Choreographing Life’s Un-Choregraphed Moments: A Conversation on Intimacy and Combat for the Stage

#TKapowConversation #Season 17

Since returning to in-person rehearsal rooms and performance spaces after the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, safety and well-being took top priority among tKAPOW’s practices. Of course this meant testing, masking and livestreaming whenever possible and necessary, but it also meant reconsidering our theatre-making process with our actor’s wellbeing as the top priority. Like all art forms, acting is incredibly vulnerable. It requires one to put their body into various states of physicality and emotion, and even though we know cognitively that the circumstances are fictional, our bodies cannot always tell the difference. This is the reason that Intimacy and Combat choreographers have become essential members of well-rounded, safe theatrical teams. 

Theatre KAPOW has been working with Intimacy and Combat Choreographers consistently since the start of our fifteenth season. At the most basic level, Intimacy and Stage Combat Choreographers are responsible for creating the sequences of movement that make up moments of physically intimate contact between two or more characters, such as stage kisses, slaps or even weapon work. It’s a means with which to choreograph a character’s most raw and impulsive actions while keeping them organic and appearing completely un-choreographed. 

“A stage combat choreographer looks at the violence of a piece. So if there is either scripted violence, or a director has an idea of violence that might occur based on the acceleration of the scene, we are brought in to look at the background of the characters and dramaturgically assess what kind of choreography would fit on the bodies of two people engaged in a violent encounter, or the bodies of two characters who are engaged in a violent encounter and where those intersections come together,” shared Kyrie Ellison-Keller, who has worked with tKAPOW as both an intimacy and combat choreographer. Kyrie has choreographed two instances of violence for our September production, LIFE SUCKS. “My favorite Stage Combat Company to study with, Neutral Chaos Combat, they call us all Violent Dance Magicians. What we’re doing is we’re choreographing violence, but violence on stage is inherently not real, so it’s choreographed illusion. And if it’s done well, it looks violent.”

Samantha Griffin, Intimacy Choreographer for LIFE SUCKS., grew up as a dancer and finds the two artforms very comparable. “My dance background informs a lot of the ways that I choreograph without using sexualized language,” she says. “With dance, we’re very specific, like: on this exact count you move your hand this way, and on the next count you step here. That’s how I approach choreographing intimacy. I give people counts. I ask: how many steps will it take you to close this gap between you? I give actors a certain amount of seconds to hold a kiss or an embrace, and use the language of music and dance like ‘staccato’ or ‘languid.”’ 

Kyrie shared similar sentiments, saying that “a lot of the language [fight choreographers use] is co-opted from dance words, because most of the time when you walk into the room as a fight choreographer, you’re not getting to work with people who have been trained in weapons. You get to work with people who might have a really strong movement background, or who might have danced for 20 years, and you have to find ways to adapt.” Plus, she shared an interesting tidbit about the origins of swordplay language; dating all the way back to the 15th century, Fencing and Ballet were studied by the upper middle class simultaneously, which created an overlap in their terminologies. 

That being said, creating choreography is not the only purpose of having an intimacy professional in the space. “Intimacy choreography is a practice that’s been developing over generations. In simple terms, yes, it’s the practice of consent and boundaries for actors. We are people who can come into the space and arm actors and professionals with language and tools to create a consent-based environment that will safely allow us to step into characters and emotions that are not our own,” says Griffin. “A lot of my practice is working with actors playing emotionally-turbulent roles to figure out how they can connect and disconnect from them, so that they do not carry it with them into their personal lives.” Ellison-Keller adds: “There’s so much about stage combat and intimacy that looks really easy, because we do our jobs really really well. The people who come into those spaces to choreograph instances of heightened emotional turmoil have sensitivity training, have trauma-informed training, have choreographic training, and have experience beyond just looking at how to make something look violent or intense.”

A shared sentiment between the two was that their work goes beyond simply creating movement sequences. Sam says she thinks of herself as “an advocate for the actors,” and Kyrie says that “for a lot of people we’re check boxes, but we empower creators and creatives to tell risky narratives in a way that doesn’t end their careers.” Kyrie encourages any theatre professionals or companies who are interested in the work but are unsure where to start to simply ask questions. Both Kyrie Ellison-Keller and Sam Griffin remarked that the two mediums are commonly misunderstood and shied away from, but that the work is essential to the sustainable creation of bold theatre. 

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Join us for the first production of our 17th Season, LIFE SUCKS. by Aaron Posner (sort of adapted from Uncle Vanya by Anton Chekov) at the BNH Stage in Concord, NH on September 20, 21, and 22! Tickets are available here.

Thanks to Samantha Griffin and Kyrie Ellison-Keller for providing their insight and for the incredible work they do!

Technology and the Regression of Communication

It is well documented that the advancement of technology has ushered in a society that is more connected than it ever has been, yet (somehow) continues to regress in its ability to communicate truthfully.

“Today” we are told “we have knowledge at our fingertips that we could only dream of in generations past.” It is true; in 2018 you are mere keystrokes away from the extended works of William Shakespeare, a live stream of Earth from the International Space Station, or an instructional YouTube video on how to best prepare salmon steaks. We can FaceTime, voice chat, text message, SnapChat (take your pick) with people on the other side of the planet with next to no effort.

