Shakespeare opens Hamlet with a question to the groundlings in the audience: “Who goes there?” The question has been repeated thousands of times over the last four hundred years; and while the words remain the same… the audience has changed. Mary Martin, as Peter Pan, begs the audience to clap their hands if they believe in fairies in order to save Tinkerbell. [1]
Woody Allen breaks rank in a theater and speaks directly to the camera, imploring the audience to agree with him and his opinion of the man behind him whose “pontifications” annoy him. [2]
Yoko Ono gives her audience scissors and allows them to cut away her clothes;
and Rirkrit Tiravanija transforms an art gallery into a makeshift kitchen to feed, both figuratively and literally, the gallery-goers.
In my thesis work I acknowledge the tradition of this model, but advance it through a reciprocal gesture in which the audience is made actor and thus, the art itself.
If theater, and art, is a reflection of life, then contemporary audiences (and artists for that matter) have changed in response to the schizophrenic condition of being both more intensely connected to the world on the one hand and increasingly isolated from it on the other: the blessing and curse of technology and globalization. As viewers, we’ve been lulled into passivity by a frenetic, sped-up, strident, and over-edited lullaby. Audiences deserve to be moved in new ways, with a different set of rules and forms that in turn acknowledge and use a contemporaneous vocabulary. Even now, and more so in the future as technology advances, it isn’t and won’t be enough to create a show that’s “seen,” or music that’s “heard.” The movement of art, across all disciplines, towards the inclusion & involvement of the viewer in sensorally holistic ways (including–in addition to sight and sound–thought, intellect, emotion and movement) opens the door on to new forms of theater, music, dance, literature, visual art… and life.
My work is driven by my desire to give the audience an opportunity to participate directly in artwork that celebrates and encourages our shared human experience. The methods I use are technology- and computer-based, but the issues I address (isolation vs. belonging, public vs. private, producer vs. consumer, and free will vs. destiny) resonate deeply within a larger collective understanding. Technology is both the tool and the metaphor for the bigger questions and concepts that intrigue me as a person and an artist.
In the 1950s John Cage was experimenting with a new, aleatoric form of art–namely, by rolling dice to determine what notes to use in his compositions. This variable, chance, is incorporated into my own work, as audience-as-actors are given scripts and directions, via a computer monitor, to read aloud from. The performances rely entirely on the audience members who happen to be in the gallery/theater at the time and no two performances will be the same. In short, without an audience there is no piece. This concept, of the audience becoming the piece, was utilized by Cage in 4’33, a composition created for any instrument, or combination thereof, with a score that instructs the musicians not to play anything for three movements. This famous and controversial composition is often thought to have been about silence, but is actually about the sounds of the audience and the environment in which it is performed. It was both frightening and liberating for an audience to be acknowledged and elevated in such a way. Believing composed music to be too limiting, Cage advanced unprecedented forms on his own and in collaboration with other artists. In his 1955 article "Experimental Music" he concludes: "Where do we go from here? Towards theater. That art more than music resembles nature. We have eyes as well as ears and it’s our business while we are alive to use them." [3]
My work too has moved towards the theater as I become increasingly informed by the ideas of Antonin Artaud, French playwright, poet, actor and theater director who is best known as the creator of The Theater of Cruelty. Artaud uses the term “cruelty” in many ways; but it is the use of the term “cruelty as theatrical presentation” that most relates to my work and is as relevant today as it was in 1938 when his book, “The Theater And It’s Double,” was published. Artaud “aimed to hurl the spectator into the centre of the action, forcing them to engage with the performance on an instinctive level.”[4] Moreover, he “sought to remove aesthetic distance, bringing the audience into direct contact with the dangers of life. By turning theatre into a place where the spectator is exposed rather than protected, Artaud was committing an act of cruelty upon them.”[5] For Artaud, this “cruelty” was a necessary evil designed to provide a wake up call to the complacent masses.
