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POST-MEMORIES OF THE HOLOCAUST IN CONTEMPORARY AUSTRIAN
THEATRE: PROJECTS AGAINST FORGETTING
Submitted by Bernadette Joan Cronin, to the University of Exeter as a dissertation for
the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Drama, October 2009.
This dissertation is available for Library use on the understanding that it is a copyright
material and that no quotation from the thesis may be published without proper
acknowledgement.
I certify that all material in this dissertation which is not my own work has been
identified and that no material has previously been submitted and approved for the
award of a degree by this or any other University.
(Signature) …………………………………………………………..
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ABSTRACT
This dissertation examines contemporary responses by Austrian theatre makers from
the free theatre sector, that is, those working outside of the state theatre establishment,
to the outcome of what came to be known as ‘the big lie’ on which Austrian national
identity was built following liberation from German rule by the Allied forces in 1945.
The ensuing problem for the post-war generations of having to claim a past that was
buried under the carefully constructed official version of history but mediated through
the silence of their parents and grandparents – shaping their (inner) lives – and
possibilities for representing such experience through the medium of theatre are core
issues explored in this study. The main focus of the dissertation is analysis of a
selection of three pieces of theatre produced by two free theatre companies in Austria,
Auf der Suche nach Jakob / Searching for Jacob / Szukajac Jakuba, and Pola, both by
the Projekttheater Studio based in Vienna, and Speaking Stones: images, voices,
fragments… from that which comes after by Theater Asou in Graz, Styria. Apart from
contextualization of the central thematic concerns of the selected pieces of theatre
within the historical events of 20th century Austria, and discussion of the theoretical
framework within which the pieces are analysed, this study also offers a consideration
of the phenomenon of the free theatre sector in contemporary Austria as a
complement and an alternative to the state theatre sector, its roots and development
since the post WWII period through to the early 21st century. Interviews with theatre
artists, arts administrators and a Holocaust eye witness are also drawn upon to
investigate how free theatre can provide a medium though which memory-work, the
subtleties of damage and the inexpressible, and the difficult task of claiming the past
can be explored.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my supervisor Professor Phillip Zarrilli for his unfailing
encouragement and support throughout this project. My sincere thanks also to my
panel of assessors, Dr David Roesner and Professor Martin Swales. Other colleagues
at Exeter I would like to thank are Gayatri Simons, Christopher McCullough, Peter
Hulton and Jon Primrose.
A special thanks to all the theatre practitioners and arts administrators in
Austria and elsewhere who supported my work: Uschi Litschauer, Klaus Seewald,
Eva Brenner, Hagnot Elischka, Maren Rahmann, Sabine Wiesenbauer, Clemens
Matzka, Gernot Rieger, Monika Zöhrer, Andrea Dörres, Christian Heuegger, Barbara
Stüwe-Eßl, Kaite O’Reilly, Axel Bagatsch, Agnieska Salamon, Hermann and Jakob
Schweighofer, Lissa Gärtler, Carolin Vikoler, Anita Raidl. My sincere thanks also to
Walter Gluschitsch and Franz Trampusch of Wagna.
I would like to thank those who offered valuable advice and assistance: Roy
Sellers, Keith Crook, Kerstin Fest and Adam Ledger. I would also like to thank my
colleagues at UCC for their support: Franc Chamberlain, Roisin O’Gorman, Ger
Fitzgibbon, Manfred Schewe, Deborah Fitzgibbon and Veronica Forde.
And finally, my special thanks to those who offered me personal support and
encouragement: Graham Allen, Maurice Cronin Jnr., Emily Murphy and Brendan
O’Connor. Most of all, I wish to thank my daughters Daniela and Christiane Reicke
and my parents Maurice and Ita Cronin for being with me throughout. I dedicate this
dissertation to them in deepest love and gratitude.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction………………………………………………………………………...7
Chapter One:
Part One: Thematic Context ……………………………………………………….13
Part Two: The Other Theatre……………………………………………………….33
Chapter Two:
Theoretical Context…………………………………………………………………79
Chapter Three:
A ‘Ghost Building’ within a ‘Host Building’ – Speaking Stones: images, voices,
fragments “from that which comes after”….............................................................111
Chapter Four:
‘Traces of the story-teller’ – Auf der Suche nach Jakob, In search of Jacob, Szukajac
Jakuba........................................................................................................................161
Chapter Five:
Performing the Literary Text / the Literary Text as Performer – Pola......................190
Conclusion………………………………………………………………………….206
Appendices - a selection of interviews .……………………………………………215
Bibliography………………………………………………………………………..253
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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS (IMAGES) AND ACCOMPANYING MATERIAL
Images:
Fig. 3.1. Entrance to the Roman caves, die Römer Höhlen, of Aflenz…………...127
Fig. 3.2. Bank of the river Sulm, Aflenz………….………………………........…128
Fig. 3.3
Inside the Roman caves
…………………………………………….…129
Fig. 3.4.
Concentration Camp prisoners before transportation to their deaths…...130
Fig. 3.5. A prisoner beaten to death in the Roman caves ………………………...131
Fig. 3.6. Colour coding for the various categories of prisoner……………….…..133
Fig. 3.7. The Nazis’ death cart – der Totenkarren……………………………......134
Fig.3.8.
Image of anonymous woman carved on the wall of the cave…………..135
Fig. 3.9. Photograph of the photograph of the death cart………………………...137
Fig. 3.10. Passageway leading to the performance space in the Roman quarry…..140
Fig. 3.11. The performance space…………………………………………………141
DVDs:
Speaking Stones: images, voices, fragments … “ from that which comes after”
(Theater Asou, Graz)
Auf der Suche nach Jakob / Searching for Jacob / Szukajac Jacuba (Projekt Theater
Studio, Vienna)
Pola (Projekt Theater Studio, Vienna)
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INCLUSION OF PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED PAPER:
Chapter Four of this dissertation includes material that has been adapted from a
previously published article in the journal Contemporary Theatre Review, Volume 18,
Issue 2, May 2008, entitled:
‘Post-Memory and the Holocaust: Auf der Suche nach Jakob / Searching for Jacob /
Szukajac Jakuba – A Project against Forgetting’
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INTRODUCTION
Voi che vivete sicuri
Nelle vostre tiepide case,
Voi che trovate tornando a sera
Il cibo caldo e visi amici:
Considerate se questo è un uomo
Che lavora nel fango
Che non conosce pace
Che lotta per mezzo pane
Che muore per un sí o per un no.
Considerate se questa è una donna,
Senza capelli e senza nome
Senza piú forza di ricordare
Vuoti gli occhi e freddo il grembo
Come una rana d’inverno.
Meditate che questo è stato:
Vi commando queste parole.
Scolpitele nel vostro cuore
Stando in casa andando per via,
Coricandovi alzandovi;
Ripetetele ai vostri figli.
O vi si sfaccia la casa,
La malattia vi impedisca,
I vostri nati torcano il viso da voi.
(Primo Levi, 2005a: 7)
The idea for this project grew out of a long-standing interest in post-WWII Austrian
Literature, in particular the Todesartenzyklus by Ingeborg Bachmann, which
thematises what has come to be known as ‘the big lie’ on which Austrian national and
cultural identity was built during the immediate post-war period and then from 1955
following the establishment of the 2nd Austrian Republic. The ‘big lie’ refers, of
course, to the idea that Austria was Hitler’s first victim when he marched on Vienna
on the 15th of March 1938 and proclaimed the annexation of Austria to Nazi Germany
to an ecstatic crowd of an estimated 200,000 on Heldenplatz. The after-effects of the
victimization myth – a major factor in the suppression of Austria’s war guilt and thus
to the inheritance of a confusing silence by the subsequent generations – are still to be
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felt today in the lives of Austrians, more than six decades since the end of WWII. As
the last of the wartime generation die, it becomes ever more urgent to find ways of
addressing these matters. In many cases, however, the dead have taken their personal
histories with them and the question remains, how, particularly in the absence of the
narratives, can the past be reclaimed and problematic identity issues addressed? In
2002, two years after EU sanctions were imposed on Vienna following the formation
of a coalition between the ÖVP, the Austrian Peoples Party and the FPÖ, the extreme
right-wing Freedom Party, known for its xenophobia, anti-immigration policies, and
German nationalist orientation, I witnessed a piece of theatre performed by a free
theatre company from Graz, Theater Asou, Speaking Stones – images, fragments from
that which comes after (dir. Phillip Zarrilli), the central concern of which was the
alienating effects of war and displacement. The sites of signification in the piece
were less the language of narratives and stories than that of gesture and silence.
Company members explained to me that a key motivation in the making of this piece
was to respond through the medium of theatre to the recent alarming political
developments in their country, that is the rise in popularity of the Freedom Party.
Following this encounter, I conceived of the idea to focus my research project on
contemporary theatre made by Austrian free theatre ensembles that seeks to explore
theatrically – either obliquely or overtly – what it means to have inherited the
perplexing silence of their parents’ and grandparents’ generations surrounding their
experience of WWII. This would allow me to explore crucial questions such as how,
in the absence of actual personal his- and her-tories, do the heirs of the silence engage
with and claim the past, and how can performance and performativity be instrumental
in this process?
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Theater Asou, a company strongly intercultural in its orientation in terms of its
engagement with collaborators and practical and theoretical research on modes of
theatre making, expressed their concern at the lack of material that has been published
to date on the work of free theatre companies as part of an experimental sub-culture in
Austria, and their willingness to support my research project. Soon after encountering
Theater Asou and their work, I became acquainted with the work of another free
theatre company in Vienna, the Projekttheater Studio Wien, led by director Eva
Brenner, who was likewise open to supporting such an enquiry. At the time the
Projekttheater Studio was planning a collaboration with Lee Breuer, director of
Mabou Mines in New York, to devise a piece of theatre drawing on material scripted
by Brenner. This material related to her personal experience of having inherited
silence in the context of her own family’s history with National Socialism.
Furthermore, one year previously, the company had produced a piece of theatre based
on a true story by the Polish author Hanna Krall, the central figure of which was
executed by the Nazis for concealing 25 Jews under her floorboards during the period
of the so-called ‘Final Solution’ in Poland. Here was another free theatre company
concerned with issues of identity and Austria’s history with National Socialism,
intercultural in its orientation and continually seeking new impulses and theatrical
modes to express its artistic and intellectual concerns. There seemed to be sufficient
evidence to suggest that something significant was happening at the time in the free
theatre scene of Austria to address through its performance work problematic issues
of identity emerging from a false configuration of a critical period in Austria’s recent
history, triggered by new developments in the political arena that seemed all too
familiar. Initially, I envisaged extending the study to further free theatre ensembles
making work with similar thematic concerns but in the course of my investigations I
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came to the conclusion that a closer study of the work of two paradigmatic free
theatre ensembles, one in the larger urban setting of Vienna and the other in the
smaller urban setting of Graz, would allow for a deeper engagement both with the
work and with the life of the companies and hopefully produce more satisfactory
results than a broader and therefore less detailed study.1 The decision to foreground
close analysis of key pieces of theatre made by the two companies would furthermore
better serve the central research question as to how performance and performativity
can be instrumental in claiming a problematic past. My intention, therefore, is in no
way to disregard the work of the many other artists and writers concerned with and
engaging with these issues, but rather to acknowledge and explain the choice of a
narrow focus for the purposes of project. Material garnered from artists, directors and
administrators from other theatre companies and arts organisations in the form of
interviews will be drawn upon, however, to help contextualise the work of the two
companies that forms the main focus of my study. The three pieces of theatre I have
selected to analyse as the main foci of this dissertation are: Speaking Stones: images,
voices, fragments … “from that which comes after” (dir. Phillip Zarrilli) by Theater
Asou, Auf der Suche nach Jakob, In search of Jacob, Szukajac Jakuba (dirs. Lee
Breuer / Eva Brenner) and Pola (dir. Eva Brenner), both by the Projekttheater Studio
Wien. In the case of the first two of these pieces I had the opportunity to attend a
number of performances; in the case of the third, however, I had to work with video
documentation, as the piece was created and performed the year before I first met the
company.
1
Interest groups such as ‘Das andere Theater in Graz’ and ‘IG Freie Theater’ in Vienna, EON
(European Off Network) provide information on and video clips of the work of the full range of extant
free theatre ensembles in Austria, which is relatively easy to access provided the researcher has
adequate German-language skills. Also, some broad-ranging academic studies have been carried out
that profile the landscape of non-state theatre production in Austria. (I will discuss this material in
greater detail in the following section entitled The Other Theatre). Nothing that I could find, on the
other hand, has been published in terms of detailed performance analysis of the work of such
companies.
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Chapter one is sub-divided into two sections: I will first contextualise the
broader thematic focus of the three pieces of theatre in question. This will entail a
sketch of the historical origins of the factors that combined to collude in a largely
collective tacit agreement on the part of post WWII Austria to suppress its identity as
part of Nazi Germany, its involvement in the crimes perpetrated under Hitler’s
National Socialist regime, and the cultivation of the victim myth and also the socalled Ostarrîchi myth. I will outline the political developments in the decades
following 1945 which led to the gradual dismantling of the victim myth and the
beginnings of Austria’s delayed confrontation with its past. Secondly, I will trace the
development of the free theatre sector in the Austrian context, particularly in Styria
and Vienna, the alternative it offers to mainstream theatre, the challenges it faces in
terms of visibility and funding, and situate the two companies I have chosen to
foreground in this study within the free theatre landscape. A literature review will
establish what has been published to date on Austrian theatre beyond the state sector.
I will trace the roots and development of experimental theatre as a sub-culture in
Austrian theatre and the economics and politics of funding in the context of the
historical events, political developments and movements within the theatre in the last
fifty years or so in Austria, from the time of the State Treaty of 1955 and subsequent
developments, through to the period of the social-democratic government under
Bruno Kreisky in the 70s and early 80s. In view of more recent developments, I will
examine, for example, the implications of the OFF-Theater Reform in Vienna. This
discussion will be informed by material taken from interviews and informal
communications that I have carried out in the course of my research with theatre
artists operating within the free theatre scene. Chapter two, then, entails a discussion
of the overarching critical, interpretative discourses engaged as a basis for the
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analyses. Chapters three, four and five offer analyses of the three pieces of theatre
identified above. Special emphasis will be given to Speaking Stones, as a substantial
section of the chapter is dedicated to the site-sensitive space in which the piece was
performed. Finally, in my conclusion, I will discuss the significance of these theatrical
explorations within the free theatre sector that sought to promote reflection on
Austria’s history with National Socialism, to disrupt and unsettle the sedimented
silence, the repressed memories, the withholding of histories and the attitude of
looking away that still seem to characterise the lives of so many families in Austria
today.
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CHAPTER ONE
Part One: Thematic Contextualisation
An intricate web of factors prevailed in post WWII Austria to give rise to the nation’s
deflection away from the immediate past, the failure to acknowledge its war guilt, its
collusion with the German Nazi apparatus, and to facilitate an understanding of the
events which had taken place among the generations who did not directly experience
them. Questions remained and to a significant extent remain unanswered to the
present day, as the silence or misrepresentation regarding the past continues to be
perpetuated in families and communities throughout Austria. This has ongoing
implications for issues relating to personal, cultural and national identity. As the last
of the wartime generation die, in many cases taking their personal histories with them
to remain forever undisclosed, it becomes increasingly urgent to find ways of
addressing the question of how to deal with the past. In order to gain a better
understanding of the task that faces Austrian theatre makers today, who seek to
explore these issues in their work, it is necessary to consider some of the complexity
of the historical factors surrounding the lead-up to the Anschluss of 1938 and the
post-war restoration years. Furthermore, when discussing the success of Hitler’s
expansionist project in Austria and Central Europe, the silence surrounding the fate of
the victims in the post-war restoration years, along with the motives of some of the
many groups comprising the differentiated spectrum of Austrian society for failing to
13
engage with this period of annexation to Nazi Germany, we also need to consider the
role of the international community.
Pronounced the first victim of Hitler’s annexation plan by the Moscow
Declaration on 1 November 1943, Austria emerged from the Second World War freed
from any obligation to confront the issue of its allegiances to the German Nazi regime
during the period of annexation, which lasted from 12 March 1938 to 11 April 1945.
This conferral of victim status gave rise to what has been described as ‘the big lie’ or
‘die österreichische Lebenslüge’, which Hermann Langbein (in Bourke, 2000: 271)
sums up as follows, ‘Wir sind 1938 besetzt worden, wir sind 1945 befreit worden,
was dazwischen geschehen ist, dafür können wir nichts’. As Jacqueline Vansant
writes (1991: 271), ‘[t]he stage was set for the consequent repression of Austria’s
immediate past and the establishment of a problematic Austrian identity.’ In his
introduction to a collection of essays, which attempts to help establish ‘a solidly
documented more accurate view of Austria’s role in the Anschluss, Donald Daviau
(1991: iv) writes that the past will never be overcome, ‘insofar as the past can ever be
overcome – until it has been presented truthfully and understood accurately.’ Eoin
Bourke’s monograph, which traces the period leading up to the Anschluss in Austria
through to the post-war restoration period in history and literature, drawing frequently
on eye-witness accounts, likewise seeks to create more transparency around these
events. These and other sources drawing on eye-witness accounts, such as that of
American foreign correspondent William Shirer or of the Austrian writer Gerhard
Amanshauser, all yield a similar picture of the scenes and events which took place
during this period.
Bourke relates how the Nazis had cleverly orchestrated the prelude to Hitler’s
appearance at Heldenplatz in Vienna by, for example, bussing crowds of young
14
people into the city equipped with swastika armbands and flags on the days leading up
to Tuesday the 15 March 1938 (2000:12) and by paying beggars and down-and-outs
to invade the elegant inner city. Carl Zuckmayer (in Bourke, 2000: 13) describes the
scene from the 11 to 12 March following this flooding of the city ‘in terms of a
medieval vision of Hell’:
An diesem Abend brach die Hölle los. Die Unterwelt hatte ihre Pforten
aufgetan und ihre niedrigsten, scheußlichsten, unreinsten Geister losgelassen.
Die Stadt verwandelte sich in ein Alptraumgemälde des Hieronymus Bosch:
Lemuren und Halbdämonen schienen aus Schmutzeiern gekrochen und aus
versumpften Erdlöchern gestiegen. Die Luft war von einem unablässig
gellenden, wüsten, husterischen Gekreische erfüllt, aus Männer- und
Weiberkehlen, das tage- und nächtelang weiterschrillte.
Clearly, it was not just the sub-proletariat that was joining in the mass hysteria. Many
writers wrote of the general transformation of the people of Vienna, the mixture of
elation and cravenness that characterized their behaviour and physiognomies. Bourke
(2000: 31) cites some of the sexual metaphors that were frequently employed by
writers to characterize Austria’s response to Hitler’s takeover, for example, George
Clare, who – with flagrant misogyny, one must note – ‘used the same coital metaphor
to describe the frenetic abandon of the Viennese of both sexes’:
The whole city behaved like an aroused woman, vibrating, writhing, moaning
and sighing lustfully for orgasm and release. This is not purple writing. It is an
exact description of what Vienna was and felt like on Monday, 14 March
1938, as Hitler entered her.
Bourke also cites many examples of what he describes ‘the rhetorical flatulence’ of
the style in which right-wing writers – some still celebrated in Austria today – wrote
paens to the ‘Führer’. The homo-erotic verse of Herbert Strutz is quoted, for instance,
which characterizes Hitler as a messianic figure that the writer wishes to cleave to:
Schöner und stolzer, als wir dich jemals geglaubt,
Nimmst du uns an, unser Kämpfen und innerstes Sein
Segnest uns Herzen und Seelen, uns Hände und Haupt,
und wir sind dein.
15
These representations are reinforced by Shirer’s accounts (2001: 296) of the Nazi
demonstrations he witnessed at around 6pm on Friday 11 March 1938 at the ‘tourist
bureau’ in the Kärntnerstrasse, which had been set up by the Nazi party as a kind of
shrine to Hitler:
[…] in the streetlights I noted the faces of some of the individuals who made
up this churning herd: a familiar sight it was to an old veteran of Nazi
Germany. I had seen those faces at the party rallies in Nuremberg: the
fanatical popping eyes, the gaping mouths, the contorted expressions of
hysteria and paranoia. And now they were screaming: “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!
Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler! Hang Schuschnigg! Hang Schuschnigg! Ein Volk, ein
Reich, ein Führer!” The Brownshirts at Nuremberg had never bellowed the
Nazi slogans with such mania.
