Things you can buy at the Russian Flee Market...
Little things I don't want to forget...Stealing Justin's cookies.
I'm Sure Marcin wants credit for this picture. So there.
Marianna and the Ithaca boys.
Little dog in a track suit.
Melikhovo...no wonder Chekhov wrote what he did.
Me and Chekhov.
Tverskya.Dear Mr. Harvey Fancy Paws,
It’s been so long. Last Sunday I wrote about my mom cause she’s wonderful, but I didn’t talk about anything else. So there is much to report.
We saw Ivanov at MXAT on Friday the 13th. There is so much to say about this…some things are just hard to communicate. Okay, so this play was directed by my absolute favorite director, Yury Butusov.
A few words about Yury Butusov. I LOVE, love, love his plays. He directed Richard III, Hamlet, Man = Man, and Ivanov. His style is a cross between a beautiful dream and terrible nightmare. He uses sound in a haunting way. The world he creates on stage is so intriguing – there are textures, sounds, and stunning images that create an extremely emotional response while your brain works to understand what it is seeing. Obviously there is intention behind his plays, but the plays themselves are so aggressive that I envision a painter throwing buckets of acrylic paint onto a huge canvas, then gathering found objects and adding them into the mix. And his genius lies in the fact that it all fits. It’s just intuitively evocative and wonderful.
So, he guest directed Ivanov for MXAT. Before a show opens, it must be approved. Smelianski was the one who gave the go ahead for this show…which might raise some eyebrows in the community. Butusov decided to deconstruct Chekhov in this production. This Ivanov goes backwards, and pretty much at the end of every scene, Ivanov shoots himself. Chekhov is such a big deal in Russia, that to take apart what he wrote will probably really upset some people. But as Smelianski said, you can’t hurt Chekhov. His plays are already in the books, they aren’t going to be erased by this off-the-wall interpretations of one of his plays.
I personally adored it. And it made sense to me. Granted, I understand very, very little. I think each scene was an exploration of why Ivanov killed himself. We saw that in every scene, he died a little. The entire play was about the destruction of this man’s life. I felt the tragedy of this very sharply at the end of the play when we saw Ivanov at the beginning. He didn’t kill himself at the end of that scene…rather, it seemed he was trying to build something. The set was a pile of sticks and logs. He was collecting logs and dragging them into a pile with obvious effort. I saw a man with a real intention, with the desire to create a life, to build something. And I only saw this after he had been destroyed over and over.
Sunday the 15th was my mom’s birthday. That same day we went to Melikhovo, Chekhov’s estate. It was not as inspiring or interesting as I had hoped. The tour was excessively detailed. I don’t actually need to know what sort of ink Chekhov kept in his study. I met cats there however. One cat in particular rocked my world a little bit…She was a very nice koshka, however, she literally only had one eye. Her fur was patchy, and she had what I guess could be called a tail. She was so nice and friendly, but I was actually terrified of her. According to Marianna, she was pregnant, so I fed her a little bit. Poor kitty. I hope her babies have an easier life than she had.
That same night I learned how to make borsch and cold cookies. Marianna is teaching us how to feed ourselves the Russian way. I can now make Borsch, Palmini, cold cookies, and garlic bread. Just you wait till I get back to the states. I should open a restaurant. I’m also discovering just how much I enjoy cooking. I’m also discovering how much work it is.
Then, on the 17th I had the great pleasure of seeing ANOTHER Yury Butusov creation. I saw Brecht’s “Man = Man.” Good lord. First of all, I really like Brecht. I was thinking a bit about how Butusov seems to fall more under Artough’s philosophy of theater…which is to create a very emotional and evocative performance in order to affect the audience. Brecht, as we all know, is the exact opposite. He wants the audience to be constantly aware of the fact that they are in a theater. He wants them to think and intellectually understand what they are seeing. Both philosophers thought that their form of theater had the capability to change the world. Seeing these two great philosophies brought together so gracefully in a single production made me weep. Literally. There was a man on stage singing to the audience. His voice sounded like the combination of a cement mixer and wood breaking (and it was beautiful to me), his head was bleeding, and he was wearing a blanket of flowers. There was a half-naked man perched like some kind of beautiful monster on top of ladder, not moving, and I could see the inside of a fake elephant’s head, also sitting on top of ladder. It wasn’t sad, and I didn’t know what was going on, but I was crying because I was just so enthralled with what I was watching.
