When we consider the current debate in the media and critical arena about the place (or rather lack of it) for older women in the arts, it is always cheering to see the more mature members of our society still participating in them. Kilmington Village Hall was the venue for such an event in the recent visit from Liverpool based dance company Growing Older (Dis)Gracefully.
The diversity of the company’s work was evident in the first two pieces in the programme – a charming tap routine to Singing in the Rain and Class, a more contemporary piece. The second showcased the talent of one of the more experienced dancers of the company, who performed an emotive solo in the opening of the piece. This was followed by Next, a witty look at the experience of waiting, which perhaps included a little too much over the top mime for my liking but was nonetheless entertaining. In particular, the interlude of a lone dancer on crutches was not only amusing and unexpected but technically impressive, in spite of the obvious physical disadvantage. The first half of the evening closed with Shimmer, an Indian styled piece full of wonderfully synchronised unison movement.
The second half began with a music performance by Christopher Benstead, a previous beneficiary of the Lisa Ullman Travelling Scholarship Fund which the evening was in aid of. Benstead highlighted the international side of this organisation, which helps so many dancers travel abroad to study, with his unique use of ethnic instruments. The following dance piece, inspired by Anthony Gormley’s instillation Another Place on Crosy Beach, brought us back to England. The image of the waves moving amongst the sculptures was not only clear in the choreography, but also visually stunning. We were left with an extract from the company’s first dance Where Past and Future are Gathered, which was another witty take on issues of age.
The evening as a whole was most enjoyable, and was a credit to the work of community and charitable dance organisations.
Friday, 3 July 2009
(Dis) Graceful Dance
The evening of Saturday 27th June will see a performance in Kilmington Village Hall by Liverpudlian company Growing Older (Dis)Gracefully. The amateur dance group was formed in 1997 for people aged 40 and over to devise and perform original dance work that celebrates and reflects their age and life experience. The group allows people with varying degrees of dance experience to participate in performances and the creative process.
This performance in Kilmington is given in aid of the Lisa Ullman Travelling Scholarship Fund. The fund, which provides scholarships for dancers to travel to widen their knowledge and skills, was set up in commemoration of Berlin born dancer Lisa Ullman, who died in 1985. The fund has many ties with Devon, not least the fact that Ullman spent many years living in the area during the Second World War. Like many German dancers in the 1930s, Ullman left Germany to escape the constant threat and pressure from the Third Reich to make Modern dance a tool for propaganda. With the Ballet Jooss company, she was given refuge at Dartington Hall in Totnes by Leonard and Dorothy Elmhirst. Throughout the following years she taught dance classes in and around the Plymouth and Exeter areas.
The charitable fund was devised in memory of the dedication Ullman showed to travelling far and wide to teach classes and courses wherever she was requested. Over the past 22 years the fund has provided scholarships to 392 dancers to the approximate value of £178,000, with all money raised through fundraising events like the performance in Kilmington, and donations from the general public. This year the fund has awarded money to 20 people for travel to Ghana, Spain, Australia, America and many other destinations. Included in these is Nicola Northover, a dance teacher living in Bridport, who won an award to travel to New York to participate in the New York City Tap Festival.
The performance starts at 7:30pm and will include dance, live music and supper. Tickets are £10 and available from Archway Bookshop in Axminster and Hurford Stores in Kilmington.
This performance in Kilmington is given in aid of the Lisa Ullman Travelling Scholarship Fund. The fund, which provides scholarships for dancers to travel to widen their knowledge and skills, was set up in commemoration of Berlin born dancer Lisa Ullman, who died in 1985. The fund has many ties with Devon, not least the fact that Ullman spent many years living in the area during the Second World War. Like many German dancers in the 1930s, Ullman left Germany to escape the constant threat and pressure from the Third Reich to make Modern dance a tool for propaganda. With the Ballet Jooss company, she was given refuge at Dartington Hall in Totnes by Leonard and Dorothy Elmhirst. Throughout the following years she taught dance classes in and around the Plymouth and Exeter areas.
The charitable fund was devised in memory of the dedication Ullman showed to travelling far and wide to teach classes and courses wherever she was requested. Over the past 22 years the fund has provided scholarships to 392 dancers to the approximate value of £178,000, with all money raised through fundraising events like the performance in Kilmington, and donations from the general public. This year the fund has awarded money to 20 people for travel to Ghana, Spain, Australia, America and many other destinations. Included in these is Nicola Northover, a dance teacher living in Bridport, who won an award to travel to New York to participate in the New York City Tap Festival.
The performance starts at 7:30pm and will include dance, live music and supper. Tickets are £10 and available from Archway Bookshop in Axminster and Hurford Stores in Kilmington.
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Book Review - Feelings Are Facts by Yvonne Rainer
Yvonne Rainer, the dancer and filmmaker accredited with organising the revolutionary Judson Dance Theatre and Grand Union, has written a frank and humorous memoir in Feelings Are Facts. Not only a personal and artistic record, included throughout are excerpts from film scripts, program notes, diary entries, personal letters and photographs. All provide great insight not only into the autobiographical content of her film work (Rainer frequently describes a personal experience and then inserts the script of its fictionalisation in film), but into a life that was born for anarchy. Her parents and older brother were anarchists, making her pushing of boundaries (specifically in dance) inevitable. Rainer openly discusses every aspect of her life, from how she was not at the ‘head’ of either of the two dance collectives she is famously associated with, to her personal relationships and ‘about turning from dance to film and back to dance.’[i]
Having said this, Feelings Are Facts is primarily an account of Rainer’s personal life, and some of the letters and diary entries are long and emotionally difficult, especially those leading up to her attempted suicide. But on a lighter note (do not be dismayed, there are a few of those) the chapters in which she describes her work with the Judson Dance Theatre are a fascinating and informative eye witness account of the history of the group. Rainer includes invaluable information and images, particularly the flyer from the first concert of dance on July 6th 1962 and an account of the work performed in this concert. Disappointingly, only her first film venture Lives of the Performers is talked about in detail, the rest becoming part of the Epilogue that summarises the latter part of her life.
Aside from her artistic endeavours and the dramas of her emotional life, Rainer’s open discussion of her sexual misadventures, recreational drug taking and the parties of the New York artistic social circle is not sensationalised for effect and therefore is an important cultural record of life in the 60s and 70s.
Feelings Are Facts is focused on Rainer’s emotional struggle and inner demons, but the intertwining personal, social, cultural and artistic record is invaluable, and written with honesty, humility and humour.
[i] Rainer, Yvonne (2006) Feelings Are Facts MIT Press; London (Book Flap)
Having said this, Feelings Are Facts is primarily an account of Rainer’s personal life, and some of the letters and diary entries are long and emotionally difficult, especially those leading up to her attempted suicide. But on a lighter note (do not be dismayed, there are a few of those) the chapters in which she describes her work with the Judson Dance Theatre are a fascinating and informative eye witness account of the history of the group. Rainer includes invaluable information and images, particularly the flyer from the first concert of dance on July 6th 1962 and an account of the work performed in this concert. Disappointingly, only her first film venture Lives of the Performers is talked about in detail, the rest becoming part of the Epilogue that summarises the latter part of her life.
Aside from her artistic endeavours and the dramas of her emotional life, Rainer’s open discussion of her sexual misadventures, recreational drug taking and the parties of the New York artistic social circle is not sensationalised for effect and therefore is an important cultural record of life in the 60s and 70s.
Feelings Are Facts is focused on Rainer’s emotional struggle and inner demons, but the intertwining personal, social, cultural and artistic record is invaluable, and written with honesty, humility and humour.
[i] Rainer, Yvonne (2006) Feelings Are Facts MIT Press; London (Book Flap)
Saturday, 28 March 2009
Three 1962 Critical Perspectives
What was ‘intended as a one-shot concert’[1] to perform work created for Robert Dunn’s compositional class has become one of the most important developments in dance in modern history. This infamous ‘one-shot concert’ (in the sanctuary of the Judson Church in Greenwich Village on July 6th 1962), showcased the work of fourteen choreographers in a programme of twenty-two pieces split into fifteen units. Many of these choreographers have since had international success, with their work permeating current dance practice and academia. Yvonne Rainer, the so called ring leader of the Judson Dance Theatre, is choreographer of the piece that epitomises the philosophy of post-modern dance. I talk of course, of Trio A.
But I write with hindsight, a wonderfully useful tool in the recording and study of dance. Forty-five years on it is easy to forget that in 1962 the work of the Judson Dance Theatre was, well – odd. Dancers, some of whom had trained with James Waring, Merce Cunningham and Martha Graham were running around throwing Styrofoam dice-like shapes to determine movement (a clear Cunningham influence in Elaine Summers’ Instant Chance,) and dancing in the dark (from Rafladan, a collaborative work from Deborah Hay, Alex Hay and Charles Rotmil.) To the present day contemporary dance student these experimentations may still seem a little odd, but are understood in the same acute way that we understand the debates surrounding what can be classified as ‘dance’.
But what about the critical reception of this work in 1962? Prior to the concert at the Judson Church, Trisha Brown, Ruth Emerson, Steve Paxton and Yvonne Rainer all auditioned for but were rejected by the annual Young Choreographer’s Concert of the same year. A not so welcoming reaction it would seem. In fact, it was only the initiative of the participants of Dunn’s class and the forward thinking of Al Carmines, a part-time Minister for the Church who ‘didn’t understand what he was looking at, but sensed it was important,’[2] that got this groundbreaking dance work performed. There is so much to say about the reviews of the first concert of dance at the Judson Church, despite being so few and difficult to obtain, but there are some things that must be mentioned.
‘He choreographed his own death’…[3]
Fred Herko was the most consistently talked about and praised dancer in reviews of the first concert of dance at the Judson Church. Alan Hughes of the New York Times devoted a 1/5 of his column to an appraisal of Herko’s two solos (Once a Week I Put On Sneakers and Go Uptown and Like Most People - For Soren), Diane di Prima wrote a paragraph about him in her review of the concert printed in The Floating Bear, as did Jill Johnston in the Village Voice.
Herko’s solos, although experimental, were quite theatrical. Both had musical accompaniment, in the form of a pianist, and fairly elaborate costumes. This resemblance to the theatricality of modern dance work makes extensive reference to his work understandable, because with this theatricality his work had more familiarity, and would therefore be more comfortable to write about. While attempting not to sound catty, I’m sure it is no coincidence that he was a good friend of di Prima, having written for The Floating Bear and living in the same building as her, and that he was a favourite of Andy Warhol and other avant-garde artists of the time. I’m not implying bias, however, as di Prima was not entirely gushing of Herko’s work, stating that it was ‘still less clearly defined than these two [David Gordon and Yvonne Rainer]’.[4] Incidentally, Yvonne Rainer and David Gordon were second only to Herko in the column inches devoted to their work following the first concert at the Judson.
Although he was championed by critics for his pieces in this concert, his work did go against some of the philosophies that were later formed and practiced by, and have since become synonymous with, the Judson Dance Theatre. In her notorious ‘No to Spectacle’ manifesto, Rainer also says ‘no to camp’ and ‘no to eccentricity’.[5] Herko’s work was in contention with these philosophies, with Steve Paxton describing it as: ‘very campy and self-conscious,’[6] and elaborate and eccentric costumes most certainly count as a spectacle.
Herko was seemingly a riveting performer; he engrossed the audience in Once a Week I Put On Sneakers and Go Uptown by performing a repeated barefoot Suzie-Q. Sadly, the extent of his skill was never fully realised as he committed suicide in 1964 under the influence of amphetamines.
Why not Steve?
Converse to Herko’s theatricality, Steve Paxton was the advocate in the first Judson concert of the use of pedestrian movement (with which the Judson Dance Theatre later became synonymous.) His group dance Proxy consisted of two sections of walking and a section of eating and drinking alongside the use of picture scores, and his solo Transit pre-empted the ‘marked’ dancing that contributed in making Rainer’s Trio A the pinnacle of post-modern dance. So why was he so consistently ignored in reviews of this and indeed subsequent concerts? The participants themselves questioned this. William Davis wrote to Rainer in 1962 about Jill Johnston’s latest Judson review in the Village Voice asking: ‘why…devote considerable space to Freddie [Herko], John McDowell, and Ruth [Emerson], and not talk about Steve’s work at all?’[7] The simple answer was that his work was immediately unfamiliar as he used pedestrian movement from the beginning. As Rainer has commented: ‘Steve’s was the most severe and rigorous of all the work that appeared in and around Judson during the 1960s, and could most accurately be termed “minimalist.”’[8] Therefore, his work was not discussed because it wasn’t fully understood. The understanding behind the allure and use of pedestrian and everyday movement in dance is something has been subsequently theorized, again through the wonders of hindsight.
The Prophecy
Sally Banes refers to Johnston’s review in the Village Voice as a prophecy. Indeed, she, Hughes, di Prima and the minister Al Carmines were all prophetic in recognising that what they had witnessed was significant in the development of dance. Johnston called the concert an ‘important program’ that could; ‘make the present of modern dance more exciting than it’s been for twenty years.’[9] Because he claimed; ‘their experiments will influence dance development in this country somehow,’[10] Hughes was snubbed by colleagues at the New York Times. However, he had the last laugh - after all, he was right. Di Prima felt; ‘the high one feels being in on a beginning,’[11] another accurate prophecy, along with her recognition that; ‘dance is once again pushing at its so called boundaries.”[12] But di Prima claimed only Herko, Rainer and Gordon were promising choreographers, and not one of the three reviews gave any appraisal to the work of Steve Paxton, which championed the pedestrianism and minimalism for which the group became famous. Furthermore, none of the reviews mentioned the final piece of the concert – Rafladan, which, (admittedly in hindsight,) sounds like a fascinating piece of work. Yes, these three critics were right about the importance of the Judson concert, but they are critics and not infallible. Hindsight is the most important tool in recognising the importance and significance of dance work/ experimentation, and critical reception is not the bar against which to measure artistic accomplishment.
