The Glance of Lot's Wife

Looking back is dangerous.

In Greek mythology, the musician Orpheus sings open the gates of hell to save his wife Eurydice, only to kill her again, accidentally, by looking back at her before she'd made it back to the land of the living.

Genesis 19 tells us that, after escaping Sodom and Gomorrah, Lot's (nameless) wife "looked back at the calamity of the city" and was turned into a pillar of salt.

Contemporary feminist scholarship has been particularly involved in unveiling the inherent power dynamics of looking. Vision is, for humans, the sense that travels the farthest. To touch or taste something, the body must make physical contact. Smelling and hearing reach farther away from the self. But sight can travel miles on a clear day. With distance comes the illusion of perspective. In that empty space between seer and seen, power relations rush in to fill the void.

The notion of "The Gaze" as having the power to affect the subjectivity of both the viewer and the viewed was brought into critical discourse by psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan. Feminist film theorist Laura Mulvey introduced the notion of "The Male Gaze" in cinema to describe the way that the audience, regardless of sex/gender/orientation, is catapulted into the subject position of the straight male viewer who has mastery over the fetished female bodies onscreen. This male gaze also functions outside the movie theatre, dangerously coding "woman as image, man as bearer of the look" (Mulvey,1975).

Feminist art historian Griselda Pollock, citing the Orpheus and Eurydice story, describes the "Orphic gaze" as a potentially dangerous way of looking at photographs of past traumas that were not your own. Debate has arisen around the potentially Orphic quality of "looking back" at holocaust photography, pictures of dead U.S. soldiers in the New York Times, as well as the notorious photographs of Abu Ghraib. Why do we want to look? What do we gain from looking? Who might suffer? The line between witnessing and fetishizing can be so thin. How can we avoid "the backwards look that kills again?" (Pollock, 1996a)

Unlike Orpheus, who kills another, the glance of Lot's wife is a suicidal glance that brings her own body to a sudden halt while others move onwards without her. She decides to take a moment -- ever-so-briefly! --to witness and mourn the past, and in so doing her body is frozen forever in the gesture of that single choice.

If I were to theorize "The Glance of Lot's Wife," I would describe it as the calcifying pain that the minoritarian subject feels when she looks back at the long history of oppression against people who look and feel and act like her. The dawning awareness of the past's heaviness can be immobilizing. The attempt to bear witness to shared trauma can leave you unable to see or feel anything other than that trauma's endless aftermath.

I sometimes feel like this, feet and form stuck in place, salty tears running down my hard, salty cheeks. I can't give up my backward glances, yet neither can I give up my gaze towards the distant horizon. I guess that leaves me shuffling forward, trying not to trip over my feet.

Play Dangerously with the Body

Yesterday I attended a football game, a highly rare occurrence for me. I still don't understand the rules of the game (and seriously, don't bother trying to explain; what I don't care about just doesn't stick), but I enjoyed the pageant and virtuosity of all the performances: the players, the coaches, the referees, the cheerleaders, the band, the fans.

In honor of the game (and Stanford's crushing victory, ahem, "Go Cards!"), I offer forth some of Richard Schechner's words on the deconstruction and reconstruction of the body through performance training:

"In preparing performers to perform, rigorous exercises reshape their bodies. This is as true of kathakali as it is of football, of ballet as it is of shamanism...Each genre deforms and reforms the body by introducing disequilibrium, a problem to be solved by a new balancing specific to the action: ballet's way of unbalancing-rebalancing is not football's is not a Huichol shaman's is not noh drama's and so forth. But each form needs to play dangerously with the body, to deconstruct and reconstruct it according to its own plan of action. The body is deconstructed--opened, made provisional, uncreated, enters Brahma's night--so that it can be recreated according to plan. The plans are not fixed. They change, sometimes slowly, sometimes suddenly. Ballet's body, and football's, and so on, are each a maya-lila of possibility. And as many genres as exist, untold others could exist: of natural balancing there may be limits, but no such limit hinders the invention of new unbalancing-rebalancing cycles according to not-yet-known codes." (The Future of Ritual, p. 40)

The bodies created by the practice of football training and competition are beautiful and graceful in their own right. But I'm even more excited about the forms of embodiment that await as we continue to invent new ways to unbalance and rebalance ourselves against the weight of the ever-shifting world.

"Stages of Decay"

Check out this link for a slideshow of beautiful photographs of abandoned and decaying theatres by Julia Solis.

All theatres are haunted. Abandoned theatres seem extra haunted.

