Philosophers Fingerpainting and Ballerinas Coding: A Celebration of Consilience

When I graduated high school I decided not to go to college. My friends, with stars in their eyes and scholarships in tow, looked at me sideways when I told them I wouldn’t be joining them.

The bulletin board in the library of my small, private school showed the plans of each senior after graduation. A majority of the names grandly circled the category “University.” A smattering of others respectably gathered around “International Service.” Then there was my name, hovering ostentatiously by the all too dubious category “Other.”

Not to be deterred, I decided to stay home and pay my parents back for everything they had done for me for the first 18 years of my life. I would do all the dishes, wash all the laundry and cook all the meals. A fittingly grand gesture to cover-up my lackluster expectations for the future.

Once my friends went off to college, I got to work. In the first two months, I perfected the art of baking bread from scratch, volunteered at a local bookstore and auditioned for the local theatre. I was feeling pretty great about my decision–no need for school for this boy!

So inevitably, on a terribly gray day, sitting in the bookstore flipping through a vintage issue of Spiderman, it occurred to me that I really did miss school. I’ve never been one for stubbornness, so it took about two minutes to convince myself I ought to go to college.

Applying to the liberal arts college in my city was simple enough, save for one awfully heavy decision. What was I going to major in?

Looking back now, the question seems quaint–an adorable quandary with the guise of gravitas. But at the time, my hazy assumption was that launching into a “major” in college meant the doors of your chosen society burst open wide for you and the world greets you as a professional.

“Welcome initiate. Ah! I see you’ve majored in [your major]! Your life path shall now include doing [your major] while earning [money/respect/fame]. If you stare across this wide chasm you can see [other majors] earning [money/respect/fame] doing [other majors].”

So I chose to major in Theatre. Though I was deeply interested in biology, computer science, math, philosophy and psychology, I could never imagine counting myself among the sullied ranks of the “undeclared” majors, so I stuck with it. The maze of life was laid before me and I chose my path and started running. Sure, I peeked over at other paths, but I never took a step backwards. I was headed toward the professional realm of theatre and that was that.

Problem is, I was working off of a model of professional development that now feels obsolete. This worldview of diverging paths leading toward ultimate professions is becoming less and less relevant. It may still be somewhat in tact for people born into familial dynasties: a celebrity with celebrity children, a service worker with service worker children.

If trade schools beget trade workers, what do liberal arts schools beget? Confused artists. Instead of a maze with one entrance and one exit, life had transformed into a Jackson Pollack painting of opportunity, failure and wondrous pipe dreams.

And you know what? Life still feels like that.

So for a stupefied millennial caught between a past generation of people with hard skills and an ever-shifting vision of the future, sculpting a “career path” feels like an act of futility. Instead of asking “what should we do?”, I choose instead to ask “how shall I live?” Perhaps too philosophical to be practical, but by answering the latter, the former may follow.

Now comes the time for my attempt at a metaphorical leap of faith: If the question on the table is “how shall I live?”, what if we use a scientific concept to answer a philosophical question?

Enter “consilience”.

Consilience is primarily a scientific term for strengthening a proof by providing diverse sets of evidence. For instance, if we ask “how fast is that car going?” we could provide evidence from a speedometer, a radar gun and a calculation of distance divided by time. All three ought to provide the same answer through different means of measurement. Thus we can more confidently answer the question. “The car was going 975 meters per second” and coincidentally “the car has vaporized.”

So what happens if we replace a measurement-based question of science with the more esoteric question “how shall I live?” What different forms of evidence would we need to come to a good conclusion?

In a sense, each one of us has answered, wittingly or not, this question of “how shall I live?” We answer it every day, by simply doing the things we’re doing. If you choose to write, work, love, kill or play facebook games, you’re answering that question every minute. The largest proponent of any of our answers is likely what we might call our “profession”.

So when asked the question, “how shall I live?” an engineer is answering differently than a dancer. A truck driver is answering differently than an accountant. A soldier differently than a preacher. A farmer differently than a cab driver.

So how can we create consilience in our venture to answer the big question? How can I answer the question as both a soldier and a preacher? As both a farmer and a cab driver?

My answer? Be curious about every damn thing in this world. Get rid of “career paths” and dive headlong into the wilderness of complexity. If I’m going to gather lots and lots of evidence, I can’t just be one thing!

This, of course, means getting rid of the presupposed identity I’ve cast upon myself. “I couldn’t do that, I’m an artist.” “I shouldn’t try this, I just flip burgers.” “I can’t dance, I’m a plumber.” By opening up my identity as “what I do” rather than “who I think I am”, I can step into any realm!

