Show's Up

31 August

2 performances at the theatre in Bejaia. The first performance was really high energy with a very supportive audience. Because they were not used to such a rambunceous audience the show felt choppy. There is this problem in theatre in Algeria of the INVITATION. Theatres all around Algeria have instigated this invitation policy where the theatre hands out invitations for every seat in the theatre and often times only let people in who have invitation. This means of course your audience is preselected and people who are not priveledged enough to receive an invitation think that going to the theatre is some sort of elitiste HIGH art event. So when a play is open to the public potential audience members don’t even think to come. And the invitation seems to be a sign of prestige. I gave a couple of invitations to the guys who work at my usual lunch restaurant and they let me eat for free that day…for the shows at the TRB I made the invitations at the insistence of the TRB but I let anyone who wanted to come into the theatre.

Friday we all piled into the TRB’s van and drove an hour and a half to the commune of Ait Smail. After lunch the light tech set up the lights and we did a long warm up. Then I said

Ok now we are going to do a run thru. “Normally we don’t do a run thru” says the lighting tech. And the actors “yeah!” And I said “we are in a new space we need do to a run thru!” Especially since volume has been a problem and the theatre was much bigger than the small theatre at the TRB. During the run thru N said something in an improv that was apparently inappropriate. She had said something during a TRB performance and the girls had something to me and I had completely forgot to talk to her. So in the middle of the run thru Sa just walked off the stage. And L followed. And the others tried to cover and somehow made it through to the bow. A couple of talks later we seemed to smooth out the problem. Then right before the show I went backstage to do a final short energy warm up. And I was met with rolling eyes and sagging shoulders and huffing and puffing. So I just said “ok. See you after the show.”

And it was their best performance yet for a couple of reasons—we spent a lot of time checking volume before the show, they are now allowing the show to breath, and the audience was tough—the house was packed, mainly with rather frustrated young people who were hooting and hollering as soon as the lights went to black. The actors had to step up their energy in order to pull in all that chaotic energy and they did it. After the show the cultural association that had invited us treated us all like rock stars, another newspaper interview, light bulbs flashing, the mayor sat in on the interview…

One more performance to go—on Thursday night at the Maison de la Culture in Bejaia as part of their Ramadan program. And today I’m back to Madame’s house until my departure…my lovely apartment was only rented until today…

Pacing

24 August

Lunch break. First tech through. Slowly making our way. Lots of things left to tighten but we will have 6 run thrus under our belt by the time Wednesday comes round. They are worried and stressed and I want to keep them that way. Wanting to work more so that they get more efficient during rehearsal time. It's not adding more hours and getting exhausted and frayed that will make a better show--it's learning how to be present in the time we have that will make the most difference. So I am trying to manage how to keep encouraging them but also letting them get a little freaked out at the same time. The light fellow is not very sensible--not so good at feeling the beats and timing things with feeling. But again. 6 more run thrus to go.

23 August

Before starting a stop and start run thru for the lighting tech I said to the group:

Being a professional doesn’t necessarily mean getting paid for your work. It’s state of mind, a way of carrying yourself and interacting with others. Many of you have told me that you are professionals or have had professional experience. I have yet to see it. Show me. Don’t tell me. And if there is one more fight I rip up the posters, call the papers to print a little something that says the show is cancelled, and we pack up and go.

And the day went really well.

Someone Else Will Clean It Up

The posters were printed yesterday. The invitations will be printed Saturday. The program is ready, the TRB's light tech started hanging yesterday and I'm washing costumes this afternoon. There is going to be a performance. 4 performances. Even if we are all half bald by next Wednesday.

We had our first run thru yesterday. Rocky as can be. But that's to be expected isn't it. Usually is the first run thru before tech. Sa said "But Taous how can we do a run thru? We've never done a run thru?!"

Well dear, there's a first time for everything isn't there.

And three times I shouted "if you don't have something to say that you are supposed to say in the play than don't open your mouth!" And it shows the one's that have been showing up working (A, S) and one's that show up but don't work. And they blame me and other's when things don't work. I can tell. No personal responsibility. Isn't that what I am supposed to be teaching them? I guess in two months you maybe start to chip away at these things...