While my work might not go so far as to be a “wake up call,” it does challenge the audience-as-actors–that is, it questions how far they’re willing to go in compliance with a scripted scenario. At what point would they, or others have decided not to participate? How much of their participation is by their own volition and how much from a desire to please the unseen “creator” or fellow audience-as-actors? Are we “controlled” by the media or merely struggling to find some kind of common, shared experience through it?
Theaters and galleries–where my work is performed–are places where different people, usually strangers, come together to share a common experience. The space itself becomes a real world reflection of the virtual one, having both the potential to isolate us and bring us together. The use of language enhances this duality in my work, as the audience-as-actors are directed to speak words that are, at face value, relatively benign: they exist in their own time and space and are not connected to character, person or plot. In this decontextualized syntax, words and phrases can sometimes seem ridiculous or laughable, but also poetic, and maybe even beautiful. Philosopher, writer and political theorist, Brian Massumi, writes that “the uses of language can bring that inadequation between language and experience to the fore… and actually foster new experience[s].” [6] He goes on to identify humor and poetic expression as prime examples of this.
The absurdity in my work is influenced by Samuel Beckett, the Irish writer, dramatist and poet, who himself is one of the major players in what Martin Esslin calls the “Theatre of the Absurd.” Esselin describes it this way:
"If a good play must have a cleverly constructed story, these [Theatre of Absurd plays] have no story or plot to speak of; if a good play is judged by subtlety of characterization and motivation, these are often without recognizable characters and present the audience with almost mechanical puppets; if a good play has to have a fully explained theme, which is neatly exposed and finally solved, these often have neither a beginning nor an end; if a good play is to hold the mirror up to nature and portray the manners and mannerisms of the age in finely observed sketches, these seem often to be reflections of dreams and nightmares; if a good play relies on witty repartee and pointed dialogue, these often consist of incoherent babblings." [7]
By dispensing with conventional (theatrical) utilities of plot and character, and by eliminating references to time and place, my work, like that of the absurdists, is better able to focus on the essential components of the human condition. But where my work diverges is at the intersection of theater and art, in the place where artists like Bruce Nauman begin to explore the meaning of their work as coming not wholly from them (as the artist) but as a function of the experience of the viewer.
While Nauman concedes that the meaning of his work comes from the viewers’ experience of it, he does not relinquish his control entirely; rather, he attempts to manipulate the relationship between the viewer and his art–that is, he doesn’t afford the observers “too much freedom to invent what they thought was going on.” [8] For example, it’s impossible to walk through his room installations without feeling agitated and uncomfortable; viewers can’t help but give themselves over to these feelings.
But it’s not so much a matter of manipulation as it is a matter of understanding humans and human nature. Nauman places a mirror, so to speak, before the viewer but calls it art. In turn, this thing called “art” resonates in the gallery as a shared understanding. Performance artist and musician, Laurie Anderson, is also interested in using shared experiences in her work and explains that her goal as an artist is to “…find ordinary situations which people can understand in an immediate way. I have an ax, and there are huge frozen oceans inside everybody, and I just chip away at this, and look at it slightly differently from another angle. But it's not surrealistic. It's an incredibly ordinary old chunk of ice. And I know it works when people say, ‘I know what you're talking about.’” [9]
While Nauman’s work continues to influence my own, I am interested in pushing the audience to become actual participants in the creation of the work. For me, it is not enough to simply address the audience, like The Prince of Denmark. Instead, the audience must be invited in to become integral to the work. Nauman’s room installations will exist without viewers; but my thesis work depends entirely on the audience-as-actors and cannot exist without them. As my thesis work continues to evolve, I am mindful of the need to be intentional about the degree to which I use manipulation. Up until now, the audience-as-actors have been willing to participate in my work because the injunctions have been fairly benign. But what would happen if they were asked to say or do something that they considered repellant or taboo? They might opt to sit there or walk out, but they might also join in, creating a new, darker meaning for my work–one that I might not have as much control over.