Most recently, I’ve been learning how to code–and let me be the first tell you, I’m not great at it. It takes me 20 lines of messy code to do what someone else can do in 2 elegant lines. So why do I bother? I’m not going to wow any coders anytime soon and coding sure doesn’t come up a lot in the rehearsal room. Why am I wasting my time?

Because of consilience. Coders see the world in a way I don’t, so I want to learn their language, both literally and figuratively. So instead of choosing to just see the world as a director or a performer, I can see it as a coder. Or a geologist, or a carpenter, or a clown. By gathering skills and knowledge in diverse areas, consilience can help me gather evidence for answering my ultimate question: “how shall I live?”

Now, I could be silly. Maybe I should stick to my guns. I should get good at something and push as hard as I can towards it. But there’s something in me that can’t do that. I need to keep learning. If I’m going to purport a solution to the question “how shall I live?” I ought to collect plenty of evidence.

So until my brain fully crystallizes and all my youthful plasticity is gone, you can find me flitting about, being an “Other” and running headlong into useless things I’m not very good at.

Philosophers Fingerpainting and Ballerinas Coding: A Celebration of Consilience

[De/As]cending: Immersion, Coercion, Mutiny.

I am a security guard. I stare down toward the woman I am supposed to drug and carry away. She is surrounded by an audience who is set on protecting her. If I try to take her away, the audience won’t let me. The story we wrote says that I’m supposed to take her away, but I see the looks in their eyes. They really won’t let me.

I take a breath…and improvise.

“Welcome to the bunker.”

This past semester, 31 MFA candidates, including writers, directors, designers of all hats and performers of all styles, set out to create an immersive theatrical experience in an art museum.

The first task was to learn about our space. Once you step out of the bounds of a proscenium theatre, you must consider crafting the theatrical experience in a whole new way. Mostly, there are a lot more questions to answer. Where will the audience stand? What can they see? How does it feel to walk outside? Where can we hide things? How can we transform the space?

If you’re in a proscenium, your answers are often straight-forward:

Where will the audience be? “…um, in the…seats?”

But where will the performers be? “Um. On the staaaage?”

The theatre world is wonderfully diverse, so how obvious these answers are varies dramatically from artist to artist.

“He’s coming! Quick, hide!”

So, for the first 7 weeks we climbed, yelled, stripped, ran, hid, jumped and generally tore around the art museum (sometimes to the deep chagrin of the museum staff, who, all in all, were insanely generous to all of us). Each movement and design exploration was meticulously cataloged so we could keep a treasure trove of what I’ll call “experiential dramaturgy.” We did something, we talked about it, we wrote it down.

The second 7 weeks of the semester were dedicated to crafting a holistic, unified experience. What was something that could tie this together? We sat down and talked. We talked and talked. We talked a lot.

I have a lot of energy and a lot of fun performing (given the first opportunity in this process, I decided to hang upside-down) so sitting and analyzing for long periods of time was often challenging. I like to work on my feet. We would finish a few hours of exploration and sit and talk about it for an hour. The perceived value of these discussion sessions varied from artist to artist, but overall they provided a lot of answers.

“Imagine a future with no thirst!”

We eventually landed on an encompassing story: This show will take place in a bunker in the future where water is a scarce resource. At the core of this bunker, there is a centrifuge that turns people into water (cuz, you know, it’s the future). Today is the day of the first sacrifice.

We split the performance into three simultaneous “tracks” that audiences could follow. One that follows the school within the bunker, one that follows the day of a typical family and one that follows the authorities within the bunker society. We would run the show three times each night, so people could follow all three tracks if they wanted. Each track, we decided, would culminate in a final moment where everyone would come together and three actors (one from each track) would be sacrificed and liquefied.

Or, so went the story we wrote.

“They are listening. We will help you escape.”

After a lot of rehearsal, writing, shopping, marketing, construction, programming, organizing and (a few) beers, we opened our two night run of [De/As]ending. The first night went off with nary a hitch. A few missed cues, a bit of improvising and some wonky timing, but hell, it’s theatre.

So we tore everything down, (we had to construct and tear down everything each night, as we were doing this show in an operating art museum) and prepped for the second night.

The second night opened, as the first, to a sold out crowd. The first run-through goes well. Everything is in it’s place. Once the audience sees the sacrifice (the ascension of the elevator-turned-deadly-centrifuge) they are ushered out. The next audience then waits at the bottom of the pyramid.

