“Theatrum mundi”: the world as a stage, the stage as the world;
an expression that is congruent with what I claim to be my own ars poetica
(or at least one dimension of it), namely that art finds its true meaning in the
representation of reality, of existence, being the only field of human
expression that truly and fully has this capacity. Other areas of human
activity - such as philosophy, theology, the empirical sciences - tell us about
aspects of the worlds, even essential things about those - perhaps even about
the most important things of existence; however, art has the unique and specific
capacity (and mission, I would say) to represent existence as it is: in
its richness, complexity, even ineffability; existence, as it were, in motion,
alive.
Thus, in a kind of a follow-up to the previously posted
opera travelogue, what follows below is an excursion (occasioned as well, in a
way, by the COVID-19 pandemic) through different authors and works from the world of
theater, trying to look at how
existence is reflected and is brought
alive in these pieces of art.
While reading the text of a play, I usually prefer to listen to it, at
the same time – or at least to watch the play, very soon thereafter. First
of all, because these texts are written in order to be played,
and thus the text comes alive, receives existential depth, truly and really
when being acted out. Secondarily, and especially in the case of
Shakespeare, listening to the play while reading it (e.g. listening to a radio
play) allows me to slow down mentally and to concentrate on the words, and thus
to better take in the depth and richness of the Shakespearian language.
So this is what I did, then, over a week or so – I “read”
thus five plays, from five different authors, from different cultural periods
and spaces – and, yes, I did find life, existence, reality - alive, in
them; but, in different ways, in each of them.
Twelfth Night, or What You Will, by William Shakespeare
In Shakespeare’s plays life resides and pulsates in the
depth and power of his language, as he creates and uses a vocabulary that is
not just tremendously rich and versatile, but also relentlessly innovative. Life, then, can
be found beneath and in the words – in the language – of Shakespeare’s
plays; hence also the many sayings and (by now) common expressions originated and “enshrined” by these plays.
Reading his texts, therefore, can not be done in a rushed,
half-attentive, superficial manner; his words and his sentences are dense, thick,
and poetic; they require attention and – as I mentioned above – to be acted out,
to be lived out (which helps to further reveal their richness and meanings).
Indeed, Shakespeare’s relationship to language is different from other authors’
(see, below, Tennessee Williams); in fact, I personally do not know of a greater
craftsman with “language”, in any language or culture. And yet this is
not facile craftsmanship, that plays with language for the sake of it; no, his words are rich with life, teeming with it - they're like round leather
pouches filled up to bursting, veins showing – and how Medieval, how
Renaissance, this is, of him, and of his language! – to have such a virile,
life-filled baggage of words! What a difference from today, from our own times,
when most words seem to have lost their power, their life-power, to have been tired out, worn out, spent!
But maybe it is but Shakespeare himself, and his ability to grasp life, and to
imbue his language with teeming life, that makes the difference. But maybe it
is also the fact that life – emotions, passions, existence – seems to have been
lived more intensely, even more violently, I would say, in the Middle Ages and during the
Renaissance (because I noticed the same aspects in Cervantes, as well). Because,
yes, passions abound, in Shakespeare (or in Cervantes); powerful feelings, a certain violence
of sentiments and of actions – that, once we start truly noticing it and taking it
seriously – we realize how different it is from our less passionate times (and our less passionate words)!
So, yes, the great pleasure in reading Shakespeare is to
watch, as it were, a craftsman at work; like one of those anonymous craftsmen who
sculpted, with precision and imagination, with power of sentiment and of spirit,
those wooden basreliefs on those magnificent cathedral doors.
And this is true even if, as it is the case with this play, what
we have to deal with is a farce, a lighter piece - one probably written on
commission (the
Twelfth Night being probably written as a
divertimento
for the celebrations of the twelfth day of Christmastime, at the conclusion of
that festive season; see also its other title,
What You Will), by a journeyman
artist who needs to make plays, in order to earn a living, as well. Yes, even
so, and even here, we find the same craftsmanship at work – for example when we see Shakespeare
coining expressions which concentrate life and experience with such zest and
plasticity, that they have by now become part of our own vocabulary (for example, “Some
are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon
them”; yes, this is from this specific farce, from
Twelfth Night). And we can
also observe in this play the craftsman’s sheer joy of creation, in his
delight in wittiness - because, what is wittiness, if not the play with words and
with meanings – that is, the skill to understand and to manipulate the relationship
between existence and language, that goes to the very core of the craft of
the writer?
