On Rising Theater Ticket Prices

by Hazel Anna Rogers for the Carl Kruse Arts Blog

In May of 2024, Jamie Lloyd’s production of Romeo & Juliet starring Tom Holland and Francesca Amewudah-Rivers sold its first batch of tickets in two hours. A friend of mine told me that he and his friends had all grouped together with their laptops open, ready to purchase the tickets the second they were released. Another friend of mine does this when Glastonbury announces its tickets are going on sale – she’s been doing it for years. It makes sense. Glastonbury is one of the largest music festivals in the world beckoning top musicians from every corner of the globe to its gates. It makes sense that it would be difficult to snag a ticket to such an event.

But when did buying theatre tickets become so f**king difficult?

I have never been a theatre afficionado. I love performing in good theatre, and I have seen some great plays (notably, I recently saw You, I am a child at the Courtyard Theatre, written by Dominic Conneely Hughes and directed by Tara Choudhary), but I have never warmed to the theatre scene in the way that I have to the filmmaking community. I dropped out of theatre at my Sixth Form College when I was 16 because I disliked the bitchiness and showiness of it. I fell completely out of the theatre buzz when I left drama school because I had never really been a part of it. To be in theatre, you have to live and breathe theatre – your friends are in theatre and they ask you to be in their plays, you grew up going to the theatre, you have your finger on the pulse of all the newest shows coming out. Theatre is a way of life. And I love it, I do. Being part of a well-written and well-directed play with a group of brilliant people is a thing like nothing else – it is community, it is strife, it is pain and glory and delirium. Theatre is a humble art, and some of the greatest plays I have seen have blown me away from their sheer humility; a person, or people, stood on a stage that looks like a stage and nothing else, with a table and some chairs, speaking words that I somehow believe because they make me believe them.

But theatre’s modesty and accessibility, which are its lifeblood, have been threatened for a while now. Of course, there will always be shows put on, some good, some bad, for a small price in small venues. It’s always been the way. I’ve seen a fair number of cheap concerts and theatre. It’s one of the joys of living in a city, a city that is known for its theatre and music scene. And, in the past, small theatre would become bigger theatre, and nameless actors would become names, and so on, and so forth. Many a household name, be it Ian McKellen, Cate Blanchett, Mark Rylance, Viola Davies – all started in the theatre. That was where they were discovered, from where they ran up the ladder to Hollywood and beyond.

This is where things have gone wrong. Names have become theatre. Big names, big, sparkling names written in bold font so large they almost obscure the titles of the plays themselves.

Celebrity casting in The West End is a relatively new phenomenon. An article on Cheap Theatre Tickets called The Drama of Celebrity Casting discusses this in-depth, with a particular emphasis on celebrities cast in musical theatre productions, which are notorious for their long runs. The issue, as discussed by the author of the article, is that celebrities who did not train or haven’t a lot of experience in theatre don’t have the physical or mental capacity to perform consecutive shows over a period of months, or even up to a year. When Amanda Holden appeared in Shrek the Musical in 2011, she withdrew from the production early and only performed in 75% of weekly shows while she was still performing, leading to widespread complaints and anger from fans who had spent up to £500 on tickets and accommodation for the sole purpose of seeing Holden. One of the earliest examples of failed celebrity casting, as purported by the article, was a 2001 production of My Fair Lady at The National Theatre starring Martine McCutcheon of Eastenders’ fame. Despite receiving favourable reviews for her performance, McCutcheon only ended up performing in 48% of her scheduled performances due to health issues.

In June 2024, The Stage reported that the average top-priced West End ticket cost £141.37 as of 2023. Cabaret had its most expensive ticket priced at £303.95, Romeo & Juliet tickets were going for up to £298.95, Player Kings (Ian Mckellen) had their highest ticket price at £228.80, and Stranger Things: First Shadow tickets were topping at £228.80. Chris Wiegand reported for The Guardian in June of 2024 that average theatre ticket prices had risen by 50% since 2023.