Jack Moore, one of the judges for entry into the Young Choreographer’s Concert of 1962 who rejected the work of Paxton, Rainer, Brown and Emerson later admitted to Rainer at a performance of her Three Satie Spoons that the judges were wrong about her and her fellow Judson artists.[13] Hindsight truly is a wonderful thing.
[1]Waring, James; McDowell, John Herbert; Dunn, Judith; Croce; Arlene; and McDonagh, Don (1967) ‘Judson: A Discussion’ Ballet Review Vol. 1 no.6 p.32
[2] Rainer, Yvonne (2006) Feelings Are Facts MIT Press; London p.222
[3] Warhol, Andy and Hackett, Pat POPism: The Warhol ‘60s Harcourt Brace Jovanocih: New York p.55
[4]Banes, Sally (1983) Democracy’s Body UMI Research Press; Michigan p.58
[5] Rainer, Yvonne (1965) ‘No’ To Spectacle’ Tulane Drama Review 10, 2: 178
[6] Banes, Sally (1983) Democracy’s Body UMI Research Press; Michigan p.44
[7] Rainer, Yvonne (2006) Feelings Are Facts MIT Press; London p.241
[8] Rainer, Yvonne (2006) Feelings Are Facts MIT Press; London p.241
[9] Johnston, Jill (1962) “Democracy” Village Voice 23/08/1962 in Johnston, Jill (1998) Marmalade Me Penguin Books USA p.40
[10] Hughes, Alan (1962) “Dance Program Seen At Church” New York Times 07/07/1962
[11] Banes, Sally (1983) Democracy’s Body UMI Research Press; Michigan p.69
[12] Banes, Sally (1983) Democracy’s Body UMI Research Press; Michigan p.69
[13] Rainer, Yvonne (2006) Feelings Are Facts MIT Press; London p.221-2
But I write with hindsight, a wonderfully useful tool in the recording and study of dance. Forty-five years on it is easy to forget that in 1962 the work of the Judson Dance Theatre was, well – odd. Dancers, some of whom had trained with James Waring, Merce Cunningham and Martha Graham were running around throwing Styrofoam dice-like shapes to determine movement (a clear Cunningham influence in Elaine Summers’ Instant Chance,) and dancing in the dark (from Rafladan, a collaborative work from Deborah Hay, Alex Hay and Charles Rotmil.) To the present day contemporary dance student these experimentations may still seem a little odd, but are understood in the same acute way that we understand the debates surrounding what can be classified as ‘dance’.
But what about the critical reception of this work in 1962? Prior to the concert at the Judson Church, Trisha Brown, Ruth Emerson, Steve Paxton and Yvonne Rainer all auditioned for but were rejected by the annual Young Choreographer’s Concert of the same year. A not so welcoming reaction it would seem. In fact, it was only the initiative of the participants of Dunn’s class and the forward thinking of Al Carmines, a part-time Minister for the Church who ‘didn’t understand what he was looking at, but sensed it was important,’[2] that got this groundbreaking dance work performed. There is so much to say about the reviews of the first concert of dance at the Judson Church, despite being so few and difficult to obtain, but there are some things that must be mentioned.
‘He choreographed his own death’…[3]
Fred Herko was the most consistently talked about and praised dancer in reviews of the first concert of dance at the Judson Church. Alan Hughes of the New York Times devoted a 1/5 of his column to an appraisal of Herko’s two solos (Once a Week I Put On Sneakers and Go Uptown and Like Most People - For Soren), Diane di Prima wrote a paragraph about him in her review of the concert printed in The Floating Bear, as did Jill Johnston in the Village Voice.
Herko’s solos, although experimental, were quite theatrical. Both had musical accompaniment, in the form of a pianist, and fairly elaborate costumes. This resemblance to the theatricality of modern dance work makes extensive reference to his work understandable, because with this theatricality his work had more familiarity, and would therefore be more comfortable to write about. While attempting not to sound catty, I’m sure it is no coincidence that he was a good friend of di Prima, having written for The Floating Bear and living in the same building as her, and that he was a favourite of Andy Warhol and other avant-garde artists of the time. I’m not implying bias, however, as di Prima was not entirely gushing of Herko’s work, stating that it was ‘still less clearly defined than these two [David Gordon and Yvonne Rainer]’.[4] Incidentally, Yvonne Rainer and David Gordon were second only to Herko in the column inches devoted to their work following the first concert at the Judson.
Although he was championed by critics for his pieces in this concert, his work did go against some of the philosophies that were later formed and practiced by, and have since become synonymous with, the Judson Dance Theatre. In her notorious ‘No to Spectacle’ manifesto, Rainer also says ‘no to camp’ and ‘no to eccentricity’.[5] Herko’s work was in contention with these philosophies, with Steve Paxton describing it as: ‘very campy and self-conscious,’[6] and elaborate and eccentric costumes most certainly count as a spectacle.
Herko was seemingly a riveting performer; he engrossed the audience in Once a Week I Put On Sneakers and Go Uptown by performing a repeated barefoot Suzie-Q. Sadly, the extent of his skill was never fully realised as he committed suicide in 1964 under the influence of amphetamines.
Why not Steve?
Converse to Herko’s theatricality, Steve Paxton was the advocate in the first Judson concert of the use of pedestrian movement (with which the Judson Dance Theatre later became synonymous.) His group dance Proxy consisted of two sections of walking and a section of eating and drinking alongside the use of picture scores, and his solo Transit pre-empted the ‘marked’ dancing that contributed in making Rainer’s Trio A the pinnacle of post-modern dance. So why was he so consistently ignored in reviews of this and indeed subsequent concerts? The participants themselves questioned this. William Davis wrote to Rainer in 1962 about Jill Johnston’s latest Judson review in the Village Voice asking: ‘why…devote considerable space to Freddie [Herko], John McDowell, and Ruth [Emerson], and not talk about Steve’s work at all?’[7] The simple answer was that his work was immediately unfamiliar as he used pedestrian movement from the beginning. As Rainer has commented: ‘Steve’s was the most severe and rigorous of all the work that appeared in and around Judson during the 1960s, and could most accurately be termed “minimalist.”’[8] Therefore, his work was not discussed because it wasn’t fully understood. The understanding behind the allure and use of pedestrian and everyday movement in dance is something has been subsequently theorized, again through the wonders of hindsight.
The Prophecy
Sally Banes refers to Johnston’s review in the Village Voice as a prophecy. Indeed, she, Hughes, di Prima and the minister Al Carmines were all prophetic in recognising that what they had witnessed was significant in the development of dance. Johnston called the concert an ‘important program’ that could; ‘make the present of modern dance more exciting than it’s been for twenty years.’[9] Because he claimed; ‘their experiments will influence dance development in this country somehow,’[10] Hughes was snubbed by colleagues at the New York Times. However, he had the last laugh - after all, he was right. Di Prima felt; ‘the high one feels being in on a beginning,’[11] another accurate prophecy, along with her recognition that; ‘dance is once again pushing at its so called boundaries.”[12] But di Prima claimed only Herko, Rainer and Gordon were promising choreographers, and not one of the three reviews gave any appraisal to the work of Steve Paxton, which championed the pedestrianism and minimalism for which the group became famous. Furthermore, none of the reviews mentioned the final piece of the concert – Rafladan, which, (admittedly in hindsight,) sounds like a fascinating piece of work. Yes, these three critics were right about the importance of the Judson concert, but they are critics and not infallible. Hindsight is the most important tool in recognising the importance and significance of dance work/ experimentation, and critical reception is not the bar against which to measure artistic accomplishment.
Jack Moore, one of the judges for entry into the Young Choreographer’s Concert of 1962 who rejected the work of Paxton, Rainer, Brown and Emerson later admitted to Rainer at a performance of her Three Satie Spoons that the judges were wrong about her and her fellow Judson artists.[13] Hindsight truly is a wonderful thing.
[1]Waring, James; McDowell, John Herbert; Dunn, Judith; Croce; Arlene; and McDonagh, Don (1967) ‘Judson: A Discussion’ Ballet Review Vol. 1 no.6 p.32
[2] Rainer, Yvonne (2006) Feelings Are Facts MIT Press; London p.222
[3] Warhol, Andy and Hackett, Pat POPism: The Warhol ‘60s Harcourt Brace Jovanocih: New York p.55
[4]Banes, Sally (1983) Democracy’s Body UMI Research Press; Michigan p.58
[5] Rainer, Yvonne (1965) ‘No’ To Spectacle’ Tulane Drama Review 10, 2: 178
[6] Banes, Sally (1983) Democracy’s Body UMI Research Press; Michigan p.44
[7] Rainer, Yvonne (2006) Feelings Are Facts MIT Press; London p.241
[8] Rainer, Yvonne (2006) Feelings Are Facts MIT Press; London p.241
[9] Johnston, Jill (1962) “Democracy” Village Voice 23/08/1962 in Johnston, Jill (1998) Marmalade Me Penguin Books USA p.40
[10] Hughes, Alan (1962) “Dance Program Seen At Church” New York Times 07/07/1962
[11] Banes, Sally (1983) Democracy’s Body UMI Research Press; Michigan p.69
[12] Banes, Sally (1983) Democracy’s Body UMI Research Press; Michigan p.69
[13] Rainer, Yvonne (2006) Feelings Are Facts MIT Press; London p.221-2
Monday, 23 March 2009
Interpreting the Aesthetics of Merce Cunningham - The Dancer and the Dance
In appearance, Merce Cunningham’s dance work seems to be synonymous with an anti-identity stance. His use of chance procedures is key to this position, as in subjecting the continuity of his work to chance procedures he is preventing himself from being the subject of the dance. (Fraleigh 2004a: 163) A philosophically sound proposition, when we consider that Georg Hegel states in his Phenomenology of Spirit that action makes an implicit ‘being’ or self explicit. (Hegel, 1978: 239)
However, the use of chance procedures does not eradicate all traces of ‘Merce Cunningham’ from the dance. It is only the continuity of the dance that Cunningham subjects to chance procedures (time, space, entrances, exits, number of dancers, repetitions and so on), the movement vocabulary is formulated by Cunningham in response to questions he has about movement. For instance, Torse (1976) is an exploration of ‘how to move very fast…move both the feet, the legs, at a rapid pace, both in the air and on the ground and so on, and also move the torso at the same time.’ (Jordan, 1987) Cunningham is therefore not ultimately passive in his choreography and the core of the dance - the movement - comes from Cunningham himself, his choices. Albeit not representative or expressive of Cunningham in the traditional sense of his modern dance peers, his choices and interests in movement make his identity present in the work, as he is acting (in the sense of action), and therefore in Hegelian terms making his ‘being’ or self explicit.
Cunningham’s anti-identity stance goes hand in hand with his rejection of the expressionism of his modern dance teachers and peers. Whereas Martha Graham wanted to ‘dance the heart of man’ (Fraleigh, 2004: 38), Cunningham moved away from the emotional content of his early dances (such as the fear driven Root of an Unfocus (1944) to what he deemed more clarity in movement; to Cunningham, expression makes movement harder to see. (Lesschaeve, 1985: 65) Plato dismisses art on a similar basis, that it is representation third removed from the ‘throne of truth’ (Plato, 2003: 339), i.e. from the perfect conception of a bed in the Realm of the Forms, to the bed in the world we experience everyday to the artists representation of a bed. Cunningham defies Plato’s criticism of art because his art is not attempting to be representative of life, it is just dancing and therefore can be said to be second removed from the ‘throne of truth’, and subsequently a more accurate representation of everyday life than art which intends to represent.
Cunningham does not dismiss expression entirely; on the contrary he just disregards intended expression because movement itself is inherently expressive. (Lesschaeve, 1985: 103) Maurice Merleau-Ponty makes a similar proposition in his Phenomenology of Perception; in a discussion of emotion he claims that we loose our reality in our feelings ‘as does the actor in the part he plays.’ (Merleau-Ponty, 1996: 380) When thought of in relation to expressionist dance which inevitably involves acting (even when the dancer is ‘playing themselves’ as it were), the dancer is loosing themselves in their part, whereas Cunningham rejects this added expression in favour of what is inherent in movement. When interpreted in terms of personal identity, it is tangible that both Graham and Cunningham are contradicting their intentions. In trying to dance her own experience, Graham is playing a part (in presenting an emotion that is not current) and therefore loosing herself (according to Merleau-Ponty). Subsequently, Cunningham is inevitably presenting himself because he is not playing a part, and his self is therefore not lost.
Even though no reading or meaning is intended of Cunningham’s dance work, his works have a dramatic life. When considering the opening two duets of the Cunningham’s 1980 collaboration with Charles Atlas Locale, the poses that the dancers return to have a romantic quality to them. This is especially true in the second duet when the male dancer of the pair holds the female in a black and white film/ballroom dancing style embrace, lowering her to the side. Cunningham himself states in his publication Changes: Notes of Choreography in reference to his piece Crises (1960) that such movements ‘always looks as though they mean something.’ (Cunningham, 1968: 151) Slyly written in the corner of the page is; ‘well they do.’ Cunningham accepts that his works inevitably have a dramatic life and ‘meaning’ (a dirty work for Cunningham), although it is not intended in any way in the choreography or performance.