And it so happens that the driving engine of this play is precisely that, wittiness
– see the prominence, and the recurrence, in the play, of the character of the
Fool, who is the master of wit par excellence. But being a master of wit
- as another character observes – requires that one is a keen observer and true
knower of human beings, and of their human nature; well, isn’t that true of
Shakespeare himself, and isn’t he stating all this, implicitly, about himself, as
well - and about his skill with language and about his understanding of human nature (of human existence)?
Wittiness, then, is the elemental force shaping this play – and
thus a lot of the play is actually taken up by such exercises in wittiness: wordplays,
exhibitions of mental skill, pranks. This is why I think that stagings of this play that omit exactly these parts, these playful games with words and
with existence, while focusing instead on “the action”, are in fact missing the
main point, the driving force, the very meaning (in a way) of the play;
especially since the plot itself is a light one, typically farce-like, being based
on a case of mistaken identities, and of the conflicts, tragic and comic, arising
from them; thus, a fairly thin plot, but an appropriately fitting opportunity -
for wit, for wordsmithing, for mental games – and for us the spectators to
delight in these fireworks – in this interplay between language and existence!
The play is even somewhat unfinished, we may say – or, to
put it differently, maybe a bit imbalanced, overall; for example, Malvolio’s
fate is never really and truly clarified and concluded; or, Antonio is left
without a mate, while he probably should have ended up with Viola, at least for
symmetry’s sake, mirroring Olivia’s final pairing with Sebastian; and so
on. And yet, all this is not that important – as the purpose of the play, as
said, is in our delighting in wittiness - of words and of actions; of how the
characters play with the various possibilities of existence, with appearance
and reality, and with the role of words in all this – each of the characters being both perpetrator and victim, at turns, of such games, pranks, and cunning
plans.
Language and life, words and existence, then - and the great
craftsman of language at work on them - within the framework of a delightful - and witty - farce.
The Cherry Orchard, by Anton Chekhov
Apparently there is not much happening in
The Cherry Orchard? It is summer and, under the oppressive heat of noonday, the
crickets are chirping, and the people are... not going anywhere; neither
outwardly, nor within; they are languishing, immobile, apparently. This is, anyway,
the feeling - of a summery, static day (even if the action actually takes
place in early spring, and then in the autumn). But, still, apparently not much
is happening (although much is, in fact) - and this apparent immobility (which
frustrates a few of the characters tremendously) actually covers (and reveals)
life:
real, human life - which is very much what
is in fact happening.
But even in terms of the actual “action” of the play – aren’t
there major things taking place, as well? After all, the family is in the
process of losing the orchard, the house – of losing everything, in fact! Yes,
everything seems to be going away, to be slipping through their fingers – just
like existence itself.
And the characters? They are, obviously, tragic – and also,
deeply comic. How? Well, first of all we notice the fact that most of the
characters are meant to represent “types” – and thus we have comic types such
as the frivolous maid, Anya; the pragmatic, business-minded, and somewhat dull Lopakhin;
the idealist, revolutionary-minded Trofimov; the “slightly decadent and thoroughly
impractical nobleman”, Gaev; the devious and untrustworthy servant, Yasha; the
tragic, failed landowner, Lubov Andreyevna – a bit dissolute, but at the
same time filled with passion; and so on. In their being “types”, there is comedy –
expressed through their mannerisms and expressions... But the deeper comedy is
not there, but comes from their
very being – from their very tragi-comic
being. In this sense, I would call the author’s perspective, his vantage point,
almost god-like; in the sense that, “from a certain distance” (as the
BetteMidler song goes), all of us humans are deeply and endearingly comical –
but also deeply tragic, in our existential suffering.
The Chekhovian comedy, then, is the comedy of existence,
of being – deep underneath.
But the most powerful aspect of this play, and of Chekhov’s
artistry – is the presence of life. Life, as that great, deep river, that
comes we know not wherefrom, and goes we know not whereto, and in whose middle we
find ourselves, floating, taken by it – and it passes us, everywhere: above,
below, and all around us. Life, or time - deep, overtaking us, carrying us, uncontrollable;
it is this sensation of flowing, immense life, in which we find ourselves, which escapes
our grasp and control, that feeling usually inexpressible through words - of real existence and of real time - that the play most poignantly reflects (underneath, and overall) - and
this is what constitutes for me its most powerful artistic feature.