Conscious Spectatorship

Yesterday I woke before the sun to attend the Indigenous Peoples Thanksgiving Ceremony on Alcatraz Island, an annual sunrise gathering that honors the traditions of Native American tribes as well as indigenous people the world over. Blessed with a gorgeously clear morning, the event, which included guest speakers, musicians, drumming, and dancing, was a powerful way to celebrate an ever-problematic national holiday.

The event made me very aware of my own spectatorship. Descended quite literally from settlers who appropriated land from indigenous people, my participation in the ceremony is colored by a sad awareness of my own implication in our current cultural scenario. As an ally to oppressed cultures, I watch and listen with reverence, bearing witness to the traditions that remain vibrant in Native communities. My gaze is attentive, appreciative, and also, I hope, ultimately generative. Rather than watching with the hungry eyes of a tourist or the analytic eyes of an anthropologist, I try to watch in a way that is simultaneously aware of the past yet looking imaginatively towards the future. How can my work as an artist and scholar contribute to the flourishing of intercultural dialogue? Can I, through conscious spectatorship, learn from and help further the vibratory movements of embodied knowledges of cultures that are not my own?

As the sunlight hits the crumbling barracks on the top of Alcatraz, I can't help but think of the rise and fall of cultures. Despite the attempts of the dominant power to control and subordinate any elements that threaten that power, nothing that is built by human hands lasts forever. Sometimes I feel comforted remembering that everything, given enough time, crumbles.

Devising the Bible, Myself

This week in my directing seminar we presented short devised works based on the King James Bible. With such a wide-open field of possibility, each piece was unique and deeply reflective of its maker and his or her relationship to spirituality, organized religion, and the human encounter with greater-than-human elements like death, love, or a divine power. Much more so than in traditional scenework, in devised work the passions and obsessions of the director spring forth shamelessly. Faced with the empty space of script-less-ness, one's own internal conflicts and pleasures must twist themselves into new and original forms.

Initially overwhelmed with my options (should I work on Adam and Eve? Revelations? Mary Magdalene?), I eventually found inspiration in a Grotowski text I was reading, titled coincidentally, "The Theatre's New Testament."

"The spectator understands that such an act [the actor's rigorous self-exposure] is an invitation to him to do the same thing, and this often arouses opposition or indignation, because our daily efforts are intended to hide the truth about ourselves not only from the world, but also from ourselves. We try to escape the truth about ourselves, whereas here we are invited to stop and take a close look. We are afraid of being changed into pillars of salt if we turn around, like Lot's wife." (Towards a Poor Theatre, p. 37)

Suddenly hit by the lightning bolt of creative excitement, I jumped online and found Lot's wife nestled into Genesis 19. Nameless and powerless (like too many Biblical women) she is punished for embodying -- in a single backwards glance -- her sense of grief at God's wrathful destruction of the notoriously queer desert cities Sodom and Gomorrah.

Like the actor who reveals herself onstage, devising is a place in which the director can look closely at herself through the scalpel of someone else's story. In my case I used Lot's wife as a vehicle for self-exposure and self-reflection. Like Lot's wife, I desire to look back: to take time to contemplate and mourn the pain I've witnessed both first and secondhand. Like Lot's wife, I am not ashamed of my connection to people and places that a vengeful God might deem sinful. In her story I feel rumblings of my fear of calcification, my longing for transformation, and my ambiguous relationship with the power of flight.

All art can be considered a calcification of experience - the bringing into solid form what was once awash in undulating formlessness. While no one wants to be turned into a pillar of salt, sometimes bearing witness to pain and destruction means taking the risk of turning around anyway.

Why?

"Why are we concerned with art? To cross our frontiers, exceed our limitations, fill our emptiness, fulfill ourselves. This is not a condition but a process in which what is dark in us slowly becomes transparent. In this struggle with one's own truth, this effort to peel off the life-mask, the theatre, with its full fleshed perceptivity, has always seemed to me a place of provocation." - Jerzy Grotowski, Towards a Poor Theatre

Oh Sister Ismene

I played Antigone once in my sixth grade production. I still remember the first line and the pleading look on my eleven-year-old face when I said it: "Oh sister Ismene! Unhappiness, calamity, disgrace, and dishonor have fallen upon us!"

Researching the play today, I tumbled into an internet rabbit-hole trying to pin down the meaning of Antigone's name. Like all etymological slip-and-slides, definitiveness is impossible, but the multivalent possibilities of those four little syllables are quite provocative.

