Lineage

Recently, I’ve been thinking about my lineage. The past few years, I’ve found certain artists

whose work began twinkling at me. Like with any good art, my encounter with their work was extremely

vivid and privately dramatic, and my body responded with goosebumps, emotion, and altered states of

presence. But another feeling accompanied the natural responses – I felt a momentum, a rolling sensation,

a pulsing or quickening in my gut and in my heart that said: follow this. Thankfully, I listened, and over

the past few years, this quickening sensation has led to a deep exploration of the theatre of Robert Wilson,

Tadashi Suzuki, Anne Bogart, and many more.

I imagine the trajectory of an artist like the movement towards the center of a circle. In my mind,

it doesn’t matter where on the circumference the entry-point is; what matters is the depth of commitment,

or how close one gets to the center. To me, the work of the artists mentioned above feels extremely close

to the center of whatever this circle is, and it feels like they have carved out a path for me (and other

artists) to move closer to the center. I consider them key figures in my artistic lineage, and as this lineage

revealed itself to me, it has stabilized me, like an anchor, and grounded my work. It’s these artists’ work

that I want to both follow and continue. One of my teachers said she feels her lineage act on her the way a

double-jump works on a trampoline – they jumped before her, so that she could rocket into the air. These

artists, their work, and their techniques are glowing at me, and I feel they are simultaneously the ground

on which I stand, and the thing launching me forward.

I can’t know why my body reacted so dramatically to these artist’s work; however, I can guess

that it was because I was seeing living examples of what I innately understood theatre should be but had

no idea could be. It simultaneously cracked open my biases and introduced absolutely new ideas about

theatre as an artform, as well as giving me language to express thoughts that were, at the time, too

unformed to articulate. In large part because of these artists, there are a few things that I now understand I

want my theatre to be: 1) ritualistic, making the intangible tangible and the invisible visible; 2) able to

create space for an audience by not imposing interpretation; 3) after a unified experience, but diverse

responses; 4) aware of both the immediate/visceral experience, and the figurative or representational

‘meaning;’ 5) an act of generosity or service; 6) seeking a quality of expansiveness or reverence in the

audience; and, 7) in the pursuit of grace.

These artists were pivotal in my understanding of those thoughts, but perhaps even more

importantly, these artists gave me tools and techniques to accomplish what I’m after. From Robert

Wilson, I gleaned very practical ways to slow down time, discovered structures other than narrative for

creating theatre, learned to think about the immediate as well as the representational onstage, and

probably most significantly, recognized the importance of form. From Suzuki, I’m understanding the

importance of presence onstage – in his theatre, the ‘event’ feels undeniable, and even through a computer

screen, I can see air crystallize around the performers which is something I’m deeply interested in. His

method of actor training took so much of what I was flailing at and packaged it into a system that makes

the actors’ ‘invisible body’ visible, and their presence tangible. It taught me that presence can be sculpted

and revealed to me how liberating constriction can be. I haven’t been lucky enough to see as much of

Anne Bogart’s theatre, but her writing has provided me a model for how to exist as a director. Her books

aren’t structured like practical guides to directing, as in they aren’t filled with exercises or tips; instead,

she writes vividly and poetically about her own experience directing, her philosophies on theatre, and her

and theatre’s history. Although I haven’t gleaned formal techniques from her, her writing has seeped into

my DNA, and (both consciously and subconsciously) carved out how I approach rehearsal.

It is through these artists – my lineage – that I understand theatre. In rehearsal (and in life) I sense

the presence of these artists around me; I feel their work in front of me, pulling me forward like a magnet,

and at the same time, I feel them in the space in back of me, grounding me and connecting me almost

genealogically in a line through time. I do not know what my future will look like. I feel now I’m in the

imitating stage of my artistic trajectory. If I want to kick the ball forward, I believe I must really

understand what came before me (that in order to be double-jumped on the lineage trampoline, I have to

really grasp what is jumping me). Perhaps what’s next is finding new forms and techniques that get to the

same thing. Anne Bogart proposes that the natural process for every artist is ‘copy, transform, combine’ –

perhaps once I understand these techniques well enough, I’ll be able to transform them, and combine

them with other forms to make my own way of working, and not, as one of my teachers put it, ‘be an

imitator the rest of my life.’ Maybe my love of these artists will sustain me my whole life (Robert Wilson,

after 60 years, is still talking about Merce Cunningham and George Balanchine). Maybe they’re work will

stop glowing at me. Whatever the case, in this very moment, I feel myself grounded, pulled, connected,

and supported by these artists, their work, and their techniques, and for me, the task is to understand

where I come from, honor the lineage, and kick this ball forward.

Picture of my Lineage Tree (an exercise in Barbra Dilly’s book, This Very Moment).