“What is in the space?”
—Needcompany, The Space between the Two Mistakes
—Needcompany, The Space between the Two Mistakes
words by Autumn Tsai
“What is in the space?” With each story, the performers give an aspect of art to answer the question. Puns and metaphors are weaved into the bright-colored performance, creating a carnival of wonderland. Needcompany invites the audience to join in and dive into the sea of thoughts with them. They generously welcome us to “gaze” into the world they create on the stage and examine their answers.
At a moderate pace, Needcompany introduces the series of stories with simple plots accompanied by dance, music, and lights:
With the lights slightly lowered, a drummer in a bright fancy white suit walked in with barefoot. As the drum beats, a group of dancers decked out in ordinary exercise clothing enters from the left side and surrounded the stage, dancing, cheering each other, and reminding the audience what they should and should not do during the performance: to pay attention to them and not to “not” pay attention to them.
And then they left the stage.
And then the drummer threw away his drumsticks with an I-am-so-cool expression.
[Audience cheered.]
And then the drummer stood up and asked the audience what just happened in the empty space of the stage, or rather, was it an “empty space” right now, in the present as the dancers were gone, and as he was speaking at the pit?
And then the drummer explained: There were two theories that went wrong in Peter Brook’s The Empty Space, which began “I can take any empty space and call it a bare stage. A man walks across this empty space whilst someone else is watching him, and this is all that is needed for an act of theatre to be engaged.”
To prove his idea, the drummer walked across the stage.
Halfway to the upper left, he looked back to the audience and shrugged.
[Nothing happened.]
He finished walking and turned back to the audience.
The experiment proves one thing: Peter Brook is wrong. Instead of “a man” or rather, any person, the person on the stage must be aware of the “gaze”— the gaze of the people, the audience, who have thoughts forming and turning as they gaze at the stage. The thoughts within the space are what created “art.”
The mistake of Peter Brook’s art theory is the basis for the performers to ask the question, “what is ‘art’?”:
With a conflict among the dancers breaking out, the harmony of the dance is destroyed, yet a consoling music of simple chord slides in. Softly the performers begin to sing about their duties, “here and now, we do the best we can/an artist have to be nice/so we can understand….” The song soon becomes a chorus, brighter and more powerful, yet with a slight weariness. The performers get back on the stage and look at the audience, as if asking to be remembered and aching to remember themselves the way they had begun. They build their houses with cardboard, yet a large cannon destroys them all. In the end, a large house consumes all of the performers and their works. When every act of destruction were done, the performers, scattered on the ground, were cleared to the side of the stage. They struggle and shiver like the fish heads chopped down by their body on the screen. With the gentlest cries, the performers lament their cruel fate of working in the art industry.
What is in the space?
In the space I see that art is pain and courage.
Before the curtain, a group of clowns tell the tale of the friendship of a big bear and a mouse with incoherent words. Rhythm and melody flow as each word gives an imagination of feeling, and a tale unfolds through the words. A big bear and the little mouse meet each other on a moonlit evening, and the beauty of the moonlight and the fear of darkness of the hole are all merged into a heart of warmth as the bear asks the mouse, “do you love me?” A romance unfolds and everyone comes together, dancing with romantic music.
What is in the space?
In the space I see that art is simply the love that fills in the gap where communication begins.
At the end of the play, the lonely white clown who aches to be the center of attention reappears, crying out to the audience that “I am so bad/ everything is so bad/ it is my fault.” The other performers comfort him, and they begin cheering “yes” when he say “you are good, and… I am good/ a table is good/ a tree is good/ music is good/ the theatre is good… confusion is good” repeatedly.
What is in the space?
In the space I see that art is acceptance and goodness that bring people together.
In the space of Needcompany’s stage, pain, courage, acceptance, love, loneliness, sorrow, and happiness are reached out generously to the audience. Art is not about difficult language, unintelligible philosophy, or high-class performance, but about listening and being listened —about people. “If art is my lover then who the fuck are you?” the performers shout. Through different insights into the happiness and sorrow involving the making of art, Needcompany reveals to the audience their deepest longing: they need company. They need company from their audience, from people to listen to their stories and support them as friends. They touch the people, and they ask them to be touched. They continue to create and to share their creations with the audience once again at another carnival party because we, the audience whose thoughts fill up the space of the stage, are there. And we complete their works.
