The drama is written on the sand. - Luke Percival
This is the first time that I have heard from an old drama teacher when I was 15 years old, and it has become more important and charming to me in my career. It revealed to me the spirituality of the theatre.
From a purely factual point of view, the theatre is indeed written on the sand. The modest salaries you can earn in the theatre will soon be spent; the reputations that many of the first year longed for will be lost and easily forgotten. As for the theatre itself and the themes it addresses, they are equally incapable of changing the world or humanity. In fact, you can even say that drama is a totally meaningless exercise. But it is in this understanding that a problem arises: What is the point of this 2,500-year meaningless play?
As I grew older as an actor, and later as a drama creator, all my fantasies and sad dreams about theatre faded away. I began to realize that not only is theatre meaningless, but even my own existence, my so-called identity is based on a construction that ultimately leads to a huge and incomprehensible question mark. "From nothing to nothing," Lord Lear said. The impulsiveness of the performance and the self-hatred within me of Catholicism pushed me into great despair in the early 1990s. My life is meaningless and worthless, and the drama that I chose so passionately did not create happiness for myself or for anyone else. My depression is deep.
But the desire to find answers is even stronger. I was forced, without realizing it, to look harder and to construct my problems more precisely. The loss of measurable utility of the theatre at the material level and the setting aside of the desire to create effects is in fact a considerable emancipation. It is true that, when measured in terms of output, theatre is meaningless. However, human beings have ceremonialized in the theatre the demands that they give meaning to; the universal texts that address the meaning of life and human suffering, the classics that raise the same questions, continue to attract us, despite the fact that no writer or playwright has ever succeeded in giving a full answer. Since the answer is beyond human understanding, it is unlikely to be found. So what's the point of continuing the search? Is it this search for meaning itself that allows us to survive? Is that it, providing adrenaline and creativity to the drama creator? That's it, driving the audience into the theater? Without the curiosity of this inquiry, there will be no art, no religion, no drama... and perhaps no beauty. That's what the drama means, isn't it? It's the "no" that you want to know, and it leads us to realize that many of the things you believed were true, "not at all". And you can't say why. This desire for truth cannot be proved, touched or spoken. The only thing we know for sure is that it appears in the search itself. Theatrical is unable to provide any kind of answer, forcing artists and viewers to accept silence and absence, to throw them back into an unexplained, unorthodox life, and to teach them to rely on it with their bare hands. The fact itself seems to be the only meaning of that meaningless thing. That is precisely the spiritual path followed by the theatre - to rejection of any concept, answer or judgement, to acceptance of silence. A road to nowhere. This is often the central theme of Shakespeare's drama; a path paved with loss and release ends in a purified vision or, if you so wish, in self-fulfilment.
Where is the emancipation or self-fulfilment of this road?
Conscious of the fact that there is no answer, frees you from the obligation to always prepare an answer, or at least owe one. It enables you, as a dramatic creator, to create from a position of "unknown", to rely on your instincts, your energy, and - most importantly - on what can be given to you now and on the people around you. It gives you and the people around you the freedom to "discover", and the answer lies in the search itself. It is a search driven not by individual responsibility, but by collective processes, and it is liberated from those appearances of certainty and preconceptions and carried out with open hearts and surprises. It creates space for us to look at "what" and deal with it with the freedom of an ignorant child. It gives the actor the freedom to act and react with "what" rather than "what it should be", a performance style derived from respect and concern for others, from self-awareness of interdependence and from the courage to fully engage in it, rather than locking himself in my exclusive fanaticism. This approach, which brings freedom, air and inspiration, creates the pleasure of performance on the stage of the theatre, or even of life. This is the other side of depression and the opposite of the consequences of that desire for effectiveness and success. It is in this pleasure and in this collective nature that performances are born "unique" because of their extraordinary energy qualities; they paint a world that can only be created by this particular group, not from the mind of a suffering individual. These performances were born out of respect for and dedication to what is happening to others, a focus shared by viewers and actors. It's an extraordinary piety in this noisy world, where people and actors look for meaningless. At a time when there is a sense of ceremonial commonality, a sense of non-singleness; at a moment of comfort, one who realizes that there is no answer to so many meaningless sufferings and violence, but that there is only understanding, and perhaps even a moment of compassion, to share or laugh together.
It's not a successful formula. It is like a mantra, a constant repetition of the same questions, on which the same silence is the final answer. Although, it is a silence with great power: it is the power of cleansing, a moment of awareness and understanding of human suffering. As long as humanity has not been able to put this compassion into everyday practice, the theatre will continue to write its spell in the sand. And it is the sole task of the dramatic creators to repeat them day after day, and to obey them. The rest of them are delusions. And joy, or that which is called liberation, is not what the drama or life has given you, but what you have given over and over and over again, without leaving a trace. This is the insight created by the Sand Book.
4 September 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
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