The manifestation of the self in Cunningham’s dance work was not caused by stripping movement of expression that clouds the self (although this is a factor), but by allowing for and encouraging the individuality of the dancer. This presentation of the self is inclusive of Cunningham’s personal identity, but is ultimately concerned with the individuality of his dancers. This again revolves around a rejection of previously existing Modern dance and Ballet principles, specifically the ‘idea of somebody who everyone as suppose to look like or be like.’ (Lesschaeve, 1985: 65) Being of no interest to Cunningham, he observed the dancers he had, what they could do and the physical differences between them, and considered the implications of these on dancing. As he tells Jacqueline Lesschaeve; ‘You can’t expect this one [dancer] to dance like another one.’ (Lesschaeve, 1985: 65) Cunningham subsequently built his choreography around his dancers, their bodies and their abilities. The extreme that he took this recognition of individuality to is best emphasized in Valda Setterfield’s account of how he taught her her solo for the 1968 piece Walkaround Time; he would not teach it to her physically. He sat on a chair and explained it to her and asked her to try movement, so that she did not let the movement on his body colour her sensibilities about it, and subsequently imitate how he danced the movement. (Cunningham and his Dancers 1987 in Kostelanetz, 1992: 103) Other than this approach, Cunningham tries ‘to give the movement clearly, so that it would be done clearly, each dancer in his own way.’ (Lesschaeve, 1985: 65)
Further to recognition of the physical differentiation between dancers, Cunningham recognizes that each dancer is an individual person, and that when each dancer is given movement, they do not just take it on to their individual physical body, but to their individual self. Physical differences have a concrete effect on the dancing, longer legs make movement look different (especially in the long leg lines of the Cunningham technique), and are arguably the differences that Cunningham primarily accepts and encourages. But, Cunningham also recognizes the effect of the self on movement; ‘It has to do with temperament and the way they see movement, the way they are as persons and how they act in any situation; all this affects the dancing.’ (Lesschaeve, 1985: 65)
In a discussion of modern dance, Cage refers to personality as; ‘a flimsy thing on which to build an art.’ (Cage in Huxley and Witts, 2003: 137) However, like Cunningham, he does not entirely dismiss personality, but claims that that is what is meant by the word style. (Cage in Huxley and Witts, 2003: 137) It is this ‘style’ that is encouraged by Cunningham in his dance works. He recognizes that each dancer is an individual and that each individual brings something different to the movement, physically and personally. By not colouring movement with unnecessary expressionism, he is allowing this personal identity of the dancer to be communicated. As I have stated previously, Hegel theorizes that action makes an implicit being explicit, but this is given further emphasis by Merleau-Ponty in the chapter of his Phenomenology of Perception entitled ‘Body as Expression and Speech.’ In this work Merleau-Ponty details that the body and the soul (object and subject respectively) are not detachable[1], and that the body incidentally has the power to disclose the thought and soul. (Merleau-Ponty, 1996: 197) It is ‘the body which points out, and which speaks…’ (Merleau-Ponty, 1996: 197) In this sense, any action of the body is expressing the self, unless coloured falsely with emotion. Therefore Cunningham’s work is once again presenting the self through uninflected action. The differences recognized in the dancers, and the elusive nature of the individual ‘style’ of a dancers execution of the same movement may be difficult to describe, but are nonetheless a philosophically and recognizably present self or personal identity. Jean-Paul Sartre touches on this elusiveness in his essay The Transcendence of the Ego, in which he maintains that we grasp other beings psychical states by analogy, and that our own psychical state is no clearer than another’s, simply more intimate. The significance is that we can recognise an ‘other,’ a different self. The significance is the same in Cunningham’s work; we recognize the dancers as individual selves rather than a part of a troupe (as in a Corps de Ballet.)
Although philosophically sound assertions, it would be difficult to argue a pro-identity stance in Cunningham’s work without basis in his comments and writings, in which he recognizes the fact that the body inherently presents the self. But Cunningham does not intend to present personal identity. He does not try and enhance its delivery, or show the emotions that are inherently experienced by the dancer when dancing, whether related to the choreography or not. And through rejection of these ideas, Cunningham allows the communication of the personal identity of the dancers in his work by letting their bodies ‘speak’, as Merleau-Ponty puts it. He even, inadvertently, mirrors Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy of the body as expression and speech, in claiming that he ‘[does] not understand how a human can do something that is abstract. Everything a human does is expressive in some way of that human.’ (Excerpt from Lecture Demonstration Given at Ann Halprin’s Dance Deck 13/10/1957 by Merce Cunningham in Vaughn, 1997: 100) In denying abstraction in movement and claiming that all movement is in some way an expression of the human undertaking it, Cunningham is paralleling Merleau-Ponty’s claims that the soul or self, inextricably linked and inherent in the body, is spoken through that body.
As I have mentioned before, in accepting the individuality of each dancer and letting their personal identity be communicated by not inflecting movement with any extra form of expression, Cunningham achieved what his modern dance peers attempted in terms of expression of self. In addition to allowing the inherent expressive capability of the body to present the personal identity of his dancers, Cunningham’s identity is present in his choreography via the movement vocabulary of his work. Like his modern dance peers Cunningham created a technique based around the way he danced and wanted to created dances. (Marianne Preger-Simon in The Forming of an Esthetic 1985 in Kostelanetz, 1992: 60) Both justifications express personal identity, in the Hegelian sense of action making being explicit, and the experience of self in our choices (e.g. likes and dislikes). (Fraleigh, 2004a: 54)
In my opinion, Cunningham’s ultimate recognition of the communication of the personal identity of the dancer in his dance work is in the title of his published interview with Jacqueline Lesschaeve The Dancer and the Dance. Taken from the last line of W.B. Yeats’ poem Among School Children, ‘How can we know the dancer from the dance?’, the implication is that the two are inextricable, and that we know the dance solely though the dancer. The dance is so coloured by the dancer that in its pure from dance must involve a presentation of the self along with movement. Considering this, it is hard to give weight to claims that Cunningham’s work is dehumanized.
[1] This is further to Rene Descartes proposition that the mind is not in the body like a pilot in a ship, when my body is hungry I want to eat in his Sixth Meditation. Note that Descartes is distrusting of the body and all experience associated with it, as such experience could be the deceptive products of the mind and that the mind and body can exist separately, for example if I loose a foot I don’t loose a part of myself (from his second meditation). Despite the difference in ideas about the mind, body and self, I refer to Descartes as his work is the basis for phenomenology.
However, the use of chance procedures does not eradicate all traces of ‘Merce Cunningham’ from the dance. It is only the continuity of the dance that Cunningham subjects to chance procedures (time, space, entrances, exits, number of dancers, repetitions and so on), the movement vocabulary is formulated by Cunningham in response to questions he has about movement. For instance, Torse (1976) is an exploration of ‘how to move very fast…move both the feet, the legs, at a rapid pace, both in the air and on the ground and so on, and also move the torso at the same time.’ (Jordan, 1987) Cunningham is therefore not ultimately passive in his choreography and the core of the dance - the movement - comes from Cunningham himself, his choices. Albeit not representative or expressive of Cunningham in the traditional sense of his modern dance peers, his choices and interests in movement make his identity present in the work, as he is acting (in the sense of action), and therefore in Hegelian terms making his ‘being’ or self explicit.
Cunningham’s anti-identity stance goes hand in hand with his rejection of the expressionism of his modern dance teachers and peers. Whereas Martha Graham wanted to ‘dance the heart of man’ (Fraleigh, 2004: 38), Cunningham moved away from the emotional content of his early dances (such as the fear driven Root of an Unfocus (1944) to what he deemed more clarity in movement; to Cunningham, expression makes movement harder to see. (Lesschaeve, 1985: 65) Plato dismisses art on a similar basis, that it is representation third removed from the ‘throne of truth’ (Plato, 2003: 339), i.e. from the perfect conception of a bed in the Realm of the Forms, to the bed in the world we experience everyday to the artists representation of a bed. Cunningham defies Plato’s criticism of art because his art is not attempting to be representative of life, it is just dancing and therefore can be said to be second removed from the ‘throne of truth’, and subsequently a more accurate representation of everyday life than art which intends to represent.
Cunningham does not dismiss expression entirely; on the contrary he just disregards intended expression because movement itself is inherently expressive. (Lesschaeve, 1985: 103) Maurice Merleau-Ponty makes a similar proposition in his Phenomenology of Perception; in a discussion of emotion he claims that we loose our reality in our feelings ‘as does the actor in the part he plays.’ (Merleau-Ponty, 1996: 380) When thought of in relation to expressionist dance which inevitably involves acting (even when the dancer is ‘playing themselves’ as it were), the dancer is loosing themselves in their part, whereas Cunningham rejects this added expression in favour of what is inherent in movement. When interpreted in terms of personal identity, it is tangible that both Graham and Cunningham are contradicting their intentions. In trying to dance her own experience, Graham is playing a part (in presenting an emotion that is not current) and therefore loosing herself (according to Merleau-Ponty). Subsequently, Cunningham is inevitably presenting himself because he is not playing a part, and his self is therefore not lost.
Even though no reading or meaning is intended of Cunningham’s dance work, his works have a dramatic life. When considering the opening two duets of the Cunningham’s 1980 collaboration with Charles Atlas Locale, the poses that the dancers return to have a romantic quality to them. This is especially true in the second duet when the male dancer of the pair holds the female in a black and white film/ballroom dancing style embrace, lowering her to the side. Cunningham himself states in his publication Changes: Notes of Choreography in reference to his piece Crises (1960) that such movements ‘always looks as though they mean something.’ (Cunningham, 1968: 151) Slyly written in the corner of the page is; ‘well they do.’ Cunningham accepts that his works inevitably have a dramatic life and ‘meaning’ (a dirty work for Cunningham), although it is not intended in any way in the choreography or performance.
The manifestation of the self in Cunningham’s dance work was not caused by stripping movement of expression that clouds the self (although this is a factor), but by allowing for and encouraging the individuality of the dancer. This presentation of the self is inclusive of Cunningham’s personal identity, but is ultimately concerned with the individuality of his dancers. This again revolves around a rejection of previously existing Modern dance and Ballet principles, specifically the ‘idea of somebody who everyone as suppose to look like or be like.’ (Lesschaeve, 1985: 65) Being of no interest to Cunningham, he observed the dancers he had, what they could do and the physical differences between them, and considered the implications of these on dancing. As he tells Jacqueline Lesschaeve; ‘You can’t expect this one [dancer] to dance like another one.’ (Lesschaeve, 1985: 65) Cunningham subsequently built his choreography around his dancers, their bodies and their abilities. The extreme that he took this recognition of individuality to is best emphasized in Valda Setterfield’s account of how he taught her her solo for the 1968 piece Walkaround Time; he would not teach it to her physically. He sat on a chair and explained it to her and asked her to try movement, so that she did not let the movement on his body colour her sensibilities about it, and subsequently imitate how he danced the movement. (Cunningham and his Dancers 1987 in Kostelanetz, 1992: 103) Other than this approach, Cunningham tries ‘to give the movement clearly, so that it would be done clearly, each dancer in his own way.’ (Lesschaeve, 1985: 65)
Further to recognition of the physical differentiation between dancers, Cunningham recognizes that each dancer is an individual person, and that when each dancer is given movement, they do not just take it on to their individual physical body, but to their individual self. Physical differences have a concrete effect on the dancing, longer legs make movement look different (especially in the long leg lines of the Cunningham technique), and are arguably the differences that Cunningham primarily accepts and encourages. But, Cunningham also recognizes the effect of the self on movement; ‘It has to do with temperament and the way they see movement, the way they are as persons and how they act in any situation; all this affects the dancing.’ (Lesschaeve, 1985: 65)
In a discussion of modern dance, Cage refers to personality as; ‘a flimsy thing on which to build an art.’ (Cage in Huxley and Witts, 2003: 137) However, like Cunningham, he does not entirely dismiss personality, but claims that that is what is meant by the word style. (Cage in Huxley and Witts, 2003: 137) It is this ‘style’ that is encouraged by Cunningham in his dance works. He recognizes that each dancer is an individual and that each individual brings something different to the movement, physically and personally. By not colouring movement with unnecessary expressionism, he is allowing this personal identity of the dancer to be communicated. As I have stated previously, Hegel theorizes that action makes an implicit being explicit, but this is given further emphasis by Merleau-Ponty in the chapter of his Phenomenology of Perception entitled ‘Body as Expression and Speech.’ In this work Merleau-Ponty details that the body and the soul (object and subject respectively) are not detachable[1], and that the body incidentally has the power to disclose the thought and soul. (Merleau-Ponty, 1996: 197) It is ‘the body which points out, and which speaks…’ (Merleau-Ponty, 1996: 197) In this sense, any action of the body is expressing the self, unless coloured falsely with emotion. Therefore Cunningham’s work is once again presenting the self through uninflected action. The differences recognized in the dancers, and the elusive nature of the individual ‘style’ of a dancers execution of the same movement may be difficult to describe, but are nonetheless a philosophically and recognizably present self or personal identity. Jean-Paul Sartre touches on this elusiveness in his essay The Transcendence of the Ego, in which he maintains that we grasp other beings psychical states by analogy, and that our own psychical state is no clearer than another’s, simply more intimate. The significance is that we can recognise an ‘other,’ a different self. The significance is the same in Cunningham’s work; we recognize the dancers as individual selves rather than a part of a troupe (as in a Corps de Ballet.)