Objectively, these tools provided through technological advancement should only further enable us to communicate with our fellow human beings. Bring us closer together, not isolate us. The barriers of distance, time and language (thank you Rosetta stone!) have been torn down by iPhones and touch-screens, and yet YouTube comments and Twitter are inundated with hateful, poorly-spelled, half-baked excuses for thoughtful discourse.

At what point do we stop blaming the tools and start holding ourselves accountable for our behavior? The reality is, barriers of language and trust are only brought down through vulnerability and honesty, behaviors that are not made easier through the newest gadget or social media. In fact, there is a very real case to be made that the interconnected modern society is actively detrimental to the idea of being truthful and vulnerable.

By connecting society through cell phones and computer screens, people are more exposed than ever. An errant tweet from years past is now grounds for firing, not to mention the vicious witch-hunt that comes, fully enabled through social media. “Burn in hell, sinner!” is so much easier to tweet than it is to verbalize; to speak to someone’s face.

Brian Friel so perfectly illustrates in his play Translations how difficult it is to truthfully communicate with one another. We are so eager to throw up walls (be they technological, cultural or linguistic) to avoid the effort and discomfort that comes with a real human connection. “Say anything at all; I love the sound of your speech” says English Lieutenant Yolland to the local Irish woman Maire Catach. She is speaking Latin (completely unintelligible to the Lieutenant); desperately trying to communicate with him despite this seemingly unassailable barrier. And yet this young, earnest pair connect in a very real way, speaking in the universal tongues of smiles, laughs and sighs. No computers, no Google Translate, no cell phones. Just two people and the warm, Irish air of a summer night in 1833. Intent is everything, and this highlights the exasperatingly simple solution to this age-old problem:

Make an effort.

Society, it seems, has come to the conclusion that technological advancement enables our problems to be solved for us. The average first-world citizen has been given a free pass to check-out; intellectually as well as socially. We, as a society must recognize that the advancement of technology must be accompanied by a commensurate advancement and evolution of our intellectual and civic responsibilities. The technological marvels at our disposal are not crutches. They’re ladders. Let’s start using them.

~Jimmy Stewart

tKAPOW's production of Brian Friel's Translations runs September 28 to October 6, 2018 .

Saying Goodbye to Thebes

My first main stage production with theatre KAPOW was in September of 2013 when we mounted our first run of The Burial at Thebes. It is a beautiful contemporary adaptation of the Antigone play by the famous Irish poet, Seamus Heaney. It is an uncommon privilege in the theater world to come back to a script and perform the same roles over several years, however, this was the experience for myself and a handful of other actors. For the past 5 years we have returned to Thebes each September to perform for the freshman class at St. Anselm College to coincide with the these new students’ reading of Antigone. We have also performed on a few other occasions for high school students.

This September will be our last run of the show and our 7th time re-mounting the show. Many actors have performed in various roles over the years and just the other day in rehearsal we were attempting to count up the total number of people who have contributed to the production. For the past 5 years I have marked the coming of fall with not only my return to teaching and my children’s return to school but also with the mid-August email from Matt Cahoon, usually entitled “Return to Thebes” or most recently, “The Very Last Thebes (We think)”. Facebook and Instagram have faithfully popped up pictures of the original show photos and many other rehearsal pictures from over the years.

As I reflect on this, it occurs to me how much I will miss receiving Matt’s email and how sad it will be when we actually do put this production to rest. Like many greek tragedies, Antigone deals with the flaws and strengths that make us human and is full of timeless themes such as love, pride, power, morality, betrayal, loyalty and fear. Each year as we’ve return to the play, we’ve found new relevance in its content. For me, the poetry and themes never get stale. We have found connections to 9/11, the Boston Marathon Bombings and other news stories and political climates throughout the 5 years.

I have played Ismeme, sister of Antigone, each year as well as a chorus member. Each year I’ve found a new lens to see Ismene through and different ways to analyze her relationship with Antigone and her decision not to follow her sister's plan to go against the “laws of the land” and bury her brother. In her I have found a fierce love of her family, but a true fear that perhaps we’d call her tragic flaw. Fear is certainly an emotion we can all connect with and one that so often decides our decisions in life. Was Ismene wrong to deny her sister her support and to not, as she states, “defy the laws of the land”? This question of who was right, Creon or Antigone, has been an ongoing conversation for the company and one that is always discussed in our talk backs after each show. There have been many different opinions and insights over the years, but as Tom Hanks as Forest Gump says so eloquently when describing what life might mean, “maybe it’s a little of both.”

Ismene is spared by King Creon and we never really find out what happens to her. Fear may have been her flaw, but it wasn’t a fatal one for her, unlike most of the other characters in the play, so maybe she’s wiser than we thought. Last year one of the college students asked me what I thought happened to Ismeme at the end of the play.  Where did she go? I have thought about this a lot and my favorite imagining is that she fled far away to the seaside and lived out her days watching the tides in solitude. Perhaps never forgiving herself for living and her sister dying, but somehow finding peace in her escape from the tragedy at Thebes.

~Rachael Longo

(photos by Matthew Lomanno)

A Cliff's Edge

Then know this: where you are standing now

Is a cliff edge, and there’s a cold wind blowing.