In terms of the “action” of the play proper, of what “happens”,
the story is one of loss, and of human impotence in front of it. But isn’t life
itself, loss? – at least, in the sense of time, continuously
departing us, rushing backwards, forever slipping through our fingers, sand-like?
Aren’t we all helpless - and defeated – at the end, with regards to... the time itself?
And isn’t even Lopakhin, the pragmatic and successful businessman,
who has risen from nothing to great riches, who is thus the great master of the
materiality of existence, of that visible aspect of life – isn’t he, in fact,
also paralyzed, impotent, incapable of “action”, seemingly, when it comes to matters
of the heart? And, when pressed, doesn’t he admit that, besides the moments
when daily busy-ness carries him and then gives him meaning, he is at pains at
explaining what it is all about? (And that they, all of them, there, in
his environment, live what are ultimately grey, boring existences?)
And Trofimov, the ideas-driven and -possessed, social reform-obsessed young student – isn’t he reproached by Lubov Andreevna, gently, for his severity and unbendingly demanding attitude toward the rest, toward her? Here are her own words, to Trofimov: “What truth? You see where truth is, and where untruth is (...) You boldly settle all important questions, but tell me, dear, isn't it because you're young, because you haven't had time to suffer (...)? You boldly look forward, isn't it because you cannot foresee or expect anything terrible, because so far life has been hidden from your young eyes? You are bolder, more honest, deeper than we are, but think only, be just a little magnanimous, and have mercy on me. I was born here, (...) I love this house. I couldn't understand my life without that cherry orchard, and if it really must be sold, sell me with it! (...) My son was drowned here. (...) Have pity on me, good, kind man.” Yes, have pity on the fallen... of this battle of life (the fallen who, as you will eventually come to discover for yourself, after you have
lived life – are
everyone). Yes, youth is rigid and demanding , because it hasn’t had time to be “broken”, yet; because it hasn’t had time to live, to experience,
life (and thus to be eventually defeated, or tired, or broken, by it).
And isn’t it similar, as with the individual person, so with entire human societies (or cultures) as well? Without trying to be too ambitious or wide-ranging with our verdicts (which
would be improper and rash), could we not say that this sort of understanding
of existence, of time, and of history (which, we assume, the Russian culture
and society possesses), is the outcome (gain?) of that society having had time
(i.e. history) to experience defeat – because the outcome of
history is always, inevitably, defeat? That time wins, in the end – so that no one
(person or society) can ever becomes the master of time, of history?
Thus I wonder what readers (spectators) from “younger” societies (“younger’, in
this sense, of societies that haven’t had enough time to truly experience history) might make of Chekhov, of these characters, and of what
happens in the play; what do they make of this understanding of (or feelings about) time, life, existence?
Two more notes about certain poignant moments from the play: one,
at the end, when, after everyone else has left the house, Lubov Andreevna and
her brother, Gaev, embrace each other, in a muted, mutual expression of pain,
and of loss. Because they have not been completely unaware, throughout the play (contrary to how it might have appeared), of all that has been taking place – they
have simply been taken over, rendered incapable of acting, of changing things - by it, by life. And another moment – again at the end of the play, in fact at
its very end – when Fiers, the old and loyal servant (whom they literally forgot
behind, in the locked house), examines himself, and his life, stating that: “Life's
gone on as if I'd never lived. [Lying down] I'll lie down. ... You've no
strength left in you, nothing left at all... Oh, you... bungler!”
Chekhov great achievement, then, is this – the depiction of
life, of time, in its uncontrollable, ultimately ungraspable, all-overtaking
and leaving-one-and-all-behind, continued flow. And this is indeed a remarkable thing -
how Chekhov succeeds in depicting exactly this commonly experienced, yet hardly
expressible, sensation of existence – this life experience so common to all human
beings, and yet so rarely actually expressed.
But isn’t it true that most of what life actually
is, our daily experience thereof, we neither speak of, nor is it
easily expressible? Which is why we mentioned at
the very beginning of this survey that only art seems to have the capacity to
express – or, rather, to depict - the complexity and the inexpressibility of
existence; and here is Anton Chekhov, doing exactly that. And he does that in
and through the deep and rich (yet absolutely not out-of-the-ordinary)
characters that he creates – in whom said life comes alive. Characters
who also possess (as all human beings do, when looked at benevolently)
that bittersweet combination of the tragic and of the comic, that is a feature of human existence. And all of this is so... life-like.