Although philosophically sound assertions, it would be difficult to argue a pro-identity stance in Cunningham’s work without basis in his comments and writings, in which he recognizes the fact that the body inherently presents the self. But Cunningham does not intend to present personal identity. He does not try and enhance its delivery, or show the emotions that are inherently experienced by the dancer when dancing, whether related to the choreography or not. And through rejection of these ideas, Cunningham allows the communication of the personal identity of the dancers in his work by letting their bodies ‘speak’, as Merleau-Ponty puts it. He even, inadvertently, mirrors Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy of the body as expression and speech, in claiming that he ‘[does] not understand how a human can do something that is abstract. Everything a human does is expressive in some way of that human.’ (Excerpt from Lecture Demonstration Given at Ann Halprin’s Dance Deck 13/10/1957 by Merce Cunningham in Vaughn, 1997: 100) In denying abstraction in movement and claiming that all movement is in some way an expression of the human undertaking it, Cunningham is paralleling Merleau-Ponty’s claims that the soul or self, inextricably linked and inherent in the body, is spoken through that body.
As I have mentioned before, in accepting the individuality of each dancer and letting their personal identity be communicated by not inflecting movement with any extra form of expression, Cunningham achieved what his modern dance peers attempted in terms of expression of self. In addition to allowing the inherent expressive capability of the body to present the personal identity of his dancers, Cunningham’s identity is present in his choreography via the movement vocabulary of his work. Like his modern dance peers Cunningham created a technique based around the way he danced and wanted to created dances. (Marianne Preger-Simon in The Forming of an Esthetic 1985 in Kostelanetz, 1992: 60) Both justifications express personal identity, in the Hegelian sense of action making being explicit, and the experience of self in our choices (e.g. likes and dislikes). (Fraleigh, 2004a: 54)
In my opinion, Cunningham’s ultimate recognition of the communication of the personal identity of the dancer in his dance work is in the title of his published interview with Jacqueline Lesschaeve The Dancer and the Dance. Taken from the last line of W.B. Yeats’ poem Among School Children, ‘How can we know the dancer from the dance?’, the implication is that the two are inextricable, and that we know the dance solely though the dancer. The dance is so coloured by the dancer that in its pure from dance must involve a presentation of the self along with movement. Considering this, it is hard to give weight to claims that Cunningham’s work is dehumanized.
[1] This is further to Rene Descartes proposition that the mind is not in the body like a pilot in a ship, when my body is hungry I want to eat in his Sixth Meditation. Note that Descartes is distrusting of the body and all experience associated with it, as such experience could be the deceptive products of the mind and that the mind and body can exist separately, for example if I loose a foot I don’t loose a part of myself (from his second meditation). Despite the difference in ideas about the mind, body and self, I refer to Descartes as his work is the basis for phenomenology.
Friday, 20 March 2009
The Christ Connection - Adolf Hitler nand Mary Wigman
In June of 1930 Mary Wigman presented Totenmal, her collaboration with poet Albert Talhoff that comprised of both speaking and movement choirs. In September of the same year, the National Socialist party had their first big win at the polls. Although prior to the National Socialists assuming power, Totenmal shows a dramatic shift in Wigman’s choreographic and thematic concerns, which began to parallel the Nazi ideologies. Women were no longer strong and independent but had identities only in relation to men as the wives, mothers and sisters of the dead soldiers, conforming to the anti-feminist stance of the Nazi party. The influence of Japanese and Javanese art and culture was absent from the work, masks were now made by German mask maker Bruno Goldschmit rather than the Noh mask maker Victor Magito. To National Socialists, anything of non-German origin was considered degenerate. But conversion to values was not the only change that occurred in Wigman’s choreography. Apart from being considered by some critics as a realization of famous anti-Semitist and Nazi inspiration Richard Wagner’s Gesamtkunstwerk (total work of art) (Manning, 1993a: 148), in Totenmal Wigman associated herself with superhuman and even Christ-like status, as did Adolf Hitler.
In Totenmal, Wigman alone was unmasked and moved between the choirs of the living and the dead, therefore associating her with superhuman status. In her position between the living and the dead, Wigman embodies the intention of Holy Communion, to connect the living and the dead through the receiving of Christ’s body and blood (whether metaphorically in Protestantism or literally in Catholicism). Christ is this connection, as is indeed the connection between mankind and God and Heaven, as He is considered God incarnate, as is Wigman similarly the connection between the living and the dead in Totenmal.
Wigman’s superiority can also be seen in her movement vocabulary and quality, which is far broader than either the male or female chorus – she is thus beyond them. (Manning, 1993a: 154) Further to this, Wigman alone does not flee from the dead soldiers and takes on the Demon, the personification of war, and thus can be said to present herself as a Messianic saviour. Messianic status was also evident in the section of the piece entitled the Hall of Echoes (Raum der Gegenruff), in which Wigman sets the sprits of the dead in motion and retreats into the shadows, her life-force drained. She is subsequently revived again, and then weakened once more. As Wigman rises to dance her sorrow, devoid of energy, she emulates the shape of a cross, associating the sacrifice she has made, in giving her life-force to revive the dead, with the sacrifice of Christ.
It is widely established that Hitler believed strongly in his infallibility, even to the extent that, emerging unharmed from a serious car accident in the twenties Hitler informed his aides they had no need to worry about his safety as ‘it was impossible for anything to happen to him until his mission had been completed.’ (Lewis, 2004: 11) This extraordinary belief in the impossibility of harm coming to him and a divine mission to make Germany victorious stemmed from a divine revelation Hitler claims to have received during his treatment for blindness at the military hospital at Pasewalk. (Lewis, 2004: 12) Claims of divine revelation aside, the source of Hitler’s association with himself as a Messiah was during his treatment at Pasewalk, in the controversial therapies of ex-military doctor and specialist in hysterically or brain induced injuries – Dr Edmund Forester.
Hitler was blinded by poison gas (asserted by Hitler as mustard gas, but concluded by Lewis as most likely White Star) on the Morning of Tuesday 15th October 1918, and transferred to Pasewalk military hospital after his injuries were diagnosed as hysterical rather than physical, which meant that under the Prussian War Ministry decree he was not to be treated alongside physically injured soldiers. (Lewis, 2004: 15) This diagnosis was further confirmed by Jewish neurologist Dr Karl Kroner and Forester. Hitler maintained throughout his life that his blindness was due to burns inflicted on his eyes by mustard gas; however his accounts of the attack are contradictory.[1] However, the medical diagnosis was of hysterical blindness, and Forester attempted to treat Hitler with the same bullying techniques he used of other hysterically ill patients. Forester’s bullying techniques were ‘…based on his conviction that irrespective of how the hysterical condition was manifested, the underlying cause was always a lack of will-power on the part of the sufferer.’ (Lewis, 2004: 20) When it became apparent that such techniques would not produce results, Forster concluded that “Hitler…refused to see because he could not bear to witness the defeat of Germany’ (Lewis, 2004: 22) and attempted to change his perception of events. To do this, Forester chose to lie to Hitler by playing on his ‘drive to be like God’. (Lewis, 2004: 23) The lie consisted of reassuring Hitler that his blindness was indeed caused my mustard gas and, as is compatible with the long term effects of mustard gas, no ordinary man would ever see again. But an extraordinary man might. Forester assured Hitler that ‘If he was really a reincarnation of the Trommler,[2] then God would send Hitler a sign by restoring his sight.’ (Lewis, 2004: 238) Forester further asserted that; ‘‘…maybe you yourself have the rare power that only occurs once every thousand years to perform a miracle. Jesus did this, Mohammed, the Saints.’’ (Lewis, 2004: 239) When Hitler regained his sight, he was utterly convinced of his divine purpose and status as a Messiah alongside Jesus, that Forester had associated with the regaining of his sight.[3]
It was not just Hitler who associated himself with Christ. In Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of Will (1935) Hitler is likened to the resurrected Christ, ‘…descending from the heavens and beginning not merely military and political glory but redemption from past sins to those who were followers less of a political creed than of a new religion order.’ (Lewis, 2004: 8) At a Nüremburg rally in 1934, American journalist William Shirer observed thousands of ‘hysterics’ outside Hitler’s hotel ‘shouting: ‘We want our Führer’…They looked at him as if he were a Messiah, their faces transformed into something positively inhuman.’ (Lewis, 2004: 7-8) This faith in Hitler as their Messiah and ‘inhuman’ adoration is perhaps more terrifying and of more consequence than Hitler’s insane belief that he was Germany’s saviour.
Similar to the pre-emption on the Nazi mentality in the Movement Choirs of German Modern dancers, Wigman pre-empted not only the themes of Nazi theatre (in her use of the cult of the fallen soldier, movement and speaking choirs and being not overtly political), but the association of leadership with a Messianic figure. Susan Manning frequently refers to Wigman’s character in Totenmal as the choirs Führer (Manning, 1993), the same character who has superhuman status in the dance and provides Christ imagery. This rather than mass movement is the most terrifying and revealing element of fascism in Wigman’s work. Hedwig Müller states that; ‘Hitler as a man did impress her [Wigman]’. (Müller, 1996: 18) which when considered in conjunction with her connection between leadership and Messianic status in Totenmal suggests that she was one of the terrifying mass that believed Hitler was Germany’s Messiah, the effective ‘Hitler Myth’ (Kershaw, 1990) propaganda that brought a nation to worship a man in spite of his dreadful ideologies. As Lewis contends; ‘…it was Hitler’s absolute certainty, rather than what he said, that was mesmeric.’ (Lewis, 2004: 191)
[1] In some texts (including Mein Kampf) Hitler claimed that the attack occurred in the morning, in others the evening, and the injuries he sustained were not compatible with the medical effects of mustard gas (which would have caused a thick white layer of tissue around the eyes, which Hitler did not have (Lewis, 2004: 174) From early 1933 it was branded an offence that carried a sentence of imprisonment to question the cause of Hitler’s blindness. This sensitivity arose from the association between hysterically ill and a weak and feeble mind.
[2] A German folk story in which a shepherd lad, Trommler, with a remarkable gift for oratory claimed to have been sent by God as a guide, and was widely worshipped. He claimed another would succeed him when the nation’s despair was greatest to give glory to the nation.
[3] It is important to note that in The Man Who Invented Hitler Lewis is asserting that the techniques Forester used to cure Hitler’s hysterical blindness were the cause not only in his belief in himself as a Messiah, but of a dramatic change in personality. From being a soldier not considered for promotion in the First World War (Lewis, 2004: 4), Hitler became a skilled orator and enigmatic Messiah. (Lewis, 2004: 4) Lewis cites numerous sources that maintain Hitler ‘lacked the necessary qualities required to become a leader’ (Lewis, 2004: 4) before his treatment at Pasewalk.
In Totenmal, Wigman alone was unmasked and moved between the choirs of the living and the dead, therefore associating her with superhuman status. In her position between the living and the dead, Wigman embodies the intention of Holy Communion, to connect the living and the dead through the receiving of Christ’s body and blood (whether metaphorically in Protestantism or literally in Catholicism). Christ is this connection, as is indeed the connection between mankind and God and Heaven, as He is considered God incarnate, as is Wigman similarly the connection between the living and the dead in Totenmal.
Wigman’s superiority can also be seen in her movement vocabulary and quality, which is far broader than either the male or female chorus – she is thus beyond them. (Manning, 1993a: 154) Further to this, Wigman alone does not flee from the dead soldiers and takes on the Demon, the personification of war, and thus can be said to present herself as a Messianic saviour. Messianic status was also evident in the section of the piece entitled the Hall of Echoes (Raum der Gegenruff), in which Wigman sets the sprits of the dead in motion and retreats into the shadows, her life-force drained. She is subsequently revived again, and then weakened once more. As Wigman rises to dance her sorrow, devoid of energy, she emulates the shape of a cross, associating the sacrifice she has made, in giving her life-force to revive the dead, with the sacrifice of Christ.
It is widely established that Hitler believed strongly in his infallibility, even to the extent that, emerging unharmed from a serious car accident in the twenties Hitler informed his aides they had no need to worry about his safety as ‘it was impossible for anything to happen to him until his mission had been completed.’ (Lewis, 2004: 11) This extraordinary belief in the impossibility of harm coming to him and a divine mission to make Germany victorious stemmed from a divine revelation Hitler claims to have received during his treatment for blindness at the military hospital at Pasewalk. (Lewis, 2004: 12) Claims of divine revelation aside, the source of Hitler’s association with himself as a Messiah was during his treatment at Pasewalk, in the controversial therapies of ex-military doctor and specialist in hysterically or brain induced injuries – Dr Edmund Forester.
