Rigour and Compassion

I recently participated in a panel discussion about how to balance the desire to achieve certain standards in theatre training with considerations of artist health and wellbeing. 

We started with three key words: rigour, compassion, and craft, and a premise that rigour and compassion sit on opposite sides of the equation in the process of training actors. The question: how do we find equilibrium between these two contrasting ideas for the sake of our craft? 

‘Craft’ is an interesting word to me. It can mean strength, power, skill or ability. People who work in theatre seem to love this word, I think because it sounds noble. It suggests we’re toiling at something serious, we’re not merely players strutting around in costumes. A craftsperson is humble and dedicated - not a dilettante. 

‘Rigour’ suggests attention to detail, tenacity, and building strength. I like to think of it as a kind of striving. But the definition offered by the Oxford English Dictionary is actually “unbending, stiffness, rigidity” and “harsh inflexibility”. And of course this is how we get the medical term ‘rigor mortis’ - the stiffening of the body after death.

Training that is unbending? Inflexible? Is that how we train artists?

‘Compassion’ also has a problematic meaning. When I looked it up, the definition I found was “to suffer together,” which I’d prefer to avoid in my sessions. But in my experience, the word is usually used to suggest kindness, gentle sympathy - a softness in behaviour. In that sense, it is indeed a contrast to rigour. But training that is too soft could prevent artists from growing. If it’s all comfort, all the time, where is the stimulation that promotes change?

Then I discovered some etymology that intrigued me. ‘Compassion’ contains a Latin participle, ‘pati,’ which it shares with the word 'patient.’ One of the meanings of ‘patient’ is “to be steadfast despite difficulty or adversity.” Isn’t that strength? Or tenacity? Or…rigour? 

So rather than grappling with opposites, I think we’re using different words for the same idea: the idea of applying energy or effort to an activity; to practice patiently and with intention. Maybe our personal experiences lead us to prefer one term over another. Have we internalized some biases either about “being tough” or “being kind” based on how we ourselves were trained? Sometimes our egos build narratives around these ideas. “I was put through the wringer in my training and it was good for me,” or “I choose to teach with more care than I received from my teachers.”

Artists commit to developing their craft through training and practice. In the classroom, my syllabus is my contract with the students - we make an agreement to strive together, building craft. At the theatre companies where I coach, a diverse group of professional artists apply their craft to bring the show to the audience. Both contexts are collaborative, with complex dynamics and a range of needs and communication styles to embrace.

Society is changing, our students are changing, and the industry’s expectations seem to be changing. We strive together, responding to the changes and acknowledging, I hope, that ‘rigour’ and ‘compassion’ manifest in different ways in different settings. We absolutely do need to be discerning and clear, and make sure we can tell a hawk from a handsaw. But we can’t afford to get stuck in a binary of either/or terms: hard versus soft, or strong versus weak. If we’re going to talk “standards,” let’s define our terms and set the context.

Fall, Theatre? A Call To Action

I got the email from The Arts Club Theatre Company. They are trying to get the word out about their Fall Theatre Trio Package: bargain prices, extensive safety protocols, and two convenient “watch online” viewing options…just please, please, buy a ticket. Any kind of ticket. Please let us entertain you.

It’s a cliché and an understatement to say that there’s a lot of heart in the theatre, and I’ve been witnessing such courage in my theatre community since March of this year. There are days when I think my heart might break from it.

Back in the spring, there was the award-winning actor-director offering free math tutoring for his colleagues’ kids, because he understood the strain on theatre families suddenly home-schooling while trying to find work. “I was pretty good at math when I was in school. Let me help.”

And the fight director-lighting designer who wrote a beautiful online post about how he realized that he would have to find a different way to earn a living for a while, until we get through the pandemic. He described his good fortune and relief at being hired at a small boat-building company. There was poetry in his description of the work there, comparing boats with backstages, complete with achingly beautiful photographs.