~Tiresias, The Burial at Thebes

It is probably safe to assume that if you are reading this blog you are at least somewhat familiar with theatre KAPOW. It is probably equally as safe to assume that if you are somewhat familiar with theatre KAPOW you are aware of the company’s relationship with the Antigone. Every year for almost six years now, theatre KAPOW has produced The Burial at Thebes, a version of the Antigone, at St. Anselm College. So, when I recently heard an interview with Lucas Hnath, playwright of our current project, The Christians, in which he said, “the bones” of his play are the same as the Antigone, it definitely changed my perspective on the piece.

When we do The Burial at Thebes, we often discuss how much like a courtroom drama the show is. Creon and Antigone go back and forth and the chorus (and the audience) is swayed one way or the other. In The Christians, there is a similar courtroom dynamic. The tension from both pieces comes from the conviction of their characters. Characters on both sides are absolutely convinced they are right and are capable of articulating their sides really well.

While there are some similarities in the plots of the two plays, the real parallels between The Christians and Antigone are found in the relationships. The dynamics of the father/son relationship for example are very present in both pieces. As is the relationship between the leader and the elder. In Antigone the prophet Tiresias comes to Creon and warns him that that his actions will lead to disaster. Similarly in The Christians we see Elder Jay come to Pastor Paul and warn him about how his sermon may cause problems with the church community.


**As an aside, one of the greatest things about having a company of actors that work together frequently is that they bring every character and every relationship from previous shows to each new show. In this case, Peter Josephson who plays Creon in The Burial at Thebes and Elder Jay in The Christians has in those two roles played both the warned and the warner. It’s a detail that perhaps only the most diehard of tKAPOW fans will catch, but I think it adds a depth to the company’s work that wouldn’t exist if we worked with new actors for every show.**

While he may bristle at the comparison, but another similarity between the work of Lucas Hnath and Sophocles is an incredibly poetic efficiency in the use of language. At one point a musician friend of mine told me that in music the rests are just as important as the notes. That’s how it is with both The Christians and Antigone. Both plays are relatively short but so skillfully crafted that they land with more impact than most longer plays. The information communicated in a look or a breath is sometimes even more powerful than what is said aloud. In one scene of The Christians there is a page with only 17 words on it. It comes at a critical moment and the stakes are incredibly high. Many playwrights would overwrite this sequence, but Hnath lets it breathe. He lets the subtext dominate and allows the text to take a backseat. Like the composer using rests, Hnath expertly creates a piece where what he doesn’t write is as important as what he does.

I will be so curious to take part in conversations with audiences following The Christians. I recently had a conversation with Bryan Doerries, the Artistic Director of Theater of War Productions, who said that the basic tenet of their work is that the audience knows more than they do. tKAPOW truly has the most intelligent audiences members I have ever met so I certainly understand what Bryan is saying. I just can’t wait to hear from you all about your experience with The Christians. I will be particularly interested to speak with those of you who have seen our version of Antigone. The Christians absolutely stands on its own as a brilliant piece of dramatic literature, but the theatre nerd in me relishes the opportunity to consider this piece in relation to some of our other work. I really look forward to seeing you there and learning from everything that you observe.

~Matt Cahoon

The Christians by Lucan Hnath runs April 27 through May 5, 2018. More info here.

Names Read Aloud

"Tigers die and leave their skins; people die and leave their names."

-Japanese Proverb

The list of names on the 9/11 Memorial in New York City

I’m not giving anything away when I tell you that names play a major role in Anne Washburn’s Mr. Burns, a post electric play.  

In act one we meet a band of travelers sitting around a campfire.  We come to learn that these people are living in a world after a cataclysmic event that has destroyed the electrical grid. Before too long a stranger enters and, after a few tense moments trying to ascertain whether he is friend or foe, the group pulls out their notebooks and reads lists of names of people that have gone missing.  It is clear early on that some of the names only remain on the lists as a way to remember them rather than out of any hope that they will be found.  

In act three, 75 years have passed and the notebooks have been replaced by a large tome from which the names are read aloud.  For a contemporary audience, this moment is clearly reminiscent of the annual tradition of reading the names of people who died on 9/11.  Washburn includes names that clearly indicate that their owners were from a variety of backgrounds.  The apocalypse didn’t discriminate.  

Street artist writes out the list of the victims
of the Sandy Hook shooting

Unfortunately these lists of names have become commonplace in our culture.  On December 16th, 2012, Broadway composer Jason Robert Brown wrote a song in response to the Sandy Hook school shooting which had taken place just two days earlier.  He entitled the song “Twenty-Six Names” and posted it along with the names and ages of everyone who died in that shooting on his website.  At the top of the page he wrote, “I will remember their names and I will sing them to a safer place.”  It’s a beautiful and haunting piece of music and I try to remember to listen to it every December 14th.  I’m ashamed to say sometimes it’s hard to remember to remember.  

Like many of us, last week I was glued to my TV watching the news about the horrific events at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida.  On Thursday afternoon, just about 24 hours after the shooting, Broward County Sherriff Scott Israel started his press conference by reading the names of the victims of that senseless and still inexplicable act.  He was emphatic that their names be the focus and that their families be respected during this period of immense grief.  

