[ _____ ]
In conceiving the devised theater piece, I drew inspiration for a structure from my favorite NPR broadcast, “Radiolab.” Led by hosts Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich, each episode takes on questions about a certain topic, such as “blood” or “memory,” but the program does a remarkable job of resisting resolution of questions. Instead, the producers tell a sequence of stories around the one topic, pulling us in all different directions. The result is a non-narrative emotional experience made out real stories, and one that ends with losing certainty but gaining curiosity and a certain reverence for the topic at hand . I love it, and it’s exactly what I wanted to do with Missing in my own piece, “Between 7 and eight.”
Enter LUCAS OLSCAMP. Assistant Director. 19 . Scruffy semi-deity. What little sanity I retained during work on the devised piece I owe in large part to him.
Enter BRENDA, ATTILIO, GUILLAUME, SANYU, and SALBER. Stage Manager and Cast. Beloved friends and colleagues. I was exceptionally lucky to get them onboard, and all the luckier to keep them. On top of all of their accomplishments, they saved us all from what I would have made without them.
I started with 5 actors, including myself. Working with a group was a challenge. I could bring them the texts from my past work, but I couldn’t seem to give them the same experiences. At the time, I did not realize that this was because I was only sharing with them the hard archives of my previous work: texts and sounds. I was trying to remove myself, hoping to give them space to have their own experiences, making time for them to explore the texts without being contained within the narrow confines of my own opinions and beliefs and excitements for the material. I was now an archive full of details, and I wanted them to beginning collecting their own, and to collect details I had not or could have seen or experienced. Still, without sharing in the braiding I had undergone in the re-performance of processing, we had a distance between our understandings—a distance the actors could feel. Problems arose; some actors struggled to feel connected. How could I give them ownership over the material? Did they need it? I invented and reinvented ways of trying to communicate those experiences through the texts and audio, but the inspiration and fervor I felt from the experience of my earlier work was absent in the room. The images and stories we made were beautiful, but I could no longer see the people who were telling them. I was discouraged, and exhausted, and after stumbling across a few too many deadlines I had set for myself, I reached a tipping point.
Which of course, was the missing story of the piece. My search, my relationship to missing, my deep anxiety that I didn’t quite understand, my need to explore it at a distance, and thus to erect this enormous scaffolding of a process that I could speak about missing through. It was the story of the entire project. I didn’t understand missing, and I needed help, so I reached out. To strangers around the city, to peers and members of my community, and to close friends and fellow artists and theater makers. Together, we made 30 minutes of theater—three stories, drawn from the performance actions and ourselves, exploring questions of needing and missing and holding on and letting go.
Enter LUCAS OLSCAMP. Assistant Director. 19 . Scruffy semi-deity. What little sanity I retained during work on the devised piece I owe in large part to him.
Enter BRENDA, ATTILIO, GUILLAUME, SANYU, and SALBER. Stage Manager and Cast. Beloved friends and colleagues. I was exceptionally lucky to get them onboard, and all the luckier to keep them. On top of all of their accomplishments, they saved us all from what I would have made without them.
I started with 5 actors, including myself. Working with a group was a challenge. I could bring them the texts from my past work, but I couldn’t seem to give them the same experiences. At the time, I did not realize that this was because I was only sharing with them the hard archives of my previous work: texts and sounds. I was trying to remove myself, hoping to give them space to have their own experiences, making time for them to explore the texts without being contained within the narrow confines of my own opinions and beliefs and excitements for the material. I was now an archive full of details, and I wanted them to beginning collecting their own, and to collect details I had not or could have seen or experienced. Still, without sharing in the braiding I had undergone in the re-performance of processing, we had a distance between our understandings—a distance the actors could feel. Problems arose; some actors struggled to feel connected. How could I give them ownership over the material? Did they need it? I invented and reinvented ways of trying to communicate those experiences through the texts and audio, but the inspiration and fervor I felt from the experience of my earlier work was absent in the room. The images and stories we made were beautiful, but I could no longer see the people who were telling them. I was discouraged, and exhausted, and after stumbling across a few too many deadlines I had set for myself, I reached a tipping point.
“I need your help”
Which of course, was the missing story of the piece. My search, my relationship to missing, my deep anxiety that I didn’t quite understand, my need to explore it at a distance, and thus to erect this enormous scaffolding of a process that I could speak about missing through. It was the story of the entire project. I didn’t understand missing, and I needed help, so I reached out. To strangers around the city, to peers and members of my community, and to close friends and fellow artists and theater makers. Together, we made 30 minutes of theater—three stories, drawn from the performance actions and ourselves, exploring questions of needing and missing and holding on and letting go.
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