Like the trash on the street. Everyone thinks someone else will clean it up. Or the trash left in the theatre by the mysterious men at night. We find cigarette butts, empty plastic coffee cups laying around. Because someone else will clean it up. 

The Placement of a Word

18 August

Ib didn’t show up yesterday. When I called she said she was stuck in Algiers. Her Dad wasn’t ready to come back and wouldn’t let her take the bus back to Bejaia on her own. L had lunch yesterday with her boyfriend. And was 20 minutes late getting back. I tried calling and calling. She wouldn’t pick up. She said “I didn’t want to use up your minutes.” That frustrates me to no end. If I pick up the phone to call you that means I am prepared to pay for the call. And I said for the 100th time: “if you are going to be late just beep me and I will call you back.” They have gotten better. Sa now sends texts if she is late and N as well. But I am wondering if L didn’t want to do this project just to be able to see her boyfriend…she lives in a village 2 hours from the city…
N sleeps through the lunch break—she’s spending the summer at the beach and parties all night long. She wakes up asking who has food to give her.

Both newspaper articles that have come out have had a lot of mistakes—typos, totally changing things I tell them—I told the Depeche de Kabylie journalist that we have been working two months. He didn’t think that was enough so he put four months. He couldn’t quite get it that my name is Taous Claire Khazem. And insisted on writing Taous-Claire. I sent them 4 pictures of the girls and the editor pulled a picture of me off the internet. When I complain to other artists here they say: “what did you expect?”
So has started getting “headaches” every time the work gets a little bit tough. I called her on it yesterday. F got through an entire day without insulting anyone.

A French director and two other actors were touring the theatre yesterday. They came in and sat down during rehearsal. S completely froze. Couldn’t move. Kept giggling. How are you going to be able to perform in front of a packed audience if you can’t in front of three people? She says in the 3 other shows she’s worked on she always gets scared. I told them you have to imagine that the audience is there all the time. This might be a problem…As of next week I am going to start inviting people to watch in small doses.

A lot of these girls were in a show that the TRB produced in Kabyle last year. Sometimes when we are creating dialogue they reference that show. I worry because that is the only reference they have that they sometimes blend and mix up the two projects. I told them yesterday: “Be careful. This is not the same story. We need to stay true to these characters.” But of course I didn’t see this play and I don’t speak Kabyle fluently. I turned to the visiting director yesterday and said:
“I’m crazy! I am directing a play in a language I don’t even speak! Who does that?!”

Oh, and we have a title: Timiqwa n Tmucuha, which loosely translated means, Droplets of Stories.

19 August

I asked if a certain dialogue had been fixed. “No not yet.” So they sat down to write it out. So and F started fighting. An argument about a word. The placement of a word. Then F got up to get her stuff and leave. I intervened. The same pattern as usual. They fight. I don’t understand. I break up the fight. One wants to leave. I insist on figuring out the problem. Maybe I should just let them walk out. But they are only 7. The show is their creation. It would hard to replace them. And with a voice that I don’t know where it came from I said “what would you do in my place?” And Sa said “I would pick up my stuff and leave.” And I said “that is not a solution. I am here to see this project through to the end. I am going nowhere. I did not work for a year and a half preparing for this summer to play referee. You have worked for two months and you are throwing it all down the toilet. Figure it out.”

And then there was this silence like I’ve never heard in that space. Because my voice caught in my throat. And maybe suddenly they realized I’m not so different from them.

After lunch I came back and said “if you have something to say that is not in service of this show that don’t bother saying it.”

Then when they were working on writing out the text they have created in the scene improves I went upstairs and found D who has been working as a director at the TRB for years and years. Some of the girls have worked with him before. Some really want to work with them. I asked him to come down and have a chat. He told me:

You have to be a dictator when you direct in this country. Algeria is only 46 years old. We’ve only had a semblance of democracy since 1988. How do you expect to work with everyone giving their opinions? Collective creation! Ha! We don’t even have democracy in our homes. When I direct here I am a tyrant. You give them an ounce of liberty and…well…good luck…tigers let out of their cages.