All through the summer, the actors and singers and dancers posting reminders on social media “hey folx, please wear a mask!” even as all their work contracts were melted into air, into thin air. Actually, no: nothing so gentle as melting. More like massive stone dominos, crashing down, one onto the next. Inevitable.

But the creativity. So many people trying so hard to make theatre in whatever way we safely can until major medical intervention arrives. Yet how can that happen, with anti-maskers stamping their feet and whining about their “freedom”? Refusing to behave with basic, common decency or respect for their own communities.

In England, the government recommends that the same artists who have moved and delighted audiences for decades should now re-train for work in a different sector. Recycle yourselves into something useful, please. Meanwhile, on BC Ferries, the rabid anti-maskers on their way to a large rally of their lunatic fringe, assault fellow passengers who are wearing masks.   

The Canadian performer’s union informs us that, regretfully, they can no longer defer basic dues – the organization is struggling, it has only been receiving 15% of regular revenue, no other funding sources. They acknowledge that dues payment ($90) will create hardship for some members, and they offer options for temporary withdrawal.

I’m a Gemini - the Janus face, the sign of duality, so I usually enjoy contrasts. But right now I feel something different. I would call it rage, but at my age that would be unseemly.

I hear the weariness in my friends’ voices, I see it on their faces, as they shoulder the weight of these heavy times. I’m angry when I hear about the selfish behaviour of people who should know better. As you are old and reverend, should be wise.

“So, what specifically do you want the audience to do?” That’s what I say all the time as a public speaking coach. Well, I’ll put this call-to-action out to my friends, family, and colleagues who do NOT work in the arts: the theatre needs your help. Performers in Canada are hustling, and pivoting, and learning, and striving, and creating, and in these rare, rare instances now when they get to perform, they will leave it all out on the well-sanitized stage for you. Don’t turn away. Lend them your ears: The Arts Club Fall Theatre Trio.

All The Virtual World's A Stage

Last week I played my first Virtual Reality game. It’s called The Tempest, have you tried it?

There’s this old woman, Prospera, who lives on an island and wants revenge, it seems. I was the only player on that day, so I started as myself, then became Miranda…then I think I was the bad guy at one point, and then I was back to Miranda.

The whole Virtual Reality experience left my state altered for about 18 hours after the event. And not in the same way I used to be altered by live theatre experiences back in the old days. It was overwhelming at first - I was definitely overstimulated. But it soon faded to just an occasional flash through my brain of a spinning and swirling triangular cartoon character.

Now it’s hard to remember that it even happened at all. I mean, I know that it did. I have a sense of myself standing in my living room, looking like Princess Leia in that bounty hunter get-up that time she rescued Han Solo from Jabba The Hut, and, I gather, waving my arms around and shuffling my feet *cue hysterical laughter from those watching me*.

But the memory is housed in a different part of me, because my body-brain can’t recall much of it. I have no physical reference point of walking into a theatre and sitting in my seat. My heart did not beat in tempo with fellow audience members. My breath did not sync with the players on the stage.

Back at the start of 2020 I wrote about working and learning remotely, and the past six months has taught me a little more about that. And I have a lot to say - I am a talker, after all, and when I learn a little, I talk a lot. But in that respect, I’m thinking about the benefits of online learning, and I’ll try to articulate more about that later. Tomorrow. Because today I’m thinking about what happens when mind and body are separated. What happens when the head brain is receiving all the information and stimuli? The body brain is relegated to responding to, and adapting to, the unusual weight of machinery and electricity putting pressure on the cranium. Huh. What heavy issues must be virtually grappled with up there…

I’ve just now realized that in the Tempest game, I saw no Caliban. Where was that character? Was it too hard to integrate the data for a figure who embodies connection to the land? Too hard to find a digital role for a physical sense of place?

No wonder those VR figures have large heads covered by powerful, magical masks. Heads which lead the movements, and drive the figures endlessly forward, onward, through virtual space, as their light bodies float behind.