This might be an inflammatory statement, but I don’t think theater like this exists in the United States. If it does, I haven’t found it. In Russia, people pay to see this sort of art every single night. And I was crying because it was so wonderful to me, and I felt so blessed to be here, in Russia, seeing what I know I can never explain in a satisfactory way. And here, the people in the audience clap together because they can feel the other people in the audience. And they bring flowers to the stage after the show. I just…I just believe that this is what theater should be. And I wish I could make you all understand why it moves me so much.
AND ALL OF A SUDDEN it was Friday. We went to see Varekai, the Cirque Du Soleil show. Marcin and I had acting class at the dorm, so we were on our own to find our way there…which turned out to be more stressful than one would expect. But we made it with only a little bit of panic. I was audibly gasping and screaming during the entire show – I mean, it was incredible. Animals are born instinctively knowing what to do with their bodies. The human body has to be taught…but seeing what people are capable of with enough training, blows the mind. I feel like, as someone who is constantly pushing my body to do more, I appreciated what I was seeing even more than the average person. I mean, for God’s sake, I was having problems jumping over a chair that same day in movement, and I was watching ten year olds flipping over each other.
There is one more thing to write about that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the entire time I’ve been typing. But I also don’t know what to say about it. Something happened to me in acting class yesterday. I don’t know yet if it was good or bad. Every actor has an emotional break down in acting class every now and then. But it is not common for a teacher to capitalize on this they way Alex did. We did our scene and it was bad. I began to explain my frustration with myself and I began to cry. We continued to work, and my teacher kept pushing and pushing and yelling and yelling…till I was quite literally sobbing on stage. And we kept working. And kept working. And he kept yelling, and kept yelling, and kept provoking me to become more and more upset. For two hours I bawled on stage…not just cried a little, but sobbed. At one point I was hiding under my scarf just because I couldn’t stand having everyone watch me while I melted. The problem was, that it wasn’t sadness engendered by the scene, it was my own real sadness. On the one hand, I understand now what it feels like to be more open and vulnerable on stage than I ever, ever have. I should be that open on stage. And I understand now that if I cry in a scene, it has to be ME crying. Whatever I experience, it should be ME experiencing it. But there is still something that must be kept in reserve…a part of myself that is observing, that is aware, that is enjoying whatever emotional trip I am on. And that wasn’t there in class. It was 100% Hannah as a person dying on stage. And I can’t help but feel that my teacher was wrong keep provoking me long after his point was made...but maybe it was necessary for me to go there at least once to know what it feels like to let that part of me go. And I also know that because I did it, part of me wanted to go there. I know that no matter how much my teacher intimidates me, he cannot force me to do anything, and I could have left the stage. And I have to admit, that I am proud that I stayed and was willing to face whatever came my way. That I stayed and worked, even though it hurt so badly. I've never experienced anything like it...and I don't think I've ever seen someone else experience anything like it. I don't know what it means. I haven’t fully processed what happened and I don’t know what exactly I have learned or if I will be any better the next time I run the scene. I’m questioning what it means to be an actor in general…I’ve always had lofty views…a strong philosophy about what it means to be an artist. But really, it’s just words. As far understanding goes…I mean really understanding in my bones…I’m very lost. There is a sense of entitlement in American theater. We get to protect ourselves a lot…we can expect to be treated a certain way. But if you choose to sacrifice your life to art, what exactly must you give up? To be on stage is to be emotionally naked for a living. How much of myself do I get to protect, and how much must I give away?
After class we went to see Cherry Orchard. I was completely drained and I ended up leaving early and going to sleep. I woke up later because I wanted to be around people. Thanks friends who helped me get over my emotional hang-over. And thanks to people in that acting class who cried with me while I was working and came up to hug me after. Thanks Anthony, for suffering on stage with me. Thank you, Marcin, for listening to me muse about my confusion while you shared your icy-hot with me. I’m afraid of acting right now, but I feel less afraid because of the people who are on this journey with me. What would I do without you?