Much of the criticism of the high price margin on theatre tickets has been disputed by theatres, who suggest that “nearly a quarter [of tickets] below £30” for shows in the most reputable venues. But pricing doesn’t make a difference, in a certain sense, if the market for the tickets is driven by celebrities spearheading theatre shows, because all the cheap tickets will be snapped up regardless of the income of the persons purchasing them – we’re all looking for a good deal, aren’t we? This is because the heightened anticipation for a show, resulting from a big name being involved in it, inevitably leads to a surge of people wanting to see it, regardless of what the show is, regardless of whether this new audience is interested in theatre to start with. They are not going to see the show, they are going to see the celebrity. Because – well – how many times have performances of Romeo & Juliet been put on in London? It must be hundreds of thousands of times, surely. And how many of those shows sold all their tickets within 2 hours of releasing them? Most likely none before Jamie Lloyd’s production.

In the advent of streaming, and in the aftermath of Covid-19, theatre has suffered a massive blow. People are, generally, less willing to go out and spend money on shows and films when they could buy a monthly membership to a streaming site for less than £20 a month and watch whatever they desire in the comfort of their own homes. So bringing audiences back to the theatre is paramount to keeping the art alive, and celebrities are a surefire way to do that. But what will the celebrity casting model lead to? For once the celebrity is gone and normal programming resumes, what is left? Will the audiences drawn in by the prospect of seeing Tom Holland sweat and recite on stage still come to the theatre, or will we be back to square one? As Alice Saville reports for The Guardian, the show is not the point when it comes to A-List celebrities performing in the West End; when Sarah Jessica Parker performed in Plaza Suite, the streams of negative reviews of her performance meant nothing – the show was still sold out, with fans clogging up the entrances in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Parker.

I’m not against good actors performing in theatre, regardless of whether they’re celebrities or not. But when top Hollywood actors are chosen to take on lead roles in plays over newer actors, and the people at the top see the money coming in as a result, it’s difficult to see a way out.

It isn’t just tickets, though. As I discussed earlier, even making your own theatre seems to have an exorbitant price tag. Brian Ferguson, writing for The Scotsman in 2024, reported that many companies would have to fork out over £10,000 JUST to secure venues, along with staff and equipment, at The Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2024. Ferguson reports that The Fringe Society advises that performers book accommodation for the festival as early as November to ensure they have somewhere to stay during their performance runs, and that the cheapest accommodation, at the time of writing, was around £1200 for eight days in a studio flat. In a case study published on The Edinburgh Fringe website itself, they suggest that a one-performer show in a 30-capacity venue performing 23 shows at 15:00 would cost around £2000, though costs could run up to just under £3000. Note that shows occurring between 2-5:30pm have the highest competition for audiences. Another case study of a theatre performance in a 150-capacity venue comprising 12 performers and 10 non-performers (all based in Scotland) performing 23 shows could cost up to £27,500, with box office sales totalling around £13,800 based on a ticket price of £12. And, last time I heard, there were around 4,000 shows scheduled to appear at Fringe, so without a committed marketing plan/team, the possibility of performing in one of the more popular venues (such as Pleasance, Gilded Balloon, Assembly Hall, or Underbelly), and enough avid-theatre-goer-followers on Instagram to ensure that people even know that you’re doing a show at all. For example, my Instagram – a compilation of mediocre DJ videos of me on my synth, botched self-tapes, videos of me playing piano, and videos of me jumping over walls – is not conducive to beckoning in crowds of theatre devotees. It’s like I said earlier – to be in theatre, it seems you have to live and breathe theatre, from your childhood to your close friendships to your social media feed. It’s a good thing I don’t intend to make a theatre show anytime soon.

All of this kind of makes sense. With the promise of funding possibilities and exposure, it’s no wonder that The Edinburgh Fringe keeps growing year upon year – growing in audience numbers, growing in number of shows, and growing in expense. But it does also feel like a bit of a joke. The Edinburgh Fringe seems completely inaccessible to many, or even most, regardless of how good your show is. These are desperate times. The Independent reported that, despite Fringe’s ‘open to all’ sentiment, “only those in comfortable financial positions will be willing to take the risk”. There is criticism left, right, and centre about the Cambridge Footlights to Stardom pipeline and the prevalence of these privately educated performers putting on shows at the Fringe, with comedian Frankie Boyle damning the festival for its elitist, exclusionary nature (called many Fringe performers ‘parasites’). The Guardian has even reported on performers emailing critics and complimenting them on previous reviews they’d written in an effort to convince the critic to come and review their show.