As I stand guard over the audience (playing a minor role in the “authority” track I directed) I see that it’s just about the same crowd. People are waiting to see the experience again, this time following another track.

“Line up against the wall.”

The track starts, but something feels a bit…different. The audience is riled up. As we go through our security speech (in character) one audience member pours out the water we’ve given him and loudly proclaims “I will not drink people!”. Another talks over us as we perform, telling us he won’t be a part of our evil schemes. As performers, we’re flustered, but push on.

The scurrilous remarks continue through the run. With audience members pushing small acts of rebellion against us. They steal little things and hide them from us, they talk back to our instructions, and they openly question our motives.

The climax of our show grows nearer. As the guard, I was to drug and apprehend a scientist who I thought killed the leader of the bunker (in reality, her character is framed, a fact the audience witnesses.) The scientist is standing at the bottom of some stairs, surrounded by audience members who she is trying to “rescue” from the bunker.

I step down the stairs, start to perform our tightly choreographed fight sequence when all of a sudden my arm is grabbed by an audience member. She shouts “We won’t let you take her!” and pulls on my arm.

This is…not part of the show.

My mind clicks into “the show must go on” mode. I shake the audience member off, pick up the scientist and climb the stairs. From behind me I hear, “We’re going with them! We can’t let this happen!” I walk a little faster, now fully expecting to get decked from behind from a passionate audience member.

After going through some doors, the scientist and I break character. I turn around to face the audience members who have followed us through the door. They look surprised.

“Oh…she’s okay.” one says, referring to the now fully not-drugged scientist who is running down the stairs to set up for the next scene.

“Hi.” I say to them.

This is a little absurd.

I struggle for words. “Um…what? What are you guys doing? We need to set up for the next scene. Are you…um? Hi. My name is Phil.”

They explain that they cannot stand by while we kill people. They explain that we are forcing them to be implicated in murder. They explain that they were trying to stop us.


I know that in about 20 seconds, the rest of the audience is going to come through the stairwell. This is not the place or time for a psycho-social debate.

I learn their names, usher them away from the performance path and say they should email us with their thoughts. I urge them away from our final climax of sacrifice; I need to get back in character and finish the show.

I enter the sacrificial chamber to find something else very strange: one of the three people on our sacrificial altars is…an audience member. An audience member wanted to be sacrificed to save one of the performers.

Something was happening. We were all entering new territory.

“What’s going to happen in there? What’s that machine?”

The second run finishes, the audience is ushered out and gathers by the pyramid. We have 10 minutes before the third and last run. I reset props, double check everything, walk to the top of the pyramid and find…it’s all the same audience. Everyone who went through is going through again.

I have no idea what’s going to happen to us.

The leader of the bunker steps to the top of the pyramid to introduce the show. The audience boos loudly. “Down with the bunker!” “You’re all evil!” “You’ll all die!”

I take stock. I am now about to act as a security guard, ushering an unruly audience through the path of an oppressive, authoritarian regime. I must kill the scientist, a person they’ve come to love and last time I tried that, I was accosted. The audience has been colluding to take us down. We have planned for none of this. We are all a little scared.

In the immortal words Quentin Tarantino, “just shit your pants and jump in and swim.”

The run starts similarly. Shenanigans, heckling, foolery.

When the audience is taken away into the “science lab” for the first time, I catch one of my fellow performers. He plays John Worthington, one of the bunker’s leaders.

“Move in an orderly fashion out the doors.”

“Hey,” I say, “I don’t think they’re going to let me kill the scientist. If I get a bad vibe, I’m just going to kill you instead.”

“Deal,” he says. What a champion.

The moment comes. I come to the top of the stairs, ready to drug the scientist. I see flames in the audiences’ eyes. They shout “she didn’t do it!”, “I won’t let you take her!”. They grab the scientist and stand in front of her. This was it.

I turn back toward the leader of the bunker. We catch each other’s eye. A silent acknowledgement. I turn back to the gathered audience.

“This is what you wanted!” I dumbly improvise. I drug the leader. I drag him away.

The audience is silent.

“Liquefy and die.”

This last sacrifice looks…different than we wrote it. There is, again, an audience member who has stepped in to replace our “misbehaving child” sacrifice. One of our actors, it seems, has made it to the sacrifice unscathed. Then there’s the leader of the bunker, who I’ve just drugged, who is supposed to win, but I guess is now going to die also.

Bada bing Bada boom. Ceremony. Sacrifice. Audience leaves.

