences were encouraged to provide actors with prompts besides asking actors to use props creatively in their improv routines. The whole demonstration seemed to excite the audience, many of whom were perhaps being exposed to this kind of a performance rhetoric for the first time. The final segment of the Theatre in Break, titled, “Jukti Tokko Gaal Goppo – A Debated Path,” however, did inspire significant audience engagement beyond effervescent enthusiasm and evoked some strong inspired reactions from the audience. As opposed to the largely unscripted improvised bits of the previous three segments, this segment was planned more as a traditional play. Das and his team asked audiences to engage in on-the-spot conversations about marijuana legalization. The audience reflected the mood of the larger community, which is sharply divided on whether to support or denounce this legislation. Das beautifully navigated around the troubled waters of the argument to allow parties on both sides to present their cases without talking about which side of the spectrum he identified with. The conversation on marijuana was followed by a heartwarming presentation on transgender issues. Weaving together Tagore songs, contemporary poetry, and a brief but compelling narrative, actors Tandra and Aparna Bhattacharya created a beautiful moment on stage. While there was certainly some room and possibility for dialogue at the conclusion of this piece, Das chose to postpone that, suggesting instead that while the issue of trans rights was as relevant to the South Asian community as it is to any other, he would rather wait than take an immediate plunge. The Theatre in Break segments represented the fourth level of creative acts in the Zamenopoulos, et al. model, “creating.” Breaking through the imaginary mold of traditional South Asian performance and narrative drama, Das and his team showed the possibilities of a distinctly South Asian American theatre aesthetic, an aesthetic that relied as much on the South Asian-ness of the performers as it did on their American experiences. Filmmaker Jayasri Hart had lamentably written, “In our country of adoption, ours has long been an assigned identity,” an identity forcibly assigned by the American civic bureaucracy. [38] Das’ team demonstrated that the everyday regular South Asian American diasporic subject is finally ready to unfetter themselves and assert their own identity rather than accept any monikers arbitrarily assigned to them. The team successfully celebrated this assertion by showcasing improvisation techniques and by sharing stories that are idiosyncratically South Asian American. Over the last thirteen years, the SATF has certainly created a niche for itself. As I hope to have demonstrated, the festival has opened up a space for the South Asian community to engage in creative acts of cultural citizenship. For the 2018 festival, the Middlesex county of New Jersey formally endorsed the festival. This was evidenced by the two county advertisements in the festival brochure and by the attendance of a county representative at the opening ceremony. The presence of the official seal lent further credence to the idea that the festival is not simply a community event, but a formal stride towards cultural citizenship. Incidentally, South Asians are represented fairly strongly in all levels of the New Jersey administration. The formal endorsement and its presence at the festival signified the “osmosis” between first and second generations of South Asian immigrants and “their combined interaction with the U.S. mainstream,” which Chatterjee identifies as the marker of South Asian creative success. [39] At the time of this writing, the 2019 SATF has been held. The 14th edition of the festival, drawing on the critical mass of South Asians who call the New York-New Jersey area their home, continued to make definite and deliberate strides towards guaranteeing cultural recognition through the creative acts of doing, adapting, making, and creating. The SATF has scripted a success story for itself and has created the space for South Asian Americans to practice and hone their theatre skills and stake their claim as a unique American subculture. The 15th edition of the festival, scheduled for summer 2020, promises to be the biggest and the best edition of the festival and is slated to be held at the new facilities of the George Street Playhouse in downtown New Brunswick. The move to this more centrally located and easily accessible location would have signified the metaphorical move of the South Asian diaspora subject from the assimilative goo of the melting pot to a bright, vibrant, and unique presence in the cultural salad bowl of the South Asian experience in the United States. The COVID-19 pandemic has however cast a spell of doubt over the future of the 2020 edition of the festival. In a recent conversation, the founder and the artistic director of the festival Dr. Dipan Ray mentioned, he was hopeful that the festival will be held sometime in the fall. In the meantime, Ray and his team are not sitting idle. In the cards is a virtual theatre platform, launching on May 23, 2020, that will bring together creative voices from India, Bangladesh, and the South Asian American theatre community to discuss the life and legacy of the recently deceased Indian director-manager-actor Usha Ganguly (1945-2020). Incidentally, Ganguly had served as one of the biggest supporters of the festival when it first started in 2005. She mentored both the New Jersey and the Columbus, Ohio festivals in their early years. Irrespective of whether the 2020 edition of the festival happens or not, the yeoman work that the SATF has done to foster a community of dedicated South Asian American thespians will undoubtedly allow it to return with more aplomb. The formidable groundwork that the festival has laid down bears the promise that it will continue to celebrate South Asian America’s confident stride to achieving cultural citizenship in America, their adopted homeland. References [1] A deep fried cutlet made of beets and other vegetables, see “Vegetable Chop,” YouTube video, 08:44, posted by BongEats, December 21, 2017, https://youtu.be/VOKgeZMwrv4 for more. [2] Sudipto Chatterjee, “South Asian American Theatre: (Un/Re-) Painting the Town Brown,” Theatre Survey 49, no. 1 (May 2008): 116. [3] Theodore Zamenopoulos, Katerina Alexiou, Giota Alevizou, Caroline Chapain, Shawn Sobers, and Andy Williams, “Varieties of Creative Citizenship,” in The Creative Citizen Unbound: How Social Media and DIY Culture Contribute to Democracy, Communities and the Creative Economy , eds. Ian Hargreaves and John Hartley (Bristol, UK; Chicago, IL, USA: Bristol University Press, 2016), 106. [4] Zamenopoulos, et al., “Varieties of Creative Citizenship,” 106. [5] Ibid, 106. [6] Ibid, 106. [7] Ashis Sengupta, “Staging Diaspora: South Asian American Theatre Today,” Journal of American Studies 46, no. 4 (November 2012): 831-854. [8] Royona Mitra, Akram Khan: Dancing New Interculturalism (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015). [9] Arnab Banerji, “What lies Beyond Hattamala? Badal Sircar and his Third Theatre as an Alternative Trajectory for Intercultural Theatre, “ in The Methuen Drama Handbook of Interculturalism and Performance , eds. Daphne P. Lei and Charlotte McIvor (London and New York: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2020), 56. [10] Toby Miller, “What is Cultural Citizenship,?” in Cultural Citizenship: Cosmopolitanism, and Television in a Neoliberal Age (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2007), 35. [11] Vinay Lal, 1999. “Establishing Roots, Engendering Awareness: A Political History of Asian Indians in the United States,” in Live Like the Banyan Tree: Images of the Indian American Experience , ed. Leela Prasad (Philadelphia: Balch Institute for Ethnic Studies, 1999), 42-48; Brij V Lal, Peter Reeves, and Rajesh Rai, The Encyclopedia of the Indian Diaspora (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2006). [12] Jayasri Hart, “Meet the Filmmaker,” Roots in the Sand . Accessed March 10, 2020. https://www.pbs.org/rootsinthesand/filmmaker.html. [13] “The Immigration Act of 1924 (The Johnson-Reed Act),” United States Department of State Archive, accessed on March 8, 2020. https://2001-2009.state.gov/r/pa/ho/time/id/87718.html. [14] Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965, Pub.L. 89-236, 79 Stat. 911 (1968), accessed March 8, 2020. https://www.govinfo.gov/content/pkg/STATUTE-79/pdf/STATUTE-79-Pg911.pdf#page=7 [15] Vinay Lal, “Diaspora Purana: The Indic Presence in World Culture,” UCLA South Asian MANAS (n.d.), accessed on May 15, 2020. http://southasia.ucla.edu/diaspora/indic-presence-world-culture/. [16] “Selected Population Profile in the United States: 2017 American Community Survey 1-year Estimates,” United States Census Bureau, accessed on March 10, 2020. https://factfinder.census.gov/faces/tableservices/jsf/pages/productview.xhtml?pid=ACS_17_1YR_S0201&prodType=table. [17] Miller, “What is Cultural Citizenship?,” 50. [18] Ibid, 54. [19] Ibid, 52. [20] Ibid, 53. [21] Zamenopoulos, et al., “Varieties of Creative Citizenship,” 106. [22] Arnab Banerji, “The Social Drama of Durga Puja: Performing Bengali Identity in the Diaspora.” Ecumenica: Performance and Religion 12, no. 1 (Spring 2019): 1-13. [23] Victor Turner, From Ritual to Theatre: The Human Seriousness of Play (New York: PAJ Publications, 1982), 44. [24] Anita Mannur, “Culinary Nostalgia: Authenticity, Nationalism, and Diaspora,” in Culinary Fictions: Food in South Asian Diasporic Culture (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2010), 28. [25] Chatterjee, “South Asian American Theatre,” 114. [26] Banerji, “The Social Drama of Durga Puja.” [27] “Ohio Asian Americans.” Ohio Development Services Agency, accessed on March 12, 2020. https://development.ohio.gov/files/research/P7004.pdf. [28] Bengali Group Theatre is the dominant form of theatre in Kolkata, West Bengal, India. For a precise definition of this form of theatre and some of its distinguishing characteristics, see Ananda Lal, Oxford Companion to Indian Theatre (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2004), 139. The specific qualities reproduced in this performance were the sparse suggestive staging and the melodramatic tendency in individual