The conversations that I had with my co-workers, my students, and my daughter following the Parkland shooting give me hope that this would not be an event that would fade so easily from our collective memory.  This time, I swore to myself, would be different.  This would be a call to action.  While there is certainly more that can be done, my first instinct was to seek out way to make a financial contribution to help make a difference.  That’s when I came across Sandy Hook Promise and I encourage you all to check them out.  Based in Newtown, Connecticut, Sandy Hook Promise’s intent is to honor all victims of gun violence by turning their tragedy into a moment of transformation by providing programs and practices that protect children from gun violence.  Sandy Hook Promise is absolutely taking the lead in training students and adults to know the signs of gun violence.

I was walking across the Pinkerton Academy campus this afternoon plotting out this blog post and how I was going to discuss the listing of names in Mr. Burns in context of current events when my phone buzzed signaling an incoming email.  The subject of the email was “Honoring Dylan” and it was written by a woman named Nicole Hockley whose six year-old son died in the massacre at Sandy Hook.  Even though I had made my donation last week, I knew that it was an automatically generated email sent from Sandy Hook Promise.  It’s a heartbreaking but inspiring email filled with pictures of Dylan who was just the absolute cutest kid you have ever seen.  Then I came to this passage which I share here in its entirety:

Dylan Hockley

After my precious Dylan was killed in the senseless violence at Sandy Hook Elementary, my other son Jake asked my husband and me not to say Dylan's name aloud. The reminder of how quickly and violently his best friend had been snatched away was too painful and raw.

Now, I sometimes hear Jake talking to Dylan, just chatting to his brother quietly while he plays. I stop, steel myself, allow myself to feel the anger that Jake can no longer play with his brother, and then I remember that this is Jake's way of moving forward, of keeping Dylan's memory alive.

I hate that this woman had to write this, but I love this sentiment.  Even after we are gone, our names will keep us alive in the memories of those we’ve left behind.  

These blog posts almost always end with some kind of pitch to come see our next show.  While I certainly want you all to come take part in the craziness that is Mr. Burns, a post electric play, what I really hope is that, in light of current events, we will all take a moment to remember the names of those lost.  Let’s write them down and read them aloud and, more importantly, let’s work everyday to make the world a better place.  

~Matt Cahoon

A great thing

Five years ago, our artistic director had an idea for a project. I thought, "Well, that could be a thing. Sure, lets try it." We put together a series of three plays to share staged readings of at the Currier Museum of Art in Manchester. We wanted plays that were directly related to works in the Currier's collection or to special exhibitions at the museum. We invited Dr. Landis K. Magnuson, professor of theatre at Saint Anselm College, to lead a discussion with the audience after the play was read.

Sure, I like reading plays. That's what I have been doing all weekend. Reading plays that stimulate thought and conversation. I know it's a good play when I tell my husband he needs to read it when I am only at the end of the first act because I want to talk to someone about it. But who else likes reading plays as much as I do?

The first season we read Donald Margulies' Time Stands Still because the Currier had mounted an exhibition of Vietnam War photography. We read Edward Albee's The American Dream because the Currier had acquired a screen print by Robert Indiana, so named after he saw the premiere of that play. We read John Logan's Red because a 1967 painting (Untitled, Red Over Brown) by Mark Rothko is a favorite in the Currier's permanent collection. Each play was followed by a discussion with the audience. We launched the program and thought, "Will anyone else come?"

We're in our fifth season now of the ARTiculate Playreading Series, and it is always an absolute joy to have as many as 75 people join us in the auditorium at the Currier on a Sunday afternoon to listen to a play, to talk about the ideas in it, and to look at art. Doing a script as a reading really harnesses our focus (and the audience's) on the words of the playwright, and on the stories and ideas in the plays. It's funny, because stripping away design and the visual element of theatre (sets, lights, costumes) seems antithetical in a setting which celebrates the visual. An audience member told me recently that the play readings have become her favorite program at the Currier, and provide her a new lens through which to look at the art.

We'll be back at the Currier again this month to read Sight Unseen, another play by Donald Margulies. Among other things, the script raises questions about the value of art, the definition of art and who can be an artist, questions of cultural appropriation and gender politics, and truth/memory/ownership/identity. It is not uncommon to have to cut off the conversation after a reading because the galleries are about to close but folks are still talking. Now that's just a great thing, isn't it?

~ Carey Cahoon

Exploring story

In The Winter’s Tale Polixenes, King of Bohemia, muses on the relationship of art and nature:

“Nature is made better by no mean

But Nature makes that mean. So, over that art

Which you say adds to nature, is an art
That nature makes. . . .
The art itself is nature.”

For its tenth season, theatre KAPOW is developing an original piece of theatre rooted in the legends, archetypes and arts of the First Peoples.

The approach to making theater through the archetypes and legends of indigenous peoples offers an opportunity to make an art that integrates layers of experience – of nature, the human, and the divine – and that tells a story that treats the natural, the human, and the divine as fluid categories, always in contact with one another.

Our artistic aim is to uncover the “art that nature makes,” and to get back to the essential or archetypal image, gesture, sound, and story.