We all gather in a haze of fear, anger, euphoria and confusion. What just happened?

Over the next several days, we discussed, we decompressed, we complained, we yelled, we cried, we analyzed, we philosophized, we diagnosed. In a nutshell, we grad-schooled the hell out that performance. There are far too many opinions and perspectives for me to recount, but one thing was certain: something really happened.

Was it a team of highly-educated audience members who sought to educate us about process drama and interactive performance?

Could some audience members really not tell the real world from the world we’ve created?

Arizona is fraught with oppressive authorities and water scarcity. Did we hit a nerve?

What happens when you remove the typical social contract of the theatre seat? “You sit there, we perform here” is no longer the case. We invited the audience into our world and they didn’t like it. They wanted to change it. They were standing right next to us, watching us kill people. They just reached out their hands and stopped it.

The audience’s acts of touching and speaking, grabbing and yelling were both revelatory and deeply disturbing. My first thought was, “hey, we’re trying to perform here assholes!” This was joined by my second thought, “whoa, these people sound serious.” These thoughts were eventually joined, weeks later, by a realization that is unfortunately not evident sometimes: “performing can be very powerful.”

How should people touch the worlds we create? As theatre artists we are uniquely positioned to create challenging answers to that question. You might yell at the movie screen when Snape kills Dumbledore, but that’s not going to save him. But if you yell out to an actor…hey, we can all hear you. “Hey, Romeo! Yo, she’s not dead, she’s just sleeping!” Audiences typically follow prescribed, unspoken etiquette. What happens if you get an audience inexperienced with that etiquette, or so experienced that they want to break it?

What happens if we ask an audience member to stand? To speak? To run? To die? To kill?

Each step we take out of the world of the proscenium is scary and exhilarating. Less rules means more risk. Less rules means more fun. Less rules means more danger. Do we enforce a new set of rules when we step outside the theatre? Or do we let the audience’s will, as their feet, roam free? Mario can save the princess, why can’t I?

DeAscending112As a director, I’ve had to throw out the question “how can I affect the audience for good?” and replace it with a much more basic and scary question: “how can I affect the audience at all?”. Theatre is 90% failure, 90% boredom, 90% I’d-really-rather-be-watching-Netflix.

If people walk away ecstatic, great.                                       If people walk away furious, great.

The biggest thing we have to fight is mediocrity. Take the audience out of their seats. Let’s show them something.

–All photos by Tim Trumble–

[De/As]cending: Immersion, Coercion, Mutiny.

“Sounds Amazing!” (I secretly hate you)

When I was a kid, I was not competitive whatsoever. I was ecstatic playing youth soccer not because of the sport, but because it gave me an excuse to run around. For some reason, it isn’t a big deal if you run around with a bunch of other kids on a field, but it is a big deal if you run at top speed down a grocery aisle dodging shopping carts and old ladies. Wednesday evening was soccer evening and my time to run. And run I did.

As time passes, and I’m considering what I want to be when I grow up (after the ubiquitous fireman, astronaut, and paleontologist phase) I ask myself, “what can I do so I never have to compete with anyone ever and can just revel in excitement and awesomeness? Of course! (my naive, prepubescent brain divines) The arts!

I held on to that dream for a long time.

But now, in graduate school for theatre, among so many talented, well-connected, entrepreneurial colleagues, the veneer of idealism has dissolved, leaving me with a…well, rather undesirable quality. I have resentment.

Perhaps it was my naive upbringing or my not-so-subtle inferiority complex (call it little-brother syndrome) that now puts my resentment so harshly into focus. There are times, my worst times, when I am mad that anything cool in the world is happening without me. Even some hypothetical artist who I’ve never met, with their hypothetical good art and their hypothetical praise making some hypothetical money just makes me want to kick their hypothetical ass. Even a slight comment about someone else’s work going well can set me on a full existential tailspin.

Am I that self-centered? Am I that thin-skinned? Do I not annoying preach to anyone who will listen that self-confidence, daring and enthusiasm are the life-blood of creation? So when I get angry about others’ success, I get angry at myself too. At my hypocrisy and egotism.

Now, this anger is not who I am. I’m not an angry person. I’m a terribly happy person. So why does this happen?

Um, I really don’t know. That’s too hard to answer.

But I can imagine my ideal:

Ideally, I genuinely celebrate every artist’s success. Art is a really, really hard field to get paid in. It’s fraught with pitfalls, tension, depression and self-doubt. The creation of art is a celebration of human achievement and connection – an act of impossible communication – a desperate shout into the abyss of the human condition and a thin echo reverberating back through the void.