performances. [29] Lal, Oxford Companion to Indian Theatre , 139. [30] Nishu Mahajan, “Honour killing continues unabated in Haryana,” The Pioneer , 27 August 2018, https://www.dailypioneer.com/2018/state-editions/honour-killing-continues-unabated-in-haryana.html; Dev Ankur Wadhawan, “Rajasthan’s shame: It’s paying a heavy price for killing the unborn girl,” Daily O , 28 February 2017, https://www.dailyo.in/politics/female-infanticide-rajasthan-sex-ratio/story/1/15896.html. [31] Zamenopoulos, et al., “Varieties of Creative Citizenship,” 106. [32] Ibid, 106. [33] Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “‘Draupadi’ by Mahasveta Devi,” Critical Inquiry 8, no. 2 (Winter, 1981): 383. [34] “13th South Asian Theater Festival,” (New Brunswick: Epic Actors’ Workshop, 2018). [35] Aparna Dharwadker, “Diaspora and the Theatre of the Nation,” Theatre Research International 28, no. 3 (October 2003): 305. [36] Bhawmik’s plays Ron, Taconic Parkway, Curious Case of a Casual Terrorist , and Nagorik come to mind. [37] Banerji, “What Lies Beyond Hattamala?,”43-59. Badal Sircar (1925-2011) is one of the most celebrated playwrights and directors in modern Indian Theatre. Sircar devised the third theatre borrowing extensively from Western avant-garde theatre practices. [38] Hart, “Meet the Filmmaker.” [39] Chatterjee, “South Asian American Theatre,” 112-113. [31] Dipan Ray, phone conversation with author. May 14, 2020. Dr. Ray became emotional while discussing the selfless guidance offered by Ganguly as a mentor, guest director, and performer to the New Jersey and Columbus, Ohio editions of the festival throughout their fifteen and six year journeys respectively. Footnotes About The Author(s) Arnab Banerji is an Assistant Professor of Theatre History, Literature, and Dramaturgy at Loyola Marymount University, Los Angeles. His first monograph Contemporary Group Theatre in Kolkata, India (Routledge) was recently released. Arnab researches modern Indian theatre, performance by the South Asian American diaspora, Asian-American theatre, and translation of Indian plays into English. His articles and reviews have appeared in Theatre Topics , Studies in Musical Theatre , Ecumenica , Asian Theatre Journal , BOOM California , Sanglap , Theatre Symposium , Virginia Review of Asian Studies , SERAS , Theatre Journal , and TDR . He has also contributed chapters on modern Indian performance to various anthologies. A detailed publication list and information on his teaching and research can be found on https://arnabbanerji.weebly.com/ . Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Theatre, Performance and Cognition: Languages, Bodies and Ecologies The Drama and Theatre of Sarah Ruhl A Player and a Gentleman: The Diary of Harry Watkins, Nineteenth-Century US American Actor The History and Theory of Environmental Scenography Introduction: Local Acts: Performing Communities, Performing Americas The Architecture of Local Performance: Stages of the Taliesin Fellowship “La conjura de Xinum” and Language Revitalization: Understanding Maya Agency through Theatre Exploring the History and Implications of Toxicity through St. Louis: Performance Artist Allana Ross and the “Toxic Mound Tours” Finding Home in the World Stage: Critical Creative Citizenship and the 13th South Asian Theatre Festival 2018 Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Jordan Schildcrout Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 27 1 Visit Journal Homepage Refusing the Reproductive Imperative: Sex, Death, and the Queer Future in Peter Sinn Nachtrieb's boom Jordan Schildcrout By Published on March 5, 2015 Download Article as PDF Apocalyptic narratives, based on fears and fantasies about the end of the world and the destruction of humanity, often turn on a character’s success or failure in producing or protecting a child. In such dramas, the survival of a child represents humanity’s hope for the future, and characters go to great lengths to ensure the existence of the next generation. As Lee Edelman has argued in his critique of the ideology underlying such narratives, “reproductive futurism” mandates that the fight for the child is the fight for the future, thus privileging reproductive heteronormativity and stigmatizing the non-reproductive or queer as “the negativity opposed to every form of social viability.” [1] Indeed, certain anti-queer ideologies, based on a loose mixture of biblical narrative and Darwinian theory, argue that lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) people are inherently detrimental to the survival of humanity. It is perhaps not surprising, then, that most apocalyptic narratives see queer people as, at best, irrelevant, and, at worst, to blame for the destruction of the human race. Peter Sinn Nachtrieb’s widely-produced comedy boom [with a small b] (2008) invokes the dictates of reproductive futurism but playfully subverts them, astutely “queering” the typical end-of-the-world fantasy by placing the fate of humanity in the hands of two characters who fail to reproduce. [2] This apocalyptic sex farce follows the travails of a gay male biologist and the female journalist who refuses to have sex with him, even though they are literally the last people on earth. Nachtrieb’s play was originally developed at Brown/Trinity Playwrights Repertory in Providence, Rhode Island, and then premiered off-off-Broadway at Ars Nova in New York City in March 2008, directed by Alex Timbers. Nachtrieb’s 90-minute, one-set, three-character comedy soon had dozens of productions, from major regional theatres such as the Seattle Repertory Theatre and the Woolly Mammoth Theatre in Washington, D.C., to smaller alternative venues in Ithaca, Iowa City, Dallas, and Pasadena. The Theatre Communications Group (TCG) cited boom as the most-produced play of the 2009-2010 season, [3] and by the beginning of 2015, it had over 100 productions in the US and abroad—including Argentina, Germany, Malaysia, and Mexico. Most theatre critics reviewed boom enthusiastically, admiring its synthesis of farcical humor and apocalyptic themes. Many noted the “edgy” and sexy energy of the comedy, praising it as “screwball,” “oddball,” and “wacked-out,” but had difficulty articulating the play’s more thoughtful underpinnings. [4] Ben Brantley of the New York Times astutely recognized the play’s concern with “our enduring fascination with and need for myths about the beginning of life as well as its end,” while Chris Jones of the Chicago Tribune myopically dismissed the play because he didn’t find it “credible.” [5] Critics tended to reference the fact that Jules is gay, but they did so parenthetically, as if his homosexuality were simply a funny obstacle to the goal of reproduction. In failing to understand how Jules’s homosexuality functions in the play, theatre critics overlooked the ways in which this wacky comedy presents a challenge to widely-held assumptions about reproduction and the role of queer people in creating the future. Staging the Apocalypse: A Future Without Queers and Queers Without a Future Stories about the end of the world appear in many societies and in many eras, and they inevitably bear the traces of the cultures that produced them, expressing anxieties over real world problems such as war, nuclear destruction, disease, environmental disaster, racism, and poverty. In plays, films, and novels about the apocalypse, the narrative’s optimism or pessimism about overcoming such problems often depends on whether a child, as symbol of the future, survives. For example, both Thornton Wilder’s The Skin of Our Teeth (1942) and Liz Duffy Adams’s Dog Act (2004) are apocalyptic comedies that contain hope for the future, concluding with the birth of a child or the promise of heterosexual mating. [6] In twenty-first century cinema, Alfonso Cuarón’s Children of Men (2006), based on the novel by P. D. James, and John Hillcoat’s The Road (2009), based on the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel by Cormac McCarthy, both offer a grim but hopeful story in which a child survives in a hostile and decaying world, thanks to the sacrifices of a heroic father or father figure. [7] A bleaker future, marked by the failure of reproduction or the death of a child, is depicted in plays such as Endgame (1957) by Samuel Beckett, Marisol (1992) by José Rivera, and Fucking A (2000) by Suzan-Lori Parks. [8] In Lars von Trier’s Melancholia (2011), a mother desperately tries and fails to save her young son from the coming apocalypse, and the film ends with the world evaporating in a blinding white light. [9] In these apocalyptic plays and films that focus on the fate of a child, LGBT characters are typically not central to the story of the future. The diminishment or absence of LGBT people within many fantasies of the future is not surprising, given the powerful rhetoric that situates queer people as antithetical to the future of families, the nation, and humanity itself. Such anti-queer rhetoric relies on three key arguments to create the link between queer sexuality and the end of humanity: 1) the wrath of God against a society that tolerates queer sexuality, 2) the prevalence of HIV/AIDS among men who have sex with men, and 3) the non-reproductive nature of same-sex relations. The struggle against such rhetoric can be seen in the political sphere, where the gay rights movement has fought for the decriminalization of same-sex relations, the health and dignity of those living with HIV/AIDS, and the rights of families headed by LGBT people. In the realm of culture, queer theatre artists have created plays that often ask more complex questions—and, in some cases, offer more subversive answers—about the queer future. In the American theatre, one can see how plays have responded to each of the three key anti-queer arguments that link LGBT people with the end of humanity. Certain religious leaders interpret the biblical story of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah (Genesis 18-19) as evidence that God will eradicate whole populations, not simply for being homosexual, but for tolerating homosexuality within the culture at all. Therefore, anti-gay forces have blamed the very existence of queer people within U.S. borders for everything from hurricanes and earthquakes to terrorist attacks—as prominent televangelist Jerry Falwell famously did in the days