La cantatrice chauve (The Bald Soprano), by Eugène Ionesco
So, how could
La cantatrice chauve (title whose
literal translation would be “The Bald Songstress”), which everybody knows as
a play that is the very “emblem” (like Ionesco himself) of the
theater of the
absurd - how could it be included in a discussion about “art as the expression of real existence”? And yet, it is, this play – it is
about true
human existence - and quite powerfully so.
How? an expression of existence?
Well, let’s see what
The Bald Soprano actually presents to us, the spectators. Well, it presents us the dull small talk, around the dinner table, in which families engage daily, instead of real interpersonal communication; and thus - see? - it presents to us a very
common, quite familiar, perhaps even central aspect of everyday life. Furthermore, does
this not point, also, and perhaps, toward a deeper truth of existence; namely, a certain (perhaps unbridgeable) incommunicability of the
self, within human interaction? - or, perhaps, simply to the lack of real communication that plagues so
many relationships?
What else? Well, the play also shows us lack of
communication as it happens at a social level - as illustrated by the emptiness
and monotony of social small-talk; small talk that we could define as being the
objectivized, emptied of meaning, polite, externalized exchange of “words”,
but not of “selves” – which, thus, does not represent real human interchange.
And what else? Well, the play also presents us the accumulated tensions
that sometimes linger beneath, underlying interhuman relationships – that are there,
unsaid - muted resentments (stemming from hurts past, undigested, or perhaps from guilts)
that plague so many of our interhuman relationships. (Strong existential stuff, isn’t it?) And, in this sense, I found the scenes in which Ms. Smith abruptly expresses these deep-lying resentments, by suddenly and aggressively (and impotently) baring her
teeth, animal-like (like a dog, or an angry cat), as being both very expressive
and poignant, as well as utterly funny.
All these – the lack of communication that plagues the human
relationships; the tensions and resentments that poison them; the dullness and
monotony of formal social interaction – are aspects that we know very
well, that are obviously part of our everyday existence. Moreover, they are (or
can be) very painful aspects of said existence – and the pain (especially
for the perceptive or sensitive persons) comes exactly from the incapacity of expressing
these things, of pointing out these phenomena - because how can one truly
communicate the lack of true communication that plagues a relationship, exactly to the
other person in that relationship, the very person who is seemingly incapable or
unwilling to truly communicate (what a painful, agonizing, vicious
circle!)? Or think of the difficulty of becoming aware of, of grasping and of taking hold of - let alone expressing – the deep, underlying resentments that plague
our own relationships with others, sometimes unconsciously or unawares, sometimes not, and that stem, as said, from past hurts or maybe guilts...
The virtue of The Bald Soprano, then (and I don’t
mean “virtue” in an utilitarian sense, i.e. that a play needs to ”do” or to achieve
something, but in the sense of it being a true artistic act, expressing existence) –
its main virtue, then, is exactly the powerful, raw, and artistically courageous way
in which it portrays these unsaid and inexpressible “interstices” or “subterrains”
of our existence; thus expressing – the unutterable.
And let us also mention that Ionesco is funny, relentlessly
so – by which I mean, that he himself is funny, as a person; that the absurd
itself is comedic (by virtue of the inherent clash that it contains); and also that
there are specific funny moments and utterances in the play. See, for example, bon
mots such as: “Beware: if you caress a circle long enough, it will become
vicious!” – and so on.
I should also mention Ionesco’s connection with the artistic spirit and style of
Dadaism – which, I would say, are strongly reflected in the
artistic freedom and playfulness of
La cantatrice chauve – and, in fact,
in its very
absurdity. But I am not saying by this that Ionesco was “influenced”
by Dada - but only that he was obviously in a mutual dialogue with it (the movement
slightly preceding him, generationally – and many of the important
figures of Dada having been, like Ionesco himself, of Romanian extraction). And
what had Dadaism been if not an expression, emerging during and just after World War I, of
civilizational collapse – which also implies a deep and generalized loss of
meaning, and of
communicability?