Hitler was blinded by poison gas (asserted by Hitler as mustard gas, but concluded by Lewis as most likely White Star) on the Morning of Tuesday 15th October 1918, and transferred to Pasewalk military hospital after his injuries were diagnosed as hysterical rather than physical, which meant that under the Prussian War Ministry decree he was not to be treated alongside physically injured soldiers. (Lewis, 2004: 15) This diagnosis was further confirmed by Jewish neurologist Dr Karl Kroner and Forester. Hitler maintained throughout his life that his blindness was due to burns inflicted on his eyes by mustard gas; however his accounts of the attack are contradictory.[1] However, the medical diagnosis was of hysterical blindness, and Forester attempted to treat Hitler with the same bullying techniques he used of other hysterically ill patients. Forester’s bullying techniques were ‘…based on his conviction that irrespective of how the hysterical condition was manifested, the underlying cause was always a lack of will-power on the part of the sufferer.’ (Lewis, 2004: 20) When it became apparent that such techniques would not produce results, Forster concluded that “Hitler…refused to see because he could not bear to witness the defeat of Germany’ (Lewis, 2004: 22) and attempted to change his perception of events. To do this, Forester chose to lie to Hitler by playing on his ‘drive to be like God’. (Lewis, 2004: 23) The lie consisted of reassuring Hitler that his blindness was indeed caused my mustard gas and, as is compatible with the long term effects of mustard gas, no ordinary man would ever see again. But an extraordinary man might. Forester assured Hitler that ‘If he was really a reincarnation of the Trommler,[2] then God would send Hitler a sign by restoring his sight.’ (Lewis, 2004: 238) Forester further asserted that; ‘‘…maybe you yourself have the rare power that only occurs once every thousand years to perform a miracle. Jesus did this, Mohammed, the Saints.’’ (Lewis, 2004: 239) When Hitler regained his sight, he was utterly convinced of his divine purpose and status as a Messiah alongside Jesus, that Forester had associated with the regaining of his sight.[3]
It was not just Hitler who associated himself with Christ. In Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of Will (1935) Hitler is likened to the resurrected Christ, ‘…descending from the heavens and beginning not merely military and political glory but redemption from past sins to those who were followers less of a political creed than of a new religion order.’ (Lewis, 2004: 8) At a Nüremburg rally in 1934, American journalist William Shirer observed thousands of ‘hysterics’ outside Hitler’s hotel ‘shouting: ‘We want our Führer’…They looked at him as if he were a Messiah, their faces transformed into something positively inhuman.’ (Lewis, 2004: 7-8) This faith in Hitler as their Messiah and ‘inhuman’ adoration is perhaps more terrifying and of more consequence than Hitler’s insane belief that he was Germany’s saviour.
Similar to the pre-emption on the Nazi mentality in the Movement Choirs of German Modern dancers, Wigman pre-empted not only the themes of Nazi theatre (in her use of the cult of the fallen soldier, movement and speaking choirs and being not overtly political), but the association of leadership with a Messianic figure. Susan Manning frequently refers to Wigman’s character in Totenmal as the choirs Führer (Manning, 1993), the same character who has superhuman status in the dance and provides Christ imagery. This rather than mass movement is the most terrifying and revealing element of fascism in Wigman’s work. Hedwig Müller states that; ‘Hitler as a man did impress her [Wigman]’. (Müller, 1996: 18) which when considered in conjunction with her connection between leadership and Messianic status in Totenmal suggests that she was one of the terrifying mass that believed Hitler was Germany’s Messiah, the effective ‘Hitler Myth’ (Kershaw, 1990) propaganda that brought a nation to worship a man in spite of his dreadful ideologies. As Lewis contends; ‘…it was Hitler’s absolute certainty, rather than what he said, that was mesmeric.’ (Lewis, 2004: 191)
[1] In some texts (including Mein Kampf) Hitler claimed that the attack occurred in the morning, in others the evening, and the injuries he sustained were not compatible with the medical effects of mustard gas (which would have caused a thick white layer of tissue around the eyes, which Hitler did not have (Lewis, 2004: 174) From early 1933 it was branded an offence that carried a sentence of imprisonment to question the cause of Hitler’s blindness. This sensitivity arose from the association between hysterically ill and a weak and feeble mind.
[2] A German folk story in which a shepherd lad, Trommler, with a remarkable gift for oratory claimed to have been sent by God as a guide, and was widely worshipped. He claimed another would succeed him when the nation’s despair was greatest to give glory to the nation.
[3] It is important to note that in The Man Who Invented Hitler Lewis is asserting that the techniques Forester used to cure Hitler’s hysterical blindness were the cause not only in his belief in himself as a Messiah, but of a dramatic change in personality. From being a soldier not considered for promotion in the First World War (Lewis, 2004: 4), Hitler became a skilled orator and enigmatic Messiah. (Lewis, 2004: 4) Lewis cites numerous sources that maintain Hitler ‘lacked the necessary qualities required to become a leader’ (Lewis, 2004: 4) before his treatment at Pasewalk.
Wednesday, 18 March 2009
Lea Anderson's Double Take - Review
With her remarkable penchant for wit and observational gesture, it is unsurprising that Lea Anderson, founder and choreographer of the all-female Cholmondeleys and the all-male Featherstonehaughs, celebrated her 20th anniversary with a twist. Seminal pieces from both company’s repertoires were revived as the double-bill Double Take, seemingly predictable, however the Anderson’s first evening length work Flesh and Blood (1989) was performed by the now all-male Cholmondeleys, and a variety of cabaret pieces from The Show, Big Feature and The Featherstonehaughs Go Las Vegas were performed by the now all-female Featherstonehaughs.
The double-bill celebration opens with the Cholmondeleys performing Flesh and Blood. After Steve Blake and the Victims of Death have made their presence known to us with their incredibly loud performance of punk rock music, there is one thing alone that is noticed; of course, the men are wearing Sandy Powell’s liquid jersey dresses. But this isn’t gender-bending or cross dressing, the costumes are inextricably linked to the piece. Anderson has cited Carl Theodor Dreyer’s 1927 film La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc as a point of inspiration for the piece, which, along with religious iconography, brings the theme of obsession into the foreground. Anderson is known for her obsessive use of repetition and unison, but it is the intense focus of the male dancers that really grips the audience (an intensity mirrored in the volume of the music). The performers have to be good when there are sections in the work which are just choreographed eye movements. Incidentally, these sections brought beauty into a piece that is otherwise metaphorically and literally dark. The rest of the piece comprises of the Cholmondeleys crawling around the floor, torsos held up and twisting side to side, with arms bent by the head; like images of lizards and insects in depictions of hell by artists Bosch and Escher. Although a serious, gothic work Anderson does not miss injecting her characteristic wit into the piece. Apart from the absurd appearance of dancers crawling around the floor as insects and tracing each others ‘auras’, Anderson parodies social and ballroom dancing.
Those who have seen her work cannot deny Anderson’s unique ability to bring out the absurdity of everyday gestures. Her choreographic works for the Featherstonehaughs focuses heavily on observations of male social behaviour, the acuteness of which is not lost when the works are performed by women. The second act of this show comprises of eight short pieces, all with their own ingenuity. The atmosphere is much more relaxed than the intense first half of the double-bill; the dancers come on stage to set up a table, chairs and square of pink tape (which becomes the performance area) in the interval, and remain themselves throughout the cabaret style second half (in which Steve Blake is accompanied by the Bog Standards). All of these works deserve praise, but three stand out as particularly ingenious. The opening dance Strangers sees the dancers passing a microphone between each other, singing Strangers in the Night whilst dancing and managing not to get tangled up in the microphone wire – at attempt that is incredibly funny and no mean feat. Greetings closely follows, a parody of the physical ways in which we say hello to each other, moving between a simple handshake to the kissing of a knee or foot which shows off Anderson’s flair for gesture. The audience pleaser is Elvis Legs, which comprises of Elvis dance moves taken apart and put back together again, but in the wrong order. Priceless.
It is important to note that the gender swap is not intended as a social or political comment, but Anderson has stated that she learnt a very important lesson in working Flesh and Blood on male dancers – men and women’s knees are different. Nothing escapes Anderson’s wit, not even the awareness that her choreography is not always heralded as technically difficult (to traditionalists at least). The show closes with Iced Toe, in which all the dancers jump about the stage kicking their legs to their faces, an amusing affirmation of the dancers’ technical ability. Funny and clever with an injection of punk – Lea Anderson still at her best twenty years on.
The double-bill celebration opens with the Cholmondeleys performing Flesh and Blood. After Steve Blake and the Victims of Death have made their presence known to us with their incredibly loud performance of punk rock music, there is one thing alone that is noticed; of course, the men are wearing Sandy Powell’s liquid jersey dresses. But this isn’t gender-bending or cross dressing, the costumes are inextricably linked to the piece. Anderson has cited Carl Theodor Dreyer’s 1927 film La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc as a point of inspiration for the piece, which, along with religious iconography, brings the theme of obsession into the foreground. Anderson is known for her obsessive use of repetition and unison, but it is the intense focus of the male dancers that really grips the audience (an intensity mirrored in the volume of the music). The performers have to be good when there are sections in the work which are just choreographed eye movements. Incidentally, these sections brought beauty into a piece that is otherwise metaphorically and literally dark. The rest of the piece comprises of the Cholmondeleys crawling around the floor, torsos held up and twisting side to side, with arms bent by the head; like images of lizards and insects in depictions of hell by artists Bosch and Escher. Although a serious, gothic work Anderson does not miss injecting her characteristic wit into the piece. Apart from the absurd appearance of dancers crawling around the floor as insects and tracing each others ‘auras’, Anderson parodies social and ballroom dancing.
Those who have seen her work cannot deny Anderson’s unique ability to bring out the absurdity of everyday gestures. Her choreographic works for the Featherstonehaughs focuses heavily on observations of male social behaviour, the acuteness of which is not lost when the works are performed by women. The second act of this show comprises of eight short pieces, all with their own ingenuity. The atmosphere is much more relaxed than the intense first half of the double-bill; the dancers come on stage to set up a table, chairs and square of pink tape (which becomes the performance area) in the interval, and remain themselves throughout the cabaret style second half (in which Steve Blake is accompanied by the Bog Standards). All of these works deserve praise, but three stand out as particularly ingenious. The opening dance Strangers sees the dancers passing a microphone between each other, singing Strangers in the Night whilst dancing and managing not to get tangled up in the microphone wire – at attempt that is incredibly funny and no mean feat. Greetings closely follows, a parody of the physical ways in which we say hello to each other, moving between a simple handshake to the kissing of a knee or foot which shows off Anderson’s flair for gesture. The audience pleaser is Elvis Legs, which comprises of Elvis dance moves taken apart and put back together again, but in the wrong order. Priceless.
It is important to note that the gender swap is not intended as a social or political comment, but Anderson has stated that she learnt a very important lesson in working Flesh and Blood on male dancers – men and women’s knees are different. Nothing escapes Anderson’s wit, not even the awareness that her choreography is not always heralded as technically difficult (to traditionalists at least). The show closes with Iced Toe, in which all the dancers jump about the stage kicking their legs to their faces, an amusing affirmation of the dancers’ technical ability. Funny and clever with an injection of punk – Lea Anderson still at her best twenty years on.
Sunday, 15 March 2009
Waiting and Ending
Waiting and Ending - An Exploration of Samuel Beckett’s Use of Language
Samuel Beckett’s Endgame or Fin De Partie (1957) can be thought of as the sequel to Waiting for Godot (1952), in that Vladimir and Estragon and ‘waiting’ and Hamm and Clov are ‘ending’ (according to the titles of the plays.) Yet, when the subject matter of Endgame is considered Hamm and Clov too are waiting, as the end that they anticipate fails to occur. The conclusion that Hamm and Clov are waiting for is the end we are all hurtling towards from the moment we are born; death. Instead of the anticipated end, we are presented with a potentially eternal cycle of discourse and events in the play. I intend to explore how the cyclic, endless character of the fictional world Beckett has created in Endgame is reflected in Beckett’s use of ‘the echo principle,’ (Cohn, 1973: 42) the repetitious and cyclic nature of discourse and action. I will also be concerned with the concept that nothing new will ever exist in this fictional world. In addition, I plan to demonstrate how through analysis of diexis we can determine character relationships without needing to refer to the content of discourse. Similarly, such deductions about the fictional world can be made from analysis of the stage directions. In addition to Endgame, I will examine the fictional world created in Act Without Words II or Acts Sans Paroles II (1956) purely in what Michael Issacharoff terms the Didascalia, (Issacharoff, 1989) and in the performative sense mime. I refer to stage directions as a use of language because expression of mime in script form is linguistic, and it is this that is translated into performance, and therefore language is the determinant for the world created in mime.
Hamm and Clov are regarded as master and servant, due to such references as: ‘HAMM: And your rounds? When you inspected my paupers.’ (Beckett, 2006: 96) There are also suggestions in the text that their relationship resembles that of father and son, and the struggle Clov faces in leaving Hamm could arguably show care and even friendship between them (although their ‘parting’ is business like.) We can definitively discern the nature of Hamm and Clov’s relationship if we look at the diexis of their speech. Hamm’s centrality is key to understanding this, he is positioned centrally on stage as the play opens, and subsequently due to his repeated request that he be in the centre of his world; ‘HAMM: Am I right in the centre?’ (Beckett, 2006: 129) Hamm’s speech also demonstrates his centrality, as he only refers to other characters in relation to himself: ‘HAMM: My father? [Pause] My mother? [Pause] MY…dog?’ (Beckett, 2006: 93) This sense of ownership not only reflects Hamm’s own ideas about his centrality but furthermore a position of power, of master. Further to this, in analysis of Hamm’s language use we can observe his frequent use of directives and perlocutionary speech acts:
‘HAMM: Kiss me. [Pause] Will you not kiss me?
CLOV: No. HAMM: On the forehead.
CLOV: I won’t kiss you anywhere.