immediately following September 11, 2001. [10] In some cases, the “threat” posed by the existence of LGBT people extends to the destruction of life on this planet as we know it. Take, for example, Harold Camping, a Christian minister with a popular radio show, who predicted the end of the world would occur on 21 May 2011. As Scott James wrote in New York Times , Camping believed that this destruction would occur because “God has been angered by mankind’s sins, like the growing acceptance of homosexuality.” [11] In response to the use of religious ideology to vilify queer people, some plays have attempted to reclaim religious narratives for LGBT people, including Terrence McNally’s Corpus Christi (1998) and Paul Rudnick’s The Most Fabulous Story Ever Told (1998). [12] Although both plays employ elements of camp, they also contain sincere attempts to undermine the religious rhetoric that imagines queer people as “abominations” who will bring about destruction. McNally’s play depicts a gay man whose life parallels that of Jesus Christ, ultimately bringing grace and salvation to other queer characters. Rudnick’s comedy imagines a gay couple, Adam and Steve, first in the Garden of Eden and then in modern-day New York City, with Adam eventually serving as a sperm donor for a lesbian who gives birth, allowing a lesbian couple and a gay couple to collectively raise the child. When Adam asks what destroyed Sodom, Steve simply answers, “Tourists.” [13] Both plays have proven popular in productions around the country, but they have also met with protests and even death threats. To reposition queer people on the side of creation rather than destruction within the biblical narrative is a subversive and therefore controversial act. The devastation caused by AIDS has also figured prominently in cultural narratives about apocalypse. During the relatively brief era between the end of the Cold War and the beginning of the Global War on Terrorism, Peter Coviello wrote that “AIDS unseated nuclear warfare as the defining apocalyptic threat to American health and security” and also brought about “the full-scale and unilateral vilification of homosexuality.” [14] Coviello emphasizes the political ramifications of this shift, noting that “the epidemic thus presents to the American public a threatened civic apocalypse whose undeniable menace tacitly sanctions the mobilization of any number of state forces.” [15] The most acclaimed and influential play to confront the relationship between AIDS, government, and the future is Tony Kushner’s Angels in America (1992), which boldly imagined a gay man with AIDS at the center of a cosmic battle over the fate of humanity on earth. [16] Angels call on Prior Walter, a drag queen suffering from the effects of a weakened immune system, to become a prophet who will tell humanity to stop moving forward, but Prior refuses this prophecy and instead declares, “The world only spins forward. We will be citizens.” [17] It’s not people with AIDS, but rather greed and self-interest, that threaten the ideals of America, and Kushner imagines Prior Walter and other queer characters moving into the future as part of the national fabric. The third major argument that conflates queer sexuality and the apocalypse focuses on reproduction. Studies of LGBT families have shown that “37% of the more than 8 million LGBT adults in the United States report having had a child,” proving that, while queer sexuality may not be reproductive, many queer people are. [18] But anti-gay arguments assume that when it comes to the Darwinian drama of the perpetuation of the species, queer people—and the acceptance of queer people—will lead to a biological “dead end.” This rhetoric can typically be found in arguments against the political rights and social acceptance of LGBT people, as seen in a 2011 editorial by conservative columnist Jeffrey Kuhner in the Washington Times : By its very nature, homosexuality cannot fulfill the primary function of sex: procreation and the reproduction of the human race. It is inherently a socially barren act. A homosexual society is a childless one—doomed to extinction. [19] In the homophobic imagination, queer people are assumed to have no role in the future, and, indeed, they play an active role in destroying the very possibility of a future, because they do not bear children. The theatre has contradicted this notion of “childless homosexuals” by offering numerous representations of LGBT parents, many of them appearing in the most widely produced gay plays and musicals. In some cases, bisexual characters have children from previous heterosexual relationships, as in Mart Crowley’s The Boys in the Band (1968); and many plays depict gay and lesbian lovers taking parental roles in relation to the other partner’s biological child, as in Jane Chambers’s Last Summer at Bluefish Cove (1980), Harvey Fierstein and Jerry Herman’s La Cage aux Folles (1983), and James Lapine and William Finn’s Falsettos (1992). [20] Other plays depict gay characters as non-biological parents: as able helpers to their heterosexual friends, as in Shelagh Delaney’s A Taste of Honey (1958); as foster parents, as in Harvey Fierstein’s Torch Song Trilogy (1982); and as adoptive parents, as in The Kid (2010), a musical based on a memoir by Dan Savage. [21] Some plays show queer families going through the biological process of pregnancy and childbirth, including Paula Vogel’s And Baby Makes Seven (1993) and Tony Kushner’s The Intelligent Homosexual’s Guide… (2009). [22] All of these plays serve to construct queer people as reproductive and involved in nurturing children. But must queer people reproduce or raise children in order to be seen as legitimate members of society? Can non-reproductive people serve only to signify the end of humanity in our fantasies of the future? The future of queer people and the role of queer people in the creation of the future—known among cultural critics and scholars as “queer futurity”—have been much discussed in recent scholarship. In particular, queer theorists including Lee Edelman, José Estaban Muñoz, and Jack Halberstam have contributed new perspectives on our understanding of queer futurity. In No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive (2004), Edelman argues that, symbolically, queers are presumed to be outside the reproductive social order, and therefore stand in opposition to the innocence, goodness, and hope for the future that “the child” symbolically represents. [23] In Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity (2009), Muñoz, while acknowledging the need to resist the reproductive imperative, argues against the homonormative politics of pragmatism that simply demand a place at the existing table. [24] Instead, Muñoz looks to art and performance as inspiring utopian visions of a queer future that is neither heteronormative nor homonormative. In The Queer Art of Failure (2011), Halberstam ingeniously finds optimism in “queer failure,” since the queer’s lack of success by heteronormative standards, including reproductive sexuality, can create resistance and viable alternatives to the dominant culture and ideologies. [25] These theories of queer futurity will help illuminate how Nachtrieb’s boom wrestles with dominant ideologies about sex, reproduction, and the future. In this comedy, Nachtrieb subverts and rewrites the apocalyptic narrative by recasting the usual roles, creating an end-of-the-world play with no parents, no children, and no new-born infant. Instead, it gives voice to the queerly non-reproductive and examines their role in making—or unmaking—the future. Apocalyptic Sexuality: Exploding the Reproductive Imperative The play boom takes place at a museum existing in the distant future, where Barbara, a vivacious but rather harried middle-aged docent, welcomes us to her exhibit. Here we can watch two very lifelike automatons enact the historical struggles of Jules and Jo, a man and woman surviving in an underground research lab after the rest of human life has been destroyed by a giant comet hitting the earth. Standing behind her futuristic operating console, Barbara serves as emcee, stage manager, dramaturg, chorus, and musician for this exhibit-performance. She is, perhaps, an unreliable narrator, and her supervisors, displeased with the dramatic license she’s taken over the years, decide to shut down her exhibit. We are watching the final run of an exhibit about humanity’s final run on earth. Except that humanity clearly did not end, because Barbara stands before us, evidence of the survival of human beings into the future. She is simultaneously the mother-creator of this exhibit and the child-creation of the forbearers depicted in the exhibit. Near the end of the play, however, we learn that Jules and Jo did not reproduce. So how is it that Barbara exists in the future? At first boom seems to be a play about sex, but it soon reveals itself as a play about reproduction, which is not the same thing. Jules is a graduate student in biology who has discovered that human life is about to be destroyed by a giant comet hitting earth, but he is unable to convince his fellow scientists of his findings. Desperate to save humanity, he places an ad on Craigslist for a woman who is interested in “intensely significant coupling” (18). Jo arrives at Jules’s lab, which he has converted into a bunker stocked with food and baby supplies—and there are also four fish in a tank, which quietly bubbles away through the entire play. Jules, because he is socially awkward and terminally unhip, might be described as a “nerd,” and his role as the New Adam is further complicated by the fact that he is gay. Jules has never had sex of any kind before, but he identifies himself as homosexual—based on what he clinically describes as the “non-randomness of [his] erections” (19). Perhaps one of the reasons Jules has never had sex is that, as a biologist, he sees sex strictly as a matter of reproduction; indeed, he seems terrified when Jo first enters and demands the “world changing” sex promised in Jules’s ad. The comedy of the aggressive woman chasing the demure man is an inversion of Darwin’s theory of sexual selection, in which the male is ardent and the female is coy. This transgression of normative gender roles indicates the play’s queer leanings, and Jo expresses a very queer understanding of utopia when talking about sex. She explains to Jules the thesis of her current journalism assignment: Random sex as the last glimmer of hope in a decaying society.