He came down into the theatre and amongst other things he said: “I can’t believe you fight in Kabyle in front of your director on stage. That is the most disrespectable thing you could do.” And all of their heads dropped. “Put all of that energy into creation, working on your characters on the show as a hole. Why are you wasting your time? The stage never lies—if don’t put the work in you need than it will show. And it will you in front of that public. Not Taous. And she’s going to leave in two weeks. Back to the US. You might never see her again. But I’ll still be here.” In other words if you even dream of thinking I would ever cast you after seeing how you work here—think again.

It kills me that I had to bring D in. What did I do in the beginning that they just assumed they could behave like this? I wish I could work backwards and see. I have been quite severe from the beginning and demanding. And I have been repeating these same things over and over again.

I found some apple juice imported from Turkey last night. Pure apple juice no sugar added. The brand is called Joyful. I think I will keep drinking it up until next Wednesday…

Maybe I'm the crazy one

A couple of days ago Ib came to me and said that her boyfriend came to ask for her hand but that he wants her to stop performing. Her father doesn’t want her to marry the guy…it seems to me that she is still continuing with this project until the end…she shows up. And today with a ring. But she shows up.

There are two women S and F that have spent a lot of time together and act like sisters—aggressive, mean, biting and insulting. My problem is that I don’t understand when they insult each other. All I hear is the raised voices and tears and crossed arms and stomping off. Yesterday we had a chat about respect. The sort of chat I typically have when I work with junior high students. These are young women between 20 and 26 and they behave like kids. Recently we spent an hour trying to create a scene that should’ve been focused on the acting but instead we got caught up in a fight between two women about how a tradition jar is used. Sometimes I run around making funny noises to distract them from each other. I am trying to find a calm tone of voice. In control.

Somehow we still manage to create. I asked So to write poems and songs that are interspersed throughout. Only a couple are really singers but music will be a good to way to break up the rhythm. Maybe there will be some dancing. Maybe with a bendir.

They are used to be told what to do. Are they having fun? Are they learning things? In a society where living and working and navigating within a community is of utmost importance, where the individual is secondary to the group—it is shocking these women have such a hard time working together. They don’t know how to really listen—to themselves and to each other.

In the middle of the lunch break today Sa called me and said "please come now." I turned around and went back to the theatre. I found 6 women glaring at each other and then one stomped out. Then Ib said the argument began about x subject and then the Kabyle version of the F word was used and then the screaming started and then the artistic director walked in. And I laid it out nice and clear like calmly and quietly. And by some miracle they apologized to each other and the rest of the day went by extremely well. Complete with two major newspaper interviews. Nevertheless I have a horrid headache.

There will be a couple of articles coming out this week in Algeria News and in La Depeche de Kabylie and hopefully next week in El Watan. A painter I’ve met through the Maison de la Culture is making the poster. And on we continue…

 

Some Kind of Journey

In all three of these folktales the journey of the young woman becomes particularly interesting when looking at the values of Algerian society. At the beginning of the story there is a girl at home and everything is well. There is a family unit that is bound by love and tradition. Then something in the home breaks, either the step-mom goes on a jealous rampage, the brother decides to marry his sister, or a life is threatened by an evil outsider, that causes the young girl to flee. At the end of her journey through a forest or a cave she encounters a neutral man who asks her to marry him. Once this marriage happens the young girl is no longer a girl but a woman and establishes her own home. Only then, after creating her own personal and adult space she then returns to gain revenge on whoever did her wrong.  This new establishment gives her strength and power in order for justice to prevail. 

The home in Algeria is of utmost importance and more importantly how the small community of a family is viewed by the larger community as a whole. When a woman marries she is taken by a caravan of multiple cars and people from her community (I see this as a journey, as if through a forest) to the home of her husband. Once married she is looked on as someone who has attainted a certain amount of power and respect in her community by leaving one home behind for another. She leaves her parents house and becomes a woman.

There are of course other themes that appear beyond this reading—jealousy, trust, justice, good vs. evil, love and fidelity…but each story can be broken down into the exact same skeleton.

This skeleton is how I am going to try and direct the show. I have created an outline of 15 scenes allowing the stories to weave in and out. I said I am going to do the drawing you guys have to add the colors. Ib said “I don’t know if we are capable…” Of course you are—we have been working on all the tools you need in order to this for the past month…I am throwing so many new things at them all the time…I have to get them to trust themselves…and each other…and me…consistently. We work on this everyday.

