Drama is written in the sand.

These were words I first heard from an elderly drama teacher when I was 15, and they have become increasingly important and fascinating to me throughout my...

Drama is written in the sand. --Luke Percival

These were words I first heard from an elderly drama teacher when I was 15, and they have become increasingly important and fascinating to me throughout my career. It revealed to me the spiritual dimension that theater can give.

From a purely factual standpoint, drama is really nothing more than writing in the sand. The small salary you can earn in theater is quickly spent; the fame that many people crave in the first place is fleeting and easily forgotten. As for the plays themselves and the themes they explore, they also cannot change the world or human nature. In fact, you could even say that theater is a completely meaningless activity. But precisely in this realization, a question arises: What is the meaning of these 2,500 years of meaningless drama?

As I grew older as an actor and later as a theater creator, all my illusions and pathetic dreams about theater evaporated. I began to realize that not only was the drama meaningless, but also my own existence, my so-called identity, was based on a construction of meaning, and this construction ultimately led to a huge and unanswerable question mark. "From nothing, to nothing," said King Lear. The urge to perform, combined with the self-hatred rooted in my Catholic upbringing, pushed me to great despair in the early 1990s. My life was meaningless and worthless, and the drama I had chosen so passionately failed to create happiness for myself or anyone else. My depression was bottomless.

But the desire to find answers is even stronger. Unconsciously, I was forced to search more intently and frame my questions more precisely. The loss of the measurable utility of theater on a material level and the letting go of the obsessive desire to create utility are actually quite liberating. True, drama is meaningless when measured by output. Yet man has always ritualized his need for meaning in drama; universal texts that explore the meaning of life and human suffering, classics that ask the same questions, continue to fascinate us, even though no writer or playwright has ever succeeded in giving a complete answer. Since the answer is beyond human understanding, it is unlikely to be found. So is there any point in continuing to search? Is it this "search for meaning" itself that keeps us alive? Is it what provides theater creators with adrenaline and creativity? Is it what drives the audience into the theater? Without this inquiring curiosity, there would be no art, no religion, no drama...and perhaps, no beauty. Isn't the meaning of drama just exploration itself? It is the "not knowing" that wants to know, which leads us to realize that many things you once believed to be true are "not so." And what it is, you can't explain. This longing for truth cannot be proven, cannot be touched, cannot be put into words. The only thing we know for sure is that it appears in the quest itself. Theater cannot provide any form of answers. It forces artists and audiences to accept silence and emptiness, throwing them back to a life without explanation and logic, and teaching them to trust this search with their bare hands - this fact itself seems to be the only meaning of meaningless things. This is precisely the spiritual path that theater follows-to the rejection of any concept, answer, or judgment, to the acceptance of silence. A path to the realm of nothingness. This is often a central theme in Shakespeare's plays; a path paved with loss and letting go, ending in a purified insight, or, if you prefer, self-actualization.

What is liberating or self-fulfilling about this path?

Realizing that there are no "answers" frees you from the obligation to always have an answer ready, or at least be owed one. It allows you, as a dramatist, to work from a position of "not knowing," to trust your intuition, your energy, and-most importantly-to trust what the moment has to offer and the people around you. It gives you and those around you the freedom to "find", and the answers lie within the inquiry itself. It is a quest driven not by individual responsibility but by collective process, liberated from seeming certainties and preconceptions, and undertaken with an open mind and an eye for wonder. It creates space for us to see "what is" and deal with it with the freedom of an ignorant child. It gives the actor the freedom to act and react with "what is" rather than "what should be", a performance style born of respect and concern for others, an awareness of interdependence, and the courage to surrender fully to it, rather than imprisoning oneself in a solitary frenzy. This method, this way of acting, brings freedom, air and inspiration, and it creates the joy of performance, and even the joy of life, on the theatrical stage. This is the flip side of depression, the flip side of the consequences of the desire for results and success. It is from this joy and collectiveness that performances are born that are "unique" because of their extraordinary energy; performances that depict a world that can only be created by this particular group, rather than from the conceptual mind of a tortured individual. These performances are born out of respect and focus on what is happening to others, a focus shared by the audience and the actors. It is an extraordinary devotion in this noisy world, one that creates a sense of ritual communion and non-aloneness as audience and actors search for the "meaning of meaninglessness"; a moment of consolation, of shared suffering or laughter in the realization that there are no answers to so much senseless suffering and violence, but only understanding and perhaps a moment of compassion.

This "writing in the sand" is not a formula for success. It is like a mantra, a repetition of the same questions to which the same silence is the ultimate answer. It is a silence that holds great power, though: it is catharsis, a moment of shared awareness and understanding of human suffering. As long as humanity fails to put this compassion into practice in daily life, drama will continue to write its spell in the sand. And repeating those mantras day after day, obeying this ritual, is the only task of the dramatist. The rest are all delusions. The joy, or liberation, is not in what drama or life has to offer you, but in what you give over and over again, without leaving a trace. This is the insight created by Writing in the Sand.

Luke Percival September 4, 2003

Theater is writing in the sand.