… No past. No future. All that matters is the moment. [Two people] meet to fulfill each other’s carnal needs, to find a moment of freedom, release, of sensory bliss that makes them forget how motherfucked up everything is. In no-strings sex, hope is still possible. (19-20) As José Muñoz reminds us, “Utopia lets us imagine a space outside of heteronormativity,” and here Jo (a straight woman with a masculine sounding name) recognizes the limitations of the present, eschews what Muñoz calls the “pragmatic politics” of neoliberal progress, and finds hope in a “no-strings” sexual ethos usually associated with non-reproductive or queer sexuality. [26] Once Jo realizes that this gay man is not what she expected, she attempts to leave, but she is stopped by the sound of the apocalypse. As Barbara dramatically plays the timpani, a low rumble grows louder and louder, finally exploding in a deafening boom. The stage then goes completely dark and silent, with only the fish tank still lit and bubbling, until Jules’s generators kick on and we see that both Jules and Jo have survived. Now the play turns from sex to reproduction, since the future of humanity depends on it, and the roles are reversed as Jules pursues the reluctant Jo. “We have to rebuild the human race!” cries Jules (32). Jules has completely absorbed the mandates of what Lee Edelman describes as reproductive futurism. Edelman argues that The Child is the fetishized symbol of the heteronormative social structure, and that “queerness names the side of those not ‘fighting for the children.’” [27] Jules, even though he is a gay man, is fighting for the child who represents the future of humanity on earth, the comic version of Clive Owen’s character in the film Children of Men (2006), who heroically risks his life to protect the world’s only infant. But Jules is no Clive Owen. He’s a bumbling nerd who comes up with ridiculous ways to try to impregnate Jo, each of them laughable failures, involving turkey basters, a booby-trapped toilet, and scenarios employing alcohol and a Jake Gyllenhaal mask (39). Even while his crazy schemes to create a child are farcical, the comedy is darkened by the fact that Jules is trying to force Jo to have a baby against her will. Around the time that boom was frequently produced across the country, America witnessed a spike in attacks on women’s health and reproductive rights, which rekindled debates about a woman’s authority over her own body, especially when it comes to questions of sex and reproduction. [28] In depicting Jules’s treatment of Jo, this play gives us a woman who is essentially a victim of kidnapping, attempted rape, and what Margaret Sanger famously called “enforced motherhood.” [29] To comprehend why Jules, an otherwise affable loser, is doing these horrible things, it is helpful to understand him as the disciple and representative of biological science. Darwinian orthodoxy holds that men with all their sperm are supposed to be promiscuous, but women with precious few eggs are supposed to be choosy. As biologist Joan Roughgarden writes, the theory of sexual selection holds that “a male is naturally entitled to overpower a female’s reluctance lest reproduction cease, extinguishing the species.” [30] In other words, the importance of that great Darwinian goal, the perpetuation of the species, trumps a woman’s right to choose and her authority over her own body. Nachtrieb’s play puts Darwin to the test by taking its inherent fear about the death of the species at face value: if the perpetuation of the species literally depended upon an act of sexual coercion, would it be “natural” and morally acceptable? The play’s answer is clearly no. It satirizes Jules’s mania for reproduction, and the fact that he is a gay man shows how ideologically constructed (rather than “natural”) this mania actually is. He tries to play the role assigned to him by Darwin, but he fails in the act. Which raises the play’s trickier question: Why does Jo refuse to reproduce? Unlike Jules, she is heterosexual, but she won’t play the role assigned to her in the Darwinian scheme and instead takes on the role of Edelman’s anti-child queer. Jo bluntly states: “I hate babies. They bother me physically, philosophically, and symbolically” (33). In refusing motherhood, Jo embodies what Edelman calls “the negativity opposed to every form of social viability” or, in Freudian terms, the death drive. [31] After the boom of the apocalypse, her death drive goes into overdrive. Against Jules’s insistence on the continuation of the species, Jo argues that “Maybe it’s time to end our reign of terror and die and decay and become soil.… Look at all the acts humans commit across the planet with casual, unconscious cruelty. We deserve to be blown up” (34). Furthermore, faced with the end of the world, Jo actually wishes to die—but she has an over-developed self-preservation instinct that renders her unconscious whenever she is in physical danger, and therefore she cannot cause harm to herself. So Jules needs Jo to create life, and Jo needs Jules to end her life. In this fight between Jules and Jo, between reproductive futurity and the queer death drive, the audience can perhaps see the dramatization of an internal conflict. What is the role of the queer person in reproductive futurity? If you are the last man or woman on earth, do you accept or refuse the imperative to reproduce? That imperative is supported by strong forces, including scientific, religious, and political discourses, and Jules represents the acceptance of that duty. Jo, on the other hand, represents what, as José Muñoz reminds us, Herbert Marcuse called “The Great Refusal,” the protest “against the repressive order of procreative sexuality.” [32] One of the ironies of the play is that the expected social roles have been reversed: the gay man sides with reproductive futurity, while the straight woman declares the Great Refusal. This refusal to reproduce has long been a theme in Western culture, and even a cursory glance at a few key examples will show the wide range of possible significations that can be found in these repudiations, which might be sinful, mad, virtuous, or revolutionary. God slew Onan because he “spilled his seed on the ground” in order to avoid impregnating his dead brother’s wife (Genesis 38:8-10), and many early Christians, certain that the End of the World was at hand, believed there was no point in producing children, preferring instead to focus on spiritual salvation. [33] The women of Aristophanes’s classical anti-war comedy Lysistrata (411 BCE) declare a sex strike, refusing to create children “borne but to perish afar and in vain” in the war. [34] The melancholy prince of Shakespeare’s Hamlet (1601) shuns Ophelia by telling her it would be better to be locked away in a nunnery than “be a breeder of sinners” (III.i.122). In modern drama, the heroine of Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler (1891) chooses suicide over motherhood, and Tennessee Williams’s Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1955), despite his family’s desire for him to produce an heir, refuses to create new life with his wife, Maggie. Resistance to “enforced motherhood” has been important throughout the history of the feminist movement, with many battles fought over contraception, sex education, abortion rights, and women’s authority over their own bodies. But the significance of motherhood can be especially fraught within various feminisms. Some writers take an essentialist view of the ability to mother as a source of empowerment, often despite the oppressions of patriarchal “pronatalism,” while others have viewed pregnancy and child-rearing as enslavement within the patriarchy, as a hindrance to female agency and autonomy. [35] Scholar Joyce Meier illuminates this tension when she writes about the social conditions behind the refusal of motherhood in African-American drama and literature, from Angelina Grimke’s Rachel (1906) to Toni Morrison’s Beloved (1987). In these narratives, women choose “sexual abstinence, abortion, and infanticide as strategies of resistance” against a racist social order that subjects black children to slavery, lynching, and poverty. [36] Audiences attending boom may find their understanding of Jo’s refusal of motherhood shaped to some extent by their familiarity with the drama of non-reproduction as it has played out in history, religion, feminist theory, and fictional representations. Ultimately, the play validates Jo’s “queer” choice not to reproduce, and Jules relinquishes his agenda of reproductive coercion. Jules and Jo have spent the entire play fighting about their personal responsibility to perpetuate the species, and in the end Jo wins the argument. Knowing that they can survive for only so long on limited supplies, they open the lab door, letting in the floods created by the comet hitting the earth, and presumably they drown. The final twist of the play [spoiler alert] is that this suicidal act is what actually perpetuates the species. Those four fish, silently swimming in their bubbling tank throughout the whole play, are now liberated by the flood, becoming the ancestors of humans like Barbara, who will exist 65 million years later—which, not coincidentally, is the span of time between the extinction of the dinosaurs and the emergence of homo sapiens . So Jules and Jo did save the human race, each in their own inadvertent way, since he nurtured and cared for those fish, and she liberated them. But inadvertent is the key word here. Both Jules and Jo are Darwinian failures, but by chance their failures lead to Barbara’s future. This, then, is the play’s argument: the future itself is queer, and the line from Point A to Point B is not a straight path. In her final speech, Barbara reminds the audience that the existence of humanity depends upon “millions and millions of lucky coincidences” and that “the world will just keep on spinning and moving and changing and adapting” (52). Here Nachtrieb seems influenced by the evolutionary biologist Stephen Jay Gould, who argued in his best-selling book Wonderful Life (1989) that homo sapiens are “a tiny twig on an improbable branch of a