Accounts of preceding events in the provinces are no different. With bitter
irony Gerhard Amanshauser (in Roebling, 1993, 173) conjectures that Salzburg was
liberated twice in the space of seven years, once in 1938 by Hitler and again in 1945
by the Allies and – likewise with misogynistic overtones – characterizes the
Anschluss as a rape allegation that was experienced quite differently during the event:
Salzburg wurde innerhalb von 7 Jahren zweimal befreit und die zweite
Befreiung war der Gegensatz zur ersten: sie bezeichnete die erste als eine
Vergewaltigung. Gerade die Vergewaltigung aber – der Einmarsch der
Truppen im Jahr 1938 – löste den größten Jubel aus, den Salzburg je erlebt
hat. Sie gehörte offenbar zu jenen Vergewaltigungen, die im Augenblick der
Tat ganz anders beurteilt werden als später vor Gericht.
Accounts of Hitler’s reception in Braunau and Linz, the region of his birth, present a
similar picture, ‘Hitler’s approach to Linz was staged so as to resemble Advent, the
coming of the Saviour’ (Bourke, 2000: 16), as candles were lit in the windows of the
houses and boys from the Hitler youth and girls from the BDM lined the streets
together with thousands of cheering onlookers. Again, Shirer’s (2001: 314) account
reinforces this as he describes how Hitler ‘was carried away by the delirious reception
he got from the huge crowds’ in Linz.
16
Notwithstanding the rapid infiltration of state bodies and the media by the
Nazis in the days leading up to the Anschluss and the singularity of their brutality in
taking what they wanted, the question remains as to what had led to such a rapturous
response among a significant sector of the Austrian population to Hitler’s takeover of
Austria. Austrian unification with Germany has of course a very old history with a
number of precedents in former eras. United under the ‘Holy Roman Empire of the
German Nation’ Germany and Austria continued to remain united even after the
Napoleonic wars led to the end of the Empire in 1806. After expulsion by Germany,
then, from the union in 1867 following the battle of Königgrätz in which Germany
defeated Austria:
[a]n immediate clamor for reunification began and grew into a crescendo
within Austria in the 1880s with the formation of George Ritter von
Schönerer’s German National Party, which advocated the overthrow of the
Austrian monarchy, demanded annexation with Bismarck’s Germany, and
introduced racial anti-Semitism to gain its ends. (Daviau, 1991: vii)
This clamour was echoed following the post-WWI dissolution of the AustroHungarian Monarchy in accordance with the treaties of St Germain and Versailles.
The tiny German-speaking remnant of the former illustrious multi-nation state of
Austria-Hungary – ‘“L’Autriche, c’est ce qui reste”, as proclaimed at the deliberations
for the Treaty of St. Germain’ (Lamb-Faffelberger, 2003: 291-292) – defined itself as
the Austrian state of German-speaking Austria and Western Hungary. Chancellor Karl
Renner called for immediate annexation with Germany. As Lamb-Faffelberger (2003:
291-292) writes, ‘Austria’s Selbstverständnis was essentially German, just as Czechs,
Poles, Ruthenians, Slovenians, Croats, and Italians had identified themselves by their
languages.’ Annexation of Austria to Germany, however, was prohibited by the terms
of the Treaty of Versailles (Binder & Bruckmüller, 2005: 103).
17
In spite of the humiliation at the loss of its former monarchical status, a new
sense of Austrian national identity developed during a period of relative economic
stability. In Vienna, for instance, the social reform policies of the socialist
government led to the period known as ‘Red Vienna’ (1919 – 1929), when emphasis,
for example, was placed on adequate and affordable housing with natural light and a
supply of clean running water for the Viennese working class (Lewis, 1983).
Following the Great Depression in 1929, however, and the contingent collapse in
1931 of the internal credit institution, which led to stringent measures felt most by
civil servants and the unemployed, the desire for annexation to Germany began to reemerge in the ensuing years in Austria.2 Meanwhile Hitler had, of course, come to
power in Germany and with his plans for expansion had set his sights on Austria, or
‘Ostmark’ (Eastern March) as he insisted on calling it, as his first port of call. A
proposal for annexation was rejected by Chancellor Engelbert Dollfuss’ Austro-fascist
conservative party, the Fatherland Front and the Social Democratic Opposition in
1933. This resulted in the Austrian Nazi Party mutating into the sole annexation-party,
enabling them to monopolise the pro-Anschluss electorate (Binder & Bruckmüller,
2005: 103). After the murder of Dollfuss in 1934 by Austrian members of the German
Nazi party, the NSDAP, an attempted German coup to annex Austria was thwarted
when Italian troops were sent to the border by Mussolini as a warning to Hitler to stay
out of Austria. The ground, however, was laid for the Anschluss in 1938. Although
the Nazi party was banned following the aborted putsch, ‘Austrian Nazis, supported
by Germany, were still actively preparing the way for the Anschluss’ (Michaels,
1991: 257). Chancellor Kurt von Schuschnigg of the Fatherland Front, successor to
2
Shirer (1984: 287) returning to Vienna after having spent the previous three years in Hitler Germany
notices how Vienna has deteriorated in his absence: ‘Beautiful, stately, civilized, gemütlich, Vienna
had become a sad place in the years we had been away. The great baroque and neoclassical buildings
were becoming dilapidated, the paint scaling from their walls. The city and the people, as I noted in my
diary on Christmas Day of 1937, looked “terribly poor…. The workers are sullen, even those who have
jobs, and one sees beggars on every street corner.”’
18
Chancellor Dollfuss, did not receive the support he looked for to Italy, as Mussolini
had meanwhile become Hitler’s ally. Furthermore, Great Britain and France
increasingly gave in to Hitler’s demands to grant power to the Austrian Nazi Party.
By 10 March 1938 Hitler had mobilized German troops on the German-Austrian
border and Austrian Nazis began rioting in Vienna, Linz, Graz and Klagenfurt (Shirer,
1984: 293). Giving way to increasing pressure from Hitler, Schuschnigg cancelled a
plebiscite proposed for the 13 of March3, which was still at that point expected to
yield a vote against annexation, and was forced to resign on 11 March to be succeeded
by Nazi Party member Dr Arthur Seyss-Inquart. Hitler had issued an ultimatum to
President Miklas to appoint a chancellor and cabinet members on the orders of the
German government; otherwise Germany would invade Austria (Shirer, 1984: 297).
Seyss-Inquart immediately called for German troops to be sent into Austria to quell
the arming of the Socialists under the guise of maintaining law and order, which
meant that Hitler had immediately broken the terms of his own ultimatum (Shirer,
1984: 297). Hitler’s troops swept across Austria and Hitler himself was greeted by an
adoring crowd on Heldenplatz in Vienna on Tuesday, 15 March. When Hitler held his
own popular vote on 10 April, ‘the rigged balloting forced an almost unanimous
endorsement of the Anschluss’ (Daviau, 1999: viii). Voices of opposition had by then
already fled Austria or were imprisoned, and the ballot boxes, constructed with large
gaps, enabled the Nazi guards to see which way people were voting (Shirer, 1984:
317).
3
Shirer (1984: 296) recounts how he received this news: ‘I had often seen the Vienna police break up
Nazi demonstrations in this spot (by this is meant the above-mentioned ‘tourist bureau’ in the
Kärntnerstrasse). But now they were standing with folded arms. And most of them were grinning.
Some of the young women in the crowd began to take off their hooked-cross armbands and tie them on
the sleeves of the police. More grins. Obviously, the Vienna police were going over to the Nazis. I
wondered what the hell had happened so suddenly. I turned to some of those nearest to me. They were
too excited to answer. Finally a middle-aged woman responded. “The plebiscite,” she yelled in my ear.
“Called off! We think Hitler comes tomorrow. Isn’t it wonderful!”
19
By 20 May 1938 the Nuremberg racial laws, which expelled Jews from
society and marked the beginning of the Nazis ‘final solution’, had come into effect in
Austria, and construction of the Mauthausen concentration camp already began in that
summer. Even before the Nuremberg laws had been introduced the Jews were already
being subjected to gross acts of humiliation by the Nazis and their fellow Austrian
citizens. Just one month after the Anschluss Shirer records the scenes he encountered
in the streets of Vienna (1984: 314):
What one now saw in Vienna was almost unbelievable. The Viennese, usually
so soft and sentimental, were behaving worse than the Germans especially
towards the Jews. Every time you went out you saw gangs of Jewish men and
women, with jeering storm troopers standing over them and taunting crowds
shouting insults, on their hands and knees, scrubbing Schuschnigg slogans off
the sidewalks and curbs. I had never seen quite such humiliating scenes in
Berlin or Nuremberg. Or such Nazi sadism. The S.A. and S.S. were picking
hundreds of Jews off the streets or hauling them out of their homes to clean
the latrines in the barracks and other buildings seized by them. Foreign Jews
or foreigners whom the Nazi thugs fancied looked like Jews also were seized
and put to work at menial tasks.
Following the anti-Jewish pogrom known as ‘Kristallnacht’ in November 1938,
during which the homes, businesses, places of worship etc. of Jews throughout
Germany and Austria were subjected to acts of vandalism, Jewish children were
excluded from the school system and the dispossession of Jewish properties and
businesses began. Inferring from her reading of the autobiographies of four Austrian
writers forced to flee Austria around 1938, Jennifer E. Michaels (1991: 268) ascribes
the success of the Anschluss to:
[…] the unwillingness of many to see the danger prior to the Anschluss; the
sense of shock when it came; the joy of part of the population and the despair
of others; and the breathtaking speed and brutality of the take-over.
Finally, on the international front it must be noted that France and Great
Britain completely failed to come to the aid of the Austrian government in its efforts
to keep Austria independent of Germany. The two pillars of democracy in the West –
20
as historian Helmut Andics points out – seemed to be at pains, in fact, to keep Hitler
happy. They exchanged ambassadors and contracts with Hitler and had clearly
accepted his leadership and his methods. Shirer, in London after the Anschluss to
report on CBS on what was taking place in Austria, records his shock at prime
minister Chamberlain’s deceit in his statement addressed to the House of Commons
on 2 March in which he had announced that ‘[w]hat happened [at Berchtesgaden] was
merely that two statesmen – Hitler and Schuschnigg – had agreed upon certain
measures for the improvement of relations between the two countries’ (Shirer,1984:
309). He adds, ‘I knew that the British legation in Vienna had provided Chamberlain
with the details of Hitler’s Berchtesgaden ultimatum to Schuschnigg. The prime
minister’s deceit shocked me’. Britain, like France and other countries, was unwilling
to intervene, as this would have meant using force. Churchill seemed to Shirer to be
the only voice in British parliament who was acknowledging the significance of what
was happening. He quotes from Churchill’s address to the House of Commons
following the Anschluss (1984: 310):
The gravity of the event of March 12 cannot be exaggerated. Europe is
confronted with aggression,… and there is only one choice open…either to
submit, like Austria, or else to take effective measures while time remains…4
Nobody seemed to be listening to Churchill’s very realistic perspective on the
situation, however, as Shirer records (1984: 310), ‘[…] few in Parliament were paying
much attention to Churchill. His own Tory party was solidly behind Chamberlain’s
policy of appeasing the Fascist dictators.’ Moreover, although Hitler’s take-over of
Austria was in contravention of the Treaties of Saint-Germain and Versailles, as
4
On a more sobering note, although Shirer managed to get his superior at CBS to agree to invite
Churchill to make a fifteen-minute broadcast on CBS, preferably repeating verbatim what he had
expressed so cogently in the House of Commons, Churchill refused because they would not pay him
the $500 dollars he insisted on instead of the $50 they were offering (1984: 311).
21
Bourke highlights (2000: 15), ‘the only country in the world to lodge a formal veto
with the League of Nations was Mexico’.
It would be easy to conclude that the sole motive for the deflection away from
the immediate past and the perpetuation of the victim myth in post-war Austria was
opportunism, a desire to be neatly dissociated from the country that had invented
National Socialism, annexed Austria ‘against its will’, committed endless atrocities
and, in addition to all of this, had lost the war. This paints too simple a picture,
however. As Binder and Bruckmüller (2005: 103) highlight, the Austrian nationalist
orientation of 1945 did not come primarily from opportunists but from genuine
victims of National Socialism such as Leopold Figl, Austrian chancellor from 1945 to
1953, who had spent the years from 1938 to 1945 in the Dachau concentration camp,
and Felix Hurdes, subsequently minister for education, who left prison with Figl in
April 1945. Even twice president Karl Renner (30 October 1918 – 7 July 1920 and 27
April 1945 – December 1945), who had been an enthusiastic advocate of annexation
both in 1918 and in 1938, declared in the aftermath of WWII that the Austrians had
every right to define themselves as an autonomous nation (Binder & Bruckmüller,
2005: 103). Many returning in 1945 from prison and the front looked to become
reinstated in their former positions of employment and take up where they had left off
in 1938. Even the Austrian Nazis who had fought alongside the Germans had always
had a sense of distance from the ‘Reichsdeutschen’, having had a sense of being
‘Beutedeutsche’. According to Binder and Bruckmüller, however, the primary cause
of the deflection away from the immediate past was an inevitable return to the
emotional home of 1919 when the 1st Austrian Republic was founded.
22
There were many Austrians whose instinct was to re-create a sense of Austrian
identity from the former glory days of the Habsburg Monarchy. Austria’s intellectual
and cultural elite, in particular, looked to the more distant past to forge the nation’s
identity during the immediate post-war period, evoking nostalgia for the Habsburg
Empire with its rich cultural and artistic tradition, and what Margarete LambFaffelberger (2003: 290) identifies as the ‘Ostarrîchi myth’. The middle-high German
word Ostarrîchi, from which Österreich is derived, was ‘first mentioned in A.D. 996
documenting Leopold of Babenberg’s lands along the Danube in today’s Lower
Austria’, and allowed for the claim that Austria was ‘a one-thousand-year-old country
with a rich history, a wealth of cultural traditions and blessed with splendid natural
beauty’. As Binder and Bruckmüller record (2005:105-106), the 950th anniversary of
Ostarrîchi was stylised as the first national memorial day of the Republic. Nostalgia
and mourning for the Habsburg Monarchy continued to characterize the lives of many
– including Jewish – Austrian intellectuals after the establishment of the 1st Austrian
Republic. In the multination state the Jews, furthermore, had been just one minority
among many others, and as Dagmar Lorenz (1994: 7) writes, ‘many Jews considered
themselves first and foremost citizens of the Habsburg monarchy’. Lorenz cites
Joseph Roth5 writing in exile of his pained yearning for his old home that was the
Habsburg Monarchy and his hatred for the idea of nations and nation states:
Meine alte Heimat, die Monarchie allein war ein großes Haus mit vielen Türen
und vielen Zimmern, für viele Arten von Menschen. Man hat das Haus
verteilt, gespalten, zertrümmert. Ich habe dort nichts mehr zu suchen. Ich bin
gewohnt in einem Haus zu leben, nicht in Kabinen. 6
5
Roth, unfortunately, did not survive the war but had already died as a result of alcohol abuse by 1938.
(Daviau: 1991, xviii)
6
From: Roth, J. (1979) “Die Büste des Kaisers,” in Der Leviathan, München: dtv.
23
Even after the Anschluss, ‘some Jewish authors held onto the ideal of the
supranational monarchy as the cornerstone of their existence’ (Lorenz, 1994: 6).
Authors living in exile during the seven-year Anschluss period also actively
contributed to the idea of Austria as Hitler’s first victim as they insisted in their
writings and public pronouncements that ‘Austrians were different from Germans’,
and that ‘Austria should be judged differently than Germany’ (Daviau 1994: xxvi).
Lorenz also points to the fact that many pre-war Austrian Jews ‘wanted to be
considered Austrian Germans first and foremost’ and ‘de-emphasized their
Jewishness as much as possible’ (1994: 6). The most notable example of this is Hans
Weigel, who returned to Vienna from his exile in Switzerland after WWII and became
a highly influential literary critic and mentor. Weigel played quite a significant role in
the deflection away from the immediate past, as he ‘denied his support to social
critical literature, works dealing with the Holocaust, Austrofascism, or Jewish topics’
(Daviau, 1994: 6). Along with a handful of like-minded critics, Weigel determined the
success or failure of writers in post-war Austria.7 Austrian authors who sought to
engage with the recent past in their work, such as Ingeborg Bachmann, Paul Celan,
Ilse Aichinger and Peter Handke, had to publish abroad. Much to the horror of many
Jews around the World, Weigel’s statement in an article he wrote for the Wiener
Kurier (published by the Americans) in 1945, effectively seeks to draw a line under
the extermination of the millions of Jews among others in the Holocaust by calling it
all quits, ‘Wir haben einander nichts vorzuwerfen. Seine Toten kann keiner lebendig
machen – bei euch sind viele tot und bei uns – wir Überlebenden aber sind quitt’
(Adunka, 1994: 218). Weigel adds an afterthought to this that perhaps sums up the
post-war willful amnesia of many Austrians, ‘Wir denken gar nicht allzuviel an
7
Weigel succeeded, for instance – a clear measure of the extent of his influence – in having Brecht
banned from Austrian state theatres until 1966 (Daviau 1994, p.xxxi). Weigel and his colleagues also
ensured that the experimental authors of the Wiener Gruppe remained unpublished for decades.
24
gestern’ (Adunka, 1994: 218). The curt response of Wilhelm Weinberg, subsequently
head rabbi of Frankfurt/Main, is recorded by Adunka (1994: 218), ‘[v]ielleicht ist
Herr Weigel quitt – wir, der größte Teil der Juden in der ganzen Welt und auch hier,
nicht.’ In her discussion of Jewish Austrian writer Viki Baum’s novel Schicksalsflug
(1947), Dagmar Lorenz identifies the thematization in the novel of ‘the tacit
complicity on the part of the international public, and the world-wide refusal to
acknowledge the destruction of Central Europe by the Nazis’, and also in the
interaction between her character Libussa, a former Czech partisan and Holocaust
survivor, and other international travelers the world’s expectation of the victims of the
Nazis ‘to keep silent about their experiences’ (1994: 8). Hans Weigel’s approach, as
discussed above, was clearly symptomatic of this trend.
Developments in the political arena in post-WWll Austria need consideration
in order to understand how Kurt Waldheim, former member of Hitler’s SA, came to
be elected president of Austria in 1986, an event which led – finally – to the breaking
of Austria’s taboo around the Anschluss. In the post-war period a spirit of mutual
protectionism among the major anti-fascist political parties – the Communists (KPÖ),
the People’s Party (ÖVP) and the Socialists (SPÖ)8 – led to the swift re-instatement to
power of many ex-Nazis due to an unspoken rule expressed by Lamb-Faffelberger
(2003: 91) as follows, ‘if you ‘de-nazify’ my Nazi, I will ‘de-Nazify’your Nazi’. This
prevailing atmosphere of protectionism allowed for the development of a fourth
political camp, a melting pot of former Nazis, the ‘Verein der Unabhängigen’,
founded by ex-members of the Nazi party, which became the full-fledged Freedom
Party in 1956. The conferral of neutral status upon Austria on the foundation of the
8
On 27 April 1945 representatives from the three parties formed a provisional government with Dr
Karl Renner (SPÖ) as chancellor. On 25 November 1945 the first free elections took place and a
coalition was formed with the three parties. SPÖ and ÖVP carried the majority of the mandates, 85 and
76 respectively with the KPÖ carrying just 4. In 1974 the KPÖ leaves the coalition and SPÖ and ÖVP
continue to govern in coalition until 1966.
25
Second Republic in 1955 served to further inure Austria from reflection on its part in
the Anschluss and its war-time activities. In May 1955 Leopold Figl, Austria’s foreign
minister at the time, proclaimed: ‘Österreich ist frei’. Austria was ‘liberated’ by the
guaranteed withdrawal of the occupying powers – the same powers that had been
greeted as liberators by the new government on 27 April 27 1945.9 In accordance with
the terms of the international agreement legitimising the Second Republic, Austria
was furthermore freed from any obligation to pay reparation to the victims of Nazism.
The Western Allies’ motive for this exoneration from its responsibilities, as Bourke
writes (2000: 108), was ‘to secure the loyalty of the new Austrian State to the western
political system rather than to that of the other occupier, the Soviet Union’. Once
again, Austria is encouraged by the international community to turn its back on its
recent past.
After 1955, when the fear of the occupying allied forces disappeared, signs of
German nationalist tendencies began to gain increased profile. In those parts of
Carinthia, for example, where both German and Slovenian were native languages,
classes in Slovenian were dropped from the curriculum. Gerhard Amanshauser writes
sarcastically of the kind of rehabilitation some ex-Nazis underwent once the
occupying forces had withdrawn from Austria (in Bourke 2000: 8):
Nachdem die Besatzungsmacht abgezogen war, kamen sie aus ihren Löchern
hervor, schüttelten sich die Steifheit aus ihren Gliedern, wurden weltläufig und
salonfähig, trugen ihre Trachten zu den Empfängen, rückten in Ehrenstellen
und politische Posten nach. Auch das war eine Form von
Vergangenheitsbewältigung.