Luk Perceval

These are the words which I first heard spoken by an old drama teacher when I was 15, and which would become increasingly significant and fascinating to me during my career. They opened my eyes for the spiritual direction that theatre gives.

From a purely factual perspective, theatre is indeed no more than writing in the sand. The little money you can earn in theatre is quickly spent. The fame that many initially aspire to soon disappears and is easily forgotten. As for the plays and the themes they deal with, these are not capable of changing the world or humanity either. In fact, you could argue that theatre is an en entirely meaningless activity. But precisely in this realisation lies the question about the meaning of 2500 years of meaningless theatre.

As I grew older as an actor and subsequently as a theatre-maker, all my illusions and pathetic dreams about theatre dissipated. I came to realise not only that theatre was meaningless, but also that my own existence, my so-called identity, had been founded on a construct of meaning that ultimately leads to a huge unanswerable question mark. "From nothing to nothing", says Lear. The urge to perform and the self-hatred instilled in me by my Catholic upbringing drove me to great despair in the early 1990s. My life was meaningless, worthless, and theatre -for which I had chosen so passionately- had not been capable of creating happiness for either myself or any one else. The depth of my depression was great.

But the hunger to find an answer was even greater. Without my realising it, I was being forced to search more attentively, to formulate my questions more accurately. The loss of a materially measurable effect of theatre, as well as the letting go of the compulsive desire to create an effect, was actually quite a liberation. Indeed, in terms of yield, you could argue that theatre is utterly meaningless. And yet, man has always ritualised his need to give meaning in theatre; the same universal texts asking the same questions about the meaning of life and human suffering continue to fascinate us, even though no author or playwright has ever succeeded in formulating an adequate answer. As this answer lies beyond human comprehension, it is unlikely ever to be found. So does it make sense to continue looking for it? Is this "search for meaning" what keeps us alive in the first place? Is it what provides the theatre-maker with adrenaline, with creative power? Is it what drives spectators to the theatre? Without this inquisitiveness there would be no art, no religion, no theatre… and probably no beauty either. Is the meaning of theatre not the search itself? The "not knowing" that wants to know, which leads to the realisation that much of what you believed to be it "is not it". And whatever it is instead, you are unable to designate. The reason for this hunger for truth is not demonstrable, not tangible, impossible to put into words. All that we know for certain is that it manifests itself in "the search" itself. The mere fact that theatre is unable to provide any form of answer, that it forces the artist and spectator to accept the silence and emptiness, and throws them back into life without explanation, void of any logic, and teaches them to trust empty-handedly in the search - this would appear to be the only meaning of the meaningless. Precisely this is the spiritual path that theatre follows towards the rejection of any concept, answer or judgement, and the acceptance of silence. A road to nowhere. This is so often the central theme in Shakespeare's plays; a road that is paved with loss and letting go, and that ends in a chastening insight or, if you will, self-realisation.

What is so liberating or self-realising about this road?

The awareness that there is no "answer" releases you from the obligation always to have an answer ready or at least to owe an answer. It gives you the freedom as a theatre-maker to create from a position of "not knowing", to trust on you intuition, on your energy and -most importantly of all- on what the moment has to offer, on the people around you. It gives you and those around you the freedom to "search", whereby the answer lies hidden in the search itself. It is a search that is driven not by an individual responsibility but by a collective process, liberated from quasi certainties and preconceptions, with open visor and wonder. It creates space to look at what there is and to handle it with the freedom of an unwitting child. It offers the actor the freedom to act with and react to what there is rather than what there ought to be, a style of acting that originates in respect and attention for the other, in the awareness of dependency and the courage to give in to it completely, not to lock yourself up in egomania. This approach, this manner of acting offers freedom, air and inspiration, and it creates pleasure in preforming on the theatre stage, pleasure in life, if you will. It is the flip side of depression, a consequence of hunger for effect and success. Out of this pleasure and collectiveness are born performances that are "unique" precisely because of this extraordinary energetic quality; performances that depict a world that can only be created by this particular group of people, not the conceptual mind of a single tormented individual. These performances are borne by respect and concentration on whatever is happening to the other, a focus that spectators and actors share. It is an extraordinary form of devotion in this bigmouth world that creates a ritual solidarity, a non-loneliness, between spectators and actors in their search for the "meaning of the meaningless"; a moment of solace, of common suffering or laughter at the realisation that there are no answers for so much meaningless suffering and violence, but only understanding, and perhaps a moment of compassion.

This "writing in the sand" is not a formula for success. Like a mantra, it is the continuous repetition of exactly the same questions to which exactly the same silence is the ultimate answer. Albeit a silence with enormous power: the power of catharsis, a moment of shared awareness of and understanding for the suffering of man. As long as humanity is not able implement this compassion in the practice of daily existence, theatre will continue to write its mantras into the sand. And to repeat those mantras up until that day, to be subservient to this ritual, that is the only task of the theatre-maker. All the rest is idle hope. The joy, call it liberation, lies not in what theatre and/or life offers to you, but in what you yourself offer, time and again, without leaving any trace. That is the insight this "writing in the sand" creates.

Luk Perceval

4 September 2003

Drama is written in the sand.

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