contingent limb on a fortunate tree.” [37] Gould notes that “small and apparently insignificant changes” can impact the future in substantial ways, [38] and his theory of contingency posits that evolution does not follow an inevitable path of “progress” but is instead the result of “a staggeringly improbable series of events… utterly unpredictable and quite unrepeatable.” [39] Although finding the dramatic and ironic potential inherent in this contingent view of human existence, Nachtrieb also contradicts Gould’s thesis by creating a fantasy in which millions of years of evolution are, in fact, repeatable, resulting in human beings who create museums, play musical instruments, and tell stories about their origins. Endings and Beginnings The play boom mocks our human arrogance for presuming that we could control the destiny of the species even if we tried, and while we are obsessing about the cataclysmic boom, it would be wiser to listen closely and appreciate the constant bubble of nature and life that either will or will not carry on, either with us or without us. Traditionally, tragedy wrestles with fate and ends in death, while comedy ends in (heterosexual) marriage and celebrates life. In its own way, boom mashes the two genres together, finally accepting fate and death, but also bringing together Jo and Jules as a non-reproductive “couple” who accidentally create new life. Nachtrieb crosses the fine line between tragedy and comedy by highlighting the slippage between endings and beginnings, and our inability, because we cannot know the future, to distinguish between them. Other plays about our fears of annihilation, including The Skin of Our Teeth and Endgame , are built with cyclical structures, ending as they began and promising, if not the hope for new life, at least the hope for one more day. One can also see the conflation of beginnings and endings in the popular misinterpretation of the Mayan calendar and its “prediction” of the apocalypse in 2012, which falsely imposed linearity on a cyclical system, seeing “the end” in what is actually a new beginning. [40] Similarly, that moment when Jules and Jo open the door is simultaneously the end of one world and the beginning of another. Barbara’s museum exhibit presents both a tragedy and a comedy, a tale of death and birth, of the end and the beginning. [41] Nachtrieb, who double majored in theatre and biology at Brown University, has written a play that tests conventional notions about the perpetuation of the species, and in doing so he also challenges the reproductive imperative that has often been used to hinder the social inclusion and political equality of LGBT people. Like much of the best science fiction, boom does not directly address political issues but creates an imaginary world that allows the audience to consider more clearly the ideology at work behind a defamiliarized reality. While many plays provide depictions of good gay parents in response to the accusation that homosexuality is a biological dead end, boom challenges the very premise of that accusation. In the process, it also addresses the situation of anyone, regardless of sexuality, who may not comply with the reproductive imperative. Perhaps this is one reason why the play has been particularly successful at smaller “fringe” and university theatres that tend to attract younger audiences, who may be questioning how sex functions in their own lives and what they may or may not “owe” to the future. Of course people who choose to reproduce or raise children are contributing to the future, and I don’t believe that this play (or this essay) is meant to diminish the important role of parents, no matter the sexuality or the relationship status of the parent. Instead, I believe the play expands our understanding of who contributes to the future, including those who do not biologically reproduce but may help to build the future in other ways. Jules, for all of his neuroses, is not selfish, and we see him nurture the fish in his lab, caring for them even under the most dire circumstances. Jo’s radicalism and commitment to her own liberation ultimately lead to the liberation of those fish, too. So within the play’s fantasy, the ideal is a combination of responsibility to others (Jules) and a commitment to individual liberty (Jo), and when these two characters finally unite, they inadvertently fulfill their “destiny” as the new Adam and Eve. It’s also worth noting that Jo’s journalistic habit of writing down all of her experiences in Jules’s lab leads to the creation of the documents that will serve as the historical basis for Barbara’s museum exhibit. Language, knowledge, and narrative are among the gifts that Jo gives to the future. Through this fantasy of apocalyptic doom and new beginnings, boom engages with arguments about the position of queer people in society and in the future, especially around the question of procreation. Nachtrieb’s play is ultimately a comedy because, while it threatens its non-reproductive characters with doom, it also liberates them from the burden of the reproductive imperative and exonerates them for their “failure” to procreate. Seen from this perspective, Nachtrieb’s utopian fantasy aligns with Halberstam’s view that “under certain circumstances failing, losing, forgetting, unmaking, undoing, unbecoming, not knowing may in fact offer more creative, more cooperative, more surprising ways of being in the world.” [42] The play directly argues against the use of reproductive futurity as an ideological weapon to enforce conformity or oppress the non-conforming. If nature is indeed based on chaos and chance, then the burden of mandatory reproduction is lifted, and all our anxieties about our duties to Darwin and to the future vanish. Once they accept their failure, Jules and Jo can finally embrace each other and face the end—which is actually a new beginning—together. Unlike apocalyptic narratives that focus on the production or protection of a child, boom gives the stage to two non-reproductive characters who give voice to their fears and anxieties about reproduction, and then are ultimately relieved of them. Nachtrieb’s play argues that 65 million years in the future, the rhetoric of the reproductive imperative, which says that queers have no role in creating the future, is just so much insignificant noise. None of us can know our role in creating the future. The deafening boom of “the end” may not be as momentous as we imagine, perhaps not even meriting a capital B. Meanwhile, from the quiet but persistent bubbling, new worlds beyond our expectations may emerge. [43] References [1] Lee Edelman, No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive (Durham: Duke University Press, 2004), 9. [2] Peter Sinn Nachtrieb, boom (New York: Dramatists Play Service, 2009). All subsequent references are incidated in parentheses. [3] “Top Ten Most-Produced Plays,” Theatre Communications Group. http://www.tcg.org/publications/at/attopten.cfm (accessed 19 January 2015). [4] Nelson Pressley, “The Elements Unite to Create Woolly’s Boom ; Production Crackles with Quirky Writing, Earnest Characters,” Washington Post (12 November 2008), C4; Bert Osborne, “When A Blind Date Predictably Goes Boom : Comedy About Two Outcasts a Change for Aurora Theatre,” Atlanta Journal-Constitution (23 September 2009), D1; Kerry Lengel, “Offbeat Boom Delivers Apocalyptic Belly Laughs,” Arizona Republic (1 November 2009), AE4, www.proquest.com , (accessed 19 January 2015). [5] Ben Brantley, “Meeting Cute on the Eve of Destruction,” New York Times (21 March 2008), E3. Chris Jones, “Not With a Bang at Next Theatre, but a Muddle,” Chicago Tribune (16 September 2009), 3.3, www.proquest.com , (accessed 19January, 2015) [6] Thornton Wilder, The Skin of Our Teeth , in Three Plays (New York: Harper Perennial, 1985); Liz Duffy Adams, Dog Act: A Post-Apocalyptic Comedy (New York: Playscripts, Inc., 2009). [7] Children of Men , directed by Alfonso Cuarón (2006; Universal City, CA: Universal Studios Home Entertainment, 2007), DVD; The Road , directed by John Hillcoat (2009; Culver City, CA: Sony Pictures Home Entertainment, 2010), DVD. [8] Samuel Beckett, Endgame (New York: Grove Press, 1958); José Rivera, Marisol (New York: Dramatists Play Service, 1994); Parks, Suzan-Lori, and Nathaniel Hawthorne. “Fucking A.” in The Red Letter Plays . (New York: Theatre Communications Group, 2004). [9] Melancholia , directed by Lars von Trier (2011; Los Angeles, CA: Magnolia Home Entertainment, 2011), DVD. [10] John F. Harris, “God Gave U.S. ‘What We Deserve,’ Falwell Says,” Washington Post (14 September 2001) C3. [11] Scott James, “From Oakland to the World, Words of Warning: Time’s Up,” New York Times , 19 May 2011,http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/20/us/20bcjames.html (accessed 14 June 2012). [12] Terrence McNally, Corpus Christi (New York: Dramatists Play Service, 1999); Paul Rudnick, The Most Fabulous Story Ever Told (Woodstock: Overlook Press, 2000). [13] Rudnick, 85. [14] Peter Coviello, “Apocalypse from Now On,” in Queer Frontiers: Millennial Geographies, Genders, and Generations , ed. Joseph A. Boone et al. (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2000), 42, 50. [15] Ibid., 50. [16] Tony Kushner, Angels in America: Perestroika (New York: Theatre Communications Group, 1994). [17] Ibid., 148. [18] Gary J.Gates, “The Real ‘Modern Family’ in America,” CNN, 25 March 2013, http://www.cnn.com/2013/03/24/opinion/gates-real-modern-family (accessed 10 January 2014). [19] Jeffrey Kuhner, “Obama’s Homosexual America,” Washington Times , 24 February 2011. < http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2011/feb/24/obamas-homosexual-america/ > (accessed 13 June 2012). [20] Mart Crowley, The Boys in the Band (New York: Samuel French, 1968); Jane Chambers, Last Summer at Bluefish Cove (New York: JH Press, 1982); Jerry Herman and Harvey Fierstein, La Cage aux Folles (New York: Samuel French, 1987); William Finn and James Lapine, Falesettos (New York: Plume, 1993). [21] Shelagh Delaney, A Taste of Honey (New York: Grove, 1959); Harvey Fierstein, Torch Song Trilogy (New York: Samuel French, 1982); Patrick Healy, “A Gay Adoption Becomes a Musical,” New York Times , 6 May 2010. http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/07/theater/07kid.html (accessed 26 January 2014). [22] Paula Vogel, And Baby Makes Seven (New York: Dramatists Play Service, 1993); Michael Feingold, “Review: The Intelligent Homosexual’s Guide to Capitalism and Socialism, with a Key to the Scriptures ,” Village Voice , 11 May 2011, http://www.villagevoice.com/2011-05-11/theater/the-intelligent-homosexual-s-guide-to-socialism-and-capitalism-with-a-key-to-the-scriptures/full/ (accessed 26 January 2014). [23] Lee Edelman, No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive (Durham: Duke University Press, 2004). [24] José Esteban Muñoz, Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity (New York: New York University Press, 2009). [25] J. Halberstam, The Queer Art of Failure (Durham: Duke University Press, 2011). [26] Muñoz, 35. [27] Edelman, 3. [28] “Editorial: The Campaign Against Women,” New York Times . 