Barbette's Skeleton, Part V: What's the Point? (Patreon)

Good now, my strange and wonderful patrons!

Last post we looked at two fantastic cyr wheel artists –Angela Bongiovonni and Matthew Richardson – to talk about the different ways that acts can be effective. In some acts, the emphasis is on innovation or technical virtuosity; in others blend storytelling and emotion in amidst technicality and spectacle. 

While we might all have personal preferences, I don't know that we can definitively say that one type of act is better than another. But – what ***I*** can say, is that I know that it is the second type of act I described above that is both what I am interested in making, and have a chance at succeeding in making well. 

So today, I am turning our attention to how one goes about manufacturing these experiences as a performer.

We all know a good performance when we see it. 

For me, I lose track of anything else happening in the space: the other audience members, someone coughing over in Row G, the crunch of a lost popcorn kernel beneath my feet. My attention is so wholly captured by the artist that I might not notice things like lighting, or appreciate the costume, or note the dancing – because I'm just immersed in what the artist is offering, completely. I might be overcome with emotion: this usually means a fizzing, electric sensation in my skin, unconscious tension in my posture, or crying for me. I might not be able to name the feelings that I'm feeling in the moment, but I'm feeling something intensely. And watching the act feels like a conduit for me to let those feelings out into the shared space of the tent or theatre.

While I do believe that a certain amount of that incredible feeling we can get when we watch someone perform is ... well ... a difficult-to-define little spark of magic (why else would be all be so infatuated with art and artists?) ... I  know that an enormous amount of thinking goes into creating work that has this effect, too.

I suppose that it's possible that Bongiovonni just happened upon the startlingly effective combination of light, sound, costume, technique, and movement in her Red Dress act. But I doubt it. I'd wager my favourite donut and a flowery Shakespearean apology that a great deal of thought went into making that act what it is.   

At the risk of completely mis-using this word/concept, but for lack of any other tidy word to sum it up (do you have a better one? am I wrong? let me know in the comments!) this is where dramaturgy comes in.

* * * * * * 

'Dramaturgy' is the study of all the elements of dramatic composition that end up on a stage. So in the context of circus –like theatre– that means thinking about stage design, lighting, costume, music, and movement.

I haven't read enough about the circus dramaturgy (yet! I'm starting an 8 week course on Friday!) to know if this also includes that oh-so-important, oh-so-contentious detail of technical skill and perceived risk but ... I'm suspicious it does.

I mean, really, it's what you've all watched me agonize over and pick apart in minute detail with most of the acts that I've shared the creation processes of here on this Patreon! I just ... didn't know that that's what it was called.

In my mind, I'm like:

Well, I can just get up on stage and do some tricks for you to some well-timed musical accompaniment. That's one kind of act, and it's valid, and it has a time and a place that it's most effective in.

But if I want to make an act that feels like it's doing something different with the apparatus or the art form; if I want to make an act that makes people feel something when they watch it (an emotion besides excitement, shock, fear); then I have to pay attention to as many details as I can, and use all the elements available to me on stage to try to create the effect I want.   Because circus is ... well, circus ... I don't know that we are often challenged to think about our work in ways that, say, theatre-trained artists (stage actors) are.

In circus, we, the performers, are always the character on stage. This 'character' is one who performs superhuman feats, flipping and flying through the air in impossible-seeming ways.

But why is that character on stage?

In traditional circus, the answer is simply: 'to entertain'. In some contemporary circus, the answer might not be too different, albeit with the spin of, 'to entertain through telling a story or conveying a theme'.

In traditional circus, the story or theme is always 'risk', 'spectacle'.  In contemporary circus (as discussed above), we get more of a reason as to why the character/performer is on stage: for love; because they are grieving; because they are dreaming; etc.  

And why is that character/performer interacting with their apparatus?

In many circus acts, there is a pre-established notion that the performer/character's interaction with their apparatus is necessary, permitted, a given. Otherwise, how could the circus artist entertain us?

But I think this might be why circus acts fail to land with emotional effectiveness sometimes: it's not grounded in reality, and therefore it's hard to relate to.

Now – I hear you – everything about a circus act is hard to relate to for the average non-circus-human, when you break it down to it's literal components. But the trick of a good act (when we watch a performer that truly makes us forget that we're sitting in our seats, when we are completely transported for 5 or 6 minutes) is to somehow convince the audience that we are alike. For the circus tricks and movements themselves to become metaphors-in-motion for struggles, hopes, dreams, thoughts, wishes, that we all might share.

Unless an act is so technically virtuosic that all we can do is stare upwards, mouths slightly agape with wonder (and this is a type of act; it's a highly effective type of act; it's also unachievable for most of us ... myself included), I think the mind of a viewer always has an unconscious, But why am I here? Why should I watch you? Why should I give you my attention? happening.

When the artist has a solid reason why they are interacting with their apparatus on stage –even if it's only ever known to them, like a secret, something the audience would never know or be able to deduce– I think the work comes alive.   

There are other questions to consider, too, like:   

What time period does the costuming and music of an act evoke? What does that tell us about the character/performer?;

How does the lighting tell a story?;

Is the stage bare? Or is there a set?;

And more.   

For an act to cross that threshold of 'good, entertaining' into 'great, thought-provoking' ...  

For an act to shift from something that you enjoy while being in the tent or theatre, to something that you remember and think about for months or years afterwards ...

For an act to contain the potential of giving the gift of feeling and not just the gift of viewing, as I discussed in our last instalment ...

... I think there has to be thought given to these (and other) questions. 

And that's exactly what's gone into the evolving act 'narratives' that I'm sharing with you in the next instalment!   

Your next instalment will be landing in your inboxes on THURSDAY, OCTOBER 13th at 11:30am EST. 

Until then, stay strange & wonderful ...  XO  Ess