I didn’t reread this blog at all. I’m sorry for any errors, or things that don’t make sense.
Hannah
It’s been so long. Last Sunday I wrote about my mom cause she’s wonderful, but I didn’t talk about anything else. So there is much to report.
We saw Ivanov at MXAT on Friday the 13th. There is so much to say about this…some things are just hard to communicate. Okay, so this play was directed by my absolute favorite director, Yury Butusov.
A few words about Yury Butusov. I LOVE, love, love his plays. He directed Richard III, Hamlet, Man = Man, and Ivanov. His style is a cross between a beautiful dream and terrible nightmare. He uses sound in a haunting way. The world he creates on stage is so intriguing – there are textures, sounds, and stunning images that create an extremely emotional response while your brain works to understand what it is seeing. Obviously there is intention behind his plays, but the plays themselves are so aggressive that I envision a painter throwing buckets of acrylic paint onto a huge canvas, then gathering found objects and adding them into the mix. And his genius lies in the fact that it all fits. It’s just intuitively evocative and wonderful.
So, he guest directed Ivanov for MXAT. Before a show opens, it must be approved. Smelianski was the one who gave the go ahead for this show…which might raise some eyebrows in the community. Butusov decided to deconstruct Chekhov in this production. This Ivanov goes backwards, and pretty much at the end of every scene, Ivanov shoots himself. Chekhov is such a big deal in Russia, that to take apart what he wrote will probably really upset some people. But as Smelianski said, you can’t hurt Chekhov. His plays are already in the books, they aren’t going to be erased by this off-the-wall interpretations of one of his plays.
I personally adored it. And it made sense to me. Granted, I understand very, very little. I think each scene was an exploration of why Ivanov killed himself. We saw that in every scene, he died a little. The entire play was about the destruction of this man’s life. I felt the tragedy of this very sharply at the end of the play when we saw Ivanov at the beginning. He didn’t kill himself at the end of that scene…rather, it seemed he was trying to build something. The set was a pile of sticks and logs. He was collecting logs and dragging them into a pile with obvious effort. I saw a man with a real intention, with the desire to create a life, to build something. And I only saw this after he had been destroyed over and over.
Sunday the 15th was my mom’s birthday. That same day we went to Melikhovo, Chekhov’s estate. It was not as inspiring or interesting as I had hoped. The tour was excessively detailed. I don’t actually need to know what sort of ink Chekhov kept in his study. I met cats there however. One cat in particular rocked my world a little bit…She was a very nice koshka, however, she literally only had one eye. Her fur was patchy, and she had what I guess could be called a tail. She was so nice and friendly, but I was actually terrified of her. According to Marianna, she was pregnant, so I fed her a little bit. Poor kitty. I hope her babies have an easier life than she had.
That same night I learned how to make borsch and cold cookies. Marianna is teaching us how to feed ourselves the Russian way. I can now make Borsch, Palmini, cold cookies, and garlic bread. Just you wait till I get back to the states. I should open a restaurant. I’m also discovering just how much I enjoy cooking. I’m also discovering how much work it is.
Then, on the 17th I had the great pleasure of seeing ANOTHER Yury Butusov creation. I saw Brecht’s “Man = Man.” Good lord. First of all, I really like Brecht. I was thinking a bit about how Butusov seems to fall more under Artough’s philosophy of theater…which is to create a very emotional and evocative performance in order to affect the audience. Brecht, as we all know, is the exact opposite. He wants the audience to be constantly aware of the fact that they are in a theater. He wants them to think and intellectually understand what they are seeing. Both philosophers thought that their form of theater had the capability to change the world. Seeing these two great philosophies brought together so gracefully in a single production made me weep. Literally. There was a man on stage singing to the audience. His voice sounded like the combination of a cement mixer and wood breaking (and it was beautiful to me), his head was bleeding, and he was wearing a blanket of flowers. There was a half-naked man perched like some kind of beautiful monster on top of ladder, not moving, and I could see the inside of a fake elephant’s head, also sitting on top of ladder. It wasn’t sad, and I didn’t know what was going on, but I was crying because I was just so enthralled with what I was watching.