20 May 2012. http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/20/opinion/sunday/the-attack-on-women-is-real.html (accessed 13 June 2012). [29] The entrapment and coercion of women for the sake of reproduction in a decaying future society was most famously imagined by Margaret Atwood in her novel The Handmaid’s Tale (1985), made into a film starring Natasha Richardson in 1990. In this dystopian future, a patriarchal fascist authority categorizes women as wives, whores, or handmaids, who must bear children in a form of reproductive servitude. [30] Joan Roughgarden, Evolution’s Rainbow: Diversity, Gender, and Sexuality in Nature and People (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 168. [31] Edelman, 9. An interesting example of the refusal of motherhood in an apocalyptic narrative can be found in the 1967 Czech film The End of August at the Hotel Ozone . After a nuclear war which seems to have killed off the world’s male population, a band of feral young women roam the countryside, killing animals for food and vandalizing the remnants of a dead society. At an abandoned hotel, they come across an old man who represents culture, domesticity, and the possibility of reproduction. In the end, the women murder the man and continue on their way through the countryside. The film seems to be a horror show about men’s fear of empowered women, but I believe a resistant feminist reading is also possible. Thanks to Susan Stryker for bringing this film to my attention. [32] Muñoz, 134. [33] Elizabeth Abbott, A History of Celibacy (New York: Scribner, 2000), 48. [34] Aristophanes, Lysistrata , trans. Jack Lindsay (London: Fanfrolico Press, 1926), accessed through Project Gutenberg, < http://www.gutenberg.org/files/7700/7700-h/7700-h.htm >. [35] Ann Snitow, “Feminism and Motherhood: An American Reading,” Feminist Review 40 (Spring 1992), 32-51; Katharyn Privett, “Dystopic Bodies and Enslaved Motherhood,” Women: A Cultural Review 18:3 (2007), 257-281. [36] Joyce Meier, “The Refusal of Motherhood in African-American Women’s Theater,” MELUS 25:3-4 (Autumn-Winter 2000), 117-139. [37] Stephen Jay Gould, Wonderful Life: The Burgess Shale and the Nature of History (New York: W. W. Norton, 1989), 291. [38] Ibid., 287. [39] Ibid., 14. [40] G. Jeffrey MacDonald, “Does Maya Calendar Predict 2012 Apocalypse?” USA Today , 27 March 2007, http://usatoday30.usatoday.com/tech/science/2007-03-27-maya-2012_n.htm (accessed 15 January 2014). [41] This slippage between apocalypse and genesis is neatly depicted in the poster design for the Woolly Mammoth Theatre production in Washington, DC. The image shows a group of comets approaching the surface of the earth—or perhaps a group of spermatozoa approaching an egg. The “heads” of two comets/spermatozoa form the double “o” of boom , signifying both the end and the beginning in the same graphic. [42] Halberstam, 2-3. [43] I’d like to thank Nick Salvato and Sara Warner for inviting me to present an early version of this essay at the Resoundingly Queer Conference at Cornell University. I’m grateful to the editors Naomi J. Stubbs and James F. Wilson for their support, and to David Foley, Libby Garland, and the anonymous readers at JADT for their extremely helpful suggestions during the revision process. This article is dedicated to all the scientists in my family and to my partner in the fishbowl, David Zellnik. Footnotes About The Author(s) JORDAN SCHILDCROUT is Assistant Professor of Theater & Performance at SUNY Purchase. He is the author of Murder Most Queer: The Homicidal Homosexual in the American Theater (University of Michigan Press), and his scholarship has been published in Theatre Journal , Journal of American Culture , and Journal of Popular Culture . He also works as a dramaturg, most recently on a revival of Paula Vogel’s And Baby Makes Seven at the New Ohio Theater in New York City. Editorial Board: Co-Editors: Naomi J. Stubbs and James F. Wilson Advisory Editor: David Savran Founding Editors: Vera Mowry Roberts and Walter Meserve Editorial Staff: Managing Editor: Phoebe Rumsey Editorial Assistant: Fabian Escalona Advisory Board: Bill Demastes Amy E. Hughes Jorge Huerta Esther Kim Lee Kim Marra Beth Osborne Robert Vorlicky Maurya Wickstrom Stacy Wolf Esther Kim Lee Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Refusing the Reproductive Imperative: Sex, Death, and the Queer Future in Peter Sinn Nachtrieb's boom "Just Saying Our Goodbyes": Elegies' Queer Interventions into the History of 9/11 James Purdy as Playwright: A Retrospective Reading of A Day After the Fair and The Paradise Circus Sur la Pointe on the Prairie: Giuseppina Morlacchi and the Urban Problem in the Frontier Melodrama Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Melissa Sturges Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 37 2 Visit Journal Homepage Frankenstein Melissa Sturges By Published on July 1, 2025 Download Article as PDF Frankenstein Written and directed by Emily Burns Based on the novel by Mary Shelley Shakespeare Theatre Company Washington, D.C. June 14, 2025 Reviewed by Melissa Lin Sturges Thunder crackled as an explosive beam of lightning irradiated Dr. Frankenstein’s operating table. Contrasted by deep shadows, a human-sized entity stirred under flashes of strobe lights. The story is a familiar one: a tortured biologist, the monster he creates, and the family members sacrificed to his vanity. Shakespeare Theatre Company (STC)’s 2025 production of Frankenstein , newly adapted by playwright and director Emily Burns, rewrites Mary Shelley’s cautionary tale about personal responsibility for a new age. Weighing the burdens of responsibility against the privileges of familial love, Burns’s production recenters women’s voices often made unfamiliar to, but at the crux of, this classic 1818 novel. Shelley’s Frankenstein famously experiments with point of view: the novel begins from the epistolary perspective of arctic explorer Robert Walton, then transitions to the voice of Victor Frankenstein, and finally to that of the creature himself. The problem with first-person omniscience, however, is that it is notoriously untrustworthy—the tagline of STC’s production knowingly cautions its audiences to “trust him not.” Crucially, although the narrative is conveyed through dramatic dialogue, Burns’s adaptation centers on a character often overlooked in critical studies of Shelley’s work: that of Elizabeth Frankenstein (née Lavenza), Victor's adopted sister and later his fiancée. Rebecca S’manga Frank, Anna Takayo, and Nick Westrate in Frankenstein at Shakespeare Theatre Company. Photo: DJ Corey Photography. With the help a talented design team that included scenic designer Andrew Boyce, costume designer Kaye Voyce, lighting designer Neil Austin, sound designer and composer André Pluess, and projection designer Elizabeth Barrett, the production recenters the righteous domesticity of Shelley’s age-old treatise on nature versus nurture. Staged in a traditional proscenium at The Klein Theatre in downtown Washington, DC, Burns’s direction was strikingly confrontational. Much of the production was original, with select dialog direct from Shelley’s novel projected above the stage. The entire production took place within the confines of a turn-of-the-nineteenth-century kitchen, with the operating table doubling as a dining table and complete with cast-iron ornaments and preserved vegetables. With deep recesses and floor-to-ceiling windows, the truncated locale demonstrates how the Frankenstein manor is haunted in more ways than one. Brooding but cavalier, Nick Westgate played Victor as a wily suitor to Elizabeth, always assuming the best of himself and the worst of her ignorance to the greater conflict at hand. As Elizabeth, Rebecca S'manga Frank forcefully navigated the male-centric narrative with undergirds of passion, warmth and charisma. Her character responds as anyone in a committed relationship with a monster might, yet Frank skillfully preserved Elizabeth’s values and sense of self-agency. Costumed in a series of elegant period gowns, Elizabeth’s confidence abounded. During the opening scene, her colorful, bodiced frock contrasted with Victor’s haphazard pajamas as he blindfolded himself to keep from “seeing the bride on her wedding day” — a foolish way to prove to Elizabeth he is not interested in true communication. Burns takes various liberties with Shelley’s text and in many ways challenges both the literal and thematic structure of the original narrative. She foremost deepens the familial bond between Victor and Elizabeth by including flashback scenes to their childhood, when grieving their mother’s death, and during their engagement. In doing so, it becomes easier to see how Victor’s scientific endeavors, his narcissism, and his prolonged absences negatively impacted Elizabeth’s coming of age. As in the original novel, Victor returns from Ingolstadt to his home in Geneva horrified by the monster he has created. He arrives with plans to marry his fiancée of six years and assist with raising his younger brother, William. Meanwhile, his creature watches from a distance, observing the family's behaviors. When the creature murders William, a young caretaker and close family friend named Justine is falsely accused and executed for the crime. All of this rings true in Burns’ adaptation as well. Played by Anna Takayo, Justine delivers a devastating final monologue about believing she failed to love and care for William in the final moments of his life. However, whereas the creature vengefully