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…

Improvisation

20 July

We have been working through improvisation to create scenes—some inspired by autocours I had at Lecoq, some from J. Mandell’s book on creating theatre with teens and some from Boal.

Short descriptions of what we’ve had so far (this is not what will compose the final show—these are scenes created for the sake of creating in our workshops that will lead to a vocabulary that will carry over into our creation)

With objects:
A man and a woman get married. A jealous man approaches and kisses the newly weds then turns around the shoots the man.


Battle of elements and materials:
General Izith (oil) confronts General Terre (earth). A battle ensues. General Izith calls in Caoutchouc (rubber) to fight Feu (fire). Caoutchouc calls in Sachet en Plastique (Plastic Bag) for back up. Feu melts and kills Caoutchouc and Sachet en Plastique. Feu goes after General Izith who bubbles and pops with anger. Amen (water) enters and kills Feu and surprise attacks General Izith who squashes Amen and is the only one left standing…


Melodramatic Scenes that freeze at the climatic moment:

A woman sits in the street begging. A young man enters a leans against a nearby wall watching her. A young woman enters exhausted after a day of work at the Post Office and realizes that the old woman begging in the middle of the street is her Grandmother. Shocked she goes to take her home. The young man approaches and offers to help up the Grandmother. As he does this he steals the change the old woman had collected…

A young, very pregnant woman is laughing at a TV program when labor pains ensue. Her husband comes home having drunk too much. He enters and clumsily helps her into the car. En route to the hospital the car skids and crashes…


July 24

Today we went to visit the mother of a director who often works at the TRB—we arrived at her house and she said embarrassed “I don’t remember any folktales.” 4 hours after we arrived she told us 3 in a row. Her Grandchildren and daughter started out by listening with us and then one by one left the living room to go and watch TV in the other room. We also went to see her sister in law’s house who told us 1 folktale. She said: “folktales started to disappear during the war 54-62. We didn’t have time anymore and then we had electricity and then the TV and then…”

I am pushing this project towards a language de gestes style because I don’t want to have to deal with scenic designers and props and a set…simple simple simple and the girls keep asking what about costumes? What about the set?

July 29

Mosquito war. Every night c’est la guerre. They come sneaking into my apartment through the open windows. I do not understand why in a country with so many mosquitoes and humid regions why why why people do not build windows with screens!? And mosquito nets around beds. I wake up every night scratching and groaning and stumble into the kitchen and pour vinegar over the bites and then stumble back to bed. They have these mosquito apparatus with little blue chemical squares that heat up and kill mosquitoes. But it’s not enough. Not in my neighborhood. I have started to burn the little blue squares like incense and wave them around the room like some Catholic service. If I cover myself with the sheet they attack my head. If I leave a toe uncovered they attack. They are merciless these Bejaia mosquitoes. Today I am going to buy the strong horribly bad for the environment and health spray.

Basic Elements

12 July

One thing I am noticing is that these actors have trouble with their ability to imagine beyond what they see right in front of them. On the third day we worked on an exercise where one actor has their eyes closed and another leads them on an adventure of different obstacles in the space. Each actor is to imagine a specific location with specific events. The first few tries the actors were thinking only of what they knew to be true of the space: an overturned chair, a mattress, a curtain…finally at the end we started getting stories of war, a mother searching for her son, a day in the life of an office worker…

I have thrown a lot of first year Lecoq work out as well—identifying as elements and materials in order to create characters. Fire has always been one of the hardest elements to identify with because it easily can turn into a strange modern dance piece rather than a pure element. With these actresses I was surprised. They have trouble with air and earth but fire came so easily to them. But then it was like pulling teeth to get them to recreate what they had found in the improv! To at least try and find it again! There is always the question of how far do I push…just enough but not too much that they crack…luckily the small theatre we are working in has air conditioning.

Inspired by the work we were doing with Off Leash Area in Minneapolis this past spring I’ve started integrating flocking into our warm ups. Following one another, listening to the breath of the group, give and take of movements…yeow it’s not easy. And concentration concentration concentration…

13 July

This morning N’s mom came to tell us folktales for the first hour of our session. I watched the actors more than her during the stories. Their faces were bright and attentive. She recited a poem she had written as well about her and N who didn’t meet until recently…

During lunch N said: “I didn’t want to tell you but I have done a lot of the stuff you are doing with us with an Italian director last year. I mean not the exact same stuff but he was always telling us the same things in the workshop.” Ha! That’s the work. That’s working out as a performer. The same general concepts (should) apply whether it’s an Italian or an American. And that means if you are getting the same comments from more than one person that you need to work a little harder! I didn’t say all that. I just thought it. I’ll say it little by little.