Sacha Baron Cohen’s alter-ego, Borat, reveals in a disturbing sequence–in which he rallies a group of barflies to join him in his racist, albeit catchy tune, “Throw the Jew Down the Well”–the potentially manipulative agency of music, its uncanny ability to make us believe certain things and behave in certain ways. [10]
Dan Graham’s video, “Rock My Religion,” visually exposes the parallels between the rhythms and movements used by punk rockers and those used in religious ceremonies performed by the Shakers. He demonstrates how powerfully the music and movements connect the group members to each other, especially when they are ritualized in cultural/social events or religious ceremonies. Music, rhythm, dance and even humor are deeply and firmly implanted in our collective unconscious and connect us in far greater and more meaningful ways than even language.
Humor can bridge the gap between language and experience, according to Massumi, and in my work it also serves to make the audience-as-actors relax and feel more comfortable in the unusual role that has been thrust upon them. Laughter creates a “we’re all in this together” atmosphere, which only emphasizes the unsettled feeling that comes over many of the participants as they realize they’ve followed instructions without questioning what they were doing or why. Humor allows comedians to build trust with their audiences; and laughter, the vulnerable state that ensues, allows for the opportunity to reflect the true nature of the audience back to themselves. Andy Kaufman often invites the audience to join in on his childish little games; a striking example is when he suggests that the audience members at home trace the lines on the television screen to create stairs that he then climbs.
As the credits roll, Kaufman waves goodbye, but not before looking directly into the camera and calling the audience “a bunch of idiots” who will do anything he says. [11]
In “Stealing Beauty” Guy Ben-Ner uses humor to render weighty political statements about ownership and belonging not only palatable, but also entertaining–his family performs a semi-scripted soap opera in IKEA stores around the world.
Similarly, Charlie Chaplin employs physical comedy to charm the audience, and we can’t help but chuckle as he frantically tries to keep up with the production line he is working on. We continue to laugh, even as he gets sucked into the giant machine–making the realization that he is being crushed by industrialization all the more chilling. [12]
Humor, chance, poetry, language, absurdity, and an understanding and respect for humans and human nature are the tools that I use to build a bridge for the audience so that they can join me in the creation of my work. Tearing down the fourth wall and engaging the audience can be powerful: to this day I believe that the tiny fairy Tinkerbell survived after being poisoned because I clapped for her when Peter Pan asked me to. If I had not been watching Peter Pan at the exact time I watched it, Tinkerbell would have died, and without me, Neverland could not exist. It was simple, beautiful and profoundly moving. All of the things I hope to achieve with my work as an artist.
[2] Annie Hall. Dir. Woody Allen. Perf. Woody Allen, Diane Keaton. Rollins-Joffe Productions, 1977. DVD.
[3] Cage, John. "Experimental music: Doctrine." The Score and I. M. A. Magazine June 1955. Print.
[4] Jamieson, Lee. Antonin Artaud: From Theory to Practice. Greenwich Exchange, 2007: 23. Print.
[5] Jamieson, Lee. Antonin Artaud: From Theory to Practice. Greenwich Exchange, 2007: 23. Print.
[6] Zournazi, Mary. "Navigating Movements: An Interview with Brian Massumi." 21C magazine 2003: 8. Print.
[7] Esslin, Martin. The Theater of the Absurd. Garden City: Anchor Books, 1969. 4. Print.
[8] Weihnacht, Josh. "Bruce Nauman: The Viewer as Art." Input Pattern: Joshua Weihnacht. Apr. 1997. Web. Nov. 2009.
[9] Zurbrugg, Nicholas, ed. "Laurie Anderson." Art, Performance, Media: 31 Interviews. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 2004. 28. Print.
[10] Cohen, Sacha Baron. "Guide to USA 2: Country Music." Da Ali G Show. HBO. July 2004. Television.
[11] Kaufman, Andy. "The Andy Kaufman Show." The Andy Kaufman Show. PBS. July 1983. Television.
[12] Modern Times. Dir. Charles Chaplin. Perf. Charlie Chaplin. Charles Chaplin Productions, 1936. DVD.
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