2:2 – Artifice and Performance

Question 3. We began this unit by discussing assumptions and differences that we carry into our class. In “First Contact as Spiritual Performance,” Lutz makes an assumption about his readers (Lutz, “First Contact” 32). He asks us to begin with the assumption that comprehending the performances of the Indigenous participants is “one of the most obvious difficulties.” He explains that this is so because “one must of necessity enter a world that is distant in time and alien in culture, attempting to perceive indigenous performance through their eyes as well as those of the Europeans.” Here, Lutz is assuming either that his readers belong to the European tradition, or he is assuming that it is more difficult for a European to understand Indigenous performances – than the other way around. What do you make of this reading? Am I being fair when I point to this assumption? If so, is Lutz being fair when he makes this assumption?


I chose this question because of the element of performativity involved within answering it; I think that whenever approaching performance, certainly in North American circles, there is an emphasis on “Western” traditions. Western here implying European and not Indigenous.

In Lutz’s understandings he writes that “performance requires artifice” (9). From a North American point of view that statement is nothing but accurate. “Of course performance requires artifice – it is a reflection of the world but not the world itself.” However, there are many cultures that have many performative elements to their rituals (indeed their rituals themselves are often viewed as performance). Yet, to these cultures this is not an artifice, but in order to carry out the ritual, the ‘performer’ falls into a trance. The ritual then progresses from a trance-like state where the performer acts from what is believed to be another level of being. This is seen in Korean Shamanism,  African Yoruba, etc. The performative trance described may have props or costumes, like European traditions, but there is an awareness to their usage. Bode Omojola discusses the separation in her article on Yoruba, “Yoruba performers are constantly aware of the discursive engagement between asa (social reality and cultural practice) and esin (spiritual devotion)” (30). The performers are aware of the both the links and the disconnect between the two ideas of the essential spirituality and their performance within it; however, the two ideas are interconnected. They need to exist together.

I feel the need here to reflect on how I use performance in my own life: when I’m nervous socially or tired and still have work to do, I fasten myself to what I consider to be a persona of myself; a peppier, brighter me. This other Jamie I would look at as an artifice, but so often I find I have shuffled off my bad mood or the other side of myself that this performance is actually how I feel; indeed, this performance is as much a part of myself as the every other aspect of my outward presentation. Thus my performance loses it’s artifice and becomes a reality.

I agree that Lutz’ stance towards performance certainly comes across as someone who grew up with a rather limited scope in relation to their experience with performance styles. However, with the abundance of Western media throughout the world, it’s not that unusual. Certainly most people on earth can associate a face to the name “Brad Pitt”, which in North American culture does not usually happen with more ‘foreign’ actors. You can see American made movies just about anywhere in the world (I saw Sex & the City 2 in Rome – don’t judge), but often have to go to specialty cinemas to see films made outside of the Hollywood mainstream (often to see Canadian made films even!).  So certainly there is a global side to north american performance culture that has ingrained itself into our brains as being a ‘standard’ for performance; however, this diminishes the status of other performance cultures. By creating an standard we then relegate all other forms of performance to the fringes, making them alternative and looking at them through a lens of the forms they are diverting away from.

Where I’m getting at in a roundabout way is that Lutz’ view of the ‘standards’ of performativity are largely established, but they devalue the importance and history of other performance cultures; first contact would have been bizarre for both sides, not just from the side that mainstreamed culture has spawned from.


Works Cited

 Grim, John A. “Chaesu Kut: A Korean Shamanistic Performance.” Asian Folklore Studies 43.2 (1984): p 235-259. Web. 24 June 2015. <URL>

Omojola, Bode. “Rhythms of the Gods: Music and Spirituality in Yoruba Culture.” Journal of Pan African Studies  3.5 (2010): 29-50. Web. 24 June 2015. <URL>

“Season Two – Episode One – Piggies” Worst Idea Of All Time Podcast. Stitcher. Web. 26 June 2015. <URL>

2:1b – Reflections on “Home”

Reading all of our stories about home this week was striking. I was initially surprised at how metaphorical home was to all of us. How beautifully broad in definition.

The first entry I read was by Alyssa Ready and it resonated with me on a very personal level. The photo she posted of the Okanagan reminded me of the lakes I swam in throughout my childhood. The sky, the trees, the landscape – I could smell the air and feel the rocks beneath my feet and thought to myself “yeah – that’s home.” I couldn’t even tell where her story of home and mine differentiated. Her home became mine because I associated to it. She described her group of friends and the dynamics of their changing bodies and the value of people that choose to be with you and love you.

 

Sarah Steer‘s post was so unlike my own childhood experience, yet I felt her strangeness at the new location, the self consciousness, the alien-ness. At the end she stated, “I think that I realized that identity can always be re-constructed, because it doesn’t remain buried in one place. I felt a sense of belonging immediately, because I continued to do what I enjoyed.  I think that tradition plays a large part in connecting places of importance.” This really hit “home” for me. I’ve had the privilege to travel a lot as a kid and young adult (usually following my parents on work trips), and the idea that we can arrive in a space and find a sense of belonging in it is one I certainly have shared.