As Binder and Bruckmüller remind us (2005: 10), German nationalist tendencies had
never disappeared but had merely been periodically suppressed. Generations of young
Austrians had been inoculated with a German nationalist, racist, antisemitc and
9
One could perhaps qualify Amanshauser’s ironic statement quoted above and argue that Austria was
liberated three times within 17 years, once in 1938 by the Nazis, in 1945 from the Nazis by the Allied
forces and in 1955 liberated from the Allies.
26
antislavic mentality through schools, sports clubs, student societies and other
organisations even before the Anschluss, and this mentality continued to exist. Also,
what Viktor Klemperer termed the ‘Lingua Tertii Imperii’ continued to be part of
everyday usage for many sectors of the population.10 Even the two anti-fascist
governing parties had representatives that were German nationalist in their
orientation, and this clash between the older anti-fascist intellectual elite, the younger
generations and the former Nazis, those who had returned from the front, not only
remained a central political problem but also impacted on the public debate
surrounding the question of Austrian national identity.
One of the Austrian government’s reactions to these tendencies was to elevate
the ‘Tag der Fahne’, 25 October 1955, to a national holiday11 (Binder and
Bruckmüller, 2005: 107). In spite of such efforts on the part of the anti-fascist
government, however, by 1960 parts of Austria seemed to be well on the way to a
collective German Nationalism with Nazi elements. The actual victims of the Nazi
regime, who could have continued to remind Austria of its guilt, were marginalized
and ignored. In addition, the virulent anti-Semitism that had prevailed in Austria since
10
Writing about the term ‘Entnazifizierung’ (denazification) in 1946 and his prognosis for how long
the term would continue to exist, the philologist Viktor Klemperer draws attention to the power of
language as he predicts – prophetically – that it will take a while, as not only will Nazi conduct have to
disappear and a Nazi cast of mind, but also its seedbed, namely, the language of Nazism: ‘Und so wird
es auch mit dem schwerstwiegenden Entscheidungswort unserer Übergangsepoche gehen: eines Tages
wird das Wort Entnazifizierung versunken sein, weil der Zustand, den es beenden sollte, nicht mehr
vorhanden ist. Aber eine ganze Weile wird es bis dahin noch dauern, denn zu verschwinden hat ja nicht
nur das nazistische Tun, sondern auch die nazistische Gesinnung, die Nazistische Denkgewöhnung und
ihr Nährboden: die Sprache des Nazismus’ (Klemperer, 2001: 10). On the same subject, Hilde Spiel
(1983: 130) writes of her sense of alienation at the altered linguistic usage she encounters in January
1946 on her return to Vienna from exile in Great Britain, and people’s astonished reactions to her
‘wienerisch gefärbtes Hochdeutsch’, as though she were a character from a lost play by Schnitzler or
Bahr.
11
This decision has been repeatedly criticised by politicians who are German nationalist in their
orientation, such as the notorious Jörg Haider, formerly of the Freedom Party, who on 18.8.1988 most
famously claimed that the Austrian nation was an ‘ideologische Missgeburt’ (Binder and Bruckmüller,
2005: 108).
27
the 19th century thwarted the success of Jewish demands for reparation and
resettlement.12
In the early 1980s when the Social Democrats failed to get an overall majority,
Chancellor Bruno Kreisky, a Jewish exile during the war years, formed a coalition
with the Freedom Party led by Friedrich Peter, a former SS soldier. Similarly in 1986,
this spirit of repression of Austria’s fascist past led to the election of Kurt Waldheim,
former member of the SA, to the presidency because, as Lamb-Faffelberger argues,
(2003: 291) many could identify with him, ‘Waldheim was not a Nazi just as they had
not been Nazis’. However, the controversy, which arose out of Waldheim’s
appointment to the presidency, both nationally and internationally, finally broke the
taboo surrounding Austria’s support of and involvement in the Nazi regime. Doubt
was cast on Waldheim’s insistence that he was ignorant of atrocities committed
during his time in the Wehrmacht, and in the course of his presidency he became
increasingly isolated internationally. Slowly – almost half a century after the events –
Austria was compelled to re-visit its past. Bourke (2000: 108) cites a member of the
Austrian resistance movement during WWII, Fritz Molden, on Austria’s awakening to
the task it was facing:
When we returned from the concentration camps in 1945, we thought that,
cleared of all co-responsibility by the allies, we could serve our country best by
12
Bourke (2000: 105-6) cites a contention made by Gerhard Botz for Austria’s widespread
unwillingness up to the present day to engage with Austria’s National Socialist past: ‘[m]ost of the
“aryanisers” or their descendents are still in possession of the “Jews’ houses”, “aryanised” flats, shops,
pianos, jewellery and works of art. For years they have viewed with apprehension the possible return of
the previous owners, whose property they took at a price certainly far below its true value. This is why
there is a reluctance in Austria – especially in Vienna, but also in Salzburg, Graz and other places – to
talk about National Socialism, and why the economic aspect of the persecution of the Jews and the
specifically Austrian contribution to it are the real “great taboo”. This is why the Jews are still feared
here’. (The property in Bärental, for instance, which Jörg Haider inherited from Wilhelm Webhofer and
originally belonged to a Jewish-Italian family, was ‘aryanised’ after the Anschluss and purchased for a
pittance. It was, in fact, to this particular property that Jörg Haider was driving – over the alcohol limit,
at a speed of 140km per hour and sending a text message on his mobile telephone – when he crashed
his car and sustained fatal injuries. [Online], Available: http://projects.brgschoren.ac.at/nationalsozialismus/arisierungen.html#jörg [ 17 April 2009]. )
28
re-creating a beautiful Austria, a buffer between nations in Central Europe, an
island of the blessed in a sea of controversy. Now at last – forty-two years later
– the trauma has reached us. We have to face it that our country is not, as
President Reagan tried – so kindly – to paint us, made of music, Sachertorte,
Lippizaner and Sängerknaben […]. We have to realize that we are not loved any
more and perhaps will not be loved until we face ourselves.13
The international community, as we have seen, had very specific motives for
supporting and promoting the Austrian victim myth. However, it was inevitable that
as the circumstances disappeared out of which those motives grew – by 1986 any fear
of a Austro-Soviet alliance was very much a thing of the past, and Austria had,
furthermore, been negotiating its entry in various stages into the EEC since 1963 – a
more critical gaze would be cast on ‘the Island of the Blessed’, as Pope Paul Vl
famously described Austria during his visit in 1971 (Brook-Shepherd, 418).
Particularly challenging for Austrians and for members of the international
community, who seek to understand and come to terms with the history of National
Socialism in Austria, has been the rise of the extreme right-wing Freedom Party
(FPÖ) under the leadership of Jörg Haider from the mid-eighties until he left the party
to found the BZÖ in 2005. (He led the latter until his death in October 2008.) Born of
staunch members of the Nazi Party – his father had been a member of the illegal
NSDAP before the Anschluss and was involved in the attempted putsch of 1934 and
his mother a leader in the BMD14 – Haider was best known for his xenophobia, antiSemitic statements and anti-immigration slogans.15 By the time of the next elections
of the National Assembly the FPÖ succeeded – thanks to Haider – in doubling its
mandate. In 1999, after talks had broken down with the moderate Social Democrats,
13
Molden quoted in Eoin Bourke, The Austrian Anschluss in History and Literature (Galway: Arlen
House, 2000), p.108.
14
Both were granted a reprieve by the laws introduced in 1947, which led in most cases to
‘outrageously lenient sentences’ (Bourke, 2000: 102) being meted out to ex-Nazis.
15
See http://stressfaktor.squat.net/2000/haider/html for a collection of Haider-quotes that demonstrate
his extreme right-wing attitudes, such as, for example, “Der Hitler war kein nationaler Mensch. Einer,
der national ist, schenkt doch nicht Südtirol her” (taz, 11. Januar 1989), or “Jeder Asylant holt sofort
seine Familie nach und lässt sie gesundheitlich sanieren. Auf Kosten der tüchtigen und fleissigen
Österreicher” (Kleine Zeitung Graz, 12. Januar 1998).
29
the ÖVP formed a coalition with the FPÖ, which had been voted second strongest
party in the national elections: 27.22% of Austrians had voted for Haider’s party.
International protest came swiftly: ‘Austria’s new political merger was immediately
denounced by the EU and the US’ (Lamb-Faffelberger, 2003: 289). EU sanctions
were put in place and demonstrations against the coalition were staged abroad and in
Vienna, the so-called Thursday demonstrations, which continued until the middle of
2003. Haider subsequently withdrew from the leadership of the party but continued to
exert influence on his party leaders in government. Internal tensions in the FPÖ led to
Haider founding a new right-wing party in 2005, the BZÖ (Bündnis Zukunft
Österreich), and by October 2006 the BZÖ had managed to get a mandate in the
National Assembly on the basis of its success in Haider’s native Carinthia. By
September 2008 Haider’s new party had managed to double its share of the votes to
10.7%, which was attributed to its leader’s candidature. Haider also served several
terms as governor of his native Carinthia, attaining his first term of office in 1990 on
the basis of his anti-Slovenian slogans, and was still holding this office at the time of
his death on 11 October 2008. Lamb-Faffelberger (2003: 289) attributes Haider’s
success to ‘the failure in establishing a sound cultural identity in Modern Austria’ and
is of the opinion that his simplistic, highly provocative slogans and statements that
reinforce the victim myth ‘engender tremendous danger’, in that the position he
adopted was always one of fundamental opposition. Furthermore, there is no reason to
believe that the sympathy among a certain sector of the population for his views will
have disappeared simply because Haider is no longer around to galvanise it. On the
occasion of Haider’s funeral, his government representative in the BZÖ, Stefan
Petzner, described Haider as a politician who had moved Austria, whose traces would
30
remain visible, and that the important issue now was to carry on Haider’s legacy. 16
This calls to mind Primo Levi’s pronouncement that there is always a buffoon, such
as Adolf Hitler, waiting in the wings, if people are susceptible to being led.
As signs of hope for a brighter future in Austria, apart from the Thursday
demonstrations staged in Vienna from early 2000 to the middle of 2003 against the
coalition government with the Freedom Party, Lamb-Faffelberger (2003: 298) also
points to the liberation commemoration of Mauthausen concentration camp on 7 May
2000, and the apology issued in March and April 2000 by Alfred Gusenbauer
(chairman at the time of the Social Democrats and subsequently chancellor from
January 2007 until December 200817) for his party’s anti-Semitism and the wooing of
former Nazis between 1945 and 1985. Lamb-Faffelberger (2003: 298) also cites the
European Monitoring Centre against Racism and Xenophobia, which is based in
Vienna18 and believes ‘there is reason to hope that Austria’s young people will step
out of the shadows of the past and work for a society where there is no longer room
for racism, anti-Semitism, and intolerance’.
In a country, then, where in the past six decades contradictions have
abounded: perpetrators of Nazi fascist acts claiming victim-status, anti-fascist political
parties led by casualties or descendents of casualties of Nazi fascism engaging with
16
Quoted in: http://www.news.at/articles/0841/13/221949/tragischer-tod-joerg-haiders-kaerntnerlandeshauptmann-autounfall, (accessed, 12.10.2009: 16.08), ‘“Wir müssen jetzt alle zusammenstehen”,
appellierte Stefan Petzner, geschäftsführender Landesobmann des BZÖ und Haiders Stellvertreter in
der Bundespartei, bei einer Pressekonferenz an Politiker, Bevölkerung und die eigene Partei. “Ich kann
nicht begreifen, was geschehen ist”, sagte er mit tränenerstickter Stimme. Haider sei ein Politiker
gewesen, der Österreich bewegt habe und dessen Spuren sichtbar bleiben würden. Und er sei der beste
Freund gewesen, den er je gehabt habe, so Petzner. “Er war mein Lebensmensch.” Es gelte nun, sein
politisches Erbe weiterzutragen, betonte Petzner.’
17
See http://www.austria.gv.at/site/3355/default.aspx for a list of the Austria chancellors and
governments since 1945 to the present day.
18
http://www.justiceinitiative.org/db/resource2?res_id=103297
31
fascists and welcoming ‘former’ Nazi fascists among their ranks, influential Jews who
deny their own Jewishness and silence the voices of Jewish victims of Nazi fascism,
monarchists without a monarchy, an ‘island of the blessed’ sitting resolutely on the
screams of the victims – and the list could go on – some of the complexity of the task
facing Austrian theatre makers today, who seek to engage with this chapter of their
history, will hopefully have been made a little clearer to the reader by the brief
account offered above. Also, the importance of their endeavours to penetrate the
‘shadows of the past’ and thereby to transform present reality in Austria will, I hope,
have been made apparent.
32
Part Two: ‘The Other Theatre’
The theatre work I will be discussing in chapters 3, 4 and 5 of this dissertation was
made by professional free theatre companies, of which it is estimated there are
between 300 and 400 in operation throughout Austria today (Stüwe-Eßl, 2006: 17).19
Consideration of the work of free theatre companies and artists requires
contextualization within the socio-culturally, historically and politically determined
structures and concomitant practical circumstances under which this kind of company
makes work in Austria, as, to speak with Florian Malzacher (2008: 13), directing
dramaturge for the Styrian Autumn arts festival (Steierischer Herbst), structures shape
the artistic outcome, ‘[m]ehr als viele Häuser wahrhaben wollen, prägen die
Strukturen das künstlerische Ergebnis’ (Malzacher, 2008: 13). This section, therefore,
aims to afford the reader an insight into the so-called ‘Freie Theaterszene’ or ‘OffTheaterszene’ – ‘free’, ‘OFF’, ‘fringe’ or ‘independent’ theatre scene – of Austria,
with a particular focus on the Federal States of Vienna and Styria. After a general
introduction, it will offer an overview of publications to date which examine the
activities and working conditions of non-institutionalized theatre practitioners in
Styria and Vienna, and the subsidized interest groups that facilitate cooperative efforts
to improve the working conditions of free theatre artists by providing support
structures and promoting the professionalisation of their work.20 It will go on to
examine the roots and development of this alternative to the state theatre
establishment from the immediate post-war era, through the time of the State Treaty
of 1955 and beyond, and, the current challenges faced by theatre artists working
within this category, the motives that drive their endeavours, and the relevance of free
19
This figure includes independent dance companies.
I will discuss the literature overview together with the interest groups, as much of the literature has
arisen by virtue of and is published by the interest groups.
20
33
theatre in Austria today.21 Finally it will offer introductions to the two companies
whose work is analysed in the following chapters.
1.1. The ‘Free’, ‘Fringe’, ‘OFF’ or ‘Independent’ Theatre Scene
Professional free theatre – Freies Berufstheater – is a sub-category of noninstitutionalised professional theatre, other sub-categories including ‘Kabarett’,
comedy, and entertainment shows, as Hauswirth and Schweighofer write (1999: 40).
For the members of a free theatre ensemble, the theatre is the work-place, and the goal
– which in many cases is not realizable – is to earn one’s living working in and for the
theatre.22 Broadly speaking, the motivation for working as a free theater practitioner,
as Hauswirth and Schweighofer identify it (1999: 40), is the possibility of a satisfying
and ongoing developmental process in order to maximize one’s artistic potential.
Many free theatre practitioners do not envisage a possibility for this in
institutionalized theatre, and consequently those who choose to work in the
significantly more precarious free sector include many who have left the security of
the establishment. Free theatre practitioners come from a wide range of backgrounds:
some have formal conservatory training, others field-related academic qualifications,
for example Theatre Studies, Theatre Pedagogy, and Applied Theater; others again
21
The areas I have identified here each merit separate studies in their own right, and the following,
therefore, claims to give no more than a brief overview as context for the subsequent discussion of the
pieces of theatre in question.
22
AndreaThere is what could be roughly described as a pyramid structure in operation in Austria,
whereby at the top of the pyramid is a small number of larger, state-run theatres – Stadttheater – which
receive the bulk of the culture budget dedicated to theatre by central government and – to varying
degrees – by the regional federal governments. Practitioners (directors, actors, musicians, set and sound
design artists, technicians, support and administrative staff) are employed as civil servants and are
entitled to all the customary social security benefits of this category. In the middle of the pyramid are
so-called ‘Mittelbühnen’ – mid-size free theatres – which receive state subsidies but are formed by
independent or free companies. These are regarded as independent employers by the state and are
bound therefore by employment regulations such as the obligation to make social security payments for
all of their employees. Forming the broad base at the bottom of the pyramid is a wide range of
independent or free theatre artists operating either as solo artists or in ensembles. They receive the
smallest slice of the culture budget, are bound also, however, by strict employment regulations and the
majority contend with an on-going struggle for survival.
34
have acquired their qualification through long years of practical experience. A study
on the activities of free theatre practitioners in Styria, which is currently in
preparation for publication23, reveals that a majority of independent artists engage in
ongoing professional development, many taking the ‘paritätische Schauspielprüfung’,
the ‘ÖBV Theater-Spielleiter-Ausbildung’ or further qualifications in the field of
theatre pedagogy. Many also engage in administration-related training, for example,
bookkeeping, computer graphics, and employment law.
According to Schweighofer & Hauswirth (1999: 20), the central concern of
free theatre – as an alternative to institutionalized theatre production – lies in the
aesthetic and social experiment, research work for the theatre as a whole.24 A closer
examination reveals, however, that the descriptor ‘free’ is not easy to define, either
aesthetically or structurally. As regards aesthetics, as Florian Malzacher25 writes
(2008: 10), free theatre could mean, for instance, postdramatic, non-dramatic,
experimental, or avant-garde theatre; it could also mean performative art, devised
theatre or live art. Above all, as Malzacher argues, theatre is essentially a meta-art
form that can integrate all art forms, and the idea that it should be at the service of the
literary text is a relatively recent one. If the term ‘free’ means a theatre that does not
allow itself to be constrained by specific dramaturgies, the domination of the written
text and narration, a well-tempered ensemble, and acting and audience conventions
then it is appropriately named, Malzacher concludes (2008:10).
23
I extend my thanks to the interest group, Das Andere Theater, Graz, for making available to me in
advance of publication the report emerging from a survey carried out with free theatre companies in the
Federal state of Styria, which will form part of the study in preparation.
24
Not all free theatre companies are interested in aesthetic and social experimentation or engaging with
intercultural and international debates and developments: the so-called Kellertheater model from the
1950s, for example, presents a conventional style of theatre in a small, exclusive, club-like atmosphere
for an audience capacity of not more than 100. The oldest of these, and the oldest free theatre in Europe
in fact is the Theater im Keller in Graz (Götz, 2005: 10). For the purposes of this study I am interested
only in the kinds of free theatre that break with conventional modes of theatre practice.
25
In this article published in the German theatre journal Theater Heute, Malzacher is referring to free
theatre in a geographically wider context – in the first instance the three German-speaking countries but
also the wider European context – than specifically in relation to Austria.
35
As regards structures, there are many different models in operation from the
poorly subsidized ensembles with little or no administrative support making work ‘on
a shoe-string’ and showing it in low-budget theatre or non-dedicated spaces, to the
better subsidized companies that have their own dedicated theatre space and can
afford to employ members on a contractual basis including administrative staff.
Furthermore, the barriers between free theatre and the establishment have become
more permeable in recent times as artists and directors from the independent sector
develop relationships with international festivals and state-run theatres. Malzacher
(2008: 10) dispels any illusion that might prevail, however, of the confident, selfdetermined and autonomously decision-making free artist, arguing that this idea
remains in most cases a neo-liberal delusion of freedom. The model he presents is of a
much more sobering nature:
Künstler verändern die Gesellschaft eben leider nicht unbedingt so, wie sie es
gerne täten. Sondern vor allem als Modell für unbedingte Flexibilität,
angewandte Kreativität, Selbstausbeutung und Billiglohn.
Although it is often more difficult as an Austrian free theatre artist to penetrate the
boundary between the free theatre scene and the establishment in Austria than for
non-nationals, who have perhaps gained recognition in the field on an international
scale, there is evidence of increased activity in recent years, which is not without its
dangers, however. What is being developed in experimentation in the ‘laboratory’ of
the ‘Szene’ can get appropriated by the establishment and transformed with the help
of large budgets, technical and administrative support. This presents a very real threat
to the independent sector, which can get consumed and obscured in the process and its
relevance rendered invisible, having neither the financial, structural nor media
backing of the state sector to guarantee its survival, to quote Malzacher (2008: 11),
‘[z]ugleich droht es die freie Szene zu erdrücken, die daneben nicht nur finanziell
36
kaum eine Chance hat’. Uschi Litschauer from Theater Asou, Graz, who uses the term
‘Nährboden’ to describe the resource the free theatre scene offers for developing
work, gives voice to this fear in interview (2002 / 2009):
Was so im Anfang im Wildwuchs ist, wird dann auch ein bisschen
transformiert und offiziell gespielt. Und mit einem viel besserem Budget und
mit weit größeren Mitteln, da muss man immer aufpassen, das ist auch immer
unsere Überlegung, wieviel dann wird eigentlich abgezogen an Resourcen von
der Szene, wenn wir beginnen halt im Schauspielhaus zu spielen oder [...]