Getting a show in The Edinburgh Fringe, or even visiting the festival itself, is both a logistical and an economical ordeal. Who knows what’ll come of it in the future, whether, as Frankie Boyle suggests, the festival might take on criticism and begin to ‘democratise’ access to performing at the festival to bring in a greater variety of shows made by people of different classes and races, or whether, as what seems to be happening, it will simply continue to get more and more expensive and elitist.

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The Carl Kruse Arts Blog Homepage is at https://carlkruse.net.
Contact: cartl AT carlkruse DOT com
Other posts by Hazel on this Carl Kruse Blog include Landscape Cinema, the New Art, and Channeling Animals.
Also find Carl Kruse on the Vator site.

Calling All Theater Lovers

by Carl Kruse

Ahoy people in Berlin!

Niraj Welikala, a member of both the Oxford and Cambridge alumni societies in Berlin, founded a play-reading and theater group in Berlin last summer and is looking to expand the group to fellow thespians and those who love the theater. The group’s objective is recreational play reading and perhaps one day putting on a production.  Details from Nigel below. You can contact Nigel directly at niraj.welikala@gmail.com or fellow co-founder Nigel Luhman at nigel@luhman.de

Cheers,

Carl Kruse

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An Actor Prepares…

Calling actors and theatre enthusiasts!

We are a play reading group (in English), originally formed from members of the Oxford and Cambridge alumni clubs in Berlin and we are looking for new people to join us. We meet every 2 weeks on a weekday evening from 6-8 pm (usually on a Monday) at the Theaterhaus Mitte Berlin (https://www.theaterhaus-berlin.com/).

We aim to select and read a diverse range of plays. Plays we’ve read so far include Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’, J. B. Priestley’s ‘An Inspector Calls’,  ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’ and we are currently in the middle of ‘The Crucible’.  We usually start with a few minutes of warm-up exercises. During the reading, we switch characters to give people a chance to explore different roles and also experiment with different acting and directing techniques.

The play readings are meant to be recreational although we hope to put on a production as well. We have a range of experience in the group (from little or no experience to some with years of acting and directing experience). If you are interested, please send an email to: playreadingberlin@gmail.com, mentioning any previous acting experience (but this is not required) and we will send you more details including our WhatsApp group that we use to organise readings. You are welcome to come to a session and see if it’s for you.

Hope to see you there!

Niraj, Nigel, Kaya and Justin 
The Berlin Play Reading Group committee

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The Carl Kruse Arts Blog homepage is at https://carlkruse.net.
Contact: carl AAT carlkruse DOT com
Past events hosted by the blog include the tour of the Wallraff Museum, the SOPHYGRAY presentation in Berlin, and the Underground Art Series.
Also find Carl Kruse on Pinterest.

When the Show is Over

by Hazel Anna Rogers for the Carl Kruse Arts Blog

The mist has lifted, and life is back. It is an abyss, a swamp of unknowing and learning how to live without the glistening sheen of adrenaline that glosses over your eyes for the weeks and days preceding and encompassing a show. You lie flat, and all appears flat. Everything reminds you of it, and you are reminded of the loss of it. Life is back, and it is clear as day.

My company and I were reminded on the last day of the show that theatre is ‘live’, and that that is both the beauty and the curse of it. Its liveness is what can make it so much greater than any other acting form, and yet it is also its downfall – while simultaneously, if it is indeed great, it will be remembered, it must yet always live within the mind of its beholder, never to be looked upon again, and so its greatness dies a death after the final bow.