We began our work during KAPOW’s annual Artists’ Retreat at Chanticleer Gardens. That week we told stories and read poems of the Yupik, Inuit, Haida, and Tlingit, examined artifacts, and work-shopped approaches to devising (with Michael Chekhov practitioner Jason Lambert) and mask work (with award-winning actress and director Leslie Pasternack). The great lesson of that week is that this approach yields immediate results. The quality and depth of the images in these stories – their resonance – is immediately clear. By the end of the Retreat we knew that we already had more than enough material (so of course we sought more).

This winter we’ve returned to our exploration for six workshops. We expanded our library of stories, images, and characters (especially to add stories of Coyote the Trickster), and began to experiment with approaches to storytelling through the exploration of images. We’ve been experimenting with “moving images.” Beginning with a picture, we play with ways to put it into motion, and through that enactment we can discover the possibilities of meaning that will allow us to make choices in story-telling. We have now glimpsed how the moving image becomes an archetypal gesture or essential action. As we do that work, more images and ideas for staging come to us. We’ve found that this approach has helped us quickly shed preconceptions about storytelling and staging to open up some ancient and elemental possibilities.

At the conclusion of our winter sessions we’ll have a collection of images and archetypal characters that will form the spine of the piece that we will begin to script through further workshops in March. In May we will begin the final phase of the devising – rehearsing in preparation for performance. the weekend of June 29th.

A Story That Cuts Like a Knife promises spirits, sacrifices, foolery, quests, and transformations and opens at the Derry Opera House on June 29th.

Seeing and Being Seen

I’m not particularly smart.
I’m not particularly beautiful.
But I suffer so well, and when
a stranger sees me cry-
they see a river they haven’t
swum in-
a river in a foreign country-
so they take off their trousers
and they jump in the water.
And they take pictures
with a water-proof camera
and then they dry themselves in the sun
but I’m still wet.

-Tilly’s Aria, Sarah Ruhl, Melancholy Play: A Chamber Musical

There is so much to say about Sarah Ruhl. So much, in fact, that the prospect of writing anything about her, or her work, is extremely daunting. But on the eve of the first day of load-in for Theatre KAPOW’s production of Melancholy Play: A Chamber Musical, I find myself thinking about what Ms. Ruhl has to say about seeing and being seen. Perception is integral to her work, both in terms of staging, and story.

On its surface, Melancholy Play pokes fun at human fascination with the tragic feminine. Its protagonist, Tilly, is so beautifully melancholic that everyone she meets falls in love with her. Chaos ensues when Tilly becomes happy and, far less alluring as a result. Melancholy Play mischievously confronts us with our societal fascination with, and objectification of, the melancholic female. But it also challenges us to ask why we are drawn to this trope. What is it about melancholy and sadness that we find attractive, and what happens when our expectations of melancholy do not line up with the far less romantic reality of sadness and depression? Tilly says it best when she asks, “Have you ever seen what sadness looks like on a person, once they take off their grey shoes and gloves? It looks different. Not like a movie. People wear sweatpants when they are sad in private. Not pearls.”

I do not think it is melancholy that makes Tilly attractive. Every character in Melancholy Play projects what he or she wants onto Tilly, because she sees them. Tilly looks carefully at each person she encounters; she strives to make connections. She feels things deeply. Tilly’s tragedy is that she knows she will never live up to the dream people impose on her. Dream Tilly wears pearls. Perhaps this is why she becomes melancholic and has to “lie down on the couch.” True connection is difficult when you feel people are looking at a version of you that doesn’t exist, when your name sounds wrong on their lips.

When Tilly becomes happy, when her focus is directed inward on her own sense of joy, she becomes less attractive. Frank, the man Tilly falls in love with and the catalyst for her happiness, tells her, “Your eyes aren’t looking at me. They’re looking at a great big storm of happiness. On the horizon. Can you see me?” It isn’t until one of Tilly’s friends becomes so depressed she essentially disappears into a shell, that everyone realizes how important it is to look at the people you care about and see them for who they truly are, not who you want them to be. When you see someone and they see you, it is easy to fall in love.

Z
~ Emily Karel

Photos by Matthew Lomannp

What the hell is going on?

This was the over-riding thought I had when I finished reading Exit the King. Ionesco's writing, I knew, like Beckett, like Sartre, can be esoteric and difficult to decipher. "Avant-Garde." "Absurd." "Didactic." In other words: inaccessible. I would be lying if I said I did not agree with some of these labels, especially during my reading of the play. For every insightful notion, there was a confusing one. At one moment I would be inspired by the eloquence of his language, at another irritated by his apparent pretentiousness. This is most certainly a play meant to be seen, not read, I thought to myself. It needs to be on its feet! We need our read through!

What the hell is going on??

Boy was I wrong. Upon completing our cast read through, I not only was left feeling similar to how I felt after reading the play, but if anything, I had more questions! I had suspected Ionesco would be daunting, and yet here I was feeling like years of performing theatre had left me utterly and singularly unprepared to turn these words into something resembling a coherent performance. Luckily, it appeared to me that I was not on an island in my thinking. Here were artists I respect and admire, and we all seemed equally humbled by how truly massive this text is.

If you had asked me what I thought our rehearsals held in store, I likely would have responded: Frustration. Confusion. Doubt. Or perhaps some combination of the three.

