The Real World – Theater Edition: The Sound of Silence

Barbara Jwanouskos, sitting in silence.

That sound in between the end of a play before the clapping begins…

It must be one of the sweetest things. The understanding and collective feeling of that moment in the play — the one we all worked for — actors, playwright, director, technicians, stage manager, designers, all. The moment in between anticipation and satisfaction, between understanding and wondering. It’s the moment of silence where regardless of the quality of anything in or outside the world of production something settles and rests. Sometimes this moment feels more profound than others, but I believe that it’s always there. Or, at least it’s potential is there, and to me, while subtle, it’s still enough to be noticed and appreciated.

To me, this moment of silence isn’t really silent at all — just as I find more and more that there are no true moments of silence. Something is always moving and developing whether heard or not.

I have become enamored with silence and how it is used within theater in the past couple of years. Not just at the end of a play – if I’m lucky, maybe I get that kind of response to something I wrote – but within the work as well. I’ve been looking for moments where seemingly “nothing is happening”. I’m in good company, treading on the heels of Annie Baker and Toshiki Okada, among others, playwrights who understand the underlying tension of people inhabiting a room together, but not speaking. Why? The tension is palpable and felt if you have ears to hear and are able to settle in to the initial discomfort that comes from not knowing what’s happening, who is in power, who will speak next.

The Flick by Annie Baker. Photo by Joan Marcus.

I recognize that this feeling is not for everyone. Some find it boring, but I find it anything but. Remember the controversy over THE FLICK, Baker’s play presented at Playwrights Horizons? The play described as having a “glacial” pace enraged members if the audience who were enraged by what they saw before them. How could a theater company be so daft as to produce a play with nothing happening?? But others pointed to the tremendous emotional turns that were supported by these silent moments, only possible if you’re able to settle in, be patient, and truly tune in to watch what was happening– feel what was happening as the players were drawn into moments of uncomfortable, heartbreakingly silent moments of intimacy.

ZERO COST HOUSE, adapted by Pig Iron Theatre Company from Toshiki Okada’s work, had the similar kind of use of silence. I remember seeing it in Pittsburgh at the Kelly Strayhorn Theater, at first confused and annoyed at how long it was taking to get to the next thing. Then, I realized, “oh, it’s intentional!” and it hit me — something else WAS happening in those moments that was much more powerful than anything I’d experienced between robust movement or dialogue exchanges. Moments where the characters were waiting for reactions from one another, for ideas to settle in. Perhaps it was something that could maybe only be felt because of the lack of words, sounds, and volley of ideas. Afterwards, chatting with my friends, most of them sat in camp “what the fuck was that?!” where as I was in camp “what the fuck was that!!” And another realization that subtlety is not for everyone. Maybe can’t be for everyone at least initially. Perhaps has to be trained and cultivated and come in the right moment in one’s life when one can truly stop and listen to the orchestra of the unspoken.

A moment from Pig Iron Theatre Company’s production of ZERO COST HOUSE.

And now? I can’t not write a moment of unspoken interaction between characters. I sometimes guide the length by perhaps describing the moment in the stage directions in intimate detail. Sometimes it’s a bit more poetic and left for interpretation. But in the movie in my mind, it’s a long, visceral moment where characters yearn for closeness. Or something. It’s like sitting in a meadow and all the sudden something catches your eye. You realize that an animal has started to emerge from the bushes. And that it knows you’re there. Do you rush over and try and grab it? Or do you wait and watch to see what it will do? We’re all different I suppose, but I’ve always been curious about what this little deer or squirrel or rabbit might point me to. Even if it’s just going to just eat some nuts or something, how often do we get this encounter?

Maybe it does point back to something missing or something we crave in our waking world. Perhaps we wouldn’t have such a powerful reaction when we encounter these moments where “nothing happens”. I’ve started to question if that is truth and so have stepped into the place where I can listen to what is about to happen next. I have this idea that if you tune in and just sort of gently wait it out, that you’ll know what happens next. It’s always expected. So then, if the question stops becoming, “what happens next?” and “how does it happen?”, what are the new questions now? And does it mean that whatever preconceived structure we choose – linear, non-linear, whatever – are they still relevant? I don’t know. Until I find the answers I’m happy to quietly watch and notice the world around me.