Carl Kruse Arts Blog - Close of the show

The stage is effortlessly alive. It is a space to breathe and swim in, and its heart is palpable, touchable, unlike the screen. I love film, and television, but theatre is a beast apart from these things. How wonderful to be able to reach out and brush the leg of the actor as they scurry in the round, to smell their skin and feel their breath on you as they pant and sweat and scream and whisper. How is it than an art so old can be breathed into and brought back to light out of the fetid dust it has oftentimes become. Theatre is a difficult place, a breeding ground for ham and cringe and fault. It demands much, and, if committed to, its reward is jubilance and a drug-like high. Laziness is all too obvious, all too noticeable on a stage. One cannot hide, one cannot be tired, one cannot be human, when one acts in the theatre. A missed beat hangs like a rotting beam of wood. A forgotten prop is befitted with mime, and it breaks the mind of the observer in half, letting reality seep through like worms pushing through a rain-covered mud. A bored actor stood in the corner of a stage stands out like a pustule, bringing all eyes to their ugly treason. There is no room for mediocrity in theatre, and yet mediocre theatre is made, making the art harder and harder to work within. One bad song can be skipped. But a bad play repulses like a disease. An hour trudges by as boots through a waterlogged field. An uncomfortable chair takes the attention’s precedence over the action afore the onlooker. This is why the inevitable end of the run of an astonishing play is so very sad. It is a tragedy that the world must keep turning, and that we can dwell but for a second on a moment so great.

Carl Kruse Arts Blog - Theater Closing Act

I don’t know what to do with myself. My whole body has come crashing down. My bones feel heavy, and I can barely lift myself. The wild rush of the show run has left me crumpled while, at the time, it made me feel as though I could go on and on and on without stopping. Veins of fire turned ash, now. Still. What a dream it was. You know, I still pinch myself thinking on it. Me? Here? Doing this? I could but wish for others to feel what I have felt during this past week. My mind strays back to the day I was accepted, and then further on to the first night I spent in my home in London, then to the first day of the course, when I walked home teary-eyed. Many a moon that was ago. Today I skip and leap even with my fragile temperament. I am low, but am ready to be lifted high again. How endless the process of a show is. How panicked one becomes when one really realises the show is come upon them after weeks of tough drudgery through lines of text not altogether imaginable until they’re spat on stage. How suddenly it all ends.

Mother Courage and Her Children is an important play. An integral play. It speaks to an audience in a way quite unlike the war films and history books do. Though the adaptation we performed was set in 2080, it harkens to our lives today, to the wars that prevail around and through us, and to the depravity and beauty of our sorry world. My character, Kattrin, was at once the beacon of hope and compassion at the centre of the play, and yet ended the play as the very horror at the root of it, Mother Courage herself. We have all of these things within us. The kindness and softness of a child, and the brutality and violence of a mother who has lived through trauma so profound she knows not what else to be other than tough and sharp and cold. I will be forever thankful to have lived through Brecht’s world, and to have revealed it to others.

I could continue at lengths about theatre and the stage and Brecht’s play itself, but perhaps I should end this piece by speaking on something else. For those who don’t know the dressing room, and for whom its name speaks of secrets and celebrity and mystery, I shall tell you of it now. It is a warm place, filled with the oddity of bodies fueled by nervousness and tiredness and excitability. Bodies naked and clothed, passing around sticks of charcoal to dirty the edges of their faces, bodies coated in thick layers of sweat and grime and cloth. Bodies dancing to music off of a small black speaker, laughing together, hugging, weeping together. Women howling and singing and stretching before they go into the wings around the stage. Women cheering one another, eating together, sharing thoughts and jokes and love and pain. The dressing room is the place in which it all begins. A stage manager comes in and calls the ‘half’. The squirming commences, the jumping about, the endless anxious toilet visits, the swigs of tepid water from old plastic bottles, the hand squeezes, the giggling. A stage manager comes in and calls ‘beginners’. The performers become cool, collected, zoned in. They breathe as one. I leave them, and wish them well. One clasps me by the head and says to me: ‘You are the heartbeat’. I go down, alone, and enter the stage. The audience have not yet arrived. I sit inside the metal frames of the ice cream van in the centre of the room, and become her. The audience file in. Blackness. Silence. The play begins.

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The Carl Kruse Arts Blog homepage is at CarlKruse.net
Contact: carl AT carlkruse DOT com
Other articles by Hazel Anna Rogers include Finding My Clown, Channeling Animals, and Six Viewpoints.
Carl Kruse is also on Stage 32.

