what a house, what a play

We are rehearsing Seagull 5 nights a week, 6:30 - 10:30.

We rehearse in the house where we will hold performances. It is a grand and spacious house. Three floors. Not many rooms, but each one has high ceilings and high windows. Double sliding wood doors. A wide staircase.

The play's action is not staged to all happen in one end of the living room. Instead, it flows throughout the house. The actors lean against the windows, lay on the couch, move to the kitchen, walk out the back door. It's as if Russian ghosts, in American guise, have inhabited the house and for this short time can be seen. Or glimpsed, as often they work by candlelight.

The experience, the vibration, of Chekhov is profound. Leonid's work is profound. To have both inside this tall old house, is stunning. "This house is like the houses of Chekhov's time," says Leonid. "Exactly same. Same architecture, same feeling. But Chekhov himself lived out in the country. Like where Rachel lives. Chekhov would visit here, but live at Rachel's."

I saw a play in a house once, the spectators will say. What a house. What a play.

We may not have this house beyond the summer, as Bart has two kids going to college and may need to downsize.

Two days ago I invited Stanislavski and Chekhov to rehearsal. Stanislavski leaned on the right between two tall windows. Chekhov, shorter, leaned in the left corner. Like lazy versions of the stone lions outside Shinto shrines, they guarded the actors. They watched a while, then left.