[Pause]
HAMM: [Holding out his hand] Give me you hand at least.’ (Beckett, 2006: 125)
He constantly gives Clov orders, and unless some kind of social hierarchy were in place (with Hamm at its head), Clov would not obey him. After all, he is there to help and sustain Hamm’s life, his own ends and desires lie outside of (what I shall refer to as) the shelter in which the play takes place. Conversely, Clov’s speech is for the most part filled with declarations that are primarily locutionary, and he mostly questions only when incited in some way by Hamm:
‘HAMM: Have you not had enough?
CLOV: Yes! [Pause] Of what?’ (Beckett, 2006: 94)
The conclusion from analysis of the diexis therefore is that Hamm gives orders and Clov obeys - the fundamental basis of a master/servant relationship.
The world Beckett has created in Endgame is very contained. Apart from the ‘diegetic’ (Issacharoff, 1989) space of Clov’s kitchen, there is nowhere habitable outside of the shelter. According to Hamm: ‘Outside of here is death,’ (Beckett, 2006: 96) he calls his turn of the room: ‘HAMM: Right around the world,’ (Beckett, 2006: 104) and even nature is ‘no more’. (Beckett, 2006: 97) This idea of containment is present in diexis, like the master/servant relationship of Hamm and Clov. There is little anaphora in the text because reference is made primarily to the characters that appear on stage, with the exceptions of the small boy, the flea, Mother Pegg and the rat. A lack of referents follows this. The emphasis on the world we can see and lack of reference to anything outside of it (primarily anything living), makes the world of Endgame claustrophobic and contained.
This claustrophobia also exists in the discourse and actions or mimetic elements of the play, in that their repetitive and cyclic character also contribute to the feeling of containment in the world Beckett has created. We are immediately introduced to the idea of repetition, in Clov’s opening mime he laughs five times and in Hamm’s opening monologue he yawns six times, all of which occur in the first two pages of the text. Clov has other sections of mime that include motif action, he repeatedly moves the ladder from one window to another and looks out of it at varying points in the play. Apart from those in his opening mime, (which contains six movements between the two windows), all are ordered by Hamm, once again stressing his centrality, as does the fact that Hamm’s yawns outnumber Clov’s laughs.
As immediately as we are introduced to repetition of action, we are also introduced to repetition in discourse. Four of Clov’s opening ten words are the word ‘finished’: ‘CLOV: Finished, it’s finished, nearly finished, it must be nearly finished.’ (Beckett, 2006: 93) This phrase is later echoed by Hamm: ‘It’s finished, we’re finished.’ (Beckett, 2006: 116) Further and more frequently repeated phrases include Clov’s informing of Hamm that: ‘CLOV: There are no more…’ (Beckett, 2006: 96 (for the first time) and when Clov returns from his kitchen with whatever Hamm has requested: ‘CLOV: I’m back again with the…’ (Beckett, 2006: 97 (for the first time) Throughout the course of the play we learn that there are no more bicycle wheels, pap, nature, sugar plums, tide, navigators, rugs, pain-killers, and coffins. A sense of claustrophobia is established from these repeated phrases and actions because nothing new is occurring, everything is a copy or imitation of something already said or done. There is further significance to the repetition of these two phrases in particular beyond how they make the play cyclical when their content is considered. The repetition of the phrase: ‘CLOV: There are no more…’ (Beckett 2006: 96) is a further reminder that there is nothing else left and certainly nothing new, and the fact that from the first instance Clov is back ‘again,’ is a further suggestion of the cyclical and endless character of Endgame.
Beckett gave further emphasis to repeated phrases by requesting that they all be spoken identically in performance, even when uttered by a different character. (Cohn 1973: 154) As I have shown earlier with Hamm’s repetition of Clov’s opening line, the characters in Endgame frequently borrow each others phrases. This is a further implication of the claustrophobia of Endgame, as phrase and even mode of delivery are shared.
But the participants in Endgame do not just recycle each other’s language; Hamm in particular directly quotes and alludes to other texts, namely two plays by William Shakespeare and The Bible. Hamm alludes to Richard III with: ‘HAMM: My kingdom for a nightman,’ (Beckett, 2006: 103) and borrows from Prospero in The Tempest: ‘HAMM: Our revels now are ended.’ (Beckett, 2006: 120) Hamm and Clov also make a further reference to The Tempest in Clov’s implication that Hamm taught him language, as Prospero taught the creature Caliban: ‘CLOV: I use the words you taught me. If they don’t mean anything any more, teach me others.’ (Beckett, 2006:113) Recycled phrases from the Bible come in the form of; ‘HAMM: Lick your neighbour as yourself!’ (Beckett, 2006: 125) and the opening word of the play, ‘Finished,’ (Beckett, 2006: 93) is perhaps an allusion to Christ’s last words on the cross.
The repetition, recycling of phrase and therefore lack of anything ‘new’ in discourse furthermore reflects that nature is no more in Endgame and subsequently the idea that the world will never produce anything new, not if Hamm and Clov can help it anyway:
‘CLOV: [Anguished, scratching himself.] I have a flea!
…HAMM: [Very perturbed.] But humanity might start from there all over again! Catch him, for the love of God!’ (Beckett, 2006: 108)
Yet Hamm, Clov, Nagg and Nell live on. This endlessness also reflects the chess game that is implied in the title. Just as Endgame is seemingly infinite, in chess even with check-mate the King is not dead; merely the possibility is presented but never literally comes to fruition. The King does not die yet the game is over the pieces reset, just as the ‘pieces’ of Beckett’s drama reset at the end of the play, ready to start the cycle again. Endgame begins and ends with the characters in the same positions on stage, Hamm repeats his gesture of folding or unfolding his handkerchief, and says: ‘HAMM: Old stancher!’ (Beckett, 2006: 93 and 134) at both points. The identical beginning and end brings the action of the play full circle, albeit as the play closes Nell is assumed dead, and the relationship between Hamm and Clov has shifted - Clov has taken steps towards leaving even though he is yet to do so, therefore the world in Endgame ‘is both changing and changeless.’ (Pattie, 2000: 77)
Another reiteration of the idea that there is nothing new in the shelter can be seen in how Beckett does not even give his characters distinct and individual names. The characters names are all allusions to the word nail, Nell referring to the English ‘nail’, Clov to the French ‘clou’, Nagg to the German ‘naggel’ Hamm to the Latin ‘hamus’. (The other character that is given a name, Mother Pegg, is also an allusion to the word nail.) It is interesting to note that Hamm’s name resembles the Latin word for nail, considering that Latin is the stem and basis for all European languages, thus reinforcing his centrality, now physically, socially and linguistically. Another analogy can be deducted from the nail-names – if we take Hamm to resemble the word ‘hammer,’ we have three nails and a hammer, biblical iconography for the crucifixion of Christ (religion being one of the themes of the play.)
Just as Nell and Nagg have recycled names, so to is their relationship a recycled version of Hamm and Clov, and they talk mostly of the past, another indication of nothing new in the fictional world Beckett has created. Nell makes Clov’s constant threat: ‘NELL: I’ll leave you,’ (Beckett, 2006: 101) and echoes Clov in her tendency to answer questions in the negative before they are fully asked:
‘HAMM: Do you ever think of one thing?
CLOV: Never.
HAMM: That we’re down in a hole.’ (Beckett, 2006: 111)
and the corresponding:
‘NAGG: Do you remember-
NELL: No.
NAGG: When we crashed our tandem and lost our shanks.’ (Beckett, 2006: 99-100)
Thus, Nell cements herself in Clov’s role in her relationship with Nagg.
Nagg therefore takes the role of Hamm, and like him tells a story that no-one wants to hear. Indeed, Nagg’s joke about the tailor echoes Hamm’s story about Christmas Eve and the little boy, both tales have three voices; the narrator, first person and a ‘beggar alternate.’ (Gontarski, 1992: 54) The parallel is emphasised further by the repeated phraseology that dominates the structure of the stories, and that both are separated into four sections. For Hamm, each section begins with variations of the phrase: ‘HAMM: It was an extra-ordinarily bitter day, I remember, zero by the thermometer. But considering it was Christmas Eve there was nothing…extra-ordinary about it.’ (Beckett, 2006: 117) The four sections of Nagg’s joke are three sections of instruction to come back to the tailor again, and the punch line. He also has a stock phrase, variations of: ‘NAGG: [Tailor’s Voice.] ‘So sorry, come back in a week, I’ve made a mess of the seat.’ Good, that’s all right, a neat seat can be very ticklish. A week later.’ (Beckett, 2006: 102)
Endgame opens with the word ‘Finished,’ (Beckett, 2006: 92) and closes with the word ‘…remain.’ (Beckett, 2006: 134) The beginning of the play emphasises how the characters are hurtling towards the end with repetition of the word ‘finished,’ the nearly it is followed by reflecting how they never quite get there: ‘HAMM: The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.’ (Beckett, 2006: 126) The ‘remain’ the play closes with indicates to us that the action of Endgame is not over, the cycle of events will occur again. In essence therefore, the play opens in action and word with repetition, and closes with a promise of the cyclical, outlining the two main components of Beckett’s fictional world. This fictional world is one that will never contain anything new, even the relationships between the characters are recycled as are their names, words, phrases and gestures – as shown. There is nothing left but the suspended death sentence that they share as they share language. This suspended moment of waiting for an inevitable end has a parallel in literature that is alluded to in the unconsummated kiss of Nagg and Nell, an unintentional (Gontarski, 1992: 54) reference to John Keats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn. The unconsummated kiss and therefore suspended nature of the lovers depicted on the urn is echoed in the suspended death sentence Hamm and Clov are suffering.
Like Endgame, Act Without Words II is full of cyclic repetition. Both have repeated series of action (and in Endgame language,) yet the action of Act Without Words II travels from stage right to left and therefore progresses, despite the fact that the actions of the two characters are changeless. Also unlike Endgame, Act Without Words II is purely mimetic. However the action in Act Without Words II is not abstract, Beckett once again creates a complex fictional world that is discernable through the Didascalia. (Issacahroff, 1989)
Act Without Words II has two characters, the non-descriptly named A and B (for sake of ease, I shall refer to both as ‘he.’). Both characters complete a cycle of actions, A followed by B followed by A (and presumably so-on) coming out of their respective sacks, both dressing and undressing from a pile of clothes that are on the stage (to the right of the two sacks). Each of the characters’ cycle of action is different, and despite their varying paces last the same amount of time. The two characters are never out of their sacks together and are spurred into action by a mechanical ‘goad.’ A and B have distinct personalities that are evident not only in characteristic action but the few ‘autonomous’ (Issacharoff, 1989) stage directions in the text. (The majority of the stage directions in the text are ‘normal’ (Issacharoff, 1989) and have a primarily ‘locative’ (Issacharoff, 1989) function, which are essentially non-descript in terms of describing the fictional world.)
A is: ‘slow, awkward…absent,’ (Beckett, 2006: 209) according to Beckett’s initial ‘autonomous’ (Issacharoff, 1989) description of the characters, and his characteristic actions are to brood, swallow pills and reject food. Unlike B who only requires one poke from the goad to come out of his sack and resume his cycle of action, A requires to be poked twice. We can conclude that A is depressive, his slow and absent nature are common traits among those suffering from depression, (McAllister-Williams, 2006) as is his lack of interest in participating in the world (he needs to be convinced and not just prompted by the goad to act,) and his disinterest in food. A therefore lacks the wish to take care of himself. His characteristic swallowing of pills could therefore be interpreted as the taking of anti-depressants, which would also explain an absent nature. Anti-depressants have a numbing effect on the brain and emotions. (McAllister-Williams, 2006)
B however is ‘brisk, rapid, precise,’ (Beckett, 2006: 209) he is the healthier version of A. His characteristic actions are to check the time, exercise and groom himself. Unlike A, who spits out food ‘with disgust,’ (Beckett: 209) B ‘swallows with appetite.’ (Beckett: 210) B is taking care of his appearance and his body, and in checking the time is arguably keeping busy and getting on with life. He also shows some pride in folding the clothes he discards neatly, whereas A; ‘lets them fall in an untidy heap.’ (Beckett, 2006: 210)
The two characters are opposites, and there are a number of interpretations to be made of their relationship to each other, although they never meet and may not even be aware of each others existence. Firstly we could conclude that they are two parts of the same person as they never appear together and share similar actions, in that they both dress and undress, both eat (although A spits his food out,) and both stagger towards the left wing. (Beckett, 2006: 210) Also, they do not move out of line with one another for long, when A moves his sack forward along a horizontal line, B follows so that their sacks are once more side by side, hinting possibly at their unity as one person. We could also argue that A is trying to get away from B. Another debateable reading of their relationship is that they represent two approaches to the harshness of life and reality (after all the stage is ‘violently lit’ (Beckett, 2006: 209) – getting on with life and brooding about it.
In both Endgame and Act Without Words II, the Didascalia does not merely have a ‘role …of glossing and clarifying the delivery intended,’ as Issacharoff has claimed (Issacharoff, 1989: 18), but as I have demonstrated it is world creating. In Act Without Words II the Didascalia expels dialogue, and Beckett demonstrates that dialogue is not necessary in theatre to create a fictional world. In Endgame the Didascalia contributes to the themes of repetition and the cyclical in discourse and the fictional world, and in Act Without Words II the autonomous direction is character creating (and subsequently world creating) and from this information that we can begin to perceive meaning in the actions of A and B.