Finally, Kathryn Cardoso stated simply that home isn’t a resting place for our head at night – we all have out own wants and ideals. All of our homes are so different, and that’s part of what makes us unique and makes home such a complicated subject. Her writing was so open, it resonated with me, it allowed me to be a separate entity with my own thoughts and desires but embraced but the content of her blog. It was rad.


Thank you all for sharing your homes and beautiful stories. I’m so constantly excited for this class and the level of personal detail and involvement that is constantly delivered.

 

-J

 


Works Cited

Cardoso, Kathryn. “Where is home?” English 470. WordPress, 5 June 2015. Web. 12 June 2015. <URL>

Ready, Alyssa. “Painting the Sky-the outdoors is my home.” Alyssa Ready. WordPress, 7 June 2015. Web. 7 June 2015. <URL>

Steer, Sarah. “Wherever I go I carry “home” on my back.” English 470 | Canadian Studies. WordPress, 4 June 2015. Web. 12 June 2015. <URL>

2:1 – Home. Yes, we are home.

Since I was a kid, I have spent almost every summer working on a farm in the Okanagan. It was once a travelling theatre company, but at the end of the 70s they settled on a few dozen acres in the Spallumcheen Township. Despite only being there for a month or so, once a year, all the artists living and working there feel an ownership towards the lands during their time there. We are temporarily in this place, but for those of us that respect and love its location, we take it home with us in our hearts.

When I was 19, Harry, the technical director died in his sleep.

I found out over the phone walking through Stanley Park to the beach; I was on the greyhound the next morning. I arrived at night – the actors were rehearsing on set in the distance, they looked like figurines amongst the magnitude of the stage setting.

IMG_9538Even when all I wanted to think about was myself; how I felt, who I needed to see and talk to; the location we were on made all the people that I wanted to see at the mercy of their environment. They all came back at different times and as I greeted each person, I witnessed a vast display of grief, from almost jocular hellos to hugs that lasted minutes.

It was a tough summer, after opening the show we then planned a funeral for a person who had been our touchstone for years. He was who everyone took their questions to, the person who would make molehills out of mountains. We had his funeral at the farm, maybe 200 meters from where he had died. And we told stories. His daughters told stories about their dad as he was when they were kids, their own children running through the fields behind them chasing dogs and crickets. His son and the musicians on the show played the last songs that Harry had listened to the night he died. After we had told our stories his children got into his beat-up pick up truck, his coffin lying on a bed of pine branches, to drive his body to the funeral home. Three failed attempts to start the thing later, the truck started and they drove off on the bumpy country roads.

The few of us left had nothing to do, so we sat waiting for dinner on the porch and told the stories that weren’t so appropriate for the funeral. The carpenter that had offered to build his coffin told us that he had built it about 3 inches to short the first time. Writing this on a blog it’s hard to express how funny this story was as he told it. He was cursing and laughing, tears at the corners of all of our eyes. Of course Harry’s coffin was too small – it was a big joke on us that the one time the carp didn’t measure twice it was for his buddy’s G**D*** funeral. There we were, doubled over with laughter, tear stains on our checks from crying through the Okanagan dust, while the carpenter is shouting, “I couldn’t even f**king bend his knees enough to get the lid on!” That night, we sat around a (fairly) controlled fire and people smoke and drank and told more stories, rude stories, heartfelt stories; some people were missing from our ranks – still not quite ready to change tenses in their stories.

Half of us had been coming to this place for over 6 years (some for over 20), the other half had been there for only a couple weeks, but we were, all of us, permanent and temporary in the space. In a month, only the Artistic Director would be left, leaving the grief we had shared, the warmth of these stories, alone in the dirt and dust of these 80-acres that were our home, for a time.

When it comes my personal ideas of home, there is a sense of shared experience that creates a space rather than a permanence of location. Still, when I see people from that summer, there is a sense of home in their hellos. All of us were so fragile then, so easily broken and as a group we rebuilt ourselves together.  I’ve experienced death closely since then, but I’ve never again had the same community, the same home to rebuild myself within. That summer, almost a decade past now, allowed an ownership towards tragedy I’ve yet to experience again; we built the coffin; we hosted the funeral; we dug a grave for his ashes and the things he had left behind; we said goodbye.


 

It was hard for me here to tell this story without naming the people in it, in order to respect their grieving practice and their anonymity but as I wrote, I felt compelled to give a name to the person that brought out our stories, to Harry.

-J

 


Works Cited

“History.” Caravan Farm Theatre. The Caravan Farm Theatre, 2012. Web. 05 June 2015. <URL>

Gladstone, Amiel. “Harry van der Schee.” Theatre for People Who Hate Theatre. WordPress, 23 Aug. 2008. Web. 4 June 2015. <URL>

Spam prevention powered by Akismet