Speaking of words that have lost all meaning, one should note that
this play (which was written, of course, in French) was inspired by (if I recall
correctly) language lessons from English language textbooks, which Ionesco studied while
trying to learn (or to improve his knowledge of) that language. And, yes, what
better example of words that have lost all connection with their existential grounding,
that have been completely removed from (and out of) life – of words that have
become signifiers without the signified, objects meant to illustrate not existence
but “rules”, simple mannequins engaged in an artificial, mechanical game – than
the words used in grammar exercises or in vocabulary lessons! And this is also why the main
characters, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, are an English couple; and why all the other characters
– and the chairs, and the apartment, and the dinner, and the evening - everything,
really – are English (English being the foreign language, and Englishness itself
being - at least until lately - the byword for formalism, etiquette, reserve, and lack of communication.)
This play, then, expresses in a paradoxical way (through its
very absence, that is) the deep and important connection between language
and existence, between words and being – showing us what happens when that existential grounding of language is gone - when words become empty vessels... for what? In that sense, what a
powerful illustration of an existential truth, done not in a didactical fashion, but -
as any artistic act worthy of its name would do it – through a representation
of existence (of life, in action – even if absurdly so)!
And I should also note that, yes, I do find the play a bit uneven
(at times), in that not all the moments are of equal intensity and constancy of
purpose. Yes, I think that Ionesco could have been more disciplined, artistically, as I found him - at times! only at times! - improvising, diverging from the main, focused
thrust of the play, for the sake of facile, easy divagations; thus disturbing (in
my view) the aesthetic unity of the work. (It’s like making silly, easy jokes
- when the humor is actually deeper down, in the action of the play, and
in its characters.) And yet, there is a degree of charm in this “unevenness”,
as well, reflecting (or expressing) Ionesco’s perennial youthfulness (which is
also a defining characteristic of any authentic Dada), perhaps youth-like rebelliousness. (It brings to mind the acidic or parodic literary essays that he wrote
in his youth, and through which he attacked his contemporaries, as a true
anarchist fire-bomber on the literary scene; and it brings to mind the genre of
the “essay”, as that light, inspiration-driven, quick, and thus somewhat uneven,
type of writing (as cultivated in Europe, e.g. in the Francophile cultural
areas.) In other words, I can write up even this unevenness to Ionesco’s
charm.
To conclude: yes, this is the theater of the absurd – but,
in fact, or by that very fact, it is also an artistic expression,
and a very powerful one, of (some) truths of existence – and more
specifically of some of the unsaid, or hardly inexpressible, aspects of existence.
This is, then, real, true art - therefore.
A Streetcar Named Desire, by Tennessee Williams
Tennessee Williams’
A Streetcar Named Desire also
reflects life, but through means at the opposite stylistic end from Shakespeare’s (his tremendously rich and powerful poetic language) or from Ionesco’s (the
deconstruction of language) – namely, by using (in Williams’ case) direct, raw,
“street” language: the (recognizable) language of our everydays. And it is this
directness, this recognizability of the language, that first surprises us, and then
inevitably draws us into the action of the play.
Because of this artistic language, in this case I did not need to follow my habit
of simultaneously listening to the play being acted out. Instead, I listened to
New Orleans jazz, which was a most fitting choice - both personally, as a
suitable soundtrack to my reading of the play (the action taking place in the
French Quarter of NOLA) – and also theatrically, as, according to Tennessee
Williams’ instructions, New Orleans music should be playing more or less continuously
during the play, providing both the atmosphere and the “street noise” for the action.
So, a felicitous and most fitting choice.
Williams’ raw, direct, “natural” language, then, is perhaps the
most poignant aspect of this play. However, that is not the only
way in which “everyday, street” reality is present – as another
existentially realistic dimension is represented by the dramatis
personae that Williams’ creates and sets before us: Stella, Stanley,
Eunice, Mitch (but less so Blanche, who comes across as a bit
Bovarian, and thus a bit “artificial”, overwrought, maybe).
Overall, then, what essentially defines - and also sets this
play apart from all the others that we have discussed - is its
rawness, its realism, its recognizable everydayness - expressed both through the language (first and foremost), and also as embodied by the characters (secondly).