murders Shelley’s Elizabeth on her wedding night, STC’s production offers an unexpected turn for the couple. Elizabeth attempts to call off the engagement with Victor, citing that his absence and negligence has built a wall between them. She also expresses doubts about his desire for children. However, believing that motherhood holds more for her than a loving marriage, Elizabeth pleads with Victor to marry her, to which he arrogantly concedes. While we do not see Victor interact with his creature as in Shelley’s novel, the demands of both the creature and Elizabeth converge audibly as she begs Victor to “make me a wife”— a plea that echoes the creature’s famous request in Shelley’s novel, when he demands that Frankenstein create a companion for him. Victor leaves Elizabeth during her pregnancy to settle his debts, so to speak, in Ingolstadt. He invents a story about his dangerously obsessive colleague threatening their family so that he may cover up the true source of their surveillance. When he returns to meet his five-day-old child, he begs Elizabeth to depart Geneva with him immediately. Elizabeth protests, insisting their daughter is too young to travel, to which Victor suggests leaving her behind to keep her safe. Begrudged at her inability to feed the child herself, Elizabeth has also hired a wetnurse named Esther (Takayo in a secondary role) who warns Elizabeth about the emotional toll of leaving her child behind—and to be suspicious of her husband’s motives. After a devastating argument in which audiences recognize Elizabeth’s bleeding-heart dilemma about what it means to be a good parent, the couple leave the child behind. While Burns invents this scene for her adaptation, it is ironically haunted by the novel’s deep interrogation of what it means to abandon one’s own creation. Rebecca S’manga Frank and Nick Westrate in Frankenstein at Shakespeare Theatre Company. Photo: DJ Corey Photography. A pinnacle work of Romantic literature, Frankenstein is well understood as a commentary on scientific versus godly creationism. It makes sense that in an adaptation centered on Victor’s family and romantic life, the doctor’s act of creationism would assume new meaning when juxtaposed with Elizabeth’s maternal narrative. Grieving her abandonment yet hopeful of reuniting with her daughter, Elizabeth is pushed to the breaking point. Victor continues to mislead and misguide her—dragging her across Europe for reasons still unknown to her. Upon returning to Geneva, Elizabeth adopts a small girl she believes is her own child, Eva (alternatively played by child actors Monroe E. Barnes and Mila Weir). As Eva grew, however, she caught the attention of another father figure: the creature himself, alternately portrayed by José Espinosa and Lucas Iverson. Far from the fantastical green figure so often imagined as Frankenstein’s infamous monster, this creature is a gentle, conventionally attractive young man, forced to fend for himself and build his own identity. The creature reveals the scars of his past to Elizabeth as Victor finally admits to his own responsibility. As Victor prepares a mob to vanquish his creature once and for all, Elizabeth and Eva escape with the creature’s help. The creature surrenders to the mob, finally understanding the lengths a parent would go to protect their child. Frankenstein has always explored themes of family and paternalism, and Burns’s timely production rightly brings attention to the feminine perspective in these discussions. This invites consideration of what Shelley might have felt as a woman dutifully writing in the shadow of her husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and his contemporaries. Burns contemplates what it might have felt for Victor’s family to witness his descent into madness firsthand. Burns demands a more intimate reception of Frankenstein’s downfall, understanding where his tragedy truly lay and doing justice to those written out of the narrative. This bold and elegant production of Frankenstein might finally convince audiences to hold the real monster accountable for his actions. References Footnotes About The Author(s) MELISSA STURGES earned her PhD in Theatre & Performance Studies from the University of Maryland and her Masters in Theatre from Villanova University. Published in Theatre Survey , Contemporary Theatre Review , The Eugene O’Neill Review , and elsewhere, her work centers modern theatre and addiction studies as well as queer theory and adaptation. Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Censorship/Public Censure and Performance Today: Special Issue Introduction Remembering Censorship in the World Premiere of Seán O’Casey’s The Drums of Father Ned: Lafayette, Indiana, 1959 The Stage as Networked Battleground: Dissent and Censorship in Contemporary Canadian Theatre and Performance Censor/Censure: A Roundtable Which of These Are Censorship? The Divide Between Prior Restraint and Soft Censorship How Can an Artist Respond to Censorship? The Dilemma That Faces Contemporary Creatives in the UK The LGBTQ+ Artists Archive Project: A Roundtable Conversation Life is Drag: Documenting Spectacle as Resistance An Interview with Rachel Rampleman Middle Eastern American Theatre: Communities, Cultures, and Artists. Michael Malek Najjar. Critical Companions Series. London: Methuen Drama, 2021; Pp. xvi + 237. Lessons from Our Students: Meditations on Performance Pedagogy. Stacey Cabaj and Andrea Odinov. New York: Routledge, 2024; Pp. 126 Choreographing Dirt: Movement, Performance, and Ecology in the Anthropocene. Angenette Spalink. Studies in Theatre, Ecology, and Performance Series, no. 3. New York: Routledge, 2024; Pp. 116. Fauci and Kramer Our Town Frankenstein Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.

Eric M. Glover Back to Top Untitled Article References Copy of References Authors Keep Reading < Back Journal of American Drama & Theatre Volume Issue 33 2 Visit Journal Homepage 1991: Original Broadway Production of Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston's Antimusical Mule Bone Is Presented Eric M. Glover By Published on April 29, 2021 Download Article as PDF The 1991 Lincoln Center Theater (LCT) production of Langston Hughes (1902-67) and Zora Neale Hurston’s (1891-60) 1931 antimusical The Mule Bone represents a milestone in Black theater history. The 1991 production resurrected a historical collaboration between two major Black artists and it used their work to offer a pointed critique of the 1990s New Jim Crow and US carceral system. In The American Musical and the Performance of Personal Identity , Raymond Knapp argues that in an antimusical, Black performers direct and turn the form back on itself by ironically reflecting the conventions of the genre. [1] The Black performer in an antimusical simultaneously deals critically with the form as a system of white supremacy while engaging in song and dance. In the brief exploration below, I focus on two episodes in The Mule Bone —the first, a trial set in a Black church, and the second, a song that depicts Black stowaways on train cars. Each suggests how the original 1931 work and its 1991 adaptation make milestone interventions in performing the policing of Black bodies in the Jim Crow and New Jim Crow eras respectively. Hughes and Hurston, like activist Michelle Alexander, had new ways to address problems, such as violence against and surveillance of black bodies, if only readers had paid close attention to their alternatives to practices that would produce the profit-driven prison industrial complex. Animated by a staged reading held in 1989 at the Rites and Reason Theatre (RRT), [2] Providence, where playwright and director George Houston Bass [3] laid the groundwork for reimagining the The Mule Bone, Lincoln Center picked up where Rites and Reason left off. Lincoln Center gave the antimusical the presentation that had eluded its authors back in the 1930s in part because of The Theatre Guild’s Theresa Helburn’s conceptual bias against it and in part because of the falling out between Hughes and Hurston during their collaboration on the work. Thus the 1991 production of The Mule Bone becomes significant for premiering a book and a score written, directed, choreographed, and designed largely by a Black creative team. Bass wrote a prologue and an epilogue introducing Hurston as a character, composer Taj Mahal set five of Hughes’s previously published poems to music, director Michael Schultz and choreographer Dianne McIntyre helped performers give characters body and voice, and scenic designer Edward Burbridge and lighting designer Allen Lee Hughes transformed the physical setting of Broadway’s Ethel Barrymore Theater into Jim Crow-era Eatonville. [4] Building on the early Black musicals of Eubie Blake, Will Marion Cook, and Pauline Elizabeth Hopkins, Hughes and Hurston levy a critique of Jim Crow in everyday life—a critique thrown into bold relief against what Michelle Alexander calls “the New Jim Crow,” the mass incarceration that builds on the legacy of Jim Crow using custom and law to secure a disproportionate amount of Black people incarcerated through the three-strikes rule for violent-felony convictions and the War on Drugs. [5] Thus, the Lincoln Center production marks a milestone in Black theater because Schultz and McIntyre’s interpretation helped to reclaim Hughes and Hurston’s places as radical political philosophers. Hughes and Hurston’s The Mule Bone , based on Hurston’s short story, “The Bone of Contention” (1929), about a political and religious fight between Baptists and Methodists, tells the story of a bromance between two figures in 1924 in Hurston’s hometown, Eatonville, in Orange County, Florida. In the short story, Dave, an angler, a Baptist, a hunter, and a local Nimrod, and Jim, a hen thief and a Methodist, do not have a bromance. In the musical Dave and Jim are transformed into a Baptist and a cakewalker and a guitarist and a Methodist, respectively. The events of The Mule Bone unfold around Dave and Jim’s characters. “Ain’t they playin’ somewhere for de white folks?” Daisy Taylor, the object of both Dave and Jim’s affections, asks. [6] Dave and Jim arrive from a performance engagement in a nearby all-white town and they treat the citizens of Eatonville to song and dance. They perform their song, “But I Rode Some,” with Dave dancing the