Photo by Ryan Jensen
Too Shy to Stare, the creation of Belgium-based director Davis Freeman, is all about me. Or all about you, if you are lucky enough to see it, since it accommodates only 10 audience members per performance. It’s playing a handful of times in its U.S. premiere at The Old School, as part of P.S. 122’s COIL festival. As of the Thursday preview I attended, the run was already sold out. But keep an eye out. After heading back to Europe, it may return.
That Davis Freeman has never met me, or probably you, either, is just one of the astonishing coups of this production. It could be argued that the experience of any piece of art is as much about the viewer as the artist. In this case, that is doubly so, as is the adage that each viewer’s experience of the work is completely his or her own.
The reason these notions hold so true in Too Shy to Stare is Freeman’s central conceit, which is to create the illusion that the audience members are performing for ourselves, so that we are both performer and spectator. He said in a post-performance discussion that his initial idea was to have the actual performers wear mirrors, so that in gazing at the stage, the viewer would always see him or herself reflected back.
That idea proved unworkable, hence the current solution: Each audience member must report to the theater a day or two (or in my case, several hours) before the performance to have a portrait taken. The photos, which are not unlike a driver’s license picture, and about as flattering—straight-on, flash, no smiling allowed—are printed out and become masks that the performers wear. To whatever degree one is able to invest in the illusion that you’re looking at yourself onstage, the experience is bound to bring up deeply personal observations. Freeman brings us face to face with ourselves.
Based on the short blurb that enticed me to see the performance, my initial impression was that I’d be watching with my fellow audience members, and we’d all be seeing images of each other (which would bring up a whole other host of issues: “Why is the dancer who looks like you threatening the dancer who looks like me?” you might ask the person sitting next to you). Freeman keeps things more intimate; each audience member is always alone in a room with the performer(s). The exposure we face is of ourselves, to ourselves.
Anyone who has seen the feverish dance installation Sleep No More has quite possibly experienced the unnerving thrill of suddenly being an unexpected scene partner, alone in a room with an actor, a little like that anxiety dream of being on stage and not knowing your lines. The experience in “Too Shy to Stare” is completely different. Davis himself instructs us before we go in that it will be clear where we are to sit and when we are to leave. Each audience member is given seven cards, for each of seven different rooms. When you hand a card through a curtain to the performers, they know that you (number 5 in my case—yes, you are given a number) is outside, and they don your mask. A light outside the room tells you when to go in.
Once you enter, you are more stand-off spectator than direct participant in the scenes you encounter—until of course you take into account that the people performing are you (sort of). And it’s good, in my opinion, that we don’t interact much with the performers, physically at least (though sometimes I did want to give myself a hug). It’s disconcerting enough to have a dancer wearing a mask of your face, crawling toward you on her hands and knees like a dog—would you really want to pet the dog/dancer version of you, too?
That said, while all the rooms held my interest, for me the most compelling were the ones in which the performers were the most confrontational. In one, I watched a male version of me put the moves on a female version of me (albeit a noticeably taller, bustier version). They held hands, and I was acutely aware that I—the third me—had no hand to hold but my own. I was a bit hurt when she eventually left the room and he showed no interest in the real me whatsoever. He actually went as far as to quietly tell me to get out, but that was just because I’d failed to realize this portion of the performance was over (perhaps I was also testing the limits a bit). In any case, I tried not to take it personally when I threw myself out. This was the only time any of the performers spoke, another element that keeps you at a respectful, observational distance from yourself.
In another room, I was alone with a man-me. When he ran his hands over his jeans, I could feel the texture of the denim. But when his body language signaled weariness, I thought, “Lay down your/my head.” (He didn’t.) When he looked ready to dance, I wanted him/me to bust a move. (He didn’t). It’s an odd sensation to feel at once so connected to and disconnected from yourself, inside and outside at the same time. After the troubling realization that I had no control over what I/he was doing, at one point he/me walked up and let me place my hand on his chest, beneath which I felt his rapidly beating heart. I wanted to just enjoy the moment of connection, but I was distracted by my own photo looking back at me. In this case, so close up, I found my image displeasing. Not for the first time in my life, I was letting my feelings about how I looked interfere with my ability to live fully. After he retreated from me again, we found our way into mirroring each other’s movements. At last, briefly, I felt in synch.
Freeman’s performers, all local, are all wonderfully alive in their movements, able to convey shades of menace, warmth, aggression, sexuality and sadness without us ever seeing their own faces. The music, performed the night I attended by Ed RosenBerg, colors our whole experience with a kind of hypnotic glow. The mode of its creation came as a complete surprise to me, which I won’t reveal in case anyone reading is able to see the show. But I will say that it added yet another highly personal, and beautiful, element.
The piece’s name, for me, was the opposite of how I felt watching these scenes. Alone with the performers, the fact that I couldn’t see their faces, that I was looking at “myself,” gave me permission to stare. What I saw was for my eyes only.
Photo by Ryan Jensen
Too Shy to Stare
Musicians:
Brian McCorkle, Ed RosenBerg, Hahn Rowe
Performers:
Maya Orchin, Nora Petroliunas, Lauren Garson, Andrew Broaddus, Matthew Morris, Hope Davis, Megan Harrold, Winnie Ho, Laura Hicks and Paul Singh
Co-produced by Random Scream. Made possible with support from Mertz Gilmore Foundation, Koen Kwanten, Kaai theatre, Damaged goods, and the VGC. Created in part at the Arts Collaboration Lab, a partnership between Columbia University School of the Arts and Performance Space 122 in July 2011.
Please note: Audience is limited to 10 people per performance and ticket buyers must make an appointment to have their photograph taken at least 48 hours in advance of attending the performance. Why? It's a secret.
playing through January 14th.
For more information: http://ps122.org/performances/too_shy_to_stare.html
Olivia Jane Smith is a writer, editor, and lifelong theater lover (her parents borrowed her name from "Twelfth Night"). She has written about theater for the New York Daily News, Backstage, and the Gambit Weekly in New Orleans, Louisiana. Follow Olivia at ojanesmith.tumblr.com
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