Acting and Art: Channeling Animals

by Hazel Anna Rogers for the Carl Kruse Arts Blog

The studio floor is covered in bodies.

They are curled and strewn and spread and sprawled, as though they were dead.

But they are not.

Some breathe shallowly, quickly, as if their hearts fluttered about like moths.

Some breathe deeply, forcing air bull-like through their noses.

Others are almost inaudible, but, if you look closely, you will see their bodies heaving up and down, up and down, up and down.

These are the bodies of actors, and they are about to become animals.

A woman, sitting in the corner of the room with a notepad, begins counting down from ten. The actors start shuffling about in their sleep, yawning, groaning, growling, stretching. The woman calls out:

“One.”

The bodies spring up, and they begin to move. Each is a different animal, going about in the space unbeknownst to one another, acting as if isolated in their separate habitats. A body hangs from the ballet bar, chewing slowly: she is a sloth. Another rests on its back, fondling a ball on its chest and squeaking at intervals: he is an otter. Another prowls about, his shoulders rising above his head, his paws padding heavily, yet gracefully, into the sprung grey floor: he is a puma.

I am a gorilla. A silverback eastern mountain gorilla, one of the two subspecies of mountain gorilla known to exist. I grunt softly, and belch. I crawl around quadrupedally, resting my weight on my fists and keeping my lower body close to the ground so as to maintain the arch in my back. My buttocks are stuck out, and I collapse into them when I find a feeding place. My eyes do not dart, for I am considered, and controlled in my primate-hood. I need not rush, for I hold my place in the group without effort, without arrogance. I am a leader without raising a fist.

Carl Kruse Arts Blog - Gorilla

Save when I am threatened.

The woman plays a track on her phone. Sirens begin resounding around the four walls. The animals in the room begin to panic, except for those too slow to do so (I speak of the sloth and the slow loris). Big cats ready themselves to pounce; a giraffe and an orynx start to prance about in terror on their dainty hooves; a meerkat scurries away back to her burrow; two penguins begin honking and waving their beaks around in distress; the slow loris raises her arms above her head, for she has poisonous glands in her armpits.

Carl Kruse Art Blog - Animal Studies
Channeling Your Inner Animal

I begin my ritualized charge; hastening hooting, symbolic feeding, getting up on my hind legs and lurching forwards bipedally, throwing plants, beating my chest, doing one-legged kicks, running quadrupedally (but sideways), slapping and thrashing vegetation, and whacking the ground with my palms. My hooting turns into screeching and roaring, and I throw myself around the space, expanding my chest and attempting to intimidate whatever was causing the ruckus.

The woman turns the sound off and replaces it with the sounds of birds singing and rustling leaves, perhaps those of a rainforest. I do not think. I see leaves, leaves which I know will taste good, and I eat them. I sit unselfconsciously, my belly protruding and my legs open, revealing myself. I do not think; instinct rules me.

The woman speaks: she tells us to return to our nests and settle ourselves into slumber. We do. She counts down from ten;

10

9

8

7

6

5

4

3

2

1

And only humans remain.

I have been studying the silverback mountain gorilla for a few weeks now. When I eat my dinner alone in my apartment, I watch endless documentaries about these great apes. When researching in order to embody an animal, one has to pay close attention to specific movements and characteristics which the animal exerts without effort; it is no use attempting to caricature the animal. We might find a slow loris or a sloth cute, but this is not their intention, and thus should not be our own. A gorilla does not come to standing, albeit quadrupedally not bipedally, in the same way a human does; they roll on their voluptuous buttocks onto their fists and come up this way, whereas we might throw ourselves forwards and push onto the palms of our hands to stand. A gorilla does not take care not to salivate nor to keep their mouths shut as they chew on the stringy stems of bamboo and the pithy interior of the banana tree, so I cannot if I am to truly embody the gorilla in all its intricacies.