This “raw realism”, however, coexists with certain “expressionistic”
touches, as well, and with a slightly “dreamy” atmosphere; yes, and these things
coexist well, and do not deny or cancel out each other. I am referring here,
for example, to Williams’ stage directions – his play with lights and shades, and with
the shapes of the apartment, its walls and its doors – which is meant to both
set the atmosphere, and to reflect the given state (mood) of the characters. I would
also include here the aforementioned, ongoing soundtrack of the NOLA streets –
the ever-playing background of jazz music, which sets the entire thing within a
“New Orleans atmosphere” (both raw and instinct-driven, and also with a specific, quite appealing charm - just like some of the characters in the play).
And, just like in Ionesco's case, I felt some unevenness in this
play, as well (although in fewer instance than in Ionesco's) – by which I mean aspects of the
play that strayed, or took away, from its dominant tone (nature). First of all, I found the very title to be somewhat infantile, like adolescent poetry; yes, there might
be a street named “Desire”, in NOLA, and thus a tram that leads there, which
can thus be referred to by the same name; but this is such a cheap metaphor for
what takes place in the play... although, we must admit, such tricks do work;
and I am pretty sure that this play would not be as widely known (its title, at
least), if it would carry a different title (just like with the novel, The
Unbearable Lightness of Being, of which the title is the most memorable
part).
I did not find the conclusion of the play all that convincing,
either - namely the way in which Stella decides to put up with, and to live
with, Stanley’s egregious transgression (by ignoring it). To be clear, it is not the
depiction of the act of lying to ourselves that I object to – oh, no, that is a well
known reality of life (that we all do, at times, in order not to disturb or shatter our lives); I am
referring specifically to the way in which this decision is so hurriedly argued
for, settled, and then left behind; too momentous a decision for me, to be bypassed just so quickly, and so abruptly - and too big for Stella to do it so "easily". (And, no I am not referring to the decision regarding Blanche - but to her decision regarding Stan.)
Finally, some of the emotional reactions of the characters
seemed to me a tad overdone, a bit overly dramatic; but that might have to do
with stylistic choices pertaining to the acting styles of the time (think of the
James Dean, or of the women actors of the thirties) - or maybe with Williams’
peculiar artistic sensitivity.
Having made these observations, I should however say that these aspects, albeit duly noted, do not detract from the overall impact and poignancy of the play - which, as said, quickly grabs and powerfully engages us, exactly because of (and through) the way in which it
depicts raw, everyday, natural life - through its directness and authenticity.
And all this is achieved mainly through the medium of the language that
Tennessee Williams’ constructs and uses; and, make no mistake, this is a
testament to Williams’ artistry, because creating “realistic dialogue” and using
“natural language” requires tremendous effort and implies exquisite artistic
skill. Through all this, A Streetcar Named Desire is, indeed, existence – “street,
raw, everyday, natural” – on the stage.
Six Characters in Search of an Author, by Luigi Pirandello
At first glance, Luigi Pirandello’s play,
Six Charactersin Search of an Author (Sei personaggi in cerca d'autore), could not be more different from Tennessee
Williams’, and from that “immediate description of everyday, street reality”,
Indeed, Pirandello’s piece is about six “characters” who, abandoned by their
original author (!), take over the rehearsal session of a theater troupe,
looking for someone to stage
their story. At first glance, then, as
said, this could not be more different for Williams’ play – and, in terms of artistic
approach, of style, it is – being something resembling meta-theater, or (some would
say) even absurdist theater. At the same time, however, Pirandello’s work could
not be more focused on what is the central issue of our entire investigation -
namely, the relationship between theater and life, between
art and existence.
Because this is, in fact, what is at the center of Pirandello’s play: the
relationship between existence and text, between one’s being and one’s story.
And, as one of the “characters in search of an author”, “the Father”, concludes
at the end of the play: all this is about real existence - about
reality!
Even before starting to read his play, we might be
helped (by being introduced to its central conceit) by Pirandello’s critical
and authorial “
preface” (which is also a kind of “personal
confession”), preface that is meant to set the stage
for said “characters in search of an author”, talking about how they (and how characters in general) emerged etc. Yes, we can be helped by such a preface – and
I very much enjoyed reading it; but I do not think that we absolutely
need it in order to be drawn into the play - because, immediately after it starts,
we are indeed “pulled in” by, on the one hand, the dramatic story of these “characters” - and, on the other, by the essential, existential questions that this entire “search for an author” raises about life, art and the artist. (Note that I will put the word “characters”
in inverted commas, when referring specifically to those “characters searching
for an author".)