So why does it have to come with jealousy and resentment? Has my craft been commodified? Am I a business competing with other businesses? Is this what being an artist is really about?

Asking that feels like a kid asking his parents about death.

For every ten critiques, we only remember one compliment. For every ten beautiful pieces of art we create, it only takes someone else’s better one to make us forget them.

I don’t want to live in that narrative.

I want to be running on the soccer field. Kids score goals, teams win and lose…but all that’s grown-up stuff. I just want to grab all my friends, look across the field and run headlong into the wind.

“Sounds Amazing!” (I secretly hate you)

Getting close to the fire

I live with approximately one thousand paradoxes in my brain. I want to do more, I want to do less. I want everyone to like me, I want no one to know me. I want to be good at music, I want to stay bad at music so I’m not obliged to ever do anything of good musical quality, ever.

But there is this one paradox that defines me. A paradox that trumps the rest: I want to be close to the fire, I want to run away from the fire.

Let me explain.

Symptoms of being close to the fire (in chronological order):

First, there’s awkwardness. You march into situations you know nothing about, not sure what you’re ready for or what will happen. This includes: being in a place where you don’t speak the language, agreeing to do something you don’t know how to do, breaking the rules for a reason that’s apparent to only you, creating any type of art. The fire can get awkward really quick and it’s usually terrible.

Then suddenly, euphoria! This usually happens if you live in the awkwardness long enough to be fulfilled. Don’t ask me how it works, but if you run toward awkward situations, you usually discover something vital. Don’t ask me what. How should I know? The euphoria is the best part of being close to the fire.

After euphoria you get good old depression. That big discovery you made has faded, or you figured out that it wasn’t real (or for us artists, it was “cliche” or “not your best work”) or you just need to do the dishes again. What the hell? I thought this big euphoric moment would mean I wouldn’t ever need to do the dishes again! Oh I do need to do the dishes? Now? Okay…

Then it starts all over again.

Boldly go toward awkwardness, find total euphoria, loose total euphoria. That’s the fire cycle. It’s a total roller coaster of mood swings, existential crises, enlightenment and lots of awkward failure.

I want that. I LOVE that. I’m in theatre because it’s the art form that, to me, emphasizes the roller coaster. You work on a project, it gets awkward and unintelligible, there’s a euphoric breakthrough, then the show closes and you curl up with Netflix and whiskey, feeling like you’re a worthless human being.

(There are plenty of theatre artists, I’m sure, that have figured out how to make work without going through all this. I sure haven’t.)

So…the thing is…there’s this other thing I want too. I want to be far away from the fire. Which looks like:

Having peace of mind. So you need to do the dishes? No big deal. Just feel the warm water, breathe, maybe listen to some amazing music or awesome podcasts. Take a long walk without music, just thinking about, well I don’t know what you think about, but I tend to think about space, robots and trees. Peace of mind is where you can really figure out how to be a good human being. Or not even that, maybe just a human being. It’s nice.

But then there’s the sense of uselessness. I don’t know if you suffer from this same blessing/curse but if I just sit around being at peace with myself, I don’t feel like I’m doing anything. It gets a little cold when you’re away from the fire. The dishes get done, but in the grand course of humanity, that really isn’t enough, right?

So you distract yourself by watching other people who are living close to the fire. People living close to the fire are super interesting! They make art, they try stupid things that fail, their lives are full of drama. From the child cooks competing on TV to the esoteric playwright who produces shows in his living room – I could be entertained my entire life by these people. I could do the dishes, cook my food and watch the people close to the fire.

So there’s the other cycle. Peace of mind, followed by a sense of boredom/uselessness which is cured by art and entertainment. That’s what it’s like away from the fire.

Me? I want both. If I live in one cycle too long, I crave the other. I’ve tried to solve this couple different ways, all of which fail.

I try to live close to the fire, while pretending I’m not. This usually means creating art, but not listening to what other people think about it. I reject critique – positive and negative alike – because critique reminds me that I’m close to the fire! This pretense takes a lot of mental acrobatics and usually ends with me walking away from the fire.

I’ve also tried to live far away from the fire, but pretending I’m warm. This means I start projects, but never finish them. Excitedly email people about setting up meetings, but dreading them when they come. I pretend I’m on a big adventure, when really I just want to do the dishes and listen to Ira Glass.

That’s my ugliest and most wonderful paradox. Running back and forth, getting cold and getting burned, trying to pick up everything I drop along the way.

Getting close to the fire