At a moderate pace, Needcompany introduces the series of stories with simple plots accompanied by dance, music, and lights:
With the lights slightly lowered, a drummer in a bright fancy white suit walked in with barefoot. As the drum beats, a group of dancers decked out in ordinary exercise clothing enters from the left side and surrounded the stage, dancing, cheering each other, and reminding the audience what they should and should not do during the performance: to pay attention to them and not to “not” pay attention to them.
And then they left the stage.
And then the drummer threw away his drumsticks with an I-am-so-cool expression.
[Audience cheered.]
And then the drummer stood up and asked the audience what just happened in the empty space of the stage, or rather, was it an “empty space” right now, in the present as the dancers were gone, and as he was speaking at the pit?
And then the drummer explained: There were two theories that went wrong in Peter Brook’s The Empty Space, which began “I can take any empty space and call it a bare stage. A man walks across this empty space whilst someone else is watching him, and this is all that is needed for an act of theatre to be engaged.”
To prove his idea, the drummer walked across the stage.
Halfway to the upper left, he looked back to the audience and shrugged.
[Nothing happened.]
He finished walking and turned back to the audience.
The experiment proves one thing: Peter Brook is wrong. Instead of “a man” or rather, any person, the person on the stage must be aware of the “gaze”— the gaze of the people, the audience, who have thoughts forming and turning as they gaze at the stage. The thoughts within the space are what created “art.”
The mistake of Peter Brook’s art theory is the basis for the performers to ask the question, “what is ‘art’?”:
With a conflict among the dancers breaking out, the harmony of the dance is destroyed, yet a consoling music of simple chord slides in. Softly the performers begin to sing about their duties, “here and now, we do the best we can/an artist have to be nice/so we can understand….” The song soon becomes a chorus, brighter and more powerful, yet with a slight weariness. The performers get back on the stage and look at the audience, as if asking to be remembered and aching to remember themselves the way they had begun. They build their houses with cardboard, yet a large cannon destroys them all. In the end, a large house consumes all of the performers and their works. When every act of destruction were done, the performers, scattered on the ground, were cleared to the side of the stage. They struggle and shiver like the fish heads chopped down by their body on the screen. With the gentlest cries, the performers lament their cruel fate of working in the art industry.
What is in the space?
In the space I see that art is pain and courage.
Before the curtain, a group of clowns tell the tale of the friendship of a big bear and a mouse with incoherent words. Rhythm and melody flow as each word gives an imagination of feeling, and a tale unfolds through the words. A big bear and the little mouse meet each other on a moonlit evening, and the beauty of the moonlight and the fear of darkness of the hole are all merged into a heart of warmth as the bear asks the mouse, “do you love me?” A romance unfolds and everyone comes together, dancing with romantic music.
What is in the space?
In the space I see that art is simply the love that fills in the gap where communication begins.
At the end of the play, the lonely white clown who aches to be the center of attention reappears, crying out to the audience that “I am so bad/ everything is so bad/ it is my fault.” The other performers comfort him, and they begin cheering “yes” when he say “you are good, and… I am good/ a table is good/ a tree is good/ music is good/ the theatre is good… confusion is good” repeatedly.
What is in the space?
In the space I see that art is acceptance and goodness that bring people together.
In the space of Needcompany’s stage, pain, courage, acceptance, love, loneliness, sorrow, and happiness are reached out generously to the audience. Art is not about difficult language, unintelligible philosophy, or high-class performance, but about listening and being listened —about people. “If art is my lover then who the fuck are you?” the performers shout. Through different insights into the happiness and sorrow involving the making of art, Needcompany reveals to the audience their deepest longing: they need company. They need company from their audience, from people to listen to their stories and support them as friends. They touch the people, and they ask them to be touched. They continue to create and to share their creations with the audience once again at another carnival party because we, the audience whose thoughts fill up the space of the stage, are there. And we complete their works.