Produktionen dort anzubieten.
A crucial factor in overcoming such threats is critical mass, and there is a
general consensus that networking within the scene – both in an international and a
regional context – is the single most significant determining factor for the life and
survival of the free theatre scene. Schweighofer and Hauswirth (1999: 20) assert that
the research work taking place in the free theatre scene happens in the context of
international relationships and developments. Malzacher reinforces this with his
contention that the free theatre scene is, in fact, inconceivable outside of an
international context (2008: 11):
Doch die avancierte freie Theaterszene ist ohnehin nur international zu
denken. Sie trifft sich auf Festivals in aller Welt, wird in Europa finanziell
ermöglicht von Produzentennetzwerken zwischen Portugal und Finnland und
arbeitet dort, wo sich gerade die besten Möglichkeiten bieten.
While international frameworks and influences are indispensable to the free theatre
scene in the German-speaking countries, he also points to the fact that certain
prominent international influences were supported at an early stage of their
development by, for instance, German subsidies: internationally renowned
experimental theatre groups such as the Wooster Group from New York and the
British groups Forced Entertainment and Lone Twin were supported at an early stage
in their development by German co-production theatres and festivals. However,
cooperative efforts among groups in a given region are likewise crucial for the
37
survival of this sector of theatre production. Schweighofer and Hauswirth (1999: 42)
refer to companies which may create a stir at international festivals but remain
unknown in their home region, and stress the importance for the life of free theatre of
the cultivation of a ‘scene’, which as the sum of its parts can lend prominent cultural
and artistic colour and variety to a city. Lots of small isolated entities, on the other
hand, cannot offer a credible alternative to mainstream theatre:
Viele dezentrale kleine Einheiten können als Gegenkonzept (nicht als Ersatz)
zu einer zentralen Theaterinstitution bürgerlichen Zuschnitts gesehen werden
(Schweighofer & Hauswirth, 1999: 42).
1.2. Vienna
The first study of its kind to appear in relation to Vienna (and in Austria)
entitled Zur soziologen Lage der freien Theaterschaffenden by Robert Harauer was
published in 1989. On the basis of Harauer’s study (1989), ‘which provided evidence
of the lack of adequate social welfare and poor economic situation of Austrian
independent performing artists’ (Stüwe-Eßl, 2006), free theatre artists in Vienna
managed to persuade the Ministry for Cultural Affairs to approve finance for the
founding of the IGFT (Interessengemeinschaft Freie Theaterarbeit) in 1989, the
national Austrian association of independent theatre, and ‘to initiate the project IGNET, which provides financial aid26 to independent performing artists to cover the
costs of social security contributions’ (Stüwe-Eßl, 2006: 17). The stated aim of the
IGFT is as follows:
Die IGFT arbeitet an der nachhaltigen Verbesserung der Rahmenbedingungen
für freie Theaterarbeit, der Ermöglichung eines vielfältigen Dialogs und
Diskurses unter den Theaterschaffenden sowie an deren regionaler, nationaler
und internationaler Vernetzung (www.freietheater.at).
26
Financial aid amounts to an annual total of approximately €280,000 (Stüwe-Eßl, 2006:17).
38
Apart from providing a broad range of services, including a bi-monthly newsletter
with, for example, up-dates on field-related culturally political developments, a
‘schwarzes Brett’ for opportunities for independent artists such as job and workshop
advertisements, the IGFT is actively engaged in lobbying on behalf of independent
artists in Austria. Among its successes was the acquisition of two dedicated theatre
spaces for free theater companies – Dietheater – one in the Künstlerhaus and one in
the Konzerthaus.27 The association, furthermore, has an in-house library and has
published a comprehensive catalogue of independent dance and theatre companies in
Austria.28
The freie theater newsletter also provides a link to EON (European Off
Network). The IGFT was instrumental in the founding of this international network
by hosting a meeting in June 2005 at the Festspielhaus in St. Pölten, during which
‘more than 250 participants from over thirty countries discussed the general
conditions, goals and visions of independent theatre companies in Europe in the scope
of lectures, workshops and working groups’ (Kock, 2006: 1 ). A publication emerging
from this event entitled European Off Network. Visions and Conditions in the Field of
independent / Fringe / Off Theatre Work in Europe, which includes four keynote
papers29 and national reports on 19 European countries, can be downloaded from the
website www.freietheater.at. The starting point for EON was the fact that:
27
In the course of the Vienna theatre reform discussed below, when companies’ subsidies were either
halved or completely withdrawn resulting in the disappearance of many companies, one of these spaces
was closed down due to under-use. The remaining space is called ‘brut’ (Elischka, 2008).
28
It has not, however, been financially viable to up-date the catalogue since 2004.
29
These key-note addresses are entitled as follows: ‘Strategies of (Self-)Empowerment and Spaces of
Resistance’ by Therese Kaufmann, ‘Contradictions and Chances of Theatre Systems in Europe’ by
Dragan Klaic, ‘An Ecology of Networking IETM (Informal European Theatre Meeting) in a
Landscape’ by Mary Ann DeVlieg, and ‘Foundation and Growth of the Network for Contemporary
Performing Arts in the Balkans (Balkan Express)’ by Jadranka Andjelic.
39
small, but also mid-size30 theatre groups often lack the means and structures to
communicate with one another, or even to form a lobby to deal with issues
concerning labor rights and social rights in their own country and even more
so at a European level to attain visibility within a larger public realm (Kock,
ed., 2006: 2),
The stated goals of EON are as follows:
-engaged cultural policies and content-related networks of performing artists;
-strengthening the national and international visibility of fringe theatre and its
discourse;
-the forming of an international political lobby for independent performing
arts focused on Brussels (the EU) and on national governments; (Van
Hamersveld, I., Smithuijsen, C., 2008: 29)
These latter data were taken from a publication which appeared in 2008 entitled State
of Stage. Government support for the Performing Arts in EU member states.
Experiences, perspectives, best practices, which offers not just a pan-European
overview of the working circumstances of independent artists and companies in
Europe but also individual national portraits of fifteen EU member states including
Austria. International networking has also led to the institution of ‘euromayday’ in
Vienna. As a member of the Kulturrat Österreich, IGFT created a videograph,
‘Precariat’, for the occasion of ‘euromayday’ 2009 to raise consciousness about the
plight of artists working in the independent sector. This is available for viewing at
http://kulturrat.at/precarityvideo. As part of this consciousness-raising initiative, a
document was also prepared by Sabine Kock (2009) entitled Prekäre Freiheiten –
Arbeit im freien Theaterbereich in Österreich.31 This publication offers an overview
of the precarious circumstances – in terms of social security and all the related
practical and legal ramifications – under which artists in the free theatre scene in
Austria work today.
30
So-called ‘Mittelbühnen’ (see footnote 23) are companies who may have formed out of a merger
between free theatre companies and acquired a dedicated theatre space and a fixed annual subsidy,
which allows them to employ an ensemble including making the required social security payments.
These companies, however, have also been included in the Vienna theatre reform (Elischka, 2008).
31
This study can be downloaded as a pdf file under: http://culturbase.org/home/igftftp/Prekaere_Freiheiten_IGFT.pdf.
40
A further recent study, commissioned by the bm:ukk (Bundesministerium für
Unterricht, Kunst und Kultur – Federal Ministry for Education, Art and Culture), was
published in October 2008 entitled Zur Sozialen Lage der Künstler und Künstlerinnen
in Österreich32, the purpose of which was to get an up-to-date and detailed overview
of the social situation of artists across all the artistic disciplines and in both the state
theatres and the independent sector. A total of 1,850 artists across a range of
disciplines responded out of which a data base was created as the basis for an
analysis. In June 2009, then, a conference entitled ‘Prekäre Perspektiven – zur
sozialen Lage von Kreativen’ took place in Vienna, at which the authors, the Minister
for Culture and a team of international experts engaged in group discussions to
discuss in detail the issues raised in the study.
Part 1 of a document – Über das Österreichische Schauspielgesetz – was
published by Erwin Leder, actor, director and chair- and spokesperson for the free
theatre sector of the Kulturgewerkschaft (Austrian culture union) in the first
September 2009 issue of the freie theater newsletter. Part 2 is due to appear in the
second September edition. In this document Leder highlights the importance of this
law, first introduced in 1922 and re-introduced in 1946, which was designed to protect
actors from self- and social exploitation, and poverty. This law is considered to be
unique in the world. Discussed, furthermore, are the implications for artists in the free
sector arising out of a combination of subsidy cuts that were introduced in the mid
1990s and changes in the employment laws introduced in 2001 in terms of social
security payments. These circumstances have led to a two-tier system between actors
employed as civil servants in the state theatres and those working in smaller
independent theatres on mainly project-based contracts.
1.3. Styria
32
This study can be downloaded at www.bmukk.gv.at/kunst/bm/studi.
41
A ground-breaking study for Styria entitled Theaterland Steiermark and
commissioned by the Styrian regional government, was published in 1999 by
Hermann Schweighofer and Eduard Hauswirth, both founder members of the longstanding and nationally renowned free theatre company Theater im Bahnhof (TIB),
Graz. The aim of this study was to profile and document the formal structures in
operation and characteristic behavioural patterns of free theatre ensembles in Styria
(Schweighofer and Hauswirth, 1999: 8). In order to achieve this aim, information was
gathered by means of questionnaires from 100 extant ensembles in three identified
categories: amateur theatre companies, free theatre ensembles, and so-called
Theaterklubs – amateurs and professionals working together to realise theatre
productions33. The authors hoped that this study would begin to make up for the lack
of documentation of the free theatre scene in contrast to the well documented
institutionalized theatre in Styria, die Vereinigten Bühnen, made up of the Theatre
Holding Graz34, das Steierische Landestheater and das Steierische Schultheater. Other
contributions to the body of literature available on non-institutionalised theatre in
Styria have been made by Andrea Dörres (1996) in her doctoral dissertation, entitled
“Ja! – Is do dö Welt a Narrnhaus” – Eine Bestandsaufnahme der steirischen
Amateurtheaterszene von 1945 bis heute. In this study, apart from the historical
overview afforded, three categories of contemporary amateur theatre groups in the
province of Styria are identified with exemplary profiles of individual groups given in
each case: traditional groups, traditional groups with a high supra-regional profile,
and semiprofessional groups. In 1998, Sandra Wehowar submitted a Diplomarbeit to
the Karl-Franzens-Universität Graz entitled “Theater ist Magie”, eine theoretische
33
For the purposes of this study I am interested solely in the category of professional free theatre
ensemble.
34
In 2004 Styria and its capital city Graz united Opernhaus Graz, Schauspielhaus Graz, the theatre
service and Next Liberty (youth theatre) to form the Theatre Holding Graz (Stüwe-Eßl in Van
Hamersveld, I., Smithuijsen, C. (eds.), 2008: 26).
42
und empirisiche Auseinandersetzung mit der Frage nach der Motivation
Jugendlicher, in ihrer Freizeit Theater zu spielen with a specific focus on Youth
Theatre, and in 2004 Jakob Schweighofer likewise submitted a Diplomarbeit to the
Karl-Franzens-Universität Graz, Theater als Freizeitbeschäftigung, which is a
sociological investigation of the lifestyles and motives of amateur theatre practitioners
in Styria. While these are important and valuable studies they are of limited relevance
to the category of theatre makers with which this study concerns itself. I will,
therefore, make reference solely to Theaterland Steiermark in this discussion.
A structural development that has had significant implications – also in terms
of documentation and publications – for the free theatre scene in Styria was the
founding in 1999 of the subsidized regional interest group Das Andere Theatre, IG
Freie Theater Steiermark. Its stated remit is expressed as follows: ‘Das Ziel des
Vereines ist die Förderung der Verberuflichung und Verbetrieblichung des
nichtinstitutionalisierten Theaters in der Steiermark’ (www.dasanderetheater.at). The
interest group administers on behalf of the city of Graz a building that houses three
large rehearsal spaces, which can be booked by its members free of charge, and
publishes twice monthly a programme of performance events taking place in the
region. In addition, those members who do not have sufficient income to rent their
own performance space have access via Das Andere Theatre to a dedicated theatre
space, das Kristallwerk, latterly known as TTZ (Tanz- & Theaterzentrum), in Graz.
Das Andere Theater currently has 60 members, made up of individuals and groups of
independent artists practicing across a range of performing arts disciplines. The
website provides further important facilities and services, such as a platform for
exchange among the artists, advertisement of workshops, and a pool for technological
requirements. The ten-year anniversary of Das Andere Theater was celebrated this
43
year, and the occasion was used to host a public debate on the relevance of free
theatre in Austrian society, the underlying concerns of which were expressed under
‘Aktuelles’ on the website (www.dasanderetheater.at) as follows:
In wirtschaftlichen und politisch unübersichtlichen Zeiten wird es immer
wichtiger, die soziale, gesellschaftliche und politische Relevanz freier Theater
sichtbar und für die Öffentlichkeit zugänglich zu machen. Das freie Theater
bietet auf unterschiedlichsten Ebenen Möglichkeiten zur Kommunikation und
Partizipation – nicht nur für die am Produktionsprozess Beteiligten, sondern
auch für das Publikum bzw. am gesellschaftlichen Prozess interessierte
Personen. Daher ladet „Das Andere Theater“ alle am System Beteiligten ein,
dieses Jubiläumsjahr für eine breite Diskussion zum Thema zu nutzen, um
gemeinsam aufzuzeigen, in wie fern das freie Theater zu einer demokratischen
Gesellschaft beiträgt.
In the context of this event, the website provided a link to the downloadable pdf file
of the document mentioned above prepared by Sabine Kock (2009) entitled Prekäre
Freiheiten – Arbeit im freien Theaterbereich in Österreich, which was used as a basis
for the discussions. Furthermore, currently in preparation and due to appear in
November 2009 is a publication to mark the 10th anniversary, which will include a
review of the work of Das Andere Theater during the last ten years, contributions
from local politicians and member theatre companies, and also an up-to-date
inventory of the structures and activities of free theatre companies in the region. Its
overall objective is to highlight the relevance of the free theatre scene in Styria today.
As regards festivals in Styria that offer independent artists and ensembles an
opportunity to show their work in an international context is the Styrian Autumn
Festival, a multi-disciplinary international festival of the arts that has been in
existence for over 40 years. Having grown out of local initiatives, it also claims to
have engaged in a productive relationship with the neighbouring Slovenia, Croatia
and Eastern European countries long before the borders opened and to have engaged
in dialogue and integration across a broad range of disciplines – the visual arts, music,
44
performance, dance, theatre, architecture, film, new media, theory and literature –
before ever interdisciplinarity became a common concept. It also stresses its equal
commitment to research, process and development on the one hand, and to
showcasing high quality productions on the other (www.steirischerherbst.at). A more
recent development that has heightened specifically the profile of the free theatre
scene in the region is the ‘bestOFFstyria Festival’, taking place September in 2009 for
the sixth time. An international jury, comprised of practitioners from the most
prominent independent theatres of Europe, invite what they consider to be the six best
Styrian free theatre productions from the year’s programme and award the
‘theaterlandPREIS’ to the best of those six. For the occasion a selection of
international productions are invited to premiere in Styria. This festival is organized
under the umbrella festival network ‘Theaterland Steiermark’, named after
Schweighofer and Hauswirth’s study, the remit of which is to bring theatre to smaller
venues throughout the region in a festival-style format.
1.4. Historical Overview
There has always been a clear dichotomy in Austria between the theatre
establishment, that is, the Federal, state-run theatres in Austria, and the independent
theatre sector. In order to gain a perspective on the distinctions, made not just by
funding bodies, central and federal, but also – crucially – by the press and society in
general, between the two sectors and the implications this has for artists producing
independently, it is helpful to trace historical developments, particularly since the
immediate post-war years and then from the time of the State Treaty in 1955.
Theatre has traditionally been of foremost importance in Austrian cultural life,
which is reflected in such simple facts as that the Republic of Austria is the owner of
45
the world's largest theatre trust, the Bundestheaterverband (Association of Federal
Theatres), that subsidies to the national theatres make up a significant share of the
public culture budget, and theatre reviews in Austrian journalism are given a sizeable
portion of the culture pages (Gruber, Köppl, 1994: 57). Traditionally, however,
Austria’s cultural establishments were always elitist, from the grand tradition of the
(imperial) theatres of the Austro-Hungarian Empire to the more modern theatres
established in the 19th century, with most regular theatre goers coming from the more
privileged sectors of society. In spite of the economic hardship following the collapse
of the Empire Deutsch-Schreiner writes (1994: 54), ‘six of the eight provincial
capitals at that time also had well-established theatres with permanent ensembles and
a high quality three-sector repertory (opera, operetta and theatre)’. During the Nazi
German occupation, then, Austria’s theatre establishment was put at the service of
Third Reich propaganda, ‘[a]ll theatres were “aryanized” and more often than not they
were also nationalized’ (Deutsch-Schreiner, 1994: 54). Developments in post-war
Austria, as discussed in section one above, the exoneration of Austria by the allied
forces from its war-guilt, lenient measures for former Nazi party members, a
conservative orientation in the literary establishment and a tendency to deflect away
from recent events and look to the more distant past to define Austria’s new identity –
‘[b]eing Austrian meant, first of all, not being German’, an attitude which ‘made it
possible to regard the period of Austro-fascism (1933-8) and the Nazi regime as a
mere interruption in a continuous period of democracy and republicanism’ (DeutschSchreiner, 1994: 56) – left little scope in the theatre for taboo-breaking or any kind of
exploration of new, innovative or experimental forms. According to DeutschSchreiner (1994; 56), the immediate re-opening of the theatres by the Soviets at the
end of WWII ‘led to the revivals of productions from the Nazi period, pre-empting
46
serious discussion on the role of art during the Nazi regime and preventing any new
definition of Austrian art after 1945’. Since then and still today in Austria, theatre
audiences have been comprised largely of the educated upper-middle class, which is
‘traditionally less interested in content or experiment than in the actor’s performance’
and ‘have affectionate relationships with their favourite actors’ (Deutsch-Schreiner,
1994: 57).
Writing in 1994, Deutsch-Schreiner (57) states that only ‘a tiny section of the
public is open to experimental theater and the avant-garde’ and this is the audience
that usually fills the alternative theatres. It has to be said that a break with this
tradition has taken place in Vienna’s Burgtheater since the directorship of Claus
Peymann (1986 – 1999). Prior to his advent, Carlson writes (2008: 201), ‘of all the
major German-speaking theatres, the Burg was noted for the conservatism of its style,
repertoire, and audiences’. Peymann’s arrival in 1986 was viewed by the 140-strong
ensemble, ‘who were accustomed to directors that allowed the actors a comparatively
free hand’, with apprehension. According to Viennese professional actor, director and
dramaturge, Hagnot Elischka (2008), authors such as Thomas Bernhard and Elfriede
Jelinek, who break with traditional forms of dramatic literature, and others in
translation such as Neil Labute, Sarah Kane and Reneé Pollesh, would never have
been performed at the Burg had Peymann not come to Vienna. Elischka notes,
however, that Peymann, who first gained his standing as a director outside of the West
German theatre establishment, was never as daring at the Burg as he had been, for
example, at the state theatres in Stuttgart or Bochum, ‘Peymann hat ohnedies hier in
Wien plötzlich auf Sicherheit gearbeitet, also es war nicht mehr so kühn wie in
Stuttgart oder Bochum, […] aber für viele Leute hier (in Wien) war es immer noch
ganz schlimm’. Elischka (2008) charts also the shift in the Burg clientele during the
47
Peymann directorship, ‘[a]uch hier ist das stamm-Publikum weggeblieben, das
Abonnement halt gekündigt, aber es sind ganz andere Leute gekommen und so ist es
(im Vergleich zu früher) kühn geblieben’. The tradition of conservatism continues,
however, in other prominent Viennese theatres. Elischka (2008) profiles the
behavioural characteristics of the clientele of the Theater in der Josefstadt, for
example, and their expectations regarding the programme of productions and modes
of performance as follows:
[M]an muss als Mitglied der Gesellschaft, ein Abonnement in der Josefstadt
haben, und diese Leute wollen natürlich die Stücke sehen, so wie die Stücke
inszeniert waren, als sie mit 16 Jahren erschüttert worden sind von diesen
Stücken. Also werden hier Inszenierungen gezeigt, die wie 20, 25 Jahre alt
wirken. Und die Leute sind auch nicht begeistert, sind nur zufrieden, dass es
so ist, und geblieben ist wie damals und klatschen da ganz müde. Das heißt,
die Schauspieler sind völlig sauer, aber das Theater ist voll, weil es eine
gesellschaftliche Pflicht ist, in dieses Theater zu gehen, um einer gewissen
Schicht anzugehören.