The primary conclusion I have reached in my exploration of Beckett’s use of language in Endgame and Act Without Words II (in relation to the fictional worlds created) is based on the idea of repeated and recycled action and language. The ‘echo principle’ (Cohn, 1973: 42) that is evident in the repetition of the play and mime studied is not only an example of Beckett’s predilection for pattern (Gontarski, 1992: xx), but of his profound understanding of the exchanges, linguistic and physical, that take place between human beings. All language and action is learnt from other people. When we are children, we observe others walking and, from observation and a great deal of trial and error, imitate this ourselves. Language has the same growth in us, we hear others speak and we imitate them, gradually coming to understand meaning. As adults, we pick up the gestures, accents, intonations, phrases, words and even languages of other people; Beckett exaggerates this truth in his request that all repeated phrases have an identical mode of delivery. Therefore nothing is new, all language and action is recycled or borrowed from somebody else. Both Endgame and Act Without Words II reflect this, in their language structure, phrasing, diexis and Didascalia respectively.
Bibliography
ADORNO, THEODOR W. (1961) ‘Trying to Understand Endgame’ In: BIRKETT, JENNIFER and INCE, KATE eds. (2000) Samuel Beckett Essex: Pearson Education
BECKETT, SAMUEL (2006) Samuel Beckett The Complete Dramatic Works London: Faber and Faber
COHN, RUBY (1973) Back to Beckett New Jersey: Princeton University Press
COHN, RUBY (2004) A Beckett Canon Michigan: University of Michigan Press
ELAM, KEIR (1997) The Semiotics of Theatre and Drama London: Routledge
GONTARSKI, S.E ed. (1992) The Theatrical Notebooks of Samuel Beckett: Endgame London: Faber and Faber
ISSACHAROFF, MICHAEL (1989) Discourse As Performance California: Stanford University Press
KEATS, JOHN (1996) Keats Selected Poems and Letters Oxford: Heinemann
PATTIE, DAVID (2000) The Complete Guide to Samuel Beckett London: Routledge
Videos
‘Endgame’ Literature In the Modern World (1991) A Film by TONY COE Open University
‘Ohio Impromptu; Act Without Words II’ Beckett on Film (2002) Films by CHARLES STURRIDGE and EDNA HUGHES Channel 4
Websites
McAllister-Williams, Dr. Hamish (1998) ‘Health and Nutrition: Depression’ <http://www.tiscali.co.uk/lifestyle/healthfitness/health_advice/netdoctor/archive/000040.html> (accessed 16/12/06)
Samuel Beckett’s Endgame or Fin De Partie (1957) can be thought of as the sequel to Waiting for Godot (1952), in that Vladimir and Estragon and ‘waiting’ and Hamm and Clov are ‘ending’ (according to the titles of the plays.) Yet, when the subject matter of Endgame is considered Hamm and Clov too are waiting, as the end that they anticipate fails to occur. The conclusion that Hamm and Clov are waiting for is the end we are all hurtling towards from the moment we are born; death. Instead of the anticipated end, we are presented with a potentially eternal cycle of discourse and events in the play. I intend to explore how the cyclic, endless character of the fictional world Beckett has created in Endgame is reflected in Beckett’s use of ‘the echo principle,’ (Cohn, 1973: 42) the repetitious and cyclic nature of discourse and action. I will also be concerned with the concept that nothing new will ever exist in this fictional world. In addition, I plan to demonstrate how through analysis of diexis we can determine character relationships without needing to refer to the content of discourse. Similarly, such deductions about the fictional world can be made from analysis of the stage directions. In addition to Endgame, I will examine the fictional world created in Act Without Words II or Acts Sans Paroles II (1956) purely in what Michael Issacharoff terms the Didascalia, (Issacharoff, 1989) and in the performative sense mime. I refer to stage directions as a use of language because expression of mime in script form is linguistic, and it is this that is translated into performance, and therefore language is the determinant for the world created in mime.
Hamm and Clov are regarded as master and servant, due to such references as: ‘HAMM: And your rounds? When you inspected my paupers.’ (Beckett, 2006: 96) There are also suggestions in the text that their relationship resembles that of father and son, and the struggle Clov faces in leaving Hamm could arguably show care and even friendship between them (although their ‘parting’ is business like.) We can definitively discern the nature of Hamm and Clov’s relationship if we look at the diexis of their speech. Hamm’s centrality is key to understanding this, he is positioned centrally on stage as the play opens, and subsequently due to his repeated request that he be in the centre of his world; ‘HAMM: Am I right in the centre?’ (Beckett, 2006: 129) Hamm’s speech also demonstrates his centrality, as he only refers to other characters in relation to himself: ‘HAMM: My father? [Pause] My mother? [Pause] MY…dog?’ (Beckett, 2006: 93) This sense of ownership not only reflects Hamm’s own ideas about his centrality but furthermore a position of power, of master. Further to this, in analysis of Hamm’s language use we can observe his frequent use of directives and perlocutionary speech acts:
‘HAMM: Kiss me. [Pause] Will you not kiss me?
CLOV: No. HAMM: On the forehead.
CLOV: I won’t kiss you anywhere.
[Pause]
HAMM: [Holding out his hand] Give me you hand at least.’ (Beckett, 2006: 125)
He constantly gives Clov orders, and unless some kind of social hierarchy were in place (with Hamm at its head), Clov would not obey him. After all, he is there to help and sustain Hamm’s life, his own ends and desires lie outside of (what I shall refer to as) the shelter in which the play takes place. Conversely, Clov’s speech is for the most part filled with declarations that are primarily locutionary, and he mostly questions only when incited in some way by Hamm:
‘HAMM: Have you not had enough?
CLOV: Yes! [Pause] Of what?’ (Beckett, 2006: 94)
The conclusion from analysis of the diexis therefore is that Hamm gives orders and Clov obeys - the fundamental basis of a master/servant relationship.
The world Beckett has created in Endgame is very contained. Apart from the ‘diegetic’ (Issacharoff, 1989) space of Clov’s kitchen, there is nowhere habitable outside of the shelter. According to Hamm: ‘Outside of here is death,’ (Beckett, 2006: 96) he calls his turn of the room: ‘HAMM: Right around the world,’ (Beckett, 2006: 104) and even nature is ‘no more’. (Beckett, 2006: 97) This idea of containment is present in diexis, like the master/servant relationship of Hamm and Clov. There is little anaphora in the text because reference is made primarily to the characters that appear on stage, with the exceptions of the small boy, the flea, Mother Pegg and the rat. A lack of referents follows this. The emphasis on the world we can see and lack of reference to anything outside of it (primarily anything living), makes the world of Endgame claustrophobic and contained.
This claustrophobia also exists in the discourse and actions or mimetic elements of the play, in that their repetitive and cyclic character also contribute to the feeling of containment in the world Beckett has created. We are immediately introduced to the idea of repetition, in Clov’s opening mime he laughs five times and in Hamm’s opening monologue he yawns six times, all of which occur in the first two pages of the text. Clov has other sections of mime that include motif action, he repeatedly moves the ladder from one window to another and looks out of it at varying points in the play. Apart from those in his opening mime, (which contains six movements between the two windows), all are ordered by Hamm, once again stressing his centrality, as does the fact that Hamm’s yawns outnumber Clov’s laughs.
As immediately as we are introduced to repetition of action, we are also introduced to repetition in discourse. Four of Clov’s opening ten words are the word ‘finished’: ‘CLOV: Finished, it’s finished, nearly finished, it must be nearly finished.’ (Beckett, 2006: 93) This phrase is later echoed by Hamm: ‘It’s finished, we’re finished.’ (Beckett, 2006: 116) Further and more frequently repeated phrases include Clov’s informing of Hamm that: ‘CLOV: There are no more…’ (Beckett, 2006: 96 (for the first time) and when Clov returns from his kitchen with whatever Hamm has requested: ‘CLOV: I’m back again with the…’ (Beckett, 2006: 97 (for the first time) Throughout the course of the play we learn that there are no more bicycle wheels, pap, nature, sugar plums, tide, navigators, rugs, pain-killers, and coffins. A sense of claustrophobia is established from these repeated phrases and actions because nothing new is occurring, everything is a copy or imitation of something already said or done. There is further significance to the repetition of these two phrases in particular beyond how they make the play cyclical when their content is considered. The repetition of the phrase: ‘CLOV: There are no more…’ (Beckett 2006: 96) is a further reminder that there is nothing else left and certainly nothing new, and the fact that from the first instance Clov is back ‘again,’ is a further suggestion of the cyclical and endless character of Endgame.
Beckett gave further emphasis to repeated phrases by requesting that they all be spoken identically in performance, even when uttered by a different character. (Cohn 1973: 154) As I have shown earlier with Hamm’s repetition of Clov’s opening line, the characters in Endgame frequently borrow each others phrases. This is a further implication of the claustrophobia of Endgame, as phrase and even mode of delivery are shared.
But the participants in Endgame do not just recycle each other’s language; Hamm in particular directly quotes and alludes to other texts, namely two plays by William Shakespeare and The Bible. Hamm alludes to Richard III with: ‘HAMM: My kingdom for a nightman,’ (Beckett, 2006: 103) and borrows from Prospero in The Tempest: ‘HAMM: Our revels now are ended.’ (Beckett, 2006: 120) Hamm and Clov also make a further reference to The Tempest in Clov’s implication that Hamm taught him language, as Prospero taught the creature Caliban: ‘CLOV: I use the words you taught me. If they don’t mean anything any more, teach me others.’ (Beckett, 2006:113) Recycled phrases from the Bible come in the form of; ‘HAMM: Lick your neighbour as yourself!’ (Beckett, 2006: 125) and the opening word of the play, ‘Finished,’ (Beckett, 2006: 93) is perhaps an allusion to Christ’s last words on the cross.
The repetition, recycling of phrase and therefore lack of anything ‘new’ in discourse furthermore reflects that nature is no more in Endgame and subsequently the idea that the world will never produce anything new, not if Hamm and Clov can help it anyway:
‘CLOV: [Anguished, scratching himself.] I have a flea!
…HAMM: [Very perturbed.] But humanity might start from there all over again! Catch him, for the love of God!’ (Beckett, 2006: 108)
Yet Hamm, Clov, Nagg and Nell live on. This endlessness also reflects the chess game that is implied in the title. Just as Endgame is seemingly infinite, in chess even with check-mate the King is not dead; merely the possibility is presented but never literally comes to fruition. The King does not die yet the game is over the pieces reset, just as the ‘pieces’ of Beckett’s drama reset at the end of the play, ready to start the cycle again. Endgame begins and ends with the characters in the same positions on stage, Hamm repeats his gesture of folding or unfolding his handkerchief, and says: ‘HAMM: Old stancher!’ (Beckett, 2006: 93 and 134) at both points. The identical beginning and end brings the action of the play full circle, albeit as the play closes Nell is assumed dead, and the relationship between Hamm and Clov has shifted - Clov has taken steps towards leaving even though he is yet to do so, therefore the world in Endgame ‘is both changing and changeless.’ (Pattie, 2000: 77)
Another reiteration of the idea that there is nothing new in the shelter can be seen in how Beckett does not even give his characters distinct and individual names. The characters names are all allusions to the word nail, Nell referring to the English ‘nail’, Clov to the French ‘clou’, Nagg to the German ‘naggel’ Hamm to the Latin ‘hamus’. (The other character that is given a name, Mother Pegg, is also an allusion to the word nail.) It is interesting to note that Hamm’s name resembles the Latin word for nail, considering that Latin is the stem and basis for all European languages, thus reinforcing his centrality, now physically, socially and linguistically. Another analogy can be deducted from the nail-names – if we take Hamm to resemble the word ‘hammer,’ we have three nails and a hammer, biblical iconography for the crucifixion of Christ (religion being one of the themes of the play.)
Just as Nell and Nagg have recycled names, so to is their relationship a recycled version of Hamm and Clov, and they talk mostly of the past, another indication of nothing new in the fictional world Beckett has created. Nell makes Clov’s constant threat: ‘NELL: I’ll leave you,’ (Beckett, 2006: 101) and echoes Clov in her tendency to answer questions in the negative before they are fully asked:
‘HAMM: Do you ever think of one thing?
CLOV: Never.
HAMM: That we’re down in a hole.’ (Beckett, 2006: 111)
and the corresponding:
‘NAGG: Do you remember-
NELL: No.
NAGG: When we crashed our tandem and lost our shanks.’ (Beckett, 2006: 99-100)
Thus, Nell cements herself in Clov’s role in her relationship with Nagg.
Nagg therefore takes the role of Hamm, and like him tells a story that no-one wants to hear. Indeed, Nagg’s joke about the tailor echoes Hamm’s story about Christmas Eve and the little boy, both tales have three voices; the narrator, first person and a ‘beggar alternate.’ (Gontarski, 1992: 54) The parallel is emphasised further by the repeated phraseology that dominates the structure of the stories, and that both are separated into four sections. For Hamm, each section begins with variations of the phrase: ‘HAMM: It was an extra-ordinarily bitter day, I remember, zero by the thermometer. But considering it was Christmas Eve there was nothing…extra-ordinary about it.’ (Beckett, 2006: 117) The four sections of Nagg’s joke are three sections of instruction to come back to the tailor again, and the punch line. He also has a stock phrase, variations of: ‘NAGG: [Tailor’s Voice.] ‘So sorry, come back in a week, I’ve made a mess of the seat.’ Good, that’s all right, a neat seat can be very ticklish. A week later.’ (Beckett, 2006: 102)
Endgame opens with the word ‘Finished,’ (Beckett, 2006: 92) and closes with the word ‘…remain.’ (Beckett, 2006: 134) The beginning of the play emphasises how the characters are hurtling towards the end with repetition of the word ‘finished,’ the nearly it is followed by reflecting how they never quite get there: ‘HAMM: The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.’ (Beckett, 2006: 126) The ‘remain’ the play closes with indicates to us that the action of Endgame is not over, the cycle of events will occur again. In essence therefore, the play opens in action and word with repetition, and closes with a promise of the cyclical, outlining the two main components of Beckett’s fictional world. This fictional world is one that will never contain anything new, even the relationships between the characters are recycled as are their names, words, phrases and gestures – as shown. There is nothing left but the suspended death sentence that they share as they share language. This suspended moment of waiting for an inevitable end has a parallel in literature that is alluded to in the unconsummated kiss of Nagg and Nell, an unintentional (Gontarski, 1992: 54) reference to John Keats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn. The unconsummated kiss and therefore suspended nature of the lovers depicted on the urn is echoed in the suspended death sentence Hamm and Clov are suffering.