There is something remarkably freeing about relenting the militant control that we force upon our bodies in order to be acceptable within human society. This may be obvious, but to be an animal is to be unselfconscious, or at least not self-judging in the way a human is as a result of exterior influences. To be an animal is to feel no guilt for resting, to have no cause for arbitrary stress over the need to work and exert oneself, to have no worry other than in the presence of a predator or if in fear of one’s young’s life. To be an animal and then to emerge from it is to realize the ridiculousness of the human, and yet also to admire it for its odd insecurities and nonsensical ways of being.

Most documentaries I have seen about various primate populations have emphasized their tenderness and their so-called ‘humanistic’ tendencies, and this seemed odd to me; it was as though we would only be able to find empathy and compassion for a being if we could find points of comparison between ourselves and it. I suppose this is normal, though. We are intellectual beings after all. These documentaries did bear some interesting revelations on how life could be, or could have been, had humanity’s aim been geared towards the joy of the many as opposed to the plenty of the few; the black-crested macaque, which lives on the Indonesian island of Sulawesi, lives almost entirely without conflict – due to the abundance of food generated by the island’s hot climate and copious monsoon rains, the macaques rarely fight, and almost all disagreements are resolved by kisses and hugs. These primates cuddle each other constantly, and also seem to smile regularly (at least according to our human conception of a ‘smile’).

Animal Studies, as a practice, was created by Lee Strasberg during the twentieth century, with the aim of eventually distilling the ‘pure’ animal practice into something more human, and, ultimately, a character, such as Marlon Brando’s Stanley of Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, which was famously based on the study of apes. The strength in this practice lies in the precision of the initial practice; by being so accurate and detailed in one’s observation and imitation of an animal, including its thoughts and habitual patterns of life, one might be able to find a similar dedication in the realization of a character and in doing so create a more rounded and human portrayal of said character as opposed to them being simply an extension of oneself.

To end, I would like to suggest that perhaps, in finding the simple joy and beauty of exploring our natural world in such a visceral way, we might also learn to have more compassion for this fragile planet we call our own.

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Contact: carl AT carlkruse DOT com
Other articles by Hazel include – Six Viewpoints, Metropolis, and the World of Wearable Art.
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Performance Art – SIX VIEWPOINTS

by Hazel Anna Rogers for the Carl Kruse Arts Blog

I arrive in the room. Other students are milling around, some stretching in the blinding winter light stretching in from the tall windows on the far side of the room, others laughing in little clusters, some silently penning down notes in blank-paged cahiers.

We are still new to one another. We do not yet know each other’s gaits or humor. Regardless – the mood is high and we greet one another jovially and warmly, like old friends.

A woman arrives a few minutes after myself. Her face is obscured by a thin blue surgical mask, and she has a mustard yellow bobble hat on. All I can see are her eyes. She takes off her coat and places it tenderly over the back of a chair, then beckons us all over to her. She has a gentle Spanish accent, and her tone itself is soft. The students and I come to sit in a semi-circle around her, and the woman begins speaking. We listen, and smile beneath our masks, but we do not yet know what is to come.

The woman, whom we discover is Isabel Sanchez, introduces the term Viewpoints into the room. We toy with the word, placing our own pre-learned attributes and meanings to it, then let it drop as Isabel continues to speak. At one point, Isabel suddenly points at a line on the floor before her. The line is one of wear and tear, likely created by the sliding foot of a dancer or actor. Isabel lies down and begins caressing the line, speaking of its beauty and wonder, of how fascinating and unseen this line previously was, of how she could not believe she had never noticed such a line before. We laugh at this spectacle, at once befuddled and intrigued by Isabel’s attentive and overt curiosity.

Isabel brings herself back to sitting, then gasps and points at Giulio, one of the other students. She remarks on the extraordinary form that has been produced by the creases on his jumper, and by the complexity and magnificence of the shape that his body has produced by sitting as he is, with his legs outstretched in front of him. Isabel jumps up and goes over to Giulio, then asks him how he managed to create such a beautiful thing so effortlessly, and inquires as to whether he was indeed trained at Harvard, so astonishing was his shape. We laugh at Isabel, and at Giulio’s shy charm.  

This was our introduction to Viewpoints, a postmodern theory that we engaged with for four weeks. That is to say, we trained with Isabel in Viewpoints for four weeks, but, at least for myself, this training lives on, for it is itself infinite.