We're all familiar with the prefix "Anti," which means against, opposed to, or the opposite of.

The second part of her name, however, poses more questions. Some sources claim it's related to the Greek word "gnomos" which means opinion or thought. An interpretation of this version or her name would be "one who goes against the opinions of others."

Another interpretation claims that the "gone" derives from the word "gonia" which means angle or bend (as in polygon). This gives us a vision of an Antigone who is unbending or unyielding.

Finally, there could be a relationship with the word "gonos," which means seed or semen, and is related to procreation as well as motherhood. This is the tricky interpretation. Was Antigone the first "man-hating feminist" of anti-feminist lore? Was she opposing motherhood and the "natural" flow of generations in the way she took on the masculine responsibility of defending her family's honor?

Oh Sister Ismene, for at least 2400 years, women who go against the opinions of others and hold to their beliefs in unbending ways have risked being seen as the enemy of mankind. All we want to do is bury our brother's body.

Marcus, or the Secret of Onstage Sex Scenes

Marcus, or, The Secret of Sweet is the conclusion of Tarell Alvin McCraney's powerful Brothers/Sisters Trilogy. It plays for two more weekends at ACT and if you haven't seen it, I encourage you to get tickets immediately and DON'T READ the rest of this post!

Marcus is a character you haven't seen before on the regional theatre circuit. Sixteen, gay, and increasingly "out" in the rural Louisiana projects, he is simultaneously a visionary and a horny teenager. He's a powerful character, who, in my opinion, is betrayed in this production by the director's lack of innovation at specific moments of onstage sexuality.

Over the course of the play, three potentially sexual moments between men unfold onstage: a kiss, the prelude to a blow-job, and a thwarted rape. These moments are full of possibility for the character as well as our own culture. What does it mean for the audience to witness Marcus in these moments of queer black male desire?

In contemporary American culture, black male sexuality remains fraught. Overdetermined by threatening "thug" stereotypes, black male bodies are seen as dangerous at the same time as they are objectified and idealized (like the Old Spice superbowl commercial now gone viral). McCraney's scenes of queer desire place black male sexuality not in relationship to a fearing or fetishizing other, but to itself. "Two black men loving each other," said McCraney in an interview, quoting Essex Hemphill, "is always a revolutionary act."

Ultimately, the director misses these opportunities. Unnecessarily loyal to realistic conventions, he rushes through these queer moments as though ashamed to let them breathe. Because of this hesitancy as well as his reliance on the theatrical equivalent of the cinematic "pan to the windblown curtains," ACT's production doesn't find the specificity onstage that McCraney's language invites.

Overt sexuality in theatre is always complicated. The director's challenge is to strive for an externalized vision of the character's internal experience. Is the sexual moment jolting? Languid? Terrifying? Surreal? Does time slow down or speed up? Does space contract or expand? Moments of embodied desire are always moments out of time, out of space, and sometimes out of the limits of the body itself. These edges of expressibility should be where theatre thrives.

Sexuality is not ancillary to Marcus's story, rather it's very close to the young, beating heart of the character and the play. While I'm happy to see him onstage at ACT, I feel like only half Marcus's heart made it into this production.

The Urge to Act, or Why I Love Actors

This weekend I saw three very different performance events: a student production of All's Well that Ends Well at Stanford University, Ampey! a contemporary dance piece by Adia Whitaker at Counterpulse in San Francisco, and the weekly student work showing at Dell' Arte School of Physical Theatre in Blue Lake, California which focused on masked performance. These three pieces couldn't have been more different in style, substance, and circumstance, yet I left all three evenings with a similar sense of deep appreciation.

I'll confess it now. I love actors. I feel like I should say "performers" rather than actors, in order to fully encompass the musicians, dancers, and mimes that moved before me. But what I saw was people onstage, lending their flesh towards acts of import and difficulty. Acting. More specifically, I love the urge to act. I love the choice to go onstage and say: "Go ahead, look at me! I am willing and prepared to bear, for some time, the weight of your gaze."

The storytelling urge is more direct: "I want to tell you THIS. Listen to THIS." The urge to act, however, is indirect. It's the willingness to be a vehicle between a story and an audience. It's a kind of active passivity, an openness to exposure that could more likely result in shame than glory. The performer lets herself be seen so that something else might be seen through her. It’s not surprising that over centuries of anti-theatrical bias in a misogynistic culture, the male actor has been condescendingly associated with femininity and passivity. In many cultures it is women who are watched, who allow themselves to be watched and who sometimes even derive pleasure from being watched.