This might be an inflammatory statement, but I don’t think theater like this exists in the United States. If it does, I haven’t found it. In Russia, people pay to see this sort of art every single night. And I was crying because it was so wonderful to me, and I felt so blessed to be here, in Russia, seeing what I know I can never explain in a satisfactory way. And here, the people in the audience clap together because they can feel the other people in the audience. And they bring flowers to the stage after the show. I just…I just believe that this is what theater should be. And I wish I could make you all understand why it moves me so much.
AND ALL OF A SUDDEN it was Friday. We went to see Varekai, the Cirque Du Soleil show. Marcin and I had acting class at the dorm, so we were on our own to find our way there…which turned out to be more stressful than one would expect. But we made it with only a little bit of panic. I was audibly gasping and screaming during the entire show – I mean, it was incredible. Animals are born instinctively knowing what to do with their bodies. The human body has to be taught…but seeing what people are capable of with enough training, blows the mind. I feel like, as someone who is constantly pushing my body to do more, I appreciated what I was seeing even more than the average person. I mean, for God’s sake, I was having problems jumping over a chair that same day in movement, and I was watching ten year olds flipping over each other.
There is one more thing to write about that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the entire time I’ve been typing. But I also don’t know what to say about it. Something happened to me in acting class yesterday. I don’t know yet if it was good or bad. Every actor has an emotional break down in acting class every now and then. But it is not common for a teacher to capitalize on this they way Alex did. We did our scene and it was bad. I began to explain my frustration with myself and I began to cry. We continued to work, and my teacher kept pushing and pushing and yelling and yelling…till I was quite literally sobbing on stage. And we kept working. And kept working. And he kept yelling, and kept yelling, and kept provoking me to become more and more upset. For two hours I bawled on stage…not just cried a little, but sobbed. At one point I was hiding under my scarf just because I couldn’t stand having everyone watch me while I melted. The problem was, that it wasn’t sadness engendered by the scene, it was my own real sadness. On the one hand, I understand now what it feels like to be more open and vulnerable on stage than I ever, ever have. I should be that open on stage. And I understand now that if I cry in a scene, it has to be ME crying. Whatever I experience, it should be ME experiencing it. But there is still something that must be kept in reserve…a part of myself that is observing, that is aware, that is enjoying whatever emotional trip I am on. And that wasn’t there in class. It was 100% Hannah as a person dying on stage. And I can’t help but feel that my teacher was wrong keep provoking me long after his point was made...but maybe it was necessary for me to go there at least once to know what it feels like to let that part of me go. And I also know that because I did it, part of me wanted to go there. I know that no matter how much my teacher intimidates me, he cannot force me to do anything, and I could have left the stage. And I have to admit, that I am proud that I stayed and was willing to face whatever came my way. That I stayed and worked, even though it hurt so badly. I've never experienced anything like it...and I don't think I've ever seen someone else experience anything like it. I don't know what it means. I haven’t fully processed what happened and I don’t know what exactly I have learned or if I will be any better the next time I run the scene. I’m questioning what it means to be an actor in general…I’ve always had lofty views…a strong philosophy about what it means to be an artist. But really, it’s just words. As far understanding goes…I mean really understanding in my bones…I’m very lost. There is a sense of entitlement in American theater. We get to protect ourselves a lot…we can expect to be treated a certain way. But if you choose to sacrifice your life to art, what exactly must you give up? To be on stage is to be emotionally naked for a living. How much of myself do I get to protect, and how much must I give away?
After class we went to see Cherry Orchard. I was completely drained and I ended up leaving early and going to sleep. I woke up later because I wanted to be around people. Thanks friends who helped me get over my emotional hang-over. And thanks to people in that acting class who cried with me while I was working and came up to hug me after. Thanks Anthony, for suffering on stage with me. Thank you, Marcin, for listening to me muse about my confusion while you shared your icy-hot with me. I’m afraid of acting right now, but I feel less afraid because of the people who are on this journey with me. What would I do without you?
I didn’t reread this blog at all. I’m sorry for any errors, or things that don’t make sense.
Hannah
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