Barbara Jwanouskos is a Bay Area based playwright who is a part of the Playwrights Foundation’s FlashPlays Festival on Dec. 6 and 7. You can follow her on twitter @bjwany.

Higher Education: Meeting the Fear Barrier

Barbara Jwanouskos ponders when and why we push ourselves.

Interestingly enough, Howlround posted an article on two theater artists’ journey to create a new play about female boxers this week right as I am also working on a new play with a female martial artist as the protagonist. I found myself relating on many levels as they talked about what it was like to box, what stories from real life to bring into the rehearsal room, and how exactly the story should be told.

When Suli Holum (of Pig Iron Theatre Company) described her experience working with her boxing trainer and being ashamed of crying in front of him, I thought of the times in both training in martial arts and in working on a new play where the same thing has happened. Holum says:

I had to overcome my aversion—which manifested as a wave of nausea—at throwing a right hook to my trainer’s head. And finally I had to be willing to move towards risk, to lean into fear. To box is to be vulnerable, radically vulnerable—it’s an intimate agreement made between two people to push each other to their very limits. It reminds me of acting, until I get punched and then I remember the difference.

I’ve been writing and thinking a lot lately on the need to push yourself. When you spar with someone, there is no way that you cannot address the fear of getting hurt and also hurting someone. As Holum describes, it’s this weird contract you make with your partner that you will hurt one another physically in order to be ready to defend yourself if that ever is called upon. I absolutely can see how to people who don’t train in martial arts or fighting skills, the idea of this is completely masochistic and insane.

The truth is, I am not a violent person. In fact, I find it to be one of the most all-consuming upsetting things about the world we live in. And while I may have fun as I playfully spar with my trusted friends in kung fu classes, there is a difference between that and real violence. Because ultimately both a sparring session and a play are pretend. For the survivors of physical and emotional violence, I think is essential to acknowledge this important distinction because real violence is never agreed upon by both parties.

Like Holum, I find the connection between training to fight and in creating theater. When we put an event on the stage, just like when we square up with our training partners to spar, we have a contract with our audience and ultimately that is an implicit promise that they will get something out of sitting there for an hour or two. The audience trusts that this is going to happen (whether it does is another thing entirely). Everything in theater requires a kind of vulnerability that is so difficult to bear sometimes.

Artwork by Annie Yokom, part of the cast of “The Imaginary Opponent”

As I head into the last week of rehearsals for my thesis play, “The Imaginary Opponent”, I have to remember not to beat myself up for the times when my own fears have pierced through and caused me to express emotions in a way that I am not usually comfortable doing. This vulnerability of showing something that you’ve created, worked long hours on, and struggled time and time again to understand is why I think we need to be confident, but also humble as artists, as Ashley Cowan grappled with in her article for this week, “A Confidence Question”.

The humbleness, for me, comes from acknowledging that there is intense fear in putting an event on stage, because you never know what is going to happen and how people will react. The confidence goes back to pushing yourself beyond your comfort zone. To me, it’s recognizing that “this is something I’m afraid of and uncomfortable with” but still gently telling yourself that whatever happens, it will ultimately be okay. Good, bad, success, failure… it’s all relative. But at some point, it has to be done. A choice has to be made about whether you will continue forward or not – like an on/off switch.

In martial arts we train a fighting technique over and over so that once we spar we can address the attack from our partners. The repetition of it becomes routine. It becomes easier to stay relaxed and not freeze up once the attack comes, and then we learn that we can react quickly in the moment. It’s the repetition that builds up our confidence with squaring up against our training partners. We do the same thing in theater. We rehearse a play over and over again so that it becomes routine. Every move, look, word and feeling is mapped out. We bring in people to watch us during the process so that an audience feels routine. Everything we do helps us feel more comfortable and more confident for the actual performance.

For me, the repetition proves to me that it’s okay to be vulnerable because whatever I’m afraid of, I can handle. It absolutely is a privilege to get to that state and I am consistently impressed by the people around me who demonstrate this quality with fears and experiences much greater than mine. It’s inspiring that I too can meet my fear barrier and, yes, take a foot across.