Fast forward four weeks.

What do I find dominate my memories of rehearsal thus far?

Tears of laughter. Barely concealed grins. Countless (failed) attempts to remain in character. These have been found in abundance through our rehearsal process. I believe this is due to a critical discovery made early in the process.

We discovered, that buried underneath a masterfully written political commentary, Ionesco has written a very funny play. This is our password. Our Rosetta stone. Because at the end of the day, Ionesco's wonderfully relevant text is useless if the audience does not connect with it. But because he was really, really smart; he wrote the key into the play.

Find the silly. Find it, and embrace it.

Laughter has the wonderful power to bring people from all walks of life together in a shared experience. This is intensely needed, in a time where people live in digital echoing chambers and spend their time dehumanizing "the other team." That is to say, anyone with different opinions.

One does not grow by hearing their own preconceived notions repeated back to them covered in sugar. One grows by honestly listening to someone who thinks differently. Who believes differently. One grows when one sincerely tries to step into their shoes. One grows when one realizes that "the other team" are human beings. Human beings that breathe oxygen, human beings that cry when they get hurt, human beings that just want to be happy.

Human beings that laugh.

That is what this play needs to do. It needs to invite the audience in. Reach out a hand, a genuine offer of inclusion. The production should invest and respect the audience as fellow human beings capable of rational thought.

This connection is made by showing them the silly, absurd things human beings do. But then show them the worst and best in all of us.

That inside every human being lives a great leader, with the power to inspire millions with a word. But inside every human being also lives a tyrant, who cultivates fear and dissent through propaganda and manipulation.

Inside every soldier lives a hero, who saves lives without regard for their own and stands up to injustice. But inside every soldier also lives a pawn, who only follows orders, and lets fear rob them of their spirit.

Inside every heart lives a lover, who puts their heart in the hands of another human being, risking shame, humiliation and pain for the chance at true happiness; who lets the one they love inspire them to be better, stronger, kinder. But inside every heart also lives a skeptic, who distrusts the world and lashes out with insecurity and fear. Fear of shame. Humiliation, Pain.

Inspiration. Fear. Heroism. Impotence. Happiness. Pain. In other words, being alive. This play shows what it is like to be alive. That we are all capable of greatness. That we need to strive for it. That we need to be better.

Be better.

~ Jimmy Stewart

theatre KAPOW presents Exit the King by Eugene Ionesco March 3 - 5, 2017

Reflecting on the Past, Looking to the Future

As we all adjusted to writing the new year on checks and other documents this January, I was reminded of its significance in terms of one of our recent projects. 2017 marks the 100th anniversary of the explosion in Halifax harbor, an event that inspired the June 2016 tKAPOW production, Raining Aluminum. As the date of the anniversary approaches, we look forward to new opportunities to share the amazing stories we discovered as part of the devising process.

On January 21st, at a ceremony in Concord, theatre KAPOW was awarded the NH Theatre Award for Best Scenic Design for Raining Aluminum. While the show was up for many awards, we are really proud of being recognized in that category because the scenic elements were such an important part of our storytelling process, and a result of the collaboration of the company or artists. In fact, the early work on the set dates all the way back to our 2015 Artist Retreat when we hung various props from somewhat precariously attached bungee cords in the barn at Chanticleer Gardens. The set and the production evolved considerably from there and really took shape at the Charlestown Working Theatre where the show really felt most at home. It was nice to see that all of the work that went into developing the aesthetic for that show was recognized.

This spring, I have been offered the opportunity to revisit some of the stories of Raining Aluminum when I will lead a class at the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI) at Granite State College. I really look forward to sharing what I have learned with people who are so committed to continuing their own education.

The process of creating Raining Aluminum introduced us to some amazing people (past and present) and brought us together as a company. As December 6th gets closer, I look forward to the opportunity to find more ways introduce these people to more audiences.

~ Matt Cahoon

Montage by Wax Idiotical Films

Hunting Absurd

I don’t really know how I got into acting and theater when I grew up in a home that really did not promote the arts. My first “acting role” was in chorus in elementary school- I got to hold a doll and fight with a little boy while the chorus sang “William Wants a Doll”. I got my first laugh; my first applause; my first bow; I was hooked. I guess you can say that’s when I started hunting for art and theater in my life. I followed the regular channels. I went to college. I acted in plays. I read plays. I took classes. I wrote papers. I never really saw a lot of theater. I was simply a pliable puppet being told where to go and how to act, which I did with gusto. However as I learned more about art and history I started to feel like something was missing from my tool box as an actor, artist, and human. I was searching for more. I wanted to become an artist- whatever that meant. I was hunting for meaning.

I traveled to Europe with a study abroad program my final semester. I had never done anything like this before in my life. It felt like something I had to do. I loved my time in Europe. I travelled. I saw Shakespeare’s birthplace. I went to The Globe. I was alive with art and theater. I became an audience member: Gobbling up other people’s talent. I realized I had never really seen a lot of theater; certainly not outside academia. All I knew was good safe theater: Pretty and pleasing to an audience. That all shattered for me one day in London. Strolling down a side street with 7 pounds in my pocket (Yes, this was before the Euro). I saw a sign for a play: Rhinoceros by Eugene Ionesco. I knew the name. I had studied him in college. I went in. Tickets were exactly 7 pounds.