Sometimes I think maybe I am imposing a style on them—my own style. But when I leave it open really open they tend to feel lost I have noticed. Today when I presented the outline they were all visibly relieved that I had a concrete plan. Just now I found myself thinking: Have I failed on this angle—as we begin to create—that they haven’t embraced a style of their own? But then I tell myself—we have only just begun creating! There is so much more work to do and things to discover. But I am realizing they want to be guided. So how I do I guide whilst letting them create…

My goal is to show them that theatre can be created by them. From scratch. And we have 4 performance dates ALMOST set. This is Algeria. Nothing is ever set. It is always changing and never at a constant speed. Things either happen at the speed of light or at the speed of a snail. 

Folktales

Here is my English translation/outline of the three stories we are working on. In the creation of the show we will expand and contract these stories as needed.

The Ogress and the Seven Sisters

There once was a widower with seven daughters. Six of his daughters were not very bright but the seventh daughter, Aicha, was incredibly smart. One day in the middle of winter the widower leaves on to take part in the Hadj to Mecca. He leaves his seventh daughter in charge of her other sisters and the house.

“Do not open the door to strangers. And remember you do not have any aunts or grandparents. Believe no one if they try to tell you otherwise.”

Not long after the widower left on his journey an evil ogress, hungry for human flesh, knocks on the door.

“Girls! It’s your old aunty come to pay you a visit! I have food for you all!”

Aicha responds: “we do not have any aunties. Go away!” But her other six sisters, thinking only of the food, barrel past her and open the door for the ogress. The old ogress distributes her food to all of the sisters who gobble up the food and fall asleep. Aicha, knowing they are in danger, does not touch her food. When the ogress is not looking she runs out into the nearby forest. And runs, and runs, and night falls, and she continues to run.

When the Moon is at her height in the night sky she tells Aicha “your first sister has died at the hands of the ogress.” Aicha continues and every few steps the Moon tells Aicha of another sister who has been eaten by the ogress…

After days of traveling Aicha takes shelter in a cave. Inside the cave Aicha encounters two women who tell her:

“We are the wives of the Snake that lives here. When he comes to see us we will pretend that you are a baby so that he won’t eat you.”

The Snake arrives and sees his two wives with a baby. As soon as the Snake looks upon Aicha he is filled with joy and falls in love with her.

[Dialogue between Aicha and the Sheep that I don’t understand yet…but the Sheep dies]

The Snake learns the true story of Aicha and marries her. On their wedding day the Snake suddenly transforms into handsome and strong man.
His two other wives become her humble servants.

The End

The Snake Egg

A young girl lives happily with her father, two brothers and step-mother. Her step-mother becomes incredibly jealous of her and goes to visit an old wise woman for ideas of how to get rid of her step-daughter. The old wise woman gives her a snake egg to feed to the young girl.

After eating the egg the girl’s belly starts to grow bigger and bigger as the snake egg matures. The step-mother brings the girl in front of her father and says “look at the shame your daughter has brought upon our family! She has gotten herself pregnant!”

Without giving the girl a second to defend herself and tell the true story the father and two brothers dig a tomb and bury her alive.

The next day a Traveler is passing by and hears someone crying from underground. He starts to dig and uncovers the girl, still alive. He takes her to his house in a far away village and the girl tells him her story and the injustice befallen her. He then goes to see the local wise man who tells him:

“Slaughter a sheep. Dry and salt the meat. Add extra salt. Then feed the meat to the girl. The snake inside of her will get thirsty. Hang her by her feet and near her mouth set a basin of water. The snake will crawl out of her belly in order to drink.”

The Traveler does just this.
Then the Traveler and the girl get married and have a son.

The son one day asks his mother why he has never met his grandfather and uncles. She decides to take him to her village. She tells her son “when we are at your Grandfather’s house ask me to tell you a story. I will say no the first time. Keep asking me until I agree.”

At her father’s house her son asks for a story. “No not now,” she says as planned. He asks again “No not now” she says. He asks a third time and she agrees.

She begins to tell her own story of what really happened to her and how her step-mother betrayed her. As the story unfolds her step-mother starts to sink into the floor. By the end of the story only her step-mother’s head remains visible. Enraged, her father takes a sword and cuts off the head of his wife. And the family is reunited again. The End.