Like Endgame, Act Without Words II is full of cyclic repetition. Both have repeated series of action (and in Endgame language,) yet the action of Act Without Words II travels from stage right to left and therefore progresses, despite the fact that the actions of the two characters are changeless. Also unlike Endgame, Act Without Words II is purely mimetic. However the action in Act Without Words II is not abstract, Beckett once again creates a complex fictional world that is discernable through the Didascalia. (Issacahroff, 1989)
Act Without Words II has two characters, the non-descriptly named A and B (for sake of ease, I shall refer to both as ‘he.’). Both characters complete a cycle of actions, A followed by B followed by A (and presumably so-on) coming out of their respective sacks, both dressing and undressing from a pile of clothes that are on the stage (to the right of the two sacks). Each of the characters’ cycle of action is different, and despite their varying paces last the same amount of time. The two characters are never out of their sacks together and are spurred into action by a mechanical ‘goad.’ A and B have distinct personalities that are evident not only in characteristic action but the few ‘autonomous’ (Issacharoff, 1989) stage directions in the text. (The majority of the stage directions in the text are ‘normal’ (Issacharoff, 1989) and have a primarily ‘locative’ (Issacharoff, 1989) function, which are essentially non-descript in terms of describing the fictional world.)
A is: ‘slow, awkward…absent,’ (Beckett, 2006: 209) according to Beckett’s initial ‘autonomous’ (Issacharoff, 1989) description of the characters, and his characteristic actions are to brood, swallow pills and reject food. Unlike B who only requires one poke from the goad to come out of his sack and resume his cycle of action, A requires to be poked twice. We can conclude that A is depressive, his slow and absent nature are common traits among those suffering from depression, (McAllister-Williams, 2006) as is his lack of interest in participating in the world (he needs to be convinced and not just prompted by the goad to act,) and his disinterest in food. A therefore lacks the wish to take care of himself. His characteristic swallowing of pills could therefore be interpreted as the taking of anti-depressants, which would also explain an absent nature. Anti-depressants have a numbing effect on the brain and emotions. (McAllister-Williams, 2006)
B however is ‘brisk, rapid, precise,’ (Beckett, 2006: 209) he is the healthier version of A. His characteristic actions are to check the time, exercise and groom himself. Unlike A, who spits out food ‘with disgust,’ (Beckett: 209) B ‘swallows with appetite.’ (Beckett: 210) B is taking care of his appearance and his body, and in checking the time is arguably keeping busy and getting on with life. He also shows some pride in folding the clothes he discards neatly, whereas A; ‘lets them fall in an untidy heap.’ (Beckett, 2006: 210)
The two characters are opposites, and there are a number of interpretations to be made of their relationship to each other, although they never meet and may not even be aware of each others existence. Firstly we could conclude that they are two parts of the same person as they never appear together and share similar actions, in that they both dress and undress, both eat (although A spits his food out,) and both stagger towards the left wing. (Beckett, 2006: 210) Also, they do not move out of line with one another for long, when A moves his sack forward along a horizontal line, B follows so that their sacks are once more side by side, hinting possibly at their unity as one person. We could also argue that A is trying to get away from B. Another debateable reading of their relationship is that they represent two approaches to the harshness of life and reality (after all the stage is ‘violently lit’ (Beckett, 2006: 209) – getting on with life and brooding about it.
In both Endgame and Act Without Words II, the Didascalia does not merely have a ‘role …of glossing and clarifying the delivery intended,’ as Issacharoff has claimed (Issacharoff, 1989: 18), but as I have demonstrated it is world creating. In Act Without Words II the Didascalia expels dialogue, and Beckett demonstrates that dialogue is not necessary in theatre to create a fictional world. In Endgame the Didascalia contributes to the themes of repetition and the cyclical in discourse and the fictional world, and in Act Without Words II the autonomous direction is character creating (and subsequently world creating) and from this information that we can begin to perceive meaning in the actions of A and B.
The primary conclusion I have reached in my exploration of Beckett’s use of language in Endgame and Act Without Words II (in relation to the fictional worlds created) is based on the idea of repeated and recycled action and language. The ‘echo principle’ (Cohn, 1973: 42) that is evident in the repetition of the play and mime studied is not only an example of Beckett’s predilection for pattern (Gontarski, 1992: xx), but of his profound understanding of the exchanges, linguistic and physical, that take place between human beings. All language and action is learnt from other people. When we are children, we observe others walking and, from observation and a great deal of trial and error, imitate this ourselves. Language has the same growth in us, we hear others speak and we imitate them, gradually coming to understand meaning. As adults, we pick up the gestures, accents, intonations, phrases, words and even languages of other people; Beckett exaggerates this truth in his request that all repeated phrases have an identical mode of delivery. Therefore nothing is new, all language and action is recycled or borrowed from somebody else. Both Endgame and Act Without Words II reflect this, in their language structure, phrasing, diexis and Didascalia respectively.
Bibliography
ADORNO, THEODOR W. (1961) ‘Trying to Understand Endgame’ In: BIRKETT, JENNIFER and INCE, KATE eds. (2000) Samuel Beckett Essex: Pearson Education
BECKETT, SAMUEL (2006) Samuel Beckett The Complete Dramatic Works London: Faber and Faber
COHN, RUBY (1973) Back to Beckett New Jersey: Princeton University Press
COHN, RUBY (2004) A Beckett Canon Michigan: University of Michigan Press
ELAM, KEIR (1997) The Semiotics of Theatre and Drama London: Routledge
GONTARSKI, S.E ed. (1992) The Theatrical Notebooks of Samuel Beckett: Endgame London: Faber and Faber
ISSACHAROFF, MICHAEL (1989) Discourse As Performance California: Stanford University Press
KEATS, JOHN (1996) Keats Selected Poems and Letters Oxford: Heinemann
PATTIE, DAVID (2000) The Complete Guide to Samuel Beckett London: Routledge
Videos
‘Endgame’ Literature In the Modern World (1991) A Film by TONY COE Open University
‘Ohio Impromptu; Act Without Words II’ Beckett on Film (2002) Films by CHARLES STURRIDGE and EDNA HUGHES Channel 4
Websites
McAllister-Williams, Dr. Hamish (1998) ‘Health and Nutrition: Depression’ <http://www.tiscali.co.uk/lifestyle/healthfitness/health_advice/netdoctor/archive/000040.html> (accessed 16/12/06)
Sunday, 4 January 2009
René Magritte – This is Not a Pipe or The Treachery of Images
As proposed by James Harkness in his introduction to Michel Foucault’s This Is Not a Pipe (1983), if you asked me to identify the object in René Magritte’s painting of the same name (1928/29), I would reply that it is a pipe. (Harkness in Foucault, 1983: 5) Such a response is automatic, but is not done in ignorance – I am fully aware that what I see before me is a painting of a pipe rather than a pipe itself. Hence I would not as Harkness suggests choke on my words as I try to light up. When I automatically identify the object in Magritte’s painting as a pipe I do not mean that it is a pipe, but a painting of one. There is a contradiction here inherent in linguistic convention, as Foucault himself establishes in regard to the statement underneath the painted object: ‘The statement is perfectly true, since it is quite apparent that the drawing representing the pipe is not the pipe itself. And yet there is a convention of language: What is this drawing? Why, it is a calf, a square, a flower.’ (Foucault, 1983: 19) And it is this convention that would have us swear blind that the object in Magritte’s painting is a pipe, and caused the artist much reproach. I feel that there is also an element here of the human penchant for laziness. It is far easier to say ‘it is a pipe’ than ‘it is a painted representation of the two-dimensional appearance of a pipe’.
Harkness also states in his introduction that Magritte ‘disliked being called an artist, preferring to be considered a thinker who communicated by means of paint.’ (Harkness in Foucault, 1983: 2) What thought could Magritte be communicating in this particular painting? Perhaps it can be argued that what Magritte is trying to communicate in This Is Not a Pipe (also called The Treachery of Images) is the contradiction inherent in this linguistic convention, or indeed our laziness in refusing to say what we mean, as detailed above. It is also justifiable that there is some intent for commentary of mimesis in Magritte’s painting, indeed at the time of the paintings conception Magritte was, according to Michel Draguet, interested in ‘the meaning of mimetic representation.’ (Draguet, 2006: 34) There seems to be a disassociation of the painted pipe from the actual pipe, separating sign and referent, yet the tie cannot be wholly severed despite the fact that Magritte’s pipe cannot be lit; the resemblance is more than enough for identification. Perhaps this is the key – that we cannot fully deny representation/mimesis in art, as the human eye is trained to make order out of chaos, and will instinctively find a resemblance in art to the corporeal world.
The focus of Foucault’s assessment of Magritte’s notorious paining is on the combination of the painted and linguistic elements – in particular what the statement refers to. He makes three propositions, that ‘Ceci n’est pas une pipe’ refers to a) the fact that the drawing above the text is not a pipe, b) the text itself is not a pipe, or c) the combination of text and drawing is not a pipe. (Foucault, 1983: 26-27) The parallel drawn here between words and pictures (in asserting that the ‘ceci’ of the phrase could refer to either, and that neither is a pipe) is indicative of the proposition made by David Blinder in his article ‘In Defense of Pictorial Mimesis’, that for art theorists: ‘Pictures stand for things in much the way that words do: they are signs that denote.’ (Blinder, 1986: 19) Blinder also asserts that: ‘Words are paradigmatic graphic signs. They stand for (refer to) things in the world without imitating or simulating them at all.’ (Blinder, 1986: 22) Surely, if pictures stand for things in much the same way as words do, they also are not imitative. Blinder challenges this proposition of art theorists by claiming that although pictures cannot replicate reality, it is not subsequently entailed that pictures refer to the world like words do, as this denies pictorial dependence on and resemblance to a ‘real’ object (only onomatopoeic words do this). (Blinder, 1986: 19) We must conclude that reference to external reality is inevitable. Yet Magritte’s statement can tell us one thing for sure – that the mimetic image and the real object are not, and are not perceived as (despite linguistic convention), the same thing.
Harkness also states in his introduction that Magritte ‘disliked being called an artist, preferring to be considered a thinker who communicated by means of paint.’ (Harkness in Foucault, 1983: 2) What thought could Magritte be communicating in this particular painting? Perhaps it can be argued that what Magritte is trying to communicate in This Is Not a Pipe (also called The Treachery of Images) is the contradiction inherent in this linguistic convention, or indeed our laziness in refusing to say what we mean, as detailed above. It is also justifiable that there is some intent for commentary of mimesis in Magritte’s painting, indeed at the time of the paintings conception Magritte was, according to Michel Draguet, interested in ‘the meaning of mimetic representation.’ (Draguet, 2006: 34) There seems to be a disassociation of the painted pipe from the actual pipe, separating sign and referent, yet the tie cannot be wholly severed despite the fact that Magritte’s pipe cannot be lit; the resemblance is more than enough for identification. Perhaps this is the key – that we cannot fully deny representation/mimesis in art, as the human eye is trained to make order out of chaos, and will instinctively find a resemblance in art to the corporeal world.
The focus of Foucault’s assessment of Magritte’s notorious paining is on the combination of the painted and linguistic elements – in particular what the statement refers to. He makes three propositions, that ‘Ceci n’est pas une pipe’ refers to a) the fact that the drawing above the text is not a pipe, b) the text itself is not a pipe, or c) the combination of text and drawing is not a pipe. (Foucault, 1983: 26-27) The parallel drawn here between words and pictures (in asserting that the ‘ceci’ of the phrase could refer to either, and that neither is a pipe) is indicative of the proposition made by David Blinder in his article ‘In Defense of Pictorial Mimesis’, that for art theorists: ‘Pictures stand for things in much the way that words do: they are signs that denote.’ (Blinder, 1986: 19) Blinder also asserts that: ‘Words are paradigmatic graphic signs. They stand for (refer to) things in the world without imitating or simulating them at all.’ (Blinder, 1986: 22) Surely, if pictures stand for things in much the same way as words do, they also are not imitative. Blinder challenges this proposition of art theorists by claiming that although pictures cannot replicate reality, it is not subsequently entailed that pictures refer to the world like words do, as this denies pictorial dependence on and resemblance to a ‘real’ object (only onomatopoeic words do this). (Blinder, 1986: 19) We must conclude that reference to external reality is inevitable. Yet Magritte’s statement can tell us one thing for sure – that the mimetic image and the real object are not, and are not perceived as (despite linguistic convention), the same thing.
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