Actors get a lot of criticism for being narcissistic, egocentric creatures who shrivel without the heat of the lights and the eyes of the audience. But perhaps actors just have the bravery to face head-on the truths that the rest of us want to deny - that identity is always an illusion, that our personality is always a guise, that selfhood only exists in concert with other selves, and that it's always the light and heat of other bodies that turns our own light on.

Theatre Marathon: The Great Game

I recently saw Tricycle Theatre's production of The Great Game: Afganistan at the Berkeley Repertory Theatre. Depending on how you classify it, The Great Game is a single day-long play, three full-length plays, or nineteen short pieces on the topic of Afghanistan's history and politics. I attended one of the "marathon performances," in which a full day - 11:00 AM to 10:30 PM - was surrendered to the act of audiencing.

Submitting to a full-day play requires great trust: in the company, the director, the playwright, and the actors. You hope they'll take good care of you, both artistically and physically, and that your investment in this illusory world will be worthwhile. The Great Game definitely was. While I try to stay engaged in global politics, it's hard to understand the present without the historical context, and CNN rarely takes the time to explain the myriad effects of the last 150 years of colonialism in Central Asia. The production educated me in that alchemical way that only art can, and raised as many questions as it answered, putting the responsibility in my hands to deepen my own understanding of this country about which I know only little.

The theatre marathon format is growing increasingly common. Elevator Repair Service's 7-hr Gatz is at the Public right now, and a marathon version of Tarell Alvin MacCraney's Brother/Sister Plays was produced there last year. I saw Ariane Mnouchkine's Les Ephemeres last summer at Lincoln Center, and Signature Theatre is reviving Kushner's Angels in America in marathon-format next spring.

Personally, I love the experience of giving myself over to a day of near-passive observation. My intense critical eye usually gets tired after the first few hours and my way of viewing changes. It's not so much that I get wrapped up in the action of the play, but I begin to feel like this life in the darkened theatre, surrounded by a temporary community of quiet, watchful viewers, is my new reality. In the shared space of the audience, my ego boundaries start to soften like food over the heat of a fire.

The meditative time signature of the theatre marathon allows me the luxuries of observation, contemplation, and openness to difference that seem impossible in the active rumble of life itself. My obsession with my own small dramas is subsumed into the grand, shared pageant passing before me, and in that shifting experience of time, self, and community, I can't help but sense, at the corners of my tired vision, the overwhelming beauty of the enormous, ultimately unknowable world.

Alternative Economics

In Vajrayana Buddhism, there's a preliminary practice sometimes prescribed to those of us who need help developing generosity. You hold in one hand a gemstone, a gold coin, or, nowadays, perhaps some small and surprisingly valuable piece of technological equipment like an iPhone. Slowly and simply, you pass it from your right hand to your left, then back again. You give. You receive. You give again.

In addition to rehearsing the baby steps of generosity, this practice is also a beginner’s guide to letting go. It’s the kind of letting go that doesn’t end in utter loss, disappearance, or death. It’s peek-a-boo light. It’s Freud’s fort-da game where the spool never rolls too far away.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the psychoanalytic description of subject-formation. How we become the selves we feel ourselves to be. According to Freud, "the ego is the precipitate of the abandoned object cathexis,"(On Narcissism). In other words, who we are is a collage crafted from our emotional attachments to people we've loved and lost. It's my policy to take Freud with a grain of salt, but this description rings true. On quiet days I can feel the people I've loved moving around inside my psyche, or at least the familiar rumblings of their memories.

But the loss part is hard to stomach. Must we lose people we love to build our own individual subjectivities? I'm lucky enough to still have vibrant, loving, living parents and ongoing, caring relationships with many of my previous partners. I know that nothing lasts forever, but I here I am, enriched by their existence. Haven't these people nested themselves into the muddled montage of my self-image without being completely abandoned or lost?

I don't think the economy of the heart burns the same fuel as the economic engine of late capitalism. I don't think gain and loss need be tied together in such mechanistic union. I believe there is a way to lose without catastrophic trauma and other foundations to build upon than the corpses of those lost.

To me, performance seems like a version of this Buddhist practice of giving from one hand to the other. The communication -- even communion -- possible in the performance event challenges the gain/loss model of giving and receiving. Transformation rather than exchange can take place between subjects. If the energy of this could be harnessed, we might find that perpetual motion machine dreamed about by theoretical physicists. I imagine the heart and psyche pay as little heed to the laws of thermodynamics as they do to systems of economic modeling.