I sat down happy and safe.
I left feeling weird: Ugly, Uncomfortable and Challenged.
The show was transformative.
In fact I still lay awake at night thinking about that play. How it changed my life and my hunt for artistic meaning. What was it about this play? I don’t know.

I can tell you what I recall: A simple stage: 6 actors; 3 men; 3 women; A set that was a brightly painted (a slightly messy city landscape); A few desks, black office chairs with wheels and a light design that was proficient at best; costumes were black pants and shirts with little flashes of colored layers and wigs that the actors used to help them portray character- Nothing truly outstanding; certainly it had a modest budget to say the least. But what it had was actors and direction that meant something more then the need to sell tickets. The acting catapulted this little show into my brain forever. Ionesco’s world was vibrant and his words were bold and bizarre. I had never seen theater like this: Edgy and Messy and Passionate. The actors used their human face to transform- their bodies were the costumes, and their faces, the mask. It was like I could see their inner halo shine as they embodied the roles-they changed in front of my eyes. They were not themselves- It was ugly, and scary, and brilliant. The actors were not the pretty actors I was used to seeing and studying. They were animal-humanity, scared, real, angry and full of a fierce life passion and energy that made me squirm in my seat. And, more then all that they were funny- Terribly, awkwardly, uncomfortably funny. I left the play in a haze. I lost the playbill. I don’t even know where I was or who produced it. All I have is the memory. I had found “absurd” theater. It was not going to sell tickets or make anyone famous- but it was art- It was history and politics and challenging.

I moved to New York City soon after seeing that play. I hunted for more of what I saw in that play. I got into grad school but did not go. I guess you can say I wanted to hunt solo. I have never really fit into any one slot or felt comfortable doing what others tell me to do. I wanted my own program: For me art was about life and making my life richer. Someone else can’t do that for you. I took many classes: Meisner, Shakespeare, Suzuki, Grotowski, Modern Dance, Improv, Stand-Up, Dell-Arte, Physical Theater, Clowning, you name it. Somewhere in there I took a “mask” class. I remember an entire hour of staring at myself in a dance mirror-using our face as a mask. I remember thinking of that play I saw in London while I stared at my flared nostrils and ugly squished mouth that made me red in the face for so long it felt like time had stopped. It was a good absurd theater moment. I discovered something about myself in that class. About the power and shapes of my face. A successful hunt if you will. I lived in New York for a decade. I studied hard, I produced, I directed, I acted; I saw a lot of theater- good, bad and amazing. I loved every minute of my NYC artist safari. My hunt for art is not over – It is evolving with me.

I left New York. I moved back to a quiet corner of the earth. A snow covered sleepy gray state. But I am still hunting… I have a bucket list: Producers, Parts, Plays and Playwrights I am searching for – to help me discover more of me. I have wanted to embody Ionesco in my own way - even if messy and not good enough- since I saw that play in London. I know I will never live up to the memory I have placed on a pedestal. However, I am eager to try. I hope we the cast, of Ionesco’s Exit The King come together and challenge someone in the audience in a weird way to go home and think about art and life and the world we live in…I hope it starts others hunting …Because, once you start you never really stop hunting…

~Paige Lussier Johnson

Making Art?

In 1934 – back when socialism still seemed possible, before Mrs. Thatcher closed the mines, and before Labour turned itself into a pale imitation of Bill Clinton’s Democratic Party – a group of miners in Ashington, England picked up paintbrushes and began making pictures of their lives.

Over the next several years, these untutored working men emerged as a significant force in British Art.  Known as the Ashington Group, these miners – pitmen, they’d call themselves – turned out hundreds of works chronicling daily life in the coal country. Their paintings, though, went beyond simple representational chronicles – the best of them have powerful political and spiritual dimensions; and the very best of them can be – to say it simply –  stunningly beautiful. In other words, the “pitmen painters” produced some powerful, enduring works of art.

Lee Hall’s The Pitmen Painters dramatizes the journeys of the individual Ashington Group members as they grope their ways toward creating their particular works of art.  In doing so, the playwright raises a number of difficult questions.  Some are aesthetic: what is art, anyways; do works of art have meanings; does a painting “mean” what its painter intended? Or do the meaning, value and beauty of a painting exist only in the person looking at it?  Some are political: what’s the implication of a bunch of working stiffs producing artworks to the class structure of pre-War and Wartime England?  Some are downright spiritual: what is an artist?  What does it take to create something that lasts, that is beautiful, that “means” something to the world?  And one is completely unanswerable: what do you do when it turns out that the most beautiful art in the world isn’t enough to redeem disappointment, failure, mortality? 

Needless to say, The Pitmen Painters is a comedy.

Really. For all the intense issues addressed in this play, one enduring fact is that it is continually, sometimes wryly and sometimes uproariously, funny. Frankly, if it’s about pitmen, it has to be.  Men who live in the mines, whose lives are dust-filled and always dangerous, tend to wield humor as a weapon against the constant darkness.  It’s an acerbic humor, a humor of jabs and insults, that I recognize from my Irish grandparents who were contemporaries with the Ashington Group painters, and shared with them, if not the mines (my grandparents were shoe workers), then the same irascible attitudes born of poverty and the daily struggle not just make do, but to make their lives enjoyable and occasionally beautiful and – every once in a while – filled with meaning.  Their bruising jokes were the only kind that death would understand.

