Kesey once said to me, after reading yet another deep and dark and terribly original graduate student short story, “Sure its well written – but it is navel gazing. At this point in my life, if it don’t uplift the human spirit, piss on it.”

But an artist working well is not working in isolation, even if they are alone. they carry with them all the art they have experienced up to that point – it informs them. And if they do not believe this – if they believe that they are “original,” then they lack humility – lack an ability to see clearly the way the world is around them, and an artist without vision, without the ability to see – well that I would call a student.

Hi Svetlana,

How wonderful to hear from you in this forum.
I was looking forward to spending a month back in Berlin this summer, but plans are looking more towards practice in France, doing Roy Hart work and possibly returning for a spell to Plum Village. Let me know, however, if there is something that should divert me there. Please keep me updated and think about posting a description of your current practice; it would be great to have more of your voice here.

much,
Dhira

A coincidence-I just emailed a friend explaining why for me, yoga must be done in a studio with others as opposed to a private solitary practice at home.
You put it eloquently-and I agree Yoga in that scenario can be a supportive environment while it allows you the freedom to make your own choices, firstly regarding the physical body-
For me its also a place where 1 1/2 hours are spent in a basic like-mindedness; a starting point for my own “private spiritual practice” which potentially goes deeper.
I’m inspired with your experimentation-two hours alone per week not contingent on outcomes, a project or a GIG.
And, yes it brings me back to South Korea when much time was spent in Buddhist Temples on retreats or just my own retreat-You’re given an empty room and space to create and cultivate practice-bring that into one’s artistic process and who knows what can emerge.

I see you’re back in NYC and I, in Berlin, whence we came–
Berlin’s changed, it’s growing, has become or has returned to its pre-war fame–an exciting new starting point.

I’m relatively far from that kind of practice right now. URT is preparing for its first real theatrical premier in five years. We are working on rhythm now, and eventually on image, perhaps on text. The environment is completely different. We have goals. We want to “explode,” we want to “appear.” The space is never empty as it used to be.

But I know in every second of every day, inside and outside the studio, that the seeds I found a few years ago when I was alone in the studio… those are still the seeds that cause me to do whatever I do. They are so valuable, so tiny, like grains of sand or fragments of jewels. Nearly invisible, but hard as diamonds. Unbreakable.

I remember that when I was working alone in the studio, I would spend about half the time moping and a quarter of the time sleeping. The rest of the time I was moving, running around, singing, and then, for a few golden seconds, I would discover something that I needed to do just for the sake of doing it. To find that need, that connection between impulse and action… those tiny jewels of pure desire. It’s like mining for gold. It’s worth it.

I remember the swimming and the drying off. Hot and cold. Wet and dry. Windy and calm. All of that in an empty room. How large we are! When we expand…

b.

When I started writing songs as an adolescent I felt a very conscious desire to sound ‘original’. I hoped to never emulate another songwriter/band. The irony, of course, was that I did not possess the technical skill to recreate someone else´s sound even if I had wanted to. After many years of practice, I began to possess sufficient skill in songwriting/guitar-playing/singing to approach some modicum of ‘originality’. But the old irony evolved to keep pace with my painstaking progress; somehow, my influences had become more evident, not less so, in the listeners’ ears.

As a theatre artist, I too feel indebted to the work of Grotowski. I certainly never encountered the man, but have encountered his influence in the works of some who trained with him, and in many who trained with those who trained with him. At what point in this ongoing process of transmission can one presume to have encountered/left his ‘influence’? More than anything I have encountered his ideas through the body of literature that swirls around his life/work/practice, and I take those writings at their word; to read about the doing can’t substitute for witnessing the doing, let alone substitute for the doing itself. In my opinion, this fact in no way diminishes the value of his literature on practice. The very thing that drew me to Grotowski’s writings was his ability to define the challenges of performance that I had already begun to encounter for myself. If his writings can be so accurate about those challenges, isn’t it natural to presume they may be correct when presenting positive examples to the practitioner? So, I work to implement the ideals espoused therein, as well as heed his warnings. While I leave it to others to judge for themselves whether or not those ideals are visible in the outcome of my work, his influence remains very real to me.

When I play a song that I wrote ten years ago, I immediately encounter one of the fundamental problems of performance work in any discipline. Namely, I must find a way to present it as if for the very first time. While not exactly destroying the old song (which, in the parlance of Grotowski, serves as ‘the container’), it becomes necessary to ‘re-create’ it in the moment – to rediscover, re-connect with and renew what made its inception so vital to me. This necessitates an act of forgetting on my part. I must forget what has worked in the past in order to find what will work right now. In this way at least, the song is always alive with the spirit of ‘new work’. Perhaps this equation applies to the theatre as well? If there is such a thing as ‘New Theatre’ it must necessarily confront theatre’s past, and I would be surprised not to find its seeds had been planted generations ago. No matter what one’s discipline of choice, it seems to me, our passage as individual artists backwards, through the unique crucible of our influences, constitutes an inescapable part of the journey towards something that we should aspire to make ‘new’ every time.

2. I don’t recall what I was searching for when I found you. It’s been a while. Probably something with “interdisciplinary arts.”

3. I visit irregularly, usually after I’ve received something from you email list. I’m not sure I fully grasp all that you’re up to, but I’m fascinated and should I ever scratch a bit of money together, I’d love to fly up and take a workshop. I do think you’re onto something that is bubbling under my surface.

More about me: I’ve written short stories and arts articles. I’ve tried my hand at running a micro-press and have published a handful of books full of wonderful writing. I have degrees in theater, divinity, and interdisciplinary arts. I’m particularly fond of modern dance, but have a hard time separating myself from text and so my own performance work tends to play with the intersection of words and movement. I’m a jack of all trades, master of none. I have a richer inner life than outer life. There I am. Partially.

Thanks for this site and your work. Hope I can experience it in person sometime.

Feel free to send me some of your works via email.
Ciao,
Coni

BTW- Your English is fine… Your insights are brilliant.