And some of these questions about art and existence, raised explicitly or implicitly in and by the play, concern things (problems) with
which we are all very familiar. For example, the fact that there is always (and
that there always remains) a distance between existence (namely, the story, or
the existences, that live in the head of the author) - and the text produced by the author
(which tries to express on paper those existences) – and, then, the reception
of the text by the audience (i.e. how that text is at the end transformed, again,
into a new existence, in the mind or soul of the reader, so that at
the end we have a result that is never the same as the original existences,
that existed in the head of the author, and which started the whole cycle). But
wait, there's more!
Namely, that (as is known by most authors) in the process of creation,
once a character is born (comes alive) in the mind of the author, it very soon gains a certain
independence, a life of its own - so much so that the author becomes (almost) a “scribe” who, guided by this “existing” character, simply jots down its
adventures, its experiences, its life – which will then be the story of this now independent being. Well, this is exactly what happened in this case - explains Luigi Pirandello; that characters were born in his mind, only now the author (Pirandello himself)
refused to “give them a voice”, to “give them their story”, to “write down their
existences”; so that now, thus orphaned, they need to roam the world (of theater, I presume) and to look for a possibility for their beings to be expressed, for
their story to be told, and thus for their existence - to come to be.
This is then what happens in this play – and by thus cutting
out (and off) the “characters” from the “normal” creation process, Pirandello
sets the stage for us to be able to study and then to ask several essential
questions about the relationship between existence and art, and between author,
the work, and the public (including the role of the
intermediaries, of the actors). And - you see! - these are the very questions that
are at the center of our investigation into theatrum mundi - into theater as the representation of existence!
But I mentioned that another, immediately gripping, aspect of
the play is the very real and dramatic (and very personal) story in which the “characters”
are involved - which is their story. In this sense, I should note that I found it very appealing that the drama that actually shapes and defines their beings is a shared, collective, family drama; that
their being is thus inseparable from, and not understandable outside, this family
drama (a fact most powerfully expressed by the failed attempts of “the Son”, who never wanted to be here, on the stage - to escape the play; and yet he can not,
because his being is is indivisibly entangled in, and defined by, this family
story; that he does not have being outside of this story). (In this sense, I noted for myself that this play would make for some excellent
didactic material for training in systemic family psychotherapy – which
is the field of psychotherapy that examines how a person’s self is inescapably shaped by
the story of the system – the family – of which he or she is a part.)
For how can one have being, outside of one’s story? How
could one’s self be separated from one’s existence? Existence being inevitably
temporal, in the sense of taking place in time, each self has (intrinsically, as part of its very self) a trajectory (history); because one’s self grows only and through this history. (Of
course, one should also add here – with many others – that there is also a dimension of
the self that is transcendent of temporality, of historicity; yes, but please mark the “also” – namely, that the temporal dimension of the self is an inescapable, constitutive dimension of its existence - just like the transcendent one.) But this connection
between self and the self’s story (its existence) also helps us explain how and why once a
character receives “being” in an author’s mind, that character immediately starts “acting out” ("wants to act out") its “being” - that is, the existence that is peculiar and characteristic to that self; and thus, as said, the
author becomes a kind of a scribe, “only” assisting at, and noting down, what these
newborn, alive characters "do".
But let us not forget that in this case the author refused to “write down the
story of their being”, to “put in a text their existence” - thus orphaning these “characters”;
oh, what a cruel, cruel fate, for these “selves”! So now they are out there, looking
for an “author”, for someone to do just that - to allow for their story to be
written or acted out, and thus for their existence to come to be. (The play therefore
could have been called “six existences desperately looking for a chance at
expression”; but Pirandello’s title might be better.)
And so these “characters” (the Father, the Mother, the
Step-Daughter, the Son, the Boy, and the Child) materialize somehow at the
beginning of a rehearsal session of a company of actors that is led by a slightly arrogant and hasty, a bit obtuse, but also artistically curious, director (il capocomico).