Elischka’s remarks from 2008 would indicate that little has changed since the mid-90s
when Ulf Birbaumer (1994: 63) wrote:
The theatrical institutions run by the state and the provinces, […], have stayed
mostly with the traditional, for example, the slightly outdated bourgeois style
of the Theater in der Josefstadt’s seasons or the combination of popular
classics and contemporary Austrian drama at the Volkstheater.
Although much has shifted in Austria in the last six decades or so, the
resistance in Austrian society to experiment and the avant-garde, which can still be
observed today, and the sense of many independent contemporary artists that they
must first attain recognition internationally before they will be taken seriously at
home35, can be linked to the post World War II era, the spirit of conservatism and
restoration, the cultivation of the victim and the Ostarrîchi myths, and the hostility
35
Uschi Litschauer (2002/2009) of Theater Asou, for example, states in interview, ‘Ja aber Österreich,
in Österreich, habe ich das Gefühl, muss man sich wirklich erstmal einen Namen außerhalb gemacht
haben, bevor man dort hineinkommt’.
48
towards any kind of art that might threaten the laboriously constructed official version
of Austrian identity. The beginnings of the avant-garde as a reaction against this spirit
of conservatism can be traced back to the to the Vienna group, or the Wiener
Dichtergruppe, who first came together in Vienna’s Art Club, founded in 1946,
described by Gerhard Rühm (in Scott, 2001: 7) as ‘Sammelbecken aller – damals
noch spärlichen – fortschrittlichen künsterlischen Tendenzen’. This group of writers,
comprised first of H.C. Artmann, Konrad Bayer and Gerhard Rühm, and later joined
by Oswald Wiener and Friedrich Achleitner, were inspired by the late 19th century,
early 20th century avant-garde movements Dadaism, Futurism, Surrealism,
Constructivism and Expressionism. Apart from radical writing experiments these
artists worked towards abandoning strict borders between art forms and established
close links to painters and musicians, their work anticipating happenings and
performance art ‘independent of the well-known American avant-garde tendencies’
(Birbaumer, 1994: 60). The kind of public events listed by Birbaumer (1994: 60-63)
include marathon literary readings and happenings, processions and demonstrations,
and from 1958-9 a series of literary cabarets. Their last joint event, staged in 1964,
was ‘the first performance of a multimedia children’s opera’ (Birbaumer, 61).
Another important group that resisted the spirit of conservatism and that was closely
linked to the Vienna Group were the Wiener Aktionisten, or Viennese Actionists, a
group of visual artists, characterised by Birbaumer as a ‘performance-oriented, antiart movement’ led by the French Tachist painter Georges Mathieu. Other names
recorded by Birbaumer are Hermann Nitsch, Otto Mühl, Rudolf Schwarz-Kogler,
Günther Brus and Valie Export, who ‘elevated gesture into a movement-oriented,
theatrical act’. Birbaumer describes the events they staged:
In various performances – Pouring with Food and Blood, The Body as a
Canvas, Self-Mutilations, Walling In and Walling Out and Trespassing of the
49
Public Space – they violated taboos of religion, sex and often good taste,
aiming at a kind of therapeutic effect.
Nitsch developed his own theatrical theory of Orgy Mystery Theatre (OrgienMysterien-Theater), video clips of which can be viewed on youtube.
These manifestations of resistance to the conservative cultural policy in this
period, however, remained largely a sub-cultural phenomenon up until the socialist
one-party government under Bruno Kreisky in the 1970s. In spite of the success of the
literary cabarets of the Vienna Group, for example, a combination of the failure to
secure any financial support from the state, the constant mockery of their work by the
press and internal conflicts left the group members feeling isolated and rejected and
forced to seek contacts and recognition outside of Austria, in particular in West
Germany and Zurich,36 which provided a more receptive environment. Austria’s postwar cultural and funding policies focused consistently on ‘high culture’ as a strategy
for heightening Austria’s international reputation37, and the subsidizing of expensive,
high-profile festivals such as the Salzburg Festival, which has ever since been
characterized by ‘famous actors and internationally renowned singers and
musicians’38 (Deutsch-Schreiner, 1994: 56). It was not until Bruno Kreisky’s oneparty socialist government in the 1970s that a significant departure in the cultural
climate could take place borne out of a new spirit of open-mindedness. Although ‘the
36
Scott (2001: 18) expresses the difference in the literary climate between Austria on the one hand and
Germany and Switzerland on the other: ‘[w]hile in West Germany and Switzerland authors were trying
to come to terms with the horrors of world War 2, official Austrian cultural policy was trying to ensure
that writers and the reading public would forget it ever happened and concentrate on adhering to the
official version of Austrian identity which offered a much more pleasant alternative.’
37
As Scott (2001:16) writes, ‘in the midst of a housing crisis, the Stephansdom and the Burgtheater,
symbols of an older Austria, were rebuilt’.
38
Klaus Drastowitsch (1998: 21) identifies the financing policy of the Salzburg Festival as one of
‘unrestricted deficit coverage’, which means that regardless of the scale of deficits arising in any given
year, by law they have to be covered by public institutions. He uncovers the inefficiency of this system,
‘[t]hese insufficient constraints on the operation of the Salzburg Festival lead to below-equilibrium
prices for tickets, above-equilibrium wages paid to artists, technical and administrative employees and
to inefficiency and waste in the production of the whole festival’.
50
upheavals of 1968 had reached Austria with delay and in a very dissipated form […]’,
[t]he new open-minded and multicultural atmosphere, however, did induce some
changes in the institutionalized temples of art’ (Birbaumer: 1994: 61). International
directors were invited to the Burgtheater such as Peter Wood, Jean-Louis Barrault and
Giorgio Strehler, and the commissioner of the Vienna Festival (Wiener Festwochen),
Ulrich Baumgartner had already begun in 1968 to invite world theatres to Vienna
such as the Piccolo Teatro of Milan, the Vakhtangov Theatre from Moscow and the
avant-garde café-théâtres from Paris. Other important influences from the
international arena emerging beyond – and which would have been inconceivable
within – the constraints of institutionalized theatre39 that Schweighofer and Hauswirth
(1999: 7) refer to include Living Theatre, Theatre du Soleil, Forced Entertainment,
Gob Squad, Theatre de Complicite, and the live art movment. It was during this
period that the free theatre scene in Austria began to flourish, and a whole range of
artistically important companies began to emerge, such as the Ensembletheater, the
Gruppe 80, the Schauspielhaus (later known as the Theater der Kreis in the late 1980s
under the direction of George Tabori), and the mobile Fo-Theatre, ‘which performed
critical socio-political drama in Vienna’s municipal housing complexes’ (Birbaumer,
1994: 62). Also symptomatic of this spirit of change was, for example, the occupation
by artists and intellectuals of the Arena St. Marx in 1976, a dilapidated slaughterhouse
where the fringe events of the Wiener Festwochen had taken place. The protesters
‘wanted to prevent the proposed demolition of the slaughterhouse area and to
establish an autonomous civic and cultural centre under a self-administration scheme’
(Deutsch-Schreiner, 1994: 57). Although the conflict ended with the arrival of the
municipal demolition machinery, the impact made by these events on local and
39
To speak with Florian Malzacher (2008: 11), ‘Theater, das grundsätzlich andere Wege geht oder
zumindest sucht, ensteht kaum je auf städtischen Bühnen’.
51
central policy-makers was such that they began to support the establishment of
cultural centres and free theatre companies.
By the end of the 1970s, however, a general austerity policy placed restrictions
on the freedom of production, and, according to Deutsch-Schreiner, in the 1980s
many free companies, who had meanwhile become recipients of state subsidies, ‘sank
into undistinguished production modes and socially irrelevant aesthetics’ (1994: 57).
It was not until the publication of Robert Harauer’s study mentioned above in the late
80s and the institution of IGFT that new life was injected into the free sector, and in
the 1990s a number of companies managed to acquire and run their own venues, set
up company working structures, ‘and the scene as a whole expanded with a very
broad diversity of artistic approaches’ (Stüwe-Eßl, 2006: 17).40
In more recent times the free theater scene in Vienna has been shaken by a
theatre reform, ‘Reform der Theaterförderung in Wien’, which began in 2001 and has
been applied to all theatres and theatre companies apart from the five larger federal
theatres – Burgtheater, Theater in der Josefstadt, Volksoper, Staatsoper, and
Volkstheater – the intention of which was to fund fewer free companies with more
substantial grants to produce higher quality41 in a financially and structurally
improved environment.42 These and other issues arising out of the reform were
40
Stüwe-Eßl (email, 17 Sep 2009) identifies, among others, the following independent groups and
artists, who have continued to produce independent theatre since the 70s and 80s in Austria: Editta
Braun www.editta-braun.com, Hagnot Elischka www.einmaligesgastspiel.at, homunculus
http://www.homunculus.co.at/, Aktionstheater Ensemble www.aktionstheater.at/, Moki-Theater
www.theater-moki.at/, Mezzanin Theater www.mezzanintheater.at/, Elio Gervasi
www.eliogervasi.com/DEU/kritiker.htm, and Pico Kellner www.theatropiccolo.at/ .
41
Alexander Götz from Theater in der Josefstadt explicates the difficulty of determining criteria for and
measuring ‘quality’ (Enquête 2002: 4): ‘Zum Teilziel der Qualität und der Messbarkeit anhand von
Kriterien bieten sich das Zusammenwirken von dramturgischer Qualität, inszenatorischer Qualität,
auditiver und visueller Qualität, sowie schauspielerischer Qualität an. Im Bereich der Vielfalt ist das
künstlerische Profil, ableitbar aus Spielplan und Programmplanung, als Kriterium für die Messbarkeit
vorstellbar. Eines muss uns allen bei diesen Kriterien klar sein, nämlich die Objektivität bei der
kulturellen Qualität und Vielfalt gibt es nicht und wird auch in Zukunft unerreichbar bleiben.
42
Many artists such as Hagnot Elischka would assert that this procedure was not clearly thought
through and that the main underlying motive was to simplify and rationalize on an administrative level:
‘Diese Theaterreform ist von Anfang an von uns bekämpft worden, weil das war ein wirres Ding, es
war keine Theaterreform, es war lediglich eine Vereinfachung für die Verwaltung im Rathaus. Also
eine Verwaltungsreform’ (Elischka, 2008).
52
discussed at a conference held in Vienna in March 2002: ‘IG Freie Theaterarbeit:
Enquête zur Reform der Theaterförderung in Wien’43, which built on the previous
conference held in 2000.44 One significant setback relating to the manner in which the
reform policies were carried out and which led to the dissolution of several longstanding and highly productive companies identified by Hagnot Elischka (2008: 4)
can be summarized as follows: after the curators appointed to make a selection of
companies to promote and distribute subsidies (2003 - 2007) had made their selection
and communicated to the companies in question the extent of their respective
subsidies, the city council of Vienna subsequently reduced the subsidies by half
without warning or giving any reasons for their decision. Since then this action was
repeated for each two-yearly cycle. This meant that the companies involved, who had
booked performance spaces and employed their teams on the basis of the approved
budget, suddenly had to regroup and change their concept for the project according to
the revised figures. This situation was exacerbated by a change in the time lapse
between funding application and approval or otherwise. It had formerly been
approximately 3 months and subsequently jumped to between 6 and 7 months
(followed by the revision by the city council one month or so later). These
developments have led to the dissolution of many of the companies in question.
The general situation in Styria, on the other hand, seems to have improved
significantly in recent years, with the result that although ‘Vienna is […] the most
generous supporter of independent performing arts in Austria’ (Kock in van
Hamersveld, I., Smithuijsen (eds.), 2008: 27), the Viennese look to the developments
in the last decade in Styria with some admiration and envy. Unlike in Vienna, the free
theatre scene in Styria has not felt threatened by the political theatre reform rhetoric of
43
Documentation on this conference is available under the publications sections of the IGFT website.
This publication will be referred to henceforth as ‘Enquête 2002: page no.’
44
The outcome of this conference can be accessed under http://www.freietheater.at/publikationen.htm.
53
the past 8 years. On the contrary, a lot of political goodwill has been demonstrated
towards the free sector of Styria in the past decade, even to the extent of it being held
up as a positive example to the Federal theatres, as Götz (2005: 10):
Das Bekenntnis der politischen Machthaber zur Förderung der Off-Theater
fällt in der Steiermark besonders deutlich aus, nicht erst seit der einstige
Kulturlandesrat Gerhard Hischmann den städtischen Bühnen auf diesem Weg
die Rute ins Fenster gestellt hat.
The main contributing factors, however, to the more recent success of the independent
sector in Stryia are ascribed by Andrea Dörres, administrator for Das Andere Theater,
to the founding of this regional interest group and the acquisition of the theatre space
Kristallwerk (TTZ) for free theatre companies:
[Z]u den größten Erfolgen [zählen] ohne Zweifel der Zusammenschluss des
Anderen Theaters, das Netzkristallwerk als Spielstätte für die zahlreichen
heimatlosen OFF-Theater (in Götz, 2005: 11).
Gernot Rieger (in Götz, 2005: 11) emphasises, furthermore, how the activities of the
association have made transparent – also to politicians – the professionalism of the
scene, ‘[s]eit es einen gemeinschaftlichen Auftritt des Anderen Theaters gibt, ist die
Professionalität der Szene sichtbar geworden – auch für die Politik’.
1.5 Current Challenges facing the Free Theater Sector
1.5. a. Funding Structures and Income
Grants for independent theatres, which continued to increase until 1997, have
since decreased or stagnated, which means, as Stüwe-Eßl asserts (in Götz, 2005: 24)
that ‘because of the lack of inflationary adjustments there is a decrease of 6.6% of
funds for this sector during the period 1996-2004. The level of productivity in the
sector appears to be in inverse proportion to the percentage of the culture budget made
54
available to them. At a conference held in Vienna in March 2002 to discuss the
implications for independent artists and companies of the theatre reform in Vienna,
Peter Hauptmann of the IGFT reveals the statistics:
Aus einer 2001 herausgegebenen Erhebung‚Theater in Wien und Graz.
Aufführungen und Produktionen’ von Raimund Minichbauer geht hervor, dass
die freien Theater- und Tanzschaffenenden in Wien mit 4,4% der Fördermittel
38% der Aufführungen im darstellenden Bereich bestreiten.
An overview of the distribution of the national theatre culture budget from 2007
clearly reveals the priority given to the mainstream theatre establishment and high
profile festivals such as the Salzburger and the Bregenz Festivals over the
independent sector (Kock, 2009: 11):
Die Bundestheaterholding (Burg Theater GmbH, die Wiener Staatsoper
GmbH, die Volksoper Wien GmbH und die Theaterservice GmbH) erhält für
drei Spielstätten 75% des Gesamtbudgets im Bereich der darstellenden Kunst;
die Landes- und Stadttheater bekommen mit weiteren 14 Millionen Euro den
daneben größten Betrag. Ebenso werden Großereignisse wie Festspiele mit
mehr als 11 Millionen Euro hoch subventioniert. Dagegen teilten sich 2007
sämtliche kleine Institutionen und diverse freie Gruppen (insgesamt 87
FördernehmerInnen) einen Gesamtbetrag von insgesamt 2.301.639,00 Euro –
eine Summe nicht einmal 2% des Gesamtbudgets.
It follows from this that a broad range of groups and single artists struggling to secure
their piece of a small cake cannot make an adequate living from their theatre work.
Gernot Rieger of Theater Asou, former artists’ representative of Das Andere Theater,
explains how the company members – having existed as a company for 10 years – can
finally pay themselves an artist’s fee for their productions:
Nach zehn Jahren sind wir jetzt an einem Punkt, wo wir uns für unsere Arbeit
auch ein Gehalt auszahlen können – wenn auch kein großes. Und das ist nicht
selbstverständlich (in Götz, 2005: 10).
55
The vast majority of independent artists earn a sizeable portion of their living from
part-time jobs, ideally ones related to their artistic work45. Hagnot Elischka (2008:
26), for example, discusses the kinds of field-related paid employment he engages in,
which include acting as a double for psychiatric patients in the context of training
programmes for medical students:
Man muss sich wieder mal persönliche Extra-Einkommen organisieren, die die
Theaterarbeit nicht allzu empfindlich stören. Ich habe noch zu meiner
Psychiatriearbeit ein Training für Intensivmediziner dazubekommen
(Angehörigengespräche bei Organtransplantation), das 3-4 mal pro Jahr
stattfindet und viel Geld bringt, und ein Kommunikations-Training für
Ingenieure bei Siemens. Alle diese Jobs haben mit meinen Fähigkeiten als
Schauspieler zu tun.
A number of companies, such as Theater Asou, Graz, successfully produce alongside
their principal theatre work a children’s theatre repertory as a means of boosting their
income, or work as theatre pedagogues in children’s or youth theatre. Schweighofer
and Hauswirth (1999: 40) point to the fact that it is very difficult for independent
artists to get work in the more lucrative areas of advertising, radio, television and
film, and where it does occur the ensuing absenteeism has a negative impact on the
work of the ensemble.
These complications compound the customary multi-tasking required of the
members of an independent production team: in contrast to actors in the employment
of the big state-run theatres, who have a clearly defined place in the rigid hierarchy,
often perhaps only discovering what their next role is from the theatre notice board,
the tasks required of a professional actor in the independent sector can include, over
and above the performance work, a number of management and production roles –
45
Many free theatre artists have of course no choice other than to boost their income from their theatre
work by taking part-time jobs that are not specifically related to the field.
56
depending on individual competencies – such as negotiating with funding bodies and
managers of theatre spaces, public relations, stage management, artistic direction,
costume, set and sound design. For most free theatre artists there is no dividing line
between personal and professional life and there is no question of a 40-hour working
week. Hauswirth and Schweighofer (1999: 41-2) discuss the disadvantages for a
company whose priorities lie foremost in their artistic practice but has to distribute the
management-related tasks among its members. The results can be positive, on the one
hand, if creative and original solutions can be found; on the other hand, it can be the
case that the PR-wheel, for instance, gets continuously reinvented, and either way it
means an enormous drain on the company members’ personal resources.46 At a roundtable discussion as part of the programme to mark the 10-year anniversary of Das
Andere Theater in May 2009, Monika Klengel of Theater im Bahnhof, Graz, conjured
up an image of the latter-day poor poet, which also brought a gender-political note
into the discussion:
Würde man ‘den armen Poeten’ neu malen, wäre er eine alleinerziehende Frau
mit Kindern, das Manuskript ein Laptop, die Möbel aus Angebotskäufen, das
Zuhause ist der Arbeitsplatz ist das Zuhause ist der Arbeitsplatz.
1.5. b. Social security payments
The Austrian actor’s law from 1922 – reintroduced in 1946 but unmodified47 –
applies in theory to the working relations of all professionals engaged in theatre
46
Uschi Litschauer expresses in interview (2002/2009) the customary difficulites of multi-tasking, how
it can lead to conflict in the ensemble and how it can affect the artistic work, and by contrast how
satisfying it was as an ensemble, for instance, to focus solely on the artistic work in rehearsal for
Speaking Stones with Phillip Zarrilli at his studio in Wales once away from the normal working
situation: ‘Es gibt für mich Momente, wo ich denke, […] also ich bin 35, was habe ich für eine
Absicherung, wie lange kann ich es noch machen, mit so wenig Geld zu leben, mit so wenig
Perspektive, dass sich das ändert letztlich, und das ist auch körperlich / seelisch anstrengend. Wir
haben auch manchmal sehr viele Konflikte, wohingegen neulich in Wales, wo alle weg sind, gibt’s die
Konflikte einfach nicht, weil wir nicht tausend Sachen gleichzeitig im Kopf haben, die entschieden
werden müssen und wie eintscheidet man das mit so wenig Geld, all die Sachen. Manchmal ist es sehr
schwer’.
47
The law still contains, for example, a clause stipulating that married female actors have to seek the
permission of their husbands in order to accept a contract.
57
across the state and the independent sectors, its purpose being to protect theatre
professionals from exploitation. In reality, however, the necessary financial means are
rarely available in the free sector for adequate employment relations:
Das seit 1922 gültige Schauspierlergesetz schreibt ihre Anstellung vor, selten
erlauben die finanziellen Rahmenbedingungen jedoch überhaupt oder
adäquate Anstellungsverhältnisse, zumindest nicht im Bereich freier
Theaterarbeit (Kock, 2009: 6).