You’ll recognize both the humor and the soul of this play if you’ve ever seen Billy Elliot – which 

Lee Hall also wrote.  Like that movie, The Pitmen Painters looks at the way that art – painting here, the ballet in Billy Elliot – can reach in and transform the harshest lives. In Billy Elliot, of course, the boy escapes – he makes it to the Royal Academy.  The Pitmen Painters, on the other hand, don’t, won’t or can’t all leave Ashington. Or the mines.  So the transformation for them – if you can call it that – is more constrained, more centered in the small facts of daily life.  They have to find the beauty in the depiction of a union hall at night, men fighting against a wind, a boy in a soldier’s uniform getting married, the simple truth of a Bedlington Terrier.

And it’s not a tragedy if all these things don’t in the end transform their lives; it’s a triumph that putting these things on canvas – making them into art – so very nearly does.

~ Walter Maroney

tKAPOW presents a reading of The Pitmen Painters on Sunday, January 8, 2017 at 2 pm at the Currier Museum of Art in Manchester, NH.

Reinforcing Time

This past weekend, I attended Shakespeare & Company’s Boston Weekend Intensive. I highly recommend these weekends. They are affordable, and can fit into the crazy schedule of theatre/work/life/family without requiring too much of a sacrifice from any one of those areas.

Each meeting of this intensive begins with 13 chairs in a circle for each of the twelve participants and the teacher, Dennis Krausnick. The first night, we check in with four things: our name, the landscape of our childhood, our heart’s desire for the weekend, and something we would not normally tell a group of strangers. My heart’s desire for this weekend was to focus on myself. I am always providing opportunities for others, and I rarely get to focus on myself as an artist and restock my well. I wanted to leave my phone and all it represents in the greenroom for the weekend and be selfish. That was my heart’s desire.

After the check-in and a short break, we did an exercise focusing on becoming present in the space, starting to connect with our own breath, and making eye contact with the other participants. This shifting into an exercise inviting our past selves a chance to be present with us: 5 years old, 9 years old, and 13 years old. Each of these ages informed a delivery of our monologue (we had each memorized 14 - 25 lines of Shakespeare to work with over the weekend.) At the end of the night, we gathered the 13 chairs in a circle again to name a discovery or idea we wanted to reinforce over the rest of the weekend. I want to reinforce permission: the permission to be free to explore the present and play again.

On day 2 after a check-in of what stuck with us from yesterday and what we discovered from our homework (yes, there is homework for an intensive even when you get out at 9.40 at night!), we spent the morning on delicious voice work. What a truly lovely way to spend the morning. Breath, body, vibration: all things I work on in my daily practice but I had been rushing over. Practicing just to check it off the list of things done for the day. How wonderful to return to those very basic things and to really tune in to discovering my own habits and whether they truly serve me or not.

The afternoon and evening were spent observing and working individually with Dennis on the text we had prepared. Such wonderful text and characters: Cressida, Hermione, Paulina, Imogen, Edward, Helena. As each person connected the monologue to their own personal life experience, and as he worked patiently with each person to find their breath and release the words using that breath, the true power and beauty of this weekend and these actors came forward. We gathered our chairs in a circle to check-out at the end of the night, and we again said out loud a discovery or idea to reinforce for the weekend. I want to reinforce working without judgement: judgement of myself and assumptions/judgements of others.

Day 3 began with the usual check-in, with the added item of the question “did we have any remorse about anything we had shared yesterday?” This led to a wonderful discussion of drama therapy vs. personal connection, what are professional boundaries, and is personal tragedy required for one to be an actor? An important discussion indeed, which led to a great deal personal thinking on these questions. After a morning of voice work bringing breath, vibration, and presence to our chosen text, the focus for the afternoon shifted to setting Shakespeare in the context of his place and time, and looking at why the First Folio is important and what actors can learn from it. I was reminded of the words of another artist I greatly admire, Ellen Lauren: “The teachers of this work are leaving this world,” and I was so grateful to be learning from 79-year-old Dennis Krausnick. My notes on punctuation, capitalization, long spellings and two universes are so poignant and helpful, and I am grateful for his generosity in sharing his ideas and the fruits of his lifetime of experiences and learning.

After each person shared more discoveries from their chosen text, we gathered our chairs in a circle one last time for a final check-out. What were we going to take away from this weekend intensive? I want to reinforce Time, taking my time. Why am I already learning my lines for my next project: I will take time to fully explore my connections to the text, and take time in rehearsal to be present for true connections with my ensemble. I will take the time to breathe and to make eye contact: what is each person bringing to this story and how do I respond to that?

Theatre is important because we gather together there to hear and to tell stories. I will take my time and be a better listener and a better storyteller.

Thank you to Kirsten, Caitlin, Srin, Deborah, Nancy, Laura, Peter, Meg, Britney, Lei, and Julia for sharing so much this past weekend. And thank you especially to Dennis Krausnick for your generosity as a teacher, an artist, and as a human.

~ Carey Cahoon