Writing Performance

I am starting a performance studies class. This is very exciting and new to me. It is outside of my department, with Maurice Stevens in Comparative Studies instead of the usual Dance. I had to go in a new building, find a new room, sit at a desk(!) and have a professor I have never met other than virtually–an oddity when you become a grad student in the same department where you were an undergrad.

But on the other hand, I’ve been taking this class for my whole life. Because I’ve been doing things. So I’m already starting off with an advantage. Well, I guess everyone is.

But really, the first readings made me feel quite particularly at home. I realize that I’ve been steeping in many of these ideas for a long time through my involvement with dance and performance art; now I’m getting a chance to see them articulated in different ways, which is great.

Part of the class is keeping a performance journal. Doing it here on my blog makes sense since that would allow me to make use of a pre-existing structure. I considered, however, doing more of a “performative” performance journal, in which I would regularly and intentionally do performances which would allow me to check in with my thoughts about performance. (I feel things are getting a bit through the looking glass, but hold on. . .) Then I realized that if I did that I would still find myself wanting to write about it, so why get rid of the writing? So I’m going to write about it here, and categorize these posts under “performance” so that I can lump them all together when I need to.

I’m not sure how tightly to focus my lens, especially because this week I have been hyper-aware of performance, seeing everything around me as actions that demonstrate themselves. I’ve been noticing myself noticing, I guess. It started sometime around when I read the first couple of chapters of Performance Studies by Richard Shechner, but really picked up steam in the class meeting, when the students were asked to do the following exercise.

1. in pairs, one person says “tell me why you’re here and tell me who you are”, making a point of showing the other person that you are asking these things.

2. the other person answers the question for 3-4 minutes. During that time, the one who asked shows that they are receiving the other person’s message, but does not partake in any of what one usually would do in conversation; that is, no verbal or physical prompting or directing of the other person. Just showing receiving.

3. The listener says “thank you”, and the people switch roles.

Lots of things happened that I want to take note of. First of all, I ended up partnered up with my good friend Michael, (who if you read this blog you are probably sick of me always mentioning “Michael this, Michael that”, I know–but if you knew him you’d be doing the same) and who I hadn’t seen in about a month. So just to get to look at him for three minutes brought about feelings of utter joy. However, my task was to show that I was listening. Aware of this, but also aware that I’d probably be asked to remember what was said, I tried to listen while I showed listening, and I couldn’t really do it. I was having trouble comprehending what he was saying, like my head was in a bubble or something. By the time he was done (only after he ran out of things to say and just looked at me for more than the last full minute) we were both a bit overwhelmed with emother and tearing up. We switched roles, and I was utterly tongue tied. I NEVER find myself tongue tied, so this was also noteworthy.

I went through several stages of reaction to all this that are worth noting and thinking about. First I felt like a real idiot. When I had to explain what I learned about Michael to the class I was like “wow, I did a bad job with this. No one gets to know all the wonderful things there are about Michael because of me”. I was focused on my performance as a student and a friend.

Then I wondered later why I couldn’t comprehend very well the words he was saying. To be fair, I remember his first words “To explain who I am right now is dubious at best. . .” And, during that last full minute of silence, that is when I actually felt like I received something. Perhaps because of what I know about Michael,simple silence also conveyed deeper meaning and referenced our history – I think we originally bonded over a shared aesthetic for slowness and stillness in movement performances. But he said lots of great things that I heard but that slid by my cognition. Why?

The lack of engagement in prompting on my part seems key. One thing I considered is that I never listen, and rather just engage in a routine set of “listening-like behaviors” that make me think I do, and that this exercise only made me conscious of that fact. This was horrifying. I also thought that maybe this has to do with people’s learning styles. If I’m really as kinesthetic as I think I am, maybe I can’t think without doing something physical. So maybe I do listen, but I just wasn’t aware of my style.

It might be true, I don’t know.

On the other hand, perhaps what changed, (and what I suspect may have been part of the pedagogical design of this ingenious but subtle, exercise) is that by performing listening so consciously here, and by slightly modifying my performance to fit the task, I began to observe my listening, and that crowded out some of my ability to comprehend what Michael was saying. I think this is very probable, especially when I think of my own package of hangups about performance, with a history as a trained dancer and stage performer.

Man, when I have the opportunity to perform, my eye of the tiger comes out. It’s, like, my thing. I became aware at some point that my obsession with my own performance, though helpful in a professional dance career, may be unhelpful in lots of other areas. Because I don’t want to keep living in crazytown, I don’t make theatrical performance anywhere near the center of my life anymore, and I don’t tend to draw quite as much attention to myself in public as I once did. Though I’m no wallflower still. But you should have seen me. . .I was a handful.

Did I mention we were sitting right next to this brand new (to me) teacher? So in addition to the simple task of showing I was listening, I’m pretty sure I was experiencing a layer of wanting to show that I was really good at showing I was listening, or a “good student” or whatever. What this brought up for me was a reminder of the a kind of oppression that comes from a focus on my own performance in whatever role I’m in; this in turn stayed on my mind as I went through that evening, and the next days, when I was with my family and my students. I was wondering “who else is trying too hard to perform in a way they might not need to right now?” Caveat: I think that as a student what I perform is complicated; it is a mix of curiosity, ego, desire. I don’t necessarily need to sort all that.

This is the wide lens. I would like to pursue this last question. I have had a bad case of “why does it matter?” lately. Particularly, dance, and my involvement with it. I like the question of “who else is trying too hard to perform in a way they might not need to” because perhaps I can ask that question with my creative work, or in my teaching. Perhaps through creating a performance work that puts this question out into the world, I can help someone else by giving them a chance to consider their own performances. Or perhaps in my own teaching I can set out to further this questioning among my students.

Either way, I’m glad it came up. Even if I can’t successfully share this question as an artist or teacher, I think the attempt to do so is good work for me. Even just being able to do work I have considered carefully and feel is good, has got to effect some change that is meaningful.