It is not just the inadequate fee – ‘der Hungerlohn’ – they can pay themselves
or others for their work, independent artists have to contend with the critical issue of
social security payments. With living and production expenses rising in recent years
and the necessary financial means still missing to market fringe theatre work, many
artists who have been producing for 15 years or more now find themselves with
inadequate social security provision. While professionals with long-term contracts in
the heavily subsidized state theatres enjoy a satisfactory social security status (pay,
health and pension insurance), professionals working in the independent sector enjoy
no such security. In her address to the ‘Enquête zur Reform der Theaterförderung in
Wien’ in March 2002 Hanna Tomek from Theater mbH expressed the essential
difference between employment in the state theatres and in the independent sector:
Ans “große Haus” verpflichtet sich der/die Einzelne in einem meist
längerfristigen Arbeitsverhältnis. Er/sie stellt sein/ihre spezifische Fähigkeit
als Künstlerin, Technikerin, Managerin zu fixen ökonomischen und
arbeitsrechtlichen Bedingungen dem Betrieb zur Verfügung. In der freien
Szene – weil projektorientiert – werden die Strukturen nach Bedarf entwickelt.
The significance of this circumstance becomes more apparent in the light of a further
difficulty created for independent companies throughout the republic in the form of a
new regulation introduced on 1 August 2001 stipulating that social security payments
58
have to be made for all members of a production team (Stüwe-Eßl, 2006: 17).48 This
has significant financial, administrative and legal implications for free theatre
companies who are already struggling to survive financially. Furthermore, no legal
certainty has yet been created around working practices for independent artists49 and
many find themselves in a vulnerable and precarious position, because, as Stüwe-Eßl
writes (in Van Hamersveld, I., Smithuijsen, C. (eds.), 2008: 28), ‘[w]hile theoretically
all theatres are legally obliged to employ their artistic, technical and administrative
staff on standard contracts, only the established, bigger theatres can afford to meet
this obligation fully’. Most free theatre companies can only afford to pay fees on a
project basis to employees, but since 2001 it is no longer legal to employ artists as socalled ‘freie Dienstnehmer/Innen’. It is not only the additional costs that undermine
the life of such companies but also the additional administrative workload, and the
above-mentioned IG-NET does not have the necessary resources to carry the extra
costs or concomitant administrative workloads. Kock (2009:24) emphasizes the
acuteness of the threat this issue poses for independent artists and in particular core
company members who are liable in cases of irregularity:
Die Situation ist akut und hier muss endlich eine rechtsverbindliche Klärung
sowie eine Rechtssicherheit in der Arbeitspraxis für die Theaterschaffenden
geschaffen werden; das gesamte Segment der freien Theaterarbeit ist betroffen
und droht kriminalisiert zu werden (Kock, 2009: 24).
48
Prior to the instatement of this regulation, representatives for the artists, the Arts division of the
Federal Chancellery and cultural policy makers together compiled a catalogue of necessary elements in
order for the regulation to function, the outcome of which was a fund – the
‘Künstlersozialversicherungs Fond’ (KSVF) – which would support independent artists with a
percentage of their social security premiums. This subsidy now funds a percentage of artists’ pension
contributions only, health insurance and accident insurance payments are not included. A further
drawback came in 2006, when 600 artists were charged with the repayment of pension subsidies
received during the year 2002 on the grounds that their income was too low to meet the KSVF funding
criteria. In other words, those who would be most in need of this support have no access to it. These
charges are currently under review (Van Hamersveld and Smithuijsen, 2008: 29).
49
See Kock (2009:24), ‘Anders als in anderen Sparten fehlen im Bereich des freien Theaters in der
Folge auch Klauseln, die die Einhaltung der sozial- und arbeitsrechtlichen Rahmenbedingungen
voraussetzen – eben weil diese nach wie vor nicht geklärt sind’.
59
Such a precarious situation can arise for independent companies, for example, in
relation to accessing central government project grants: the company has to
demonstrate evidence of prior approval of subsidies from one of the federal states in
order to get approval for central government funding, and the projected percentage
they hope to acquire from government funding has to be integrated into the grant
application to the federal state. However, approval of the application from the
individual state does not guarantee approval from the central government funding, but
the company is already obligated to the federal state. It can find itself, then, with a
substantial deficit in its budget and unable to meet its payments (Stüwe-Eßl in Van
Hamersveld, I., Smithuijsen, C., 2008: 24). In relation to these pressing social security
issues, calls were expressed at a panel discussion as part of 10th anniversary
programme of Das Andere Theater in May 2009 to adapt the Austrian actor’s law for
the free sector (www.dasanderetheater.at).
1.5.c. The Press
A further significant influencing factor in the relative success of independent
companies in Austria is the press. Although, as mentioned above, theatre reviews
occupy a sizable portion of the culture pages, these are largely reserved for the state
sector and this tendency is increasing, according to Peter Hauptmann (Enquête 2002:
7), ‘[D]er Platz auf den Kulturseiten wird knapper, der wenige Platz wird auch vom
Mainstream der Kunst- und Kulturproduction umkämpft’. Helmut Wiesner from the
long-established Gruppe 80 spoke at the Enquête on the Vienna theatre reform (2002:
4) of the glass ceiling blocking opportunities for directors from the independent
sector, which is further promoted by the press:
60
Bekommen Regisseure freier Gruppen Gelegenheit in großen Häusern zu
inszenieren, stoßen sie auf zwei Schwierigkeiten: sie bekommen oft
schlechtere Bedingungen (vor allem Stücke) und die Theaterkritiker wissen
zunächst nicht, wie sie mit ihnen umgehen sollen. Das rächt sich gleich in
schlechten und verständnislosen Kritiken. Viele Kritiker signalisieren: wer aus
der OFF-Szene kommt, soll dort auch bleiben. So zementieren auch die
Medien die Undurchlässigkeit. Da stehen wir nicht besser da als jede junge
freie Gruppe.
Hagnot Elishka (2008) traces this conservative attitude of the press back to the fact
that no real de-nazification process took place in Austria, ‘die Deutungen der
Reichskultur kamen von Adolf Hitler, dass “Künstler” nur der sein kann, der in der
staatlichen Reichskulturkammer als Mitglied aufgenommen ist’. Elischka asserts that
in his personal experience even when he and his company, Einmaliges Gastspiel, have
had significant successes abroad and won awards, it is difficult to be considered as
anything other than incompetent or a dilettante by Austrian politicians and the theatre
critics if one operates within the independent sector in Austria. Interestingly, as he
adds and as thematized above, this prejudice does not necessarily apply to
independent companies from other countries or cultures:
Beim Festival, bei der Wiener Festwoche da sind ganz viele freie Gruppen aus
Argentinien und Mongolei eingeladen, die auch sogar zum Teil experimentell
arbeiten, aber aus der Stadt selbst oder aus Österreich wird niemand
eingeladen.
It seems clear then that in the Viennese ‘Theaterlandschaft’ (and elsewhere in
Austria), the traditional spirit of conservatism and elitism continues to undermine the
possibilities of avant-garde artists to gain a high profile in their home territory. While
funds seem to get lavished and to some extent squandered on the Federal theatres and
festivals – the inefficient deficit coverage policy mentioned above in relation to the
Salzburg Festival clearly also applies across the federal theatres with varying cost-
61
coverage ratios, deficits being covered entirely by public subsidies50 – independent
companies and professionals, on the other hand, not only have to fight a bitter struggle
to survive materially, almost inevitably continually exploiting their own resources,
they are frequently regarded with suspicion and skepticism by the press, which can
have serious implications for the possibilities of promoting their work, for securing
funding or invitations to festivals. A case in point, thematised in the 3rd January 2009
edition of the freie theater newsletter, was the treatment by the press, described by
Sabine Prokop (IGFT) as a smear-campaign, of Nestroy-prize winner Hubsi Kramar’s
most recent production ‘Pension Fritzl’. The production is based on media coverage
by the boulevard press of the highly sensitive, high profile case which emerged in
April 2008 of Josef Fritzl’s 24-year imprisonment of his daughter Elisabeth Fritzl and
three of her children in the cellar of his house in Amstetten, Austria. Calls were
published in the gratis Vienna circular HEUTE by right-wing conservative politicians,
for example, culture spokesman Gerald Eblinger for the Vienna branch of the FPÖ,
media representatives and readers for the withdrawal of Kramer’s annual subsidy, a
ban on the performances, closure of the theatre and even a prison sentence for the
artist. This came ahead of the premiere of the production or any knowledge of its
actual content. As in the case of all of his Anatomietheater productions, the content
of Kramar’s production, was not due to be fixed until the day of the premiere.
Eblinger cited the production costs in the press as €150,000, which was in fact the
company’s total annual subsidy, interpreted by Prokop as FPÖ- election campaign
50
This system seems to remain unquestioned by the general public as Gruber and Köppl assert (1994:
58),‘[t]he fact that even permanently sold-out performances cannot pay for more than a fraction of
production and operating costs is characteristic of this form of organization and is more or less
accepted by the general public.’
62
rhetoric against unpopular voices and the free theatre scene in general.51 Kramer
asserted that the production budget was €5000 and that the content of the piece does
not treat of the members of the Fritzl family themselves, but is a media satire
thematising the coverage of the case by the boulevard press. The IGFT called for a
halt to the constitutionally illegal pre-emptive censorship of the production and for the
protection of artistic freedom. It furthermore called upon politicians to make a clear
statement regarding this incitement in the media against art and artists (freie theater
newsletter 03/ Jänner 2009).
The significance of the role played by theatre journalists in the visibility of a
theatre culture outside of the establishment is highlighted by Florian Malzacher
(2008: 12-13) in his assessment of the shifts that have taken place in Germany in
recent years:
In Deutschland hat in the den letzten Jahren vor allem das HAU wegen eines
engen Budgets zwar weniger zur infrastrukturellen Stärkung, aber dafür zu
einer deutlich größeren Sichtbarkeit nichtdramatischen Theaters und eher
konzeptuell orientierten Tanzes beigetragen – mit immensem Engagement und
Gespür, aber schlicht auch deshalb, weil plötzlich viele Theaterjournalisten
erstmals bermerkten, dass es eine relevante Kunst jenseits der Stadttheater
gibt, die freilich durchaus schon früher hätte entdeckt werden können.
1.6 Motivation and Relevance
Finally, in the face of on-going material difficulty, open-ended working days, and
precarious perspectives, we might ask what is it that induces individuals to choose to
work in the field of free theatre, in some cases leaving the security of the state sector
in order to do so, and of what significance or relevance is the free theatre scene in
51
In the federal state of Carinthia, home to the right-wing conservative Freedom Party (FPÖ), the
cultural policy in the last decade has increasingly favoured the state theatre (Stadttheater Klagenfurt)
and withdrawn support for independent artists: ‘Since 1999, the budget for independent artists
decreased continually, from €230,000 in 1998 to €77,000 in 2005’ (Stüwe-Eßl in Van Hamersveld, I.,
Smithuijsen, C., 2008: 25). As a result of this shift, most of the independent artists and ensembles have
left and gone to work in Vienna, some returning only in the summer season to do productions in
Carinthia.
63
Austria today? Broadly speaking ‘free’ means free to determine on the levels of
content, working methods and methodologies, and collegial structures (Kock, 2009:
14), none of which is possible for the majority of artists working within the hierarchy
of institutionalized theatre. Helmut Wiesner of Theater Gruppe 80, one of the longest
standing free theatre companies in Austria, explains why he is against
institutionalizing theatre and what motivated him and others in the 1980s to create
theatres outside of the institution:
Theater sind aus Kämpfen entstanden, aus einer Notwendigkeit heraus. Wir
und andere, die Anfang der 80er Jahre gekommen sind, sind nicht angetreten
um Institutionen zu schaffen. Wir wollten Theater machen – nach unseren
Spielregeln, nicht in den Häusern, wo wir uns mit unseren künsterlischen
Konzepten nicht hätten bewegen können.
What the majority of free theatre artists have in common is the desire to work
innovatively, explore new forms, to commit themselves to life-long professional
development in order to realize their artistic potential, and many cannot envisage or
find the opportunity to do this within the theatre establishment, as Schweighofer and
Hauswirth write (1999:40):
Die Weiterentwicklung der persönlichen künsterlischen Kompetenz ist ein
Prozess, der nie aufhört. Viele Mitglieder Freier Gruppen schätzen die
Chancen für einen zufriedenstellenden Entwicklungsprozess, der es ihnen
ermöglicht ihr künsterlisches Potential maximal zu entfalten, im
institutionalisierten Theater als zu gering ein und suchen gerade deshalb ihre
künsterlische Verwirklichung in der Freien Szene.
Independent artists have to be prepared to pay the price for their precarious freedom
and the satisfaction they can derive from their work, which is frequently
compromised, however, by the exigencies of multi-tasking. Uschi Litschauer
(2002/2009) expresses in interview what for her are the essential advantages of
64
working in a free theatre ensemble over being employed by the establishment, but
also the tension between the ideal and the reality of free theatre production:
[D]er wichtigste Unterschied ist, dass wir als Gruppe existieren und nicht als
Schauspielerin oder Schauspieler, die für eine Produktion gekauft wird und
dann wieder weg ist, sondern, dass wir wirklich gemeinsam als Ensemble
quasi wie Leiter arbeiten, trainieren und produzieren und forschen auch
letzlich, wobei das ist auch ein Ideal, nicht wahr, es gibt die Realität, die
anders ausschaut, und das Spielen und die eigene Produktion halt zu machen,
und diese Produktion heißt eben Kostüme, organisieren usw, es bleibt dann
wenig Zeit dafür.
Hagnot Elischka, who began his career – having completed conventional conservatory
training in Vienna in the late 1960s – working in state theatres, became frustrated
after two years and left the establishment to work in free theatres. He explains in
interview (2008) the source of his frustration and what attracted him to the free theatre
scene:
Ich habe eigentlich angefangen ganz normal im Stadttheater und in Tourneen
und dann habe ich freie Produktionen kennen gelernt und meine Frustration,
die die zwei Jahre am normalen Theater gebracht haben, hat sich in große
Begeisterung verwandelt. Weil an diesen freien Theatern wirklich in Richtung
heutige Zeit gearbeitet, und nicht lediglich Traditionen und Konventionen
gepflegt wurden. Das hatte plötzlich mit meinem Leben zu tun, was dort
gespielt, und wie an die Texte und an die Themen herangegangen wird – und
so bin ich ziemlich lange Zeit nur im freien Theater als Schauspieler
unterwegs gewesen.
Elischka (2008) also tells of when he first went to work as assistant dramaturg with
internationally renowned German director Peter Stein in 1973 at the Schaubühne am
Halleschen Ufer in Berlin, what a revelation the working practices there were to him
after the conservatism of the Viennese theatre establishment and how he profited from
this experience:
Das war 1973. Da hat er – Peter Stein – den Homburg von Kleist gemacht,
und da wurde ich als Dramaturgieassistent angenommen und habe enorm
profitiert. Was ich geahnt, gehofft, aber nicht gewagt hatte, war dort täglicher
Standard. Habe aber weiter dann in Wien als Schauspieler gearbeitet, weiter in
65
der freien Szene, aber mein Hirn hatte einen Vorwärtssprung von drei Jahren
gemacht in diesem halben Jahr Berlin.
He expresses his frustrations in the past at the lack of enthusiasm and disillusionment
he experienced among his colleagues while working as an actor in state theatres:
Es ist so ein Angestelltenleben, also ich muss wirklich so sagen, ankedotisch,
es geht mehr darum, was nach den Proben gegessen werden wird, als was
während der Probe passiert, daselbe gilt für die Abendvorstellung, also es ist
obszön, über die Abendvorstellung zu sprechen aber wo man hinterher trinken
gehen wird, das wird schon eine Stunde vor der Vorstellung ausgemacht. Die
Proben sind dementsprechend, also die Leute sind zumeist frustriert, denken
immer in jeder Stadt wo sie sind – ob Berlin oder in irgendeiner Kleinstadt –
‘wär ich woanders, hätt ich tolle Regisseure und würde toll arbeiten.’ Es ist ein
richtiges Angestellten Leben, eine entfremdete Arbeit (Interview, 2008).
Others who have left the establishment to work or found companies in the free
sector also confirm that this was a step in the right direction, such as Martin Horn on
the occasion of the panel discussion to mark the 10th anniversary of Das Andere
Theater in Graz in March 2009, who left the employment of the Schauspielhaus Graz
to found Theater Mundwerk with his colleague Nadja Brachvogel. There are many
others who voice their dissatisfaction over the constant struggle for survival and many
again who give up this struggle. In recent times, also, the new employment
regulations, according to Hanna Tomek speaking in relation to the working climate in
Vienna, (Enquête, 2002: 1-2), have divided free theatre artists in Vienna into
employers and employees. In a climate, whereby the competition to secure funding
and protect it is already mounting, this only serves to promote envy, aggression and a
spirit of single combat. These developments have even led to the annual selection of a
‘Theaterarsch’! Unfortunately, as Tomek concludes, people are forgetting that it is
more important to focus on what one is fighting for and why rather than against
whom.
66
Arguments for the relevance and importance of the survival of a free theatre
sector in Austria can be defined in opposition and as complementary to the state
theatre sector. Factors, which have been identified by Schweighofer and Hauswirth,
centre on its remit of social and aesthetic experimentation and its contingent role as
cultural mediator. Due to its more flexible structures free theatre is better positioned
and equipped to take cognizance of, and process artistically, philosophical, aesthetic
and social developments in society52. This is indispensable, in particular for a
university city, according to Schweighofer and Hauswirth (1999: 39). Furthermore, by
virtue of its greater mobility the free theatre sector fulfils its role as cultural mediator
beyond the bounds of the university city by taking professional theatre to smaller
venues throughout the region, and many artists and companies also tour on a national
scale.53 A broad range of tastes and interests can furthermore be met due to the
diversity of profiles among the many free theatre groups. This emerged from the
report recently carried out by Das Andere Theatre as part of the study referred to
above:
Durch die freie Theaterszene bietet die Steiermark eine überaus reiche,
vielfältige Kulturlandschaft, die den unterschiedlichsten Wünschen und
Bedürfnissen der Menschen nachkommt.
Other factors identified by this study are the creative utilization for theatre events of
non-dedicated public spaces, the possibility of a more intimate relationship with
audiences (including audience participation), reaching audiences that would not
traditionally go to the theatre, provision for theatre pedagogical work within the youth
52
Florian Malzacher (2008: 13) discusses how the inflexible structures in institutionalized theatre
determine the artistic outcome more than the large state-run theaters would like to admit: ‘Die Frage
der Institution ist für das Theater nun mal grundlegend: Nur wenige Künstler können in den
Stadttheatern halbwegs die Bedingungen bestimmen, unter denen ihre Arbeiten entstehen. Mehr als
viele Häuser wahrhaben wollen, prägen die Strukturen das künsterlische Ergebnis. Nicht nur
Verwaltung und Technik mit ihren rigorosen Abläufen, Arbeitszeiten und Gewohnheiten, auch die
künstlerische Vision wird in großem Maße von Notwendigkeiten bestimmt.
53
Free theatre companies in Austria increase their chances of securing subsidies considerably if they
tour their productions regionally and nationally.
67
and children’s theatre sectors, and making connections between regional and global
concerns. Finally, as addressed briefly above, the free theatre sector provides
important stimuli and inspiration for the establishment. Hagnot Elischka uses the term
‘Impfung’ to describe this function that directors and their ensembles from the free
theatre scene are sometimes engaged to fulfil for the establishment. They take with
them innovative forms from the ‘laboratory’ of the free scene to the establishment,
which awaken the interest of state theatre audiences or inject new life into the
established ensemble of a theatre. While what Malzacher (2008: 11) describes as ‘die
großen Theatertanker’ are seldom sufficiently flexible to facilitate or even permit
experimentation at an early stage, once it has become relevant or sufficiently
simplified to reach a broader audience, they are in a position to integrate the artists
concerned or at least the aesthetic developments.
1.7 The Companies
1.7.a. Theater Asou, Graz
Theater Asou was formed in Graz in 1994 by Abel Solares, an Argentinian refugee,
emerging from a workshop on street theatre that Solares had led in the context of a
summer workshop series funded by the city of Graz. Initially the group consisted to a
large extent of people for whom theatre was a hobby; many were in full-time
employment, all but one of whom left when the theatre work became full-time. A core
of five members ultimately formed the company in the first phase of its evolution:
Uschi Litschauer, Klaus Seewald, Gernot Rieger, Monika Zöhrer and Christian
Heuegger. In 2006 Christian Heuegger left the company and in August 2009 Gernot
Rieger died tragically in a road accident while driving from Graz to Klagenfurt where
68
he was to perform his ‘Liederabend’ at a regional venue. In the late 1990s the
company engaged via a social services scheme an administrative support to free the
company members up for the artistic work. Due to the chaos arising out of the
employee’s lack of experience and training, however, three company members took
over the administration of the company, distributing the various areas of responsibility
among them depending on individual skills, such as funding and sponsorship
(Rieger), homepage design and up-dating (Seewald). Three company members,
therefore, became regular employees of the company. In 2004 the company acquired
another subsidized administrative support with greater expertise, Lissa Gärtler, and in
2006 when Heuegger left the company, it became possible for Theater Asou to
employ Gärtler on an on-going basis. This has brought professionalism and continuity
into the company management and freed up the other three company members for
their artistic work (Litschauer, 2002/2009). Currently, therefore, there are just three
remaining core company members, of whom one, Monika Zöhrer, has continued to
work full-time in an unrelated profession alongside her performance work for the
company, and one administrative support. The company regularly engages two other
performers on a project-basis, and, likewise, a team of sound, lighting, set and
costume designers. Theatre Asou does not have its own dedicated theatre space, but
has access to subsidized rehearsal spaces and the TTZ performance space as a
member of Das Andere Theater. They also work on a regular basis with set events
managers, touring to regular venues throughout Steiermark and the other federal
states: Burgenland, Vienna, Salzburg, Carinthia, Upper Austria, Lower Austria,
Vorarlberg and Tirol. On an international scale the company has toured to South
America, Japan, Canada, USA, Russia, UK, Germany, Rumania, Poland and Albania.