Mary Overlie, the founder of the Six Viewpoints (often known simply as ‘Viewpoints’), was a deconstructing postmodern theater practitioner who lived from January 15th 1946 until June 5th 2020. She was the woman who taught our teacher Isabel Sanchez. Mary was not known in the sense of fame or celebrity; she was unafraid of obscurity in her work. She preferred to let her work shine above herself, as this enabled her greater creativity in her practice. I marvel at this humility, especially considering the conflict that Mary encountered when Anne Bogart initially took the title ‘Viewpoints’ and attributed it to her own work. Isabel told us, during those too-short four weeks, that this was the one thing that really upset Mary during their time working together. It was a relief when Anne finally released the name Viewpoints from her work and acknowledged Mary’s precedent in the Viewpoints practice.

Carl Kruse Arts Blog - Mary Overlie

Mary Overlie

“Observe the ingredients, the materials of performance, contemplate the particles.

Once you find them, train yourself to listen, allow them to become your teachers,

embrace them as profound partners. Allow them to create.”

For many years, Mary attempted to simplify and fully encompass Viewpoints as a complete practice, a practice that could hold and feed actor, audience, and the materials simultaneously. In 1998, a national Viewpoints conference was held in New York, where Mary succeeded in articulating a basic and highly functional postmodern art training. Her Viewpoints, though they can indeed be employed as a methodology in dance, are predominantly centred around theatre.

Mary was born in Terry, Montana. She spent much of her youth with her neighbors: Robert and Gennie Deweese, who were notable modernist painters in the Montana contemporary arts community. Mary would fall asleep listening to conversations about innovations in the art world, and, somehow, these words landed so deeply within Mary that they inspired a profound interest in the materials of performance and art that would eventually lead to her working in such establishments as The Whitney Museum, Mabou Mines Theater Company, and The Experimental Theater Wing of the Tisch School of the Arts. Instrumental in Mary’s ultimate creation of the Six Viewpoints was Yvonne Rainer, an American experimental artist especially prominent in the field of dance. Yvonne herself was inspired by the procedures of chance illustrated in the work of John Cage and Merce Cunningham (whom she trained with for eight years in the 1960s). Yvonne’s work was, in simple terms (as I have not the space with which to articulate the sheer breadth and honesty of her work in this article), a blend of quotidian pedestrian movement, such as walking and standing, with aspects of classical dance. Mary was besotted by Yvonne and followed her work until the end of her life. To more concisely describe the nature of Yvonne’s work, one might look to her ‘No Manifesto’:

NO to spectacle.

No to virtuosity.

No to transformations and magic and make-believe.

No to the glamour and transcendency of the star image.

No to the heroic.

No to the anti-heroic.

No to trash imagery.

No to involvement of performer or spectator.

No to style.

No to camp.

No to seduction of spectator by the wiles of the performer.

No to eccentricity.

No to moving or being moved.

As you will see, these rejections of the expected nature of performance have some similarities with the doctrine of the Viewpoints (though I hesitate to use such a dogmatic term to describe the Viewpoints approach).

According to The Six Viewpoints website, Viewpoints is:

‘a study that establishes and expands the base of performance by inquiring into the vocabulary of the basic materials that are found in the creation of all art. The Viewpoints theory involves three intertwined sections:

The SSTEMS, an interrogation of the materials; Space, Shape, Time, Emotion, Movement, and Story.

The Bridge, a set of nine philosophical interrogations into the nature of performance.

The Practice Manual, a set of practical exercises that lead the artist into a dialogue with their work process.’

Using these approaches, the artist can exponentially expand their creative processes from a deeply horizontal standpoint which rejects the hierarchical structure of Classical and Modernist art forms. Most notably, Viewpoints work aims to destruct the ‘creator/originator’ of preceding methods of art creation in favor of the ‘observer/participant’ which the artist is ultimately aiming for in their practice of Viewpoints. The Viewpoints do not wish to erase the history of art, nor to condemn other art forms for their hierarchical nature, but the Viewpoints do wish to shift the perspective of the performer by starting from a point of careful and respectful deconstruction (separating the whole (theatre) into its essential parts/materials) with the eventual objective of reifying these materials with greater clarity. This, the Viewpoints proposes, is truly postmodern.