S said: “what in the world is the point of this flocking thing?” I said “you guys will tell me at the end of the session today.” I’m kinda of tough sometimes. But I know that when I have been on the other side of things I have always loved those moments of figuring something out on my own—having something click without it being dealt immediately.

14 July

Today I moved into a great apartment for the rest of the KFP. Whew! The 11th bed I’ve slept in since arriving in Algeria almost two months ago! I was so excited to actually unpack my clothes and have a couple of drawers and shelves to put my stuff in!

And this afternoon I ran into the TRB lighting designer and asked him what his summer schedule was like to light the KFP show…and he informed me that he asked the Director of the TRB if there was anything being performed in the small theatre this summer and he told him no. And so the lighting designer struck all the instruments in the small theatre where we are working and where we are supposed to be performing at the end of August!

L was not at the theatre today. When I called to ask what was going on she said: “I have an upset stomach and I was too ashamed to call you.” What? American’s don’t get upset stomachs too?


15 July
An hour into our session today the guardian knocked on the door (men always knock on the door now before coming into our rehearsals!) and introduced F. F said “I am here for theatre class.” I sighed a big sigh and looked at the 6 actors working on stage and asked them to explain to her exactly what the project entailed. Then So said with great big arm gestures: “don’t think you can just come and go as you please! We have been working for almost two weeks now and Sor and K have come and gone and we need to be a consistent group! So if you are serious about working with us until the beginning of September then come but if not don’t waste our time!”
I couldn’t believe it! I didn’t have to say anything!
F said: “I will watch today and then start next rehearsal.”

16 July
F joined today. 6 of us met at stadium and took a bus an hour up into the mountains and met with So’s best friend’s grandmother. In the small van/bus from one village to another we were 7 women and joined by 5 other traveling women. When the bus stopped to pick up a man at the next stop he opened the door, his eyes got all big and he looked downright scared and he didn’t dare get in! We all burst out laughing. How many times have I hopped into public transportation and been the only woman! Many!
Nana F lives alone in a large house sparsely decorated. We arrived loaded with eggs, yogurt, bread, and juice and found Nana F not home…her granddaughter hadn’t told her we were coming! Then So and Sa started to cut French fries when Nana F returned and said of course “I will tell you stories. Except I don’t have any teeth will you understand?” We recorded an hour with her. Then a neighbor showed up and we recorded her for another 20 minutes. Leaving Nana F’s house Ib started to cry. She said: “I am so touched by this woman…”
Then we were off to So’s friend’s house where her Mom and made us svinge and we recorded her telling folktales as well. Next Wednesday So is taking us to another village. Then Thursday another with Djamel from the TRB…

20 July

N was out with a bad back and L went to Turkey for a week to "save women's rights" she said. So needs a place to stay in town and we haven't able to get the right paper for the student housing. Sa took a film gig for a week but will only miss one day this week. And the TRB suddenly has decided to be really strict about these badges. Guardian Reda barreled into the theatre like a cop this morning crying "show me your badges now." What's that about? I am in charge of the space and if I don't have a problem with the people working with me what is the TRB's problem? General malaise this morning but we worked on melodramatic scenes and froze them at the heightened moments. I am started to feel really stressed about the creation and the gathering of stories...no one seems to want to work outside of our time together. Tomorrow we are working in the afternoon to listen to the recordings we collected last week.

Bejaia is full of Europeans now. Mixed couples, long lost immigrants, and dogs on leashes.

Petrol Port

I am staying this week in a not yet finished villa overlooking the port of Bejaia. Everyday I watch the petrol boats come and go. We take showers on the terrace in the middle of the day with water from the citern that heats up in the sun. Madame says "I figure the men on the ships haven't seen a woman in a long time, why not let them look." She knows the movement of every boat moored in the harbor and knows every family that ever set foot in Bejaia. Today we gorged ourselves on sivnge (Kabyle donuts) and homemade prune and apricot jam. This morning I spent picking the leaves of all her dried herbs off the stems and into jars. "Oh how I love when someone offers to help me!" She cried. She makes teas that cure headaches, digestive problems, circulation problems, cramps, stress...teas that are bitter and are to be swallowed cold. 

I am trying to organize village trips for the actresses of the KFP and myself to meet old women who know Kabyle folktales. I've got 3 possible villages lined up.  This is folktale collecting plan B. Plan C is hit the books. Taos Amrouche and Mouloud Mammeri already sort of did the work for us...but one of the goals of this project is to get the younger generation asking folktales of the older generation...

Finally there is a breeze from the sea. 

Photos above are from Mostaganem and the Palais du Bey in Oran.