And, after some persuading and explanation, the “characters” and the
“director” set out to “write down the story” of their existences, which is done by the
“characters” telling or acting out their very story (and, as they desperately try to
explain, what they are acting out is not an "illustration" of their existence, but it is, right there and then, their actual - and only - existence!). Meanwhile, the actors of the troupe are watching and observing (preparing
to act out this “play that is just being written”, engaging in hilarious attempts at interpreting or overacting what they see); at the same time, the prompter (who,
as we know, is in charge of the script) is taking furious notes - composing, in
fact, the script (the story), based on what he sees (the characters acting out the story). And all this, all this conundrum and hullabaloo,
represents an excellent “stage” for illustrating and discussing the difficulties inherent in transferring
existence into text - of the artistic process, from creation, to consumption - and even pointing out to the essential incommunicability of the self (the impossibility of complete and perfect communication).
And the play ends, as mentioned, with the Father exclaiming
that all this is by no means pretense or make-belief - as the director keeps believing and stating; that this is reality, real existence - it is their existence! Indeed, and it is
strange, isn’t it, how at the end of the play the “characters” – who, of
course, are not supposed to be “real people” – seem to us spectators more “real”, more “flesh-and-blood”, believable beings, than the director and the actors and the technical
staff of the acting troupe (who are supposed to be the “real people” in
this play). Why is it so? Well, perhaps because by the end of the play the
“characters’” story is the one that has been presented and fleshed out the most
- and that is what gives their being reality; because, as we get
to know and understand their drama, their own story, and how each of them acted or behaved
throughout their story, we actually begin to understand and to know them
as specific human beings. Yes, because, as discussed, the self is
inseparable from its story (from its existence, which is inherently
temporal). And thus we discover, with surprise perhaps, that the “beings” of
the “real people” in the play - the director and the actors and the prompter and
the technicians - appear in comparison “paler”, weaker, more superficial; in
other words, that the “characters” are, by the end of the play, more “real”,
than the presumably “real director and real actors”, whose beings seem like fleeting,
surface-only existences. And the reason for this is exactly what we mentioned: that
in the case of the director and of the actors we do not actually know
their “stories”, but the only thing that we know about them are the superficial
social interactions in which they engage during the rehearsal, including their outbursts
of ego, the apparent power dynamics etc. – that is, the masks (!) that we put up at our workplace, or in social contexts. In other words, the drama told and manifested by the “characters” seems a more - "really and truly" - human story, an honest and poignant one – than the superficial interactions that, in this play, represent the “story”
of the members of the theater troupe. It is understandable, then, why the selves of the “characters”
appear to us more “real”, more poignant, more true... than those of the presumably “real
people” from the play.
However, is not this superficiality of the social selves of
the actors and of the director, a very accurate description, in fact, of how we
ourselves actually live and behave? Are we not (at least some, if not most of the time), as it were, skating only on the surface of temporality, without
actually taking hold of our selves, without truly getting assuming our own real existences? And even if we would want to actually “get hold”
of our own self and of our existence, aren’t such efforts inevitably limited by the partiality of our capacities,
by the ultimate obscurity of our own self, by the ultimate ungraspability of our existence - in other words, by the fact that the only one who truly and fully knows us, our self and our existence, is God?
If this is true, then, are not the “superficial” (and annoyingly so!) existences of the director and of the actors more reflective of our lived
experience - than the “characters” who, although possessing a clear and
well-defined being and story, are, exactly because of that, fictional (that
is, clarified, simplified, already comprehended expressions of reality)? I suppose that the truth is somewhere in the middle - and we can not stop being annoyed at the waste of existence that the director and the actors are engaged in.
Anyway, these – and other such – questions arise, inevitably, from Pirandello’s engaging play, which involves us emotionally, intellectually, and existentially
as well, by dealing with real questions about the self and existence - and also about
art, the artistic process, and life; and doing this not through some dry
pedagogical nonsense, but through the “real” and passion-filled drama of “real” and full-blooded (they are Italian, after all!) characters.
***
And thus we reach the end of this survey of five plays, from
five different authors, from five different periods or cultural milieus – representing,
it turns out, five distinct artistic approaches, as well. And yet, notwithstanding this variety, we discover – surprisingly? unsurprisingly? – that they all, all these plays, deal with, represent,
and express, what we have been looking for: existence – and (implicitly or explicitly) the relationship between art and existence. Thus they
seem most fitting illustrations of that fragment of ars poetica mentioned
at the beginning – namely, that the mission of art is to express existence, because
art is that field of human expression (and of human knowledge) that is uniquely
and specifically able to express existence - lived existence, in its complexity and even ineffability.