Drima

A young woman named Drima goes to fetch water at the fountain. A strand of her hair falls into the water. A few hours later, after Drima has returned home, her brother comes riding up to the same fountain on his horse. The horse refuses to drink. The brother looks into the water and sees a strand of hair floating in the fountain. He proclaims:

“I will marry the woman from whose head this hair fell! I swear to God!”

He arrives at home and tells his mother “I swear that I will marry the woman from whose head this hair fell. Find her for me!”

His mother goes door to door looking for the woman. Exhausted and fatigued she returns home without having found the woman. She suddenly realizes that Drima’s hair is the exact match. Quietly she tells her son: “this hair belongs to your sister, Drima.”

“I swore it. I will marry my sister.” He responds. So the mother and her son begin wedding preparations in secret. While Drima is in the courtyard rolling couscous a Chicken approaches and says: “Your family is preparing to marry you to your brother!”

Drima hears this and confronts her parents. They tell her that it is indeed true. So, Drima decides to run away. She heads to the forest and hides in a cave. The family’s servant is sent to look for her and finds her hiding in the cave and goes back to tell the brother. The brother goes to the cave and says: “Drima don’t be afraid, stick out your hand.” She does this and her brother cuts off her hand. So Drima curses her brother with a large pine needle in his hand. He returns home screaming in pain and Drima starts to walk through the forest away from her home.

A Traveler finds Drima wondering in the forest. Drima tells him her story. The Traveler and Drima get married and live in the Travelers house in a far away village.

One day Drima is washing wool in the fountain when a Crow arrives and says to her:

“If you give me your wool I will give you anything you wish for!”

Drima wishes to have her hand back. The Crow produces her hand and it reattaches as if it had never left her. Then Drima travels back to her village and removes the giant pine needle from her brother’s hand.

The End

Bread

On Monday and Tuesday a singer rehearsed in the Petite Salle where we usually work so we had to move up to the Veranda. When we returned to the Petite Salle on Wednesday we found the place trashed. Cigarette butts, coffee cups, cigarette packs, little sacks of tobacco, napkins, coffee spilled on stage, microphone cords laying around, a horrible stale cigarette smell lingering, and a thick layer of dust on the wooden planks of the stage we work so hard to keep clean…
So I asked the guardian that day for a broom. He shrugged his shoulders and said: “Nassim is on vacation. He took the key to the broom closet with him.”

*

I often see people walking with bags and bags of bread near the bus station. This morning I went on a mission to find the bakery where all this bread was coming from. It’s Friday, the day off here…people go to the beach, men sit around on door steps and in parks and at cafés and observe the trees and insects and the occasional woman passing by…I found a line outside a nondescript bakery. I asked the last man in line “is this the bakery with the best bread in town? You are waiting in line for bread?”
“Yes, we are waiting in line for bread.”
“Well then I’ll wait in line too!”
“No problem.”
Then another fellow came over and said: “go inside the bakery. Women don’t wait in line here.” So I go inside the bakery and wasn’t sure what to do…suddenly I find myself at the head of a long time of old men wanting to buy this apparently excellent bread. And they are buying a dozen loaves at a time (big families see, who eat a enormous amount of bread). So I just boldly made eye contact with the older man behind the counter with not many teeth and asked for 2 loaves. He gives them to me wrapped in paper. “Can I have a plastic bag please?”
5 dinars more.
Clearly I am not from here.

*

The KFP is exactly where I wanted it to be at this time…we finished our 4th week with having dug deep into a variety of performance styles, I have been working hard on getting the women to start listening to one another on stage, pushing them to stretch themselves further, and myself as well. I finish our 3-hour sessions exhausted. We’ve been to 3 different villages and met with 7 different older women and have chosen 3 different folktales to create into our show.

And now as of Sunday I will start outlining a skeleton of the show and will ask the actors to fill in the blanks. I wasn’t totally sure how to go about the creation. Part of me was hoping that I could just hand a large part of it over to them…but after the end of last week on Wednesday I realized I need to guide them more than I thought…just to get a jump start, to steer the boat in the right direction, just next to the wind…