A performance for one spectator

I have had Chekhov performed in my living room (a big wood-floored space), 8 equity actors performing for 8 spectators, directed by Leonid Anisimov, an Honored Artist of Russia.

   Chekhov always said, he thought the finest
   performances of his work would be done for
   the fewest spectators.

The most intimate performance I ever experienced was at the Odin, but it wasn't by the Odin actors; it was by the apprentices. They had gone a few weeks earlier to Paris. Eugenio has set up Professional Work Exchanges, where he and Ariane Mnouchkine, head of Theatre du Soleil, trade work practices. Every so often, they get together, or send their actors to each other's theatres, to learn. This time Eugenio sent the babies, since they had never been to Paris and Ariane was opening her new show, Le Dernier Caravanserail. (And, by the way, if you want to see someone who has MASTERED theatricality, see anything Mnouchkine does at her home theatre, Le Cartoucherie. It's an old ammo factory, south of Paris. I could write a whole post on her.)

I gave the apprentices each a small amount of money to spend in Paris. They were living at the theatre here, would be living at Ariane's theatre there, and were dirt poor. It was a matter of great consternation, it turned out. They could not accept it as a gift, it was too large. We eventually agreed that it was a commission; they would, in turn create a performance for me before I left.

In Paris, they went to an antique market/flea market, seeking items for the performance. An enormous old leather fencer's mask, as big as a Jules Verne diving helmet. Old boxing gloves. A falling-apart gameboard, complete with engraved markers.

The day before I left, they said, "Come to the White Room at 5:30. We will have your performance." "It is a moment," cautioned the director, "Not a piece, but a moment." The four work/performance spaces at the Odin -- the Blue Room, the White Room, the Red Room, the Black Room -- have plain wood square signs hanging on a string outside the door. One side is red, meaning, in Roberta Carreri's words, "You are not welcome here." The other side is green, "Please come in."

At 5:30, the board on the White Room was still red. I waited. After about ten minutes, Anna, the apprentice director, came out to get me.

"We are ready for you," she said. The room, larger than most black-box theatres and spotlessly clean, was completely dark. No exit signs, no windows, no light. She took me by the hand, led me in, and shut the door.

Through absolute blackness, this warm small hand led me, pushed gently into my seat, where she sat beside me. There we are. In the dark, a Danish girl's hand still holding mine, in silence.

In the far left corner, someone lit a match, and then an old kerosene lantern. Another relic of Paris. It glowed dimly, not enough to light their faces. As the singing started, I could discern only the pattern of the skirt, the lantern, a sense of mass moving, a creaking. It was like watching an underwater performance, so deep there is no light. Even when the three performers came very close, I could not make out the details.

Singing, they rolled toward me. The director let go my hand. One girl was sitting in a wagon, one was standing in it, the boy was pushing it. Just glimpses -- a face, a bit of yellow dress, a mask on a body so bendily indeterminate that I never could tell if the actor was facing backward or forward (backward, I later learned). Rounding the corner, the man was bent double, his leather-balled head pushing the wagon from behind like Jack Pumpkinhead in the Oz books, singing like a bull, as open as the earth.

This strange procession came toward me, passed, receded. Always singing, always murkily lit. Many strangenesses. An umbrella. Transforming costumes. Silence. Blackness.

This is one of my favorite pieces of theatre I have ever seen. A piece made for one spectator, performed once. Being led by the hand through pitch blackness, to sit in the front center row. A strange hand holding mine in utter black silence, waiting for the performance to begin.

Afterwards, I had two thoughts. With my Odin-trained eyes, after watching Eugenio's rehearsals for weeks, I could see all the places the piece didn't work, how to make it better. At the same time, I also realized it was better than anything I have ever made.

A beautiful cold water/hot water feeling. The feeling of truth.