cakewalk and Jim playing the guitar. Their desire to win Daisy drives the action forward but Dave stands in the way of Jim’s desire. Daisy chooses Dave but Jim lams him over the head with a mule bone in anger. Jim must stand trial before a judge and jury of his peers. “Now, who’s gonna take me home?” Daisy asks. [7] Act 2 takes place in the Macedonia Baptist Church which also serves as the courtroom. As James R. Grossman notes, “African-Americans in general looked to the church as an institution independent of white domination,” [8] suggesting that in this instance the church may have offered a site to administer Black rather than white justice. Joe Clarke, mayor of Eatonville, presides at the bench and other citizens serve in the capacities of defense counsel (Reverend Simms), prosecution (Elder Long), and town marshal (Lum Boger). The church gallery is full of Dave and Jim’s supporters, the division between Baptists and Methodists becoming more and more pronounced. Joe finds Jim guilty of assault against Dave and makes Jim leave town, rehabilitate himself, repent for his sins, and return in no less than two years. “We colored folks don’t need no jail,” Lounger, a citizen of Eatonville, declares. [9] However, Dave and Jim repair their relationship and run away together. The Mule Bone illuminates how theater invited Dave and Jim, the characters in the antimusical, to survive and thrive under Jim Crow. Dave and Jim earn their living by performing for white audiences. [10] Dave and Jim’s songs, framed as diegetic performances, clue the audience in to the fact that they are in control of who they are and what they want: “Dem foots done put plenty bread in our moufs,” Jim says of Dave’s dancing. Dave replies, “Wid de help of dat box, Jim,” referring to Jim’s guitar playing. [11] Given that they have to contend with “two competing forces: the demands to conform to white notions of black inferiority and the desire to resist these demands by undermining and destabilizing entrenched stereotypes of blacks onstage [sic],” the audience sees “Dave” and “Jim” in the imaginations of white audiences juxtaposed against the “real” Dave and Jim. [12] Dave and Jim’s proxies, Hughes and Hurston, transform the minstrel stereotype that Dave and Jim perform to undertake social justice. Through their songs and dances, Dave and Jim imagine alternative worlds for themselves. For example, they re-create their subjugation by white audiences in “But I Rode Some” but they also ironically find their antidote to the internalization of white supremacy. Dave and Jim’s “But I Rode Some” tells the story of a stowaway on a train captured and beaten by a white conductor, before being thrown in jail and shoved onto a chain gang: First thing I saw in jail Was a pot of peas. But I rode some, But I rode some. First thing I saw in jail Was a pot of peas. But I rode some, But I rode some. The peas was good, The meat was fat, Fell in love with the chain gang jus’ for that, But I rode some. (90) Hughes and Hurston reflect on the fact that Black people in the 1920s-30s often experienced denial of a sense of place and displacement by taking up themes of escape and resistance in the musical number. Even in the face of violence, Dave and Jim resist: “Grabbed me by the neck, /And led me to the door, /Rapped me cross the head with a Forty-Four, / But I rode some!” [13] The song structure itself has roots and routes both in the era of slavery and freedom and influenced other genres of popular music around the world. [14] Illicit travel by passenger train, often called “riding the blinds,” offered a dangerous way for Black passengers to experience a thrill of autonomy. They parked their bodies between the locomotive tender (coal car) and the “blind” end of a baggage car to hitch rides from the South to the North and everywhere in between. If conductors caught a Black person riding the blinds, conductors would (literally) throw the passenger from the train. [15] Through its strategic use of irony and subversion, the antimusical The Mule Bone is as much about the affective and cognitive powers of representational visibility as it is about Black people’s resilience. It was important to Hughes and Hurston that their Black audience saw a community of Black characters enjoying and loving life–Jim Crow be damned–self-governing their city and supporting its citizens. Looking at its 1931 and 1991 histories alongside each other invites scholars of Black theater to imagine how artists working more than half a century apart have deployed their creative powers to combat patterns of systemic racism that echo across the decades. References [1] Raymond Knapp, The American Musical and the Performance of Personal Identity (Princeton UP, 2006), 91. [2] Rites and Reason Theatre, based in the Department of Africana Studies at Brown University, is dedicated to producing continental African and diasporic stage works. [3] Bass, in his capacity as Langston Hughes’s estate’s executor, wrote two scenes for the production and he edited a critical edition of the script. [4] As directed by Schultz and choreographed by McIntyre, the opening night cast of the original Broadway production assembled the floor and the walls of a general store which also served as a jook joint with barrels and crates. A train track, beginning off stage left in the fly loft, formed a semicircle around the general store. The opening night cast also assembled the Macedonia Baptist Church which also served as the courtroom, including multiple rows of pews that faced downstage center, a stained-glass window upstage center, and the bench located downstage right. A community of Black people developed through song and dance in some of the most arresting musical numbers in the video of The Mule Bone that is on file at the Theater on Film and Tape Archive at The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts, Dorothy and Lewis B. Cullman Center, New York. [5] Michelle Alexander, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness (New York: The New Press, 2010), 55-56. [6] George Houston Bass and Jr. Henry Louis Gates, Mule Bone: A Comedy of Negro Life (Harper Perennial, 1991), 58. [7] Bass and Gates, 99. [8] Robin D. G. Kelley and Earl Lewis, To Make Our World Anew: A History of African-Americans since 1880 (Oxford UP, 2005), 90. [9] Bass and Gates, 78. [10] Musician Kenny Neal, a 1991 Theater World Award winner for acting, played the role of Jim and Eric Ware played the role of Dave. [11] Bass and Gates, 125. [12] David Krasner, Resistance, Parody, and Double Consciousness in African-American Theater, 1895-1910 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1997), 1. [13] Bass and Gates, 89-90. [14] It follows what blues musicians refer to as the A-A-B pattern where the first, second, fourth, and fifth lines repeat and the remaining respond. [15] Kusmer, 144. Footnotes About The Author(s) ERIC M. GLOVER Swarthmore College Editorial Board: Guest Editors: Nicole Hodges Persley and Heather S. Nathans Guest Editorial Team for this issue: Mark Cosdon, Stephanie Engel, La Donna Forsgren, Javier Hurtado, Mia Levenson, Khalid Long, Derek Miller, Monica White Ndounou, Scot Reese Co-Editors: Naomi J. Stubbs and James F. Wilson Advisory Editor: David Savran Founding Editors: Vera Mowry Roberts and Walter Meserve Editorial Staff: Co-Managing Editor: Casey Berner Co-Managing Editor: Hui Peng Advisory Board: Michael Y. Bennett Kevin Byrne Tracey Elaine Chessum Bill Demastes Stuart Hecht Jorge Huerta Amy E. Hughes David Krasner Esther Kim Lee Kim Marra Ariel Nereson Beth Osborne Jordan Schildcrout Robert Vorlicky Maurya Wickstrom Stacy Wolf Journal of American Drama & Theatre JADT publishes thoughtful and innovative work by leading scholars on theatre, drama, and performance in the Americas – past and present. Provocative articles provide valuable insight and information on the heritage of American theatre, as well as its continuing contribution to world literature and the performing arts. Founded in 1989 and previously edited by Professors Vera Mowry Roberts, Jane Bowers, and David Savran, this widely acclaimed peer reviewed journal is now edited by Dr. Benjamin Gillespie and Dr. Bess Rowen. Journal of American Drama and Theatre is a publication of the Martin E. Segal Theatre Center. Visit Journal Homepage Table of Contents - Current Issue Introduction to "Milestones in Black Theatre" Prologue to the Issue and a Thank-you to Errol Hill Earle Hyman and Frederick O’Neal: Ideals for the Embodiment of Artistic Truth Newly Discovered Biographical Sources on Ira Aldridge Subversive Inclusion: Ernie McClintock’s 127th Street Repertory Ensemble 1991: Original Broadway Production of Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston's Antimusical Mule Bone Is Presented A Documentary Milestone: Revisiting Black Theatre: The Making of a Movement A Return to 1987: Glenda Dickerson’s Black Feminist Intervention Dancing on the Slash: Choreographing a Life as a Black Feminist Artist/Scholar Playing the Dozens: Towards a Black Feminist Dramaturgy in the Work of Zora Neale Hurston Guadalís Del Carmen: Strategies for Hemispheric Liberation “Ògún Yè Mo Yè!” Pathways for institutionalizing Black Theater pedagogy and production at historically white universities Interviews and Afterviews on “Milestones in Black Theatre” Talking About a Revolutionary Praxis: A Conversation with Black Women Artist-Scholars in the Wake of COVID-19 and Black Lives Matter Tarell Alvin McCraney: Theater, Performance, and Collaboration. Sharrell D. Luckett, David Román, and Isaiah Matthew Wooden, eds. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2020; Pp. 252. Casting A Movement: The Welcome Table Initiative. Claire Syler and Daniel Banks, eds. New York: Routledge, 2019; Pp. 266. The Theatre of August Wilson. Alan Nadel. Metuen Drama Critical Companions Series. London; New York: Methuen Drama, Bloomsbury Collections, 2018; Pp. 224. Shakespeare in a Divided America: What His Plays Tell Us About Our Past and Future. James Shapiro. New York: Penguin Press, 2020. Pp. 221. The Theatre of Eugene O’Neill: American Modernism on the World Stage. Kurt Eisen. Methuen Drama Critical Companions Series. London: Methuen Drama, 2017; Pp 242 + xiv. Errol Hill Award Winners 1997-2020 Previous Next Attribution: This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.