Superstitions

For all my preference for experimental, innovative theatre, I like maintaining certain traditions when staging our shows. For instance, I like the presence of the physical text on the stage, I like the connection between actor and "book," because the book is where it all began, the origin of every story, of every dramatic possibility. The act of reading, of connecting with the final text, is an important part of the show, now even more so than in the past, perhaps because technology urges us to give up physical texts and I find myself so attached to them. I appreciate online publications, but I prefer holding the actual journal in my hands. I understand the need for wireless reading devices, but I'll always buy the book because the act of reading a physical text comforts me.

21st century theatre has a love-hate relationship with language. The text is less important than choreography, movement, silence, lights. While I often find myself sacrificing text for spectacle, I need texts on the stage to remind myself of our point of departure. It's a strange kind of homage to the written (and spoken) word...

The first time I did a production whose set was an art installation, I worked with two extraordinary artists: sculptor Jeni Battaglia and artist Susan David. From that point on, I've always had, as part of the set design, a piece of art made by Jeni and a painting by Susan. Call it tradition, call it superstition, call it what you will. All our plays, since that first hybrid (the theatre-art installation show), incorporate Jeni and Susan's work. Their visual language and my idea of the spectacle coincide.

I have other superstitions as well, like the fact that we need one or two terrible rehearsals before the show. We had one yesterday. Everything that could go wrong with the props did. Ellie ripped her tutu, Mike's medicine bottles popped open, Dan's microphone needed adjustment, props got in the way of the words written in chalk on the floor...Low energy, missed cues, people stumbling over words.

Dan looked broken at the end. He's not familiar with the process (or my superstitions), so I needed to reassure him that everything that happened was part of the normal course of things.

Karl is supposed to stop by tonight to make sure that all our sound connections are...well, sound (sorry: that was bad), and there's one lighting cue I'd like to change. Other than that, I think all we need is public. The cast has been performing to an empty house for too long. Jokes fall on silence and there's a distinct sense of emptiness in the air.

Susan is taking pictures tonight, which is good. The cast needs to see itself. That's the problem with the people in my productions: they don't get to see the play, and the look -- the visual spectacle I'm always trying to achieve -- is as important as the rhythm of the production. The actors internalize the rhythm but, during the performance, they're never able to see the spectacle. So photographs are good.

Went shopping for shoes with Dan. My image of Larry is a bit of an homage to David Tennant's Dr. Who. Cool clothes, funny shoes. But instead of the suit, I went for an all black ensemble: slacks and one of those awesome thin, black sweaters that Batman relaxes in when he's Bruce Wayne. Ok, so it sounds like Larry is a hybrid between Batman and Dr. Who. He's not. It's just that his shoes can't be regular shoes, there has to be something slightly off about them. I found a pair that has a similar design to that of the sportsy shoes Gabe has. I am perfectly aware of the fact that people who wear similar shoes are not soulmates in reality. On the stage, however, I hope the connection will be visible. Gabe connects with Larry even before they meet.

Today is Dan's birthday. I knew that, but he took me a little by surprise when he confessed to it. For reasons that will be revealed later on, I couldn't wish him a happy birthday. He said, "I am 29...Today" I said, "I know," and pointed him in the direction of the shoe store. He now probably thinks that an old Romanian custom prevents me from wishing people happy birthday. Or he just thinks I'm rude. Oh well. All will be revealed, my friends, all will be revealed...

Dan wants definitive answers about the show. "How do you feel about it? How do you think it's going?" and I must frustrate him a little, because I refuse to give definitive answers. What can I say? That we had several rehearsals that were so good, I barely had any notes at the end? That there was that one "crazy good" performance which I hope we can duplicate? That technology is still on my mind and that I'll spend that hour and 20 minutes on the opening night praying that mics or lights or cables or speakers won't explode or fall on the actors' heads? What can I say? An overconfident, "We got this"? Superstition prevents me from making such statements. Am I terribly worried about everything that could go wrong? Up to a point. We have a tradition of pretty damn good opening nights. So I say very little and sound hesitant when, in fact, I am not. There are four more days until another public gets to see yet another fragment of the world that has settled in my mind for a while now. I often feel like I carry around my own museum without walls. And in times of dire economic straits, I don't even charge admission.