69
All company members do not always work together on projects produced under the
company name.
Physical theatre has defined the company’s orientation since they first began
to train with their founder and first director, Abel Solares, whose performer training
methods encompass Asian theatre and dance practices – Noh, Nihon Buyo and Shibu
– and Asian martial arts forms Tai Chi and Kung Fu. He worked with the group in its
early years on developing their own movement sequences based on these practices.
Solares also has a special interest in theatre anthropology and development aid
politics and this influenced the work of the group in its earlier phase. One of the
pieces directed by Solares, for example, which Litschauer (2002/2009) and Seewald
(2002) both refer to in interview, entitled ‘Tuxa’, tells the story of an indigenous
South American people that are displaced due to the construction of a dam. The
audience was integrated into the set in that it was seated on mattresses between two
stages interlinked via wooden bridges on which the actors performed, inducing the
audience to look up to see the performance taking place around them. When the dam
was flooded, the cast came from behind the audience covering them with a large
swathe of blue silk, leaving the audience with the choice of listening to the text
‘submerged’ or freeing themselves of their covering. By virtue of these staging
choices the act of spectating also required physical engagement. Text played a
subsidiary role in the theatre work led by Solares, the emphasis being on body-work
and stylized forms as tools for expression. Litschauer expresses her enthusiasm for
this early work:
Es war faszinierend, dieses Zusammenführen von der Körperarbeit, von
Stilarbeit und es war wenig Text, einfach zu lernen, sich mit dem Körper
auszudrücken, zu spielen, ja es hat sehr viel Spass, Enthusiasmus geweckt [..]
70
After two years, Solares left for Japan, returning at intervals for a further two years or
so to fine-hone pieces of theatre that the group devised in his absence, different
members taking turns at directing. They began to create their children’s theatre
repertory, adapting the physical and stylistic forms they had developed with Solares
and drawing on popular children’s stories. It was a clear commercial choice to
develop this strand alongside their adult theatre strand, and it has become the financial
basis for their work. They use live music in all of their children’s theatre pieces, and
simple costumes. Instead of sets, they use mundane objects, which can be transformed
into a range of props. This guarantees maximum mobility and flexibility, and apart
from touring to many of the federal states and playing in conventional theatre spaces,
they perform in unconventional spaces with a view to reaching audiences who would
not normally go to the theatre, playgrounds, for instance, in housing estates occupied
by disadvantaged sectors of society. They call this ‘Theater im Hof’ (Litschauer,
2002/2009). Seewald (2002) discusses this area of their work in answer to my
question whether he considers that theatre can alter the consciousness of it audiences:
Wir haben auf Spielplätzen gespielt in Siedlungen, wo einfach Menschen
wohnen, die normalerweise nicht ins Theater gehen, zum Teil Ausländer,
Menschen aus Arbeiterklassen. Das ist schon interessant, insofern kann ich
mir vorstellen, dass man da etwas bewegen kann, weil diese Kinder
normalerweise nicht ins Theater kommen und auch die Erwachsenen gern
zuschauen und es irrsinnig gut finden.
When Solares left Graz, the company decided before long to continue and
diversify their training as a group by seeking further contacts with international
practitioners and directors, who specialize in body-centered theatre forms. Through
Eva Brenner, director of the Projekttheater Studio Wien/New York, they made
contacts and trained with theatre practitioners from the University of New York:
Sharon Fogarty and Steve Wangh, whose practices draw on the work of Jerzy
Grotowski and Eugenio Barba, and Catherine Coray, who draws on Sanford
71
Meisner’s style of improvisation. Two other formative influences have been the work
with Phillip Zarrilli (USA / Wales), first experienced by the group at a workshop in
Utrecht in 1998. Zarrilli’s actor training methods adapt Asian martial art and
meditation forms Kalarippayattu, yoga and tai chi. The other important encounter was
with Japanese Butoh practitioner Moe Yamamoto, with whom the company has also
trained intensively and devised work. While the company members engage in these
intensive training processes as a group, individuals have specific interests that they
have gone on to develop to a more specialized level, these specialities generating
extra sources of income as well as leading to smaller individual projects getting
produced under the company name: Klaus Seewald, for example has continued to
train intensively in kalarippayattu with Phillip Zarrilli, but also in Kerala in India,
where the practice originates. He is qualified to teach this martial art form, providing
him with a subsidiary income that is conducive to and can be organized flexibly
around his theatre work. Likewise, Monika Zöhrer is currently completing a teachertraining programme in Hatha yoga, and Uschi Litschauer is completing a Feldenkrais
training programme in Vienna. Gernot Rieger led the musical component of the
company’s work and earned further income through his Liederabende. Apart from
physical theatre and devised theatre, the company also engages with classical
dramatic literature and contemporary playwrights, productions including The Taming
of the Shrew by William Shakespeare (dir. Steve Wangh), various plays by Samuel
Beckett (dir. Phillip Zarrilli), and The Maids by Jean Genet (dir. Phillip Zarrilli).
Between 2005 and 2008 Theater Asou has produced an annual number of
performances ranging between 69 and 118, and their total annual audience numbers
have ranged between 4,179 and 10,797. These statistics, prepared by the company
administrator, which include the number of regional, national and international guest
72
performances, are criteria that determine the company’s ability to secure funding –
from the city of Graz, from the federal state of Styria and from central government
funding. The company’s funding was significantly increased from 2003 onwards on
account of their high level of productivity and mobility, particularly in their children’s
theatre strand. They have secured funding from the city of Graz and Styria that is
guaranteed over a period of years: the annual federal subsidy was increased from
€10,000 in 2005 to €25,000 in 2008, while the annual subsidy from the city of Graz
has stayed constant around €25,000 since 2005. They have also secured once-off sums
in funding for individual projects. Between 2005 and 2008 their total annual subsides
have amounted to between €47,910 and €59,400. There have been periods, however,
where they could not afford their employment contracts and had to apply for social
welfare benefit. When I asked Uschi Litschauer in 2002 what her aspirations
regarding the company were, she listed them as follows: to increase their funding, to
establish more fully their adult theatre strand, to get invited to festivals – national and
international – to build on their international links and exchanges, to tour
internationally and give workshops, for example, in Argentina, to increase their
income generated from workshops and performances, to hand over the administration
to a competent employee, and to open the group up more to newcomers. When I
asked her this year to review the answers she had given me 7 years earlier, on this
latter point she replied that a lot of her aspirations had been realized in the intervening
years. Following the recent loss of their long-standing and much valued colleague
Gernot Rieger, the company is currently taking stock regarding its future.
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1.7.b. Projekt Theater Studio Wien – New York
The Projekt Theater Studio was co-founded in 1998 by Eva Brenner and Axel
Bagatsch, with Eva Brenner as artistic director. Born in Vienna in 1953, Brenner
studied Theatre Studies, History of Art, Philosophy and set and costume design in
Vienna, followed by a period of working in theatres in Austria, Germany and
Switzerland. In 1980 she moved to New York and worked in the Off- and Off-offBroadway theatre scene (Public Theatre, Theatre for the New City, the Labor theatre,
Castillo Theater) as a director and set designer. She completed her PhD under the
supervision of Richard Schechner at the University of New York on the theatres of
Bertolt Brecht and Jerzy Grotowski. In addition to her work in New York as a theatre
practitioner and university lecturer she was involved as a peace activist in the
American movement Grassroots. From 1990 onwards she began to direct various
productions in the free theatre scene in Austria and established a theatre laboratory
Experimentaltheater Wien-New York in 1991, ‘in which to work on creative impulses
for the development of experimental theatre’ (Projekttheater Studio documentation)54.
In 1994 Brenner decided to return to Vienna on a permanent basis because, as she
explained in interview (2002), the cultural and political battles she was involved in in
America, while they were most worthy ones, were not her battles. There were other
battles to be fought at home that were hers. After four years of building links with
funding bodies and sponsors, the Projekt Theater Studio was established in 1998 at
the Burggasse 38 in a ‘Hinterhof’ apartment consisting of a large rectangular room
and an ante-room divided by sliding doors. The main performing space had a pole in
the centre which could not be removed for structural reasons and therefore had to be
integrated into performances. The company defined itself as ‘an international,
54
Henceforth material relating to this company and its working processes accessed from company
documentation will be referenced as ‘PTS documentation’. (Some the material I was given access to
was in German and more in English, hence the inconsistency in the language.)
74
interdisciplinary ensemble for theatre research and performance work’ (PTS
documentation).
At the time I first encountered the company in 2002 it described itself as a
theatre laboratory modelled on the work of Bertolt Brecht at the Berliner Ensemble
and Grotowski’s Teatr Laboratorium in Poland. The was work process-oriented with
the emphasis more on exploring textual and formal working processes, in short,
theatre research and development, than on presenting performances and events. The
audience is always seated or positioned in the performing area, that is, there is no
divide between ‘stage’ and audience. Brenner speaks about this in interview (2005):
Wir versuchen immer, das Publikum hineinzusetzen in den Event. Auch wenn
die Leute quasi mit dem Rücken an der Wand entlang in einer Reihe sitzen,
sind sie in einem offenen, weißen Raum, jeder sieht jeden. Also da gibt’s
keinen Abtritt, da gibt’s keinen Auftritt in dem Sinn, es ist möglich als
Zuschauer aufzustehen und sich umzusetzen, und in dem Moment wird man
gewisserweise Teil der Performance, was in einem klassischen Theater nicht
ist und ich glaube, dass man anders arbeiten muss, also experimenteller oder
kollektiver.
Emphases in the work of the Projekttheater Studio are on ensemble work and the
exchange with practitioners from other cultures. In the earlier period there were ongoing collaborations with practitioners from the American experimental scene, where
Brenner had built up contacts during 15 years in residence there. When I first met the
company, however, the orientation was more towards Eastern Europe. In interview
Brenner (2002) told me that the Studio was intensifying the exchange with
practitioners in the Czech Republic, Poland, and Bratislava. In view of EU extension
to Eastern European countries that was in process at the time she considered this
dialogue to be of paramount importance.
In 2003 the company’s state funding was significantly reduced as a result of
the Vienna theatre reform and the company relocated to a smaller premises in the
75
same locality – die Fleischerei, Kirchengasse 44, a former commercial outlet with
large windows facing onto the street. Over the years the company has managed to
secure sponsorship from industry, private sources and also EU subsidies, and
continues to survive in spite of the funding cuts.
The Projekt Theater Studio creates cycles of work under umbrella headings,
which are conceived in response to current sociocultural and political developments:
the series of work from 1998-1999 was entitled: ‘ENDGAME in Process’ 1-3 and 45, drawing on texts by Samuel Beckett, and the cycle from 2000 – 2003, which
included Auf der Suche nach Jakob / Searching for Jacob / Szukajac Jakuba and Pola,
was entitled ‘PHANTOM: LOVE’. Other pieces included in this cycle were devised
around writings by the Austrian authors Ingeborg Bachmann and Elisabeth Reichart.
The following project cycle (2004-2007) was entitled ‘COVER UP: ANGST’, which
explored the impact of globalization and neo-liberalism on interpersonal relationships,
drawing on the work of writers such as Else Lasker-Schüler, Heiner Müller and
Marlene Streeruwitz. The current 4-year series comes under the heading ‘ART OF
SURVIVAL’. The work is conceived in response both to the precarious predicament
in which the free theatre scene finds itself as well as current difficulties many groups
in society experience in everyday life. Andreas Pamperl, set designer with the
company, speaks in interview (in Ehardt, 2008: 2) of the connection between the
relocation to a much more publicly visible premises and the current work of the
company:
Wir sind vom Hinterhof raus in ein Gassenlokal mit großen Schaufenstern, um
damit ein Signal zu setzen, im Sinne eines neuen Theaters, das in Richtung
eines Miteinanders mit dem Publikum geht.
The emphases in the current cycle of work are on migration, assylum and ‘Prekariat’,
and there has been a decisive swing towards political theatre during this phase, to
76
quote Brenner (in Ehardt, 2008: 2), ‘Ich sehe die Sache der Fleischerei […] als einen
ziemlich radikalen Schwenk zurück zu einer Suche nach dem ‘politischen Theater’.
This series included ‘MIGRATION MONDAYS’, whereby assylum seekers came
and cooked in the studio and told their stories, and ASYLCAFÉ, described as a
sociocultural project for and with asylum seekers in Vienna. The company’s most
recent event (Summer 2009) was a guest performance of Heiner Müller’s Hamlet
Machine at the Castillo Theatre in New York. As part of its research for each cycle of
work, the company regularly hosts interdisciplinary round table discussions with
invited guest speakers and post-performance discussions with it audiences. The
company also generates opportunities for other theatre artists by organizing
workshops with international practitioners – the workshop series ACT NOW /
theaterarbeit was founded in 1995 – and each year it hosts the Schiele Festival in
Neulengbach, where Egon Schiele was once imprisoned, presenting a piece of theatre
devised around one of the artist’s paintings.
No statistics are currently available on funding, performances, guest
performances, etc., as the company cannot afford to employ an administrative support
to take on the task of archivation. Only the director herself is employed on a contract
by the company and she occasionally has to apply for social welfare benefit when this
contract is unaffordable. All other members of the team are employed on a project
basis. The core team currently consists of Eva Brenner, Andreas Pamperl and
Alexander Emanuely. Actors Brenner worked with intensively during the period the
pieces analysed in this dissertation was created include Maren Rahmann, Clemens
Matzka, and Anne Wiederhold.
We can conclude that the two companies in question present quite different
profiles, and due to their locations – the larger urban setting of the capital city and the
77
smaller urban setting in the capital of Styria – have been shaped by somewhat
different conditions. Theater Asou is clearly ensemble-led, hiring international
directors on a project-basis, whereas the work of The Projekt Theater Studio has
clearly been largely defined by its artistic director and founder Eva Brenner. Another
significant difference between the two companies is that the work of the Projekt
Theater Studio is structured very much around its dedicated theatre space – both
pieces of theatre I will be considering in Chapters 4 and 5 were created in and for the
space in the Burggasse 38. Theater Asou’s position as a company without its own
performance space means that it rehearses and creates its work in spaces other than
where it performs. Its tradition of pursuing a children’s theatre strand alongside its
‘Erwachsenentheater’ and touring throughout Austria, on the other hand, has given it
a more secure financial basis in terms of state subsidies than the Projekt Theater
Studio. In terms of experimentation and international orientation, however, the two
companies have much in common. Also, via the Projekt Theater Studio Theater Asou
has established many of its links with US practitioners and directors, which illustrates
the mutual benefits of networking among companies and practitioners in the free
theatre sector.
Following the above consideration of the historical, socio-cultural and
structural conditions that inform the work of the companies I have chosen to
foreground in this study, in the following chapter I will establish a theoretical
framework as a basis for discussion of the theatre work.
78
CHAPTER TWO
Theoretical Context
In the history of modern Europe, the Holocaust continues to represent for the
Western world the outcome of a kind of ‘uncontrolled madness that is unique in
history’ (Levi, 2005a: 395), a madness that led to what has been described as ‘the
administrative murder of millions of innocent people’ (Adorno, 2003: xi). For Adorno
it implied not only ‘the collapse of an existing civilization that had been built up so
laboriously’ but it also meant that Western philosophy with its ‘legacy of positivity’,
‘that unwaveringly assigns “meaning”’ had failed abysmally ‘to comprehend the
rupture that civilization has experienced’ (Adorno, 2003: xiii). The only philosophy
that was possible after Auschwitz, in Adorno’s view, was one that enabled suffering –
the screams of the victims – to speak; this, he argued, was ‘the precondition of all
truth’ (Adorno, 2003: xviii). Not only had Western philosophy failed for Adorno and
many others but also culture: writing poetry – as synechdochic for making art as a
whole – had become ‘barbaric’ after Auschwitz. Adorno, however, returned to and
redefined this statement in a later essay, as Felman (in Caruth, 1995: 40) writes:
[…] to emphasize the fact (less known and more complex) that, paradoxically
enough, it is only art that can henceforth be equal to its own historical
impossibility, that art alone can live up to the task of contemporary thinking
and of meeting the incredible demands of suffering, of politics and of
contemporary consciousness, and yet escape the subtly omnipresent and the
almost unavoidable cultural betrayal both of history and of the victims.
This study focuses on contemporary artistic responses in Austria employing the
medium-specific tools of theatre to consequences of the events, which for many
implied a rupture, an unbridgeable gulf in the history of the Western world.
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To mark the centennial of Vienna’s illustrious Burgtheater in 1988, which also
marked the 50th anniversary of Hitler’s annexation of Austria and followed not long
in the wake of Kurt Waldheim’s highly controversial appointment to the Austrian
presidency, newly appointed German artistic director and notorious provocateur,
Claus Peymann, presented the premiere of Austrian playwright Thomas Bernhard’s
play Heldenplatz. At the centre of Bernhard’s play – which Peymann persuaded him
to write – is a Jewish professor who having returned from exile to Vienna after WWII
commits suicide in despair at the city’s continuing anti-Semitism. The production
created uproar in Austria’s conservative cultural and political scene55, with Waldheim
himself publicly commenting that while he fully supported freedom of artistic
expression, ‘he considered Heldenplatz an abuse of this freedom and “a crude insult to
the Austrian people”’(Carlson, 2008: 202). Other Austrian playwrights such as Peter
Handke, Peter Turrini, Elfriede Jelinek and George Tabori – repeatedly branded by
Austrian rightwing politicians as ‘Nestbeschmutzer’ – have written plays denouncing
Austria’s complicity in the Anschluss and German National Socialism, which have
been widely produced in German-speaking state theatres. While this dissertation
focuses on theatre created in the Austrian context, which engages varyingly with
Austria’s role in the Nazi fascist project, it does not, however, focus on the work of
Austrian playwrights or theatre in general that serves the literary text. Modes of
theatre making such as those that come under the headings of conceptual theatre,
postdramatic theatre or devised performance provide a more meaningful context
within which to discuss the theatre that I am investigating.
55
Peymann (Schütt, 2008: 268) recounts in interview the reactions of the public and the original cast
members at the Burgtheater: ‘Es kamen Bombendrohungen, Morddrohungen. Merkwürdige Autos
warteten nachts vor meiner Tür. Wie die Stasi früher bei Wolf Biermann in der Chausseestraße in OstBerlin. Zeitweilig habe ich nicht mehr in meiner Wohnung gewohnt. Es waren für die Rollen von
„Heldenplatz“ zunächst andere Schauspieler vorgesehen. Diese haben – zur selben Zeit erschien ja
auch mein umstrittenes „Zeit“-Interview – unter dem Vorwand, das Interview sei unmoralisch, ihre
Rollen zurückgegeben. Wahrscheinlich waren sie froh, einen Grund gefunden zu haben.’
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James Thomas (2008: 236) defines conceptual theatre as one, which ‘takes for
granted that theatre is a completely self-reliant art’. Texts employed by conceptual
theatre may be dramatic texts but equally also non-dramatic, improvised and nonartistic texts. It furthermore opposes established artistic conventions and ‘is associated
with avant-garde movements such as Expressionism, Theatre of Cruelty, Symbolism,
Epic Theatre, Happenings, Theatre of the Absurd, and Theatre of Images.’ It depends
on ensemble performance, by which is meant ‘emphasizing the collective creativity of
a like-minded group of performers’ rather than simply an avoidance of the star
system, and, finally, it ‘is guided by a multi-talented artist-leader, who considers
him/herself a first among equals, and not by a conventional director’. Many of these
categories could also be applied to postdramatic theatre, as discussed by Hans-Thies
Lehmann in his seminal work by the same title. For Lehmann (2006: 12) theatre that
is postdramatic does not attempt to make the world ‘manageable’ or ‘surveyable’ for
the spectator, and by world here is not meant a fictional totality, but rather one ‘open
to its audience’, ‘pregnant with potentiality’. The post in postdramatic should be
understood not as an epochal category but rather as ‘a rupture and a beyond that
continue to entertain relationships with drama and are in many ways an analysis and
“anamnesis” of drama’ (Lehmann, 2006: 2). Devised performance, likewise
references dramatic theatre but there is no hierarchy which privileges the dramatic
literary text. Pearson and Shanks (2001: 24-25) define the dramatic structure of
devised performance:
as constituting a kind of stratigraphy of layers: of text, physical action, music
and/or soundtrack, scenography and/or architecture (and their subordinate
moments). Dramatic material can be conceived and manipulated in each of
these strata which may carry different themes or orders of material in parallel.
