Theatrics.

The purpose of Art is to illustrate. Its aim rests on clarity: to amplify and make vivid an image, a statement or a theme. Its purpose is not to obscure. That is what politicians do. Artists do not make things confusing, rather they untangle the complicated into something coherent. So scriptwriters, whatever dimension you choose to give your characters and your plot, show it in what they say and do. It is the job of the audience to interpret what they have seen but ultimately the responsibility rests on you to illustrate this through the words. A director’s responsibility would be to translate these words into a composition, free to interpret whatever is written. An actor breathes through these words into action. An actor does not act with a mask. Rather the mask is merely a thin veil where disbelief is suspended, confined by the elevated stage. An actor reveals snatches of real emotions, what has been felt before. There your movement is true, veiled and vulnerable all at once.

Before we talk using terms such as “depth” and “between the lines” and “substance” and “complex” recklessly, remember your primary aim - to make visible and make clear a message. My expectation as an audience is that your message is worth its $15 price tag. Is that clear?

Gaya On Air!

Look we’re on the ray-dee-oh! Well, podcast rather. Close enough I should think.

The Clip : The Transcript

Radio Singapore International covered Gaya 2008: Gajah Mada! I think they did air this at some point in March. You can listen to me sing at the beginning, if a bit muffled. If you’re wondering what language she is speaking, that is radio-worthy Bahasa Indonesia. (=

Gaya 08

The Process.

8 months condensed into pixels would be insanity. I don’t have a camera either. I can only tell the story from swiped pictures from Ayu and Helen. So this is what has taken up the better part of my life. I really wish I have a camera.

pictures under the cut
——————————–
Rehearsals are long and boring, often excruciating. But a girl just needs a mirror, some bored friends and a range of props to entertain herself.

And when you’re trying to kill yourself, boys try to look up your dress.

Catharsis.

I can’t tell you how it felt on stage. I can’t remember. I can remember the lights on my eyelashes like glitter baubles at the tops of my vision. I can remember the squeezing of a heart to sing the words right. Everything else? I can’t feel it. I am just thrilled that it is over, thrilled that there is only one show and nothing more. I don’t know how well I did on stage and I don’t believe whatever you said happened on stage. All that’s left is a sense of relief.

Reward does not come from applause in an amateur theatre. The applause will come no matter what. It has to. The applause will come perhaps out of sheer puzzlement or pity or pride. It gave me nothing. It was a forgiving audience which is both a comfort and an insult. So it didn’t matter who was in the audience. Rather, it didn’t matter who wasn’t in the audience. Just to be there on stage is a reward by itself, a place to squeeze out every inch of me like a selfish relief. Like catharsis.

Watching the video makes me want to crawl into the space between the chairs and die. There you see me - not Dyah Pitaloka, not sinden - hiding under a thin shell of make believe, vulnerable.

So what’s left?

The Hours And The Minutes.

19 hours
You told me they didn’t like it. They wanted to change it. They thought it was too confusing, that there’s not enough distinction, that I look too much like a bride and that I shouldn’t sing. I wanted to explode. My eyes leaked instead. Goddamn faulty explosion mechanism.

18 hours
You tell me you’d fight for me. You would even take a stand to cancel the show altogether. It was touching really and you knew I would not have the nerve to let that happen. I made you promise we’d kick butt tomorrow instead. Messages came in saying that they liked it as it is. Why is it so hard to believe?

15 hours
I wondered how I’ll justify the need for me to exist on stage, wondered how we’d be able to extricate myself out of it smoothly, patching up the plots and the choreography in the small space in my head. For once, I knew I wanted this. I want to be there tomorrow. I can’t remember how I fell asleep.

9 hours
I lied. I didn’t overslept. My limbs were light but they weren’t weary but I couldn’t bring myself to move fast. I drank water. Forgot to eat. I still wondered what would happen if I don’t show up, if a truck runs me over on my way there. I do that sometimes.