Carl Kruse Arts Blog - Dance Students

Students at the Alvaro Prats Bertomeu studio in Spain, practice Viewpoints theory

I think that, at least for myself, the term ‘postmodern’ has been so carelessly abused throughout the 21st Century that it almost lost its meaning. Isabel herself told us of a show she went to see which dubbed itself ‘postmodern’, but which was inherently hierarchical in its artistic proposal; there were bright lights and booming music coupled with an obvious ‘protagonist’ situated center stage for the majority of the performance. Even I have been known to throw around the term ‘postmodern’ when referring to the evolution of advertising, or in relation to various cultural phenomenon that I have been exposed to, such as the platform of TikTok and its enabling of fast fashion. These things are not postmodern, I now realize. Postmodernism is a wholly specific term which refers to a disparate method of artistic practice which is a great departure from anything we have yet seen in the world of art. It is inclusive, non-hierarchical (with regard to those that practice it, those who observe it, and the materials which feed it), and fundamentally anarchical. This does not mean that the work is within discipline and strict guidelines; freedom does not mean that one can do what one wants without thinking. The Six Viewpoints website suggests that:

‘this work does not have a pre-existing idea of what theater is, how it should be created, what it should say or how it should say it. In entering this work the artist finds that they take possession of the stage and are anchored in its realities free of the opinions of others about how to make theater.

[…]

The simplicity of The Six Viewpoints is based on one on one contact with the basic materials. This approach aligns itself with the eastern practices that rely on the student to find their own truth as part of the understanding encompassing all of life. In this work there is no teacher, no authority to pronounce achievement or failure beyond understanding that any part is a part of the whole.’

It was oftentimes difficult to engage with this practice during my time with Isabel. Some days, I would come into class and find myself unable to focus fully on the SSTEMS and what they were saying to me. It is difficult to let go of oneself, of one’s ego, of ones ‘creator/originator’ when these are the sole elements of theatre that one is initially ordered to create with. The SSTEMS, to clarify, are the materials that the Viewpoints artist has a dialogue with in their practice. These are: Space, Shape, Time, Emotion, Movement, and Story (or Logic). There are many separate aspects of these SSTEMS, for example Space can be deconstructed into Architecture, Direction, Location, Trajectory. This is a minimalist, conceptual art, wherein all performers are particles making up the whole. These particles are interdependent and co-dependent, but not independent. These is no ego in the postmodern practice of Viewpoints. This is perhaps due to the influence of Transcendental Meditation and Buddhism on Mary throughout her life. In the practice, the performer does not have the aim of CREATING a product. The performer may be writing a dance in space, but their work is improvisational in nature and rejects the self in order to achieve the truth of the essential nature of things. The practice is one of experiencing and perceiving which ultimately leads to a higher level of consciousness. In Viewpoints, the act of waiting can CREATE art. The performer does NOT create art, it lands on them and they experience it.

It is difficult to write about Viewpoints, for writing about this practice cannot possibly convey the experience of finally noticing the material of Time when standing in a room facing another particle on the other side of that room. How can I articulate the true nature of Time with words? How can I communicate the feeling of the material Space TELLING me where and how to move? How can I express the gentleness of the materials, how they hold and care for me as a performer, how they lead me to places I never even conceived of? In writing this article, I fear that I am intellectualising Viewpoints beyond recognition, when this is not at all my aim. I fear even that, upon reading my article, Isabel might point out errors in my terminology, in my interpretation of the Viewpoints, in the unsubtlety with which I have written about this beautiful and indescribable practice. I will be forever grateful to Isabel for bringing Viewpoints into my life. It has certainly been a transformative journey, and one which I will continue to pursue for the rest of my days.

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Contact: carl AT carlkruse DOT com
Other articles by Hazel Anna Rogers include: Metropolis and Reflections on Montmarte.
Also check out Hazel’s article focusing on Stanislavski’s take on acting over on this other Carl Kruse Blog.
The blog’s last post was on Yury Kharchenko.
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