[…]
Any one of these layers may be the starting point in the devising process and
any one may from time to time bear principal responsibility for carrying the
prime narrative meaning whilst the others are turned down in the composition.
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Furthermore, and as discussed above in the introduction, the theatre I am
foregrounding in this study is made by so-called free or independent theatre
companies – as opposed to state theatres – whose agenda is driven by their collective
artistic, social and political concerns rather than by that of an artistic director
appointed by the establishment, who is motivated by a personal agenda and is,
broadly speaking, given free hand to choose his/her material, cast, and approaches to
theatre making. In the wake of the furore sparked by Peymann’s production of
Heldenplatz at Vienna’s Burgtheater in 1988, many of the veteran members of the
theatre called not just for his dismissal from his post but for his expulsion from
Austria and many of the cast members resigned in protest. Peymann explained to the
company that his comments in an incendiary interview, for instance, that the
Burgtheater was ‘so full of shit that it should be wrapped by the artist Christo and torn
down’56, should be understood more as a kind of theatrical performance itself and
‘part of his (my italics) mission to bring about a fundamental change in the Austrian
theatre’ (Carlson, 2008: 202). This serves to highlight one of the essential differences
between state theatre and free theatre: while free theatre companies have to contend
with a constant struggle for survival, all the members drive a shared agenda and
choose their own directors as opposed to the reverse. This is in direct contrast to the
above-mentioned instance in a heavily subsidized state theatre whereby an artistic
director is driving a personal agenda in opposition to the – in this case highly
conservative – concerns of his cast and company members.
Additionally, the subject matter of the kind of theatre I am discussing is less
tangible than that of realist portrayals often to be found in the plays of dramatists who
56
See the original German version of this quotation in the infamous Zeit-Interview from 26 May 1988
(Hans-Dieter Schütt, 2008: 240), ‘Wenn Sie wüssten, was für eine Scheiße ich hier erlebe! Man müsste
dieses Theater von Christo verhüllen und abreiβen lassen’.
82
engage with related issues57. The focus here is more on how to represent that which is
less representable in language, for instance, an attitude of avoidance or of looking
away, the experience of inheriting the silence of parents and grandparents who did
not, for one reason or another, share their experiences in language with their families,
or that of trauma, dislocation and alienation as a result of war. All of the theatre I am
writing about could furthermore be described as testimonial in one sense or another,
in that it bears witness to injury inflicted by human beings on other human beings. In
the following I will discuss the thematic concerns in question in the context of the
discourses I will draw upon to analyze the individual pieces of theatre in chapters 3, 4
and 5.
2.1. Silence, Looking Away and Post-Memory
In the opening passages of A Chorus of Stones, Susan Griffin (1994: 4) asks
the question, ‘[h]ow old is the habit of denial?’ In this book Griffin explores the
impact of the habit of denial, the keeping of secrets, and withholding of information
on her and her extended family – the private life of war – against the background of
the nature of war in a global context. For Griffin (1994: 4) there is no separation
between the private life and suffering of the individual and the public tragedy of war,
‘I do not see my life as separate from history. In my mind my family secrets mingle
with the secrets of statesmen and bombers’. The kind of silence that cloaks the
withholding of the truth, she writes, is abusive to a child, in that ‘in the paucity of
explanation for a mood, a look, a gesture, the child takes on the blame, and carries
thus a guilt for circumstances beyond childish influence’ (1994: 33). This is one
57
Although Efriede Jelinek is mentioned above, her texts for theatre are not dramatic in any
conventional sense; Lehmann draws on Poschmann to elucidate Jelinek’s idea of juxtaposed ‘language
surfaces (Sprachflächen)’ as a form that ‘is directed against the “depth” of speaking figures, which
would suggest a mimetic illusion’ (Lehmann, 2006: 18).
83
aspect of the experiences in the context of the children and grandchildren of Nazis and
the survivors of Nazi oppression, which James Young (2000: 1-2) characterizes as
‘the memory of the witness’s memory, a vicarious past’, or to use Marianne Hirsch’s
term, ‘post-memory’, and its representation through the medium of theatre, with
which this dissertation concerns itself.
Exonerated first by the Moscow Declaration in 1943 and subsequently in the
wake of its liberation by the Allies in 1945 from all responsibility for the Nazi fascist
project, silence and the repression or withholding of truth, or what could be
characterized as the act of looking away, has been particularly pronounced in Austrian
families, as discussed in the introduction above. Remaining silent about the past, does
not, however, make it disappear. It continues to exist and shape lives until such time
as it is claimed. This falls to the lot of subsequent generations who inherit the silence,
as Griffin writes (1994: 179):
What is buried in the past of one generation falls to the next to claim. The
children of Nazis and survivors alike have inherited a struggle between silence
and speech.
Shoshana Felman expresses a similar concern, specifically in relation to the
experience of survivors and their descendents, about those who inherit this kind of
struggle between silence and speech referred to by Griffin:
The thing that troubles me right now is the following: If we don’t deal with
our feelings, if we don’t understand our experience, what are we doing to our
children? […] Are we transferring our anxieties, our fears, our problems to the
generations to come? And this is why I feel that we are talking here not only
of the lost generation – like the term they coined after World War 1 – this time
we are dealing with lost generations. It’s not only us. It’s the generations to
come. And I think this is the biggest tragedy of those who survived (in Caruth,
1995: 48-49).
In many cases, the witnesses have died taking their secrets with them and the heirs are
left with nothing but the effects of a silence that has continued to shape their inner
lives. The question inevitably arises as to who exactly the heirs are and whose lives
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are shaped by the withholding of truths and the avoidance of engagement with a
troubled history. This question cannot be easily answered. In the first instance we can
point of course to the immediate relatives of the witnesses. It becomes more
complicated when we speak of a whole community, for instance, such as the
community living in the environs of Aflenz, in southern Styria, where Speaking
Stones, the piece of theatre I discuss in Chapter 3, was staged. How far-reaching, we
might ask, are the effects of individual choices not to engage with a troubled past?
Susan Griffin (1994: 8) posits a kind of ripple-effect that encompasses not just whole
nations but, in fact, all of humanity:
I am beginning to believe that we know everything, that all history, including
the history of each family, is part of us, such that, when we hear any secret
revealed, a secret about a grandfather, or an uncle, or a secret about the battle
of Dresden in 1945, our lives are made suddenly clearer to us, as the unnatural
heaviness of unspoken truth is dispersed. For perhaps we are like stones; our
own history and the history of the world embedded in us, we hold a sorrow
deep within and cannot weep until that history is sung.
However, when the his- and her-stories are no longer available, and therefore can
never be sung, what, we must ask, can be done with what Griffin describes as the
unnatural heaviness of unspoken truth? In his study, Young examines the work of a
post-war generation of visual artists and architects in the context of Germany’s
Holocaust Memorial project and how these artists give expression to their vicarious
experience of the Holocaust. As Young writes (2000: 2):
[…] by calling attention to their vicarious relationship to events, the next
generation ensures that their ‘post-memory’ of events remains an unfinished,
ephemeral process, not a means toward definitive answers to impossible
questions.
In relation to the Holocaust, we could argue, the only valid modes of enquiry are
those that recognize that there can be no definitive answers and therefore the process
of remembering and responding creatively must necessarily remain unfinished and
ephemeral.
85
2.2 Testimony and the Ethical Imperative of Remembrance
Each of the three pieces of theatre I have chosen to focus on in this
dissertation testify varyingly to the experience of the Holocaust, that of the victims,
the perpetrators, the implicated, but more centrally to that of the heirs of the on-going
effects of this experience, the generations of post-war Austrians whose worlds were
shaped by the experience of growing up with parents, grandparents, and so on, who
were victims of or party to or somehow implicated in the ‘unmaking of the world’
(Horowitz, 1992: 52). To testify according to the Chambers English Dictionary means
‘to bear witness to’, ‘to be evidence of’ (2003: 1568) and stems from the Latin noun
‘testis’ meaning ‘a witness’ and the verb ‘facere’ to make. The use of the indefinite
article is an interesting detail here. Without the article – as in ‘to bear witness’ –
witness signifies an abstract noun, whereas with the article it signifies a person. Both
meanings are relevant to this discussion: the theatre work bears witness, and the
spectator is made into a witness of the witnessing, as it were.
Theatre, like bearing witness in a court of law, can only happen in the
presence of a spectator, as Peter Brook (1984: 11) has pointed out in his seminal work
The Empty Space:
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.
In theatre that is in some sense testimonial the spectator is made into a witness,
provided of course, the spectator is willing to become the ‘enabler of the testimony’,
the one who ‘triggers its initiation’ (Felman and Laub, 1992: 58) by her/his presence
and acquiescence. Such a spectator contributes to what playwright and arts educator,
Julie Salverson (1996: 183) describes as ‘an environment in which witnessing is
possible’, that is, one that ‘takes seriously what Walter Benjamin called the
86
“permanent emergency” in which we live’. Griffin’s message to her reader is
unmistakably that human beings are all implicated in each other’s tragedies, or as
Salverson (1996: 182) expresses it, ‘[p]ersonal narratives of crisis are never merely
personal’. There is an ethical imperative to own our accountability, to be willing
listeners or recipients of difficult histories, whether they be expressed through
language, through images or other means.
Many other voices call us to accountability: Primo Levi, Auschwitz survivor,
prefaces his testimonial work If this is a Man with a pastiche of the biblical verses
beginning ‘Listen Israel’ from the Book of Deuteronomy (Jones, 1966: 228), and the
voice is just as wrathful as that of the God of the Old Testament, ‘Meditate that this
came about’, ‘Meditate che questo è stato’. If we do not, curses will be called down
upon us, ‘[…] may your house fall apart, / May illness impede you, / May your
children turn their faces from you’ (Levi, 2005a: 17). ‘For the survivors’, as Levi tells
us (2005a: 390), ‘remembering is a duty. They do not want to forget, and above all
they do not want the world to forget’. The imperative to make sure the world does not
forget was born out of the need to become reabsorbed into the community. This
desperate need is expressed by one of the few survivors of the ‘special squad’, the
‘crematorium ravens’ – ‘i corvi del crematorio’, as Levi refers to them (2008: xv) – ,
the slaves, ‘bearers of a horrendous secret’, who managed the crematoria in
Auschwitz, ‘[y]ou mustn’t think we are monsters; we are the same as you, only much
more unhappy’ (Levi, 2008: xv). This need to become reintegrated into society, for
the experience of the victims to be validated by their fellow human beings, was as
strong as the most basic needs, as Levi writes (2005a: 15), ‘[t]he need to tell our story
to “the rest”, to make “the rest” participate in it, had taken on for us, before our
liberation and after, the character of an immediate and violent impulse, to the point of
87
competing with our other elementary needs.’ Salverson (1996: 182) discusses the
significance of this ancient dilemma of the messenger and the audience in the context
of a character in one of Elie Wiesel’s stories ‘Night’: ‘Mosche the Beadle has been
taken from his home by the Nazis, survived the murder of his convoy of foreign Jews
and returns to warn the others.’ The significance of the sharing of his experience
publicly with the community, is expressed by Ora Avni (quoted in Salverson,
1996:182) as follows:
Only by having a community integrate his dehumanizing experience into the
narratives of self-representation that it shares and infer a new code of
behaviour based on the information he is imparting, only by becoming part of
this community’s history can Moshe hope to reclaim his lost humanity.
We can draw on many models of such messengers in literary texts that give
expression to this deep-seated need in human beings, for instance in Coleridge’s poem
‘Rime of the Ancient Mariner’, a figure Levi came to identify with as he got older.
Paul Bailey tells the reader in his introduction to the English translation of The
Drowned and the Saved , that ‘Levi came to see himself as an ancient mariner of
sorts, fixing people with his glittering eye and insisting that they listen’ (Levi, 2008:
xv), and hence his epigraph to that work:
Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns,
And till my ghastly tale is told
This heart within me burns.
Levi (2008: 121) also refers to the figure of Ulysses yielding to the urgent need to tell
his tale to the king of the Phaeacians. We could likewise invoke here Mouth in
Beckett’s play Not I, for example, who spews her story in the third person with a
terrible urgency.
Participation in difficult histories, however, does not necessitate psychological
understanding; in fact the true witnesses – as Levi refers to those who did not survive
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– told us before they went to their death that we will never understand. Maurice
Blanchot (in Horowitz, 1992: 45) conveys to us the last wish of some of these
witnesses: ‘Know what has happened, do not forget, and at the same time never will
you know’. This invokes the idea of different ways of knowing, something like,
acknowledging that events have taken place versus understanding how these events
could have come about. Understanding the rupture in Western civilization that took
place during Hitler’s Nazi fascist regime is, in fact, for many a secondary
consideration in relation to dealing with the past. In answer to a question posed by his
readers regarding the Nazis’ hatred of the Jews, Levi (2005a: 396) also uses the word
‘knowing’ in the sense of ‘in opposition to understanding’, ‘If understanding is
impossible, knowing is imperative because what happened could happen again.
Conscience can be seduced and obscured again – even our consciences’58. In the
context of theatre-making that seeks to bears witness to difficult histories, Amanda
Stuart Fischer (2009: 114) likewise contends that the willingness to respond to the
ethical demand of opening oneself to testimonies is more important than the need to
understand:
As custodian and listener to th[e] testimony, the playwright (and subsequently
the audience) is called upon to open themselves to the testimony of the other.
This ‘call’ has less to do with empathy, understanding and comprehension;
rather, it has the character of an ethical demand, which in being listened to, is
also acknowledged. In other words, the correlate of bearing witness (the act of
testimony) is the requirement that we – the listener – should open ourselves up
to the unknowable and radical difference, the ‘alterity’, as Levinas puts it, of
the other.
Other voices positively warn against a project of comprehension. In the
making of his film Shoah, Claude Lanzmann worked resolutely with ‘a refusal of
58
The Italian original ‘[s]e comprendere è impossibile, conoscere è necessario, perche ciò che è
accaduto può ritornare, le coscienze possono nuovamente essere sedotte ed oscurate: anche le nostre’
(Levi, 2005b: 175), corresponds to this interpretation of the English translation. The verb conoscere in
Italian can also have the connotations of both knowing in the sense of acknowledging what has taken
place and understanding.
89
psychological understanding’, a ‘blind gaze’ which he sees as ‘the only possible
ethical and at the same time the only possible operative attitude’:
It is enough to formulate the question in simplistic terms – why have the Jews
been killed? – for the question to reveal right away its obscenity. There is an
absolute obscenity in the very project of understanding. Not to understand was
my iron law during all the eleven years of the production of Shoah (in Caruth,
1995:154).
Adorno also (2003: 3) warns against the project of understanding in the context of the
concept of ‘Vergangenheitsbewältigung’ – working through the past – which he
argues:
[…] does not mean seriously working upon the past, that is, through a lucid
consciousness breaking its power to fascinate. On the contrary, its intention is
to close the books on the past and, if possible, even remove it from memory.
Levi also expresses concern regarding the project of understanding (2005a: 395),
‘Perhaps one cannot, what is more one must not, understand what happened, because
to understand is almost to justify’. These voices resonate with Walter Benjamin’s
(1982: 259) notion of ‘a real state of emergency’, which we need to bring about in
order to ‘improve our position in the struggle against Fascism’, as ‘the “state of
emergency” in which we live is not the exception but the rule’. In the 1930s, several
years before the full horror of the Nazi death camps was realized, Benjamin cautions
his reader against an untenable view of history, one that gives rise to the kind of
amazement he was experiencing among his contemporaries ‘that the things we are
experiencing are “still” possible in the twentieth century’ (1982: 259). History teaches
us again and again that there is a heavy toll to pay for forgetfulness, drawing a line
under ‘the past’. Levi (2008: 50) asks, for example, in The Drowned and the Saved,
the last book he wrote on his Auschwitz experience before his death in 1989, ‘[h]ow
strong is the moral armature of the European citizens of today?’ We could ask exactly
this question today, twenty years later in the year 2009, as Europe is suffering the
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effects of an uncannily similar version of the Great Depression of the 1920s / 30s,
which provided such a rich seed bed for the xenophobia out of which Nazi Fascism
grew. The elections for the European Parliament of June 2009 have clearly
demonstrated, yet again, that in times of economic crisis, extreme right-wing political
parties increasingly gain the ear of the people. Remembering for the survivors, Levi
writes, ‘is a duty’, because they understood that ‘the camps were not an accident, an
unforeseen historical happening’ but rather simply ‘the most monstrous
manifestation’ of Fascism in Europe. Fascism, he reminds us, existed before Hitler
and Mussolini and survived until the end of World War II. We must add that Fascism
continues and will continue to survive on various scales and in various manifestations
and places, and that remembering, therefore, continues to be a duty, for, as Levi
writes (2005a: 390):
In every part of the world, wherever you begin by denying the fundamental
liberties of mankind, and equality among people, you move toward the
concentration camp system, and it is a road on which it is difficult to halt.
This particular pronouncement came in response to a question from his readers
regarding the idea of returning, revisiting, the death camps, like many survivors have
chosen to do, leading younger people through them, educating them about the past.
As Levi cautions us, it is forgetting and not remembering that comes most naturally to
human beings, that the most painful episodes ‘with time tend to mist over, lose their
contours.’ (Levi, 2008: 19).
Simple explanations for the Holocaust can also obfuscate and allow us to draw
a line under the past, such as Daniel Goldhagen’s central thesis – which he
laboriously explores in his study Hitler’s Willing Executioners (2003) – that the
Holocaust is only understandable by virtue of the fact that it was specifically
Germans with their longstanding hatred of the Jews who for the most part carried it
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out. Christopher Browning (2001) presents a contrasting thesis in his study of the socalled Reserve Police Battalion 101, ordinary policemen from Hamburg, too old to go
to the front, who were conscripted to slaughter hundreds of thousands of Jews in
Poland in the context of Himmler’s so-called ‘final solution’ in Poland. Browning
argues that it was possible to induce these particular men, for instance, to do what
they did because they were ordinary human beings and it is possible, in given
circumstances, to turn any man into a murderer. In his discussion of the reactions of
those men when given the chance to refrain from taking part in the first shootings, he
writes, ‘I must recognize that in the same situation I could have been either a killer or
an evader – both were human – if I want to explain the behaviour of both as best I
can’ (Browning, 2001: xviii). Levi, himself a victim, and even though he did not in
his lifetime forgive the Germans (2008: x) and rejected the project of psychological
understanding, offers the same explanation:
We must remember that these faithful followers, among them the diligent
executors of inhuman orders, were not born torturers, were not (with a few
exceptions) monsters: they were ordinary men (Levi, 2005a: 396).
The problem with Goldhagen’s theory – the Holocaust is explicable by virtue of the
perpetrators’ nationality and specific kind of Anti-Semitism – is that it exonerates
every other nation from accountability and responsibility towards the victims’ ethical
demand: ‘know what has happened, do not forget, and at the same time never will you
know’ (Horowitz, 1992: 45) and is, I would argue, an unproductive and
unphilosophical line of enquiry. The central flaw in Goldhagen’s argument, Browning
writes, is that he ‘mistakes the part for the whole’ (2001: 222), pointing out that it
would, in fact, be very comforting if Goldhagen were correct in arguing (2001: 222223) ‘that very few societies have the long-term, cultural-cognitive prerequisites to
commit genocide, and that regimes can only do so when the population is
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overwhelmingly of one mind about its priority, justice, and necessity’. The amount of
genocidal activity that has taken place in the world since Goldhagen’s book was first
published in 1996 suggests that this standpoint is naïve. Browning’s perspective is, I
would argue, infinitely more astute and helpful for our on-going engagement with the
Holocaust, the project of remembrance, and answering Benjamin’s (1982: 259) call to
‘a real state of emergency’, as he writes in his afterword (2001: 222):
[…] the fundamental problem is not to explain why ordinary Germans, as
members of a people utterly different from us and shaped by a culture that
permitted them to think and act in no other way than to want to be genocidal
executioners, eagerly killed Jews when [offered] the opportunity. The
fundamental problem is to explain why ordinary men – shaped by a culture
that had its own peculiarities but was nonetheless within the mainstream of
western, Christian, and Enlightenment traditions – under specific
circumstances willingly carried out the most extreme genocide in human
history. 59
Freud’s disussion of the nexus between ‘heimlich’ and its antonym
‘unheimlich’ provides a model towards understanding that it is unhelpful for the
project of remembrance to posit the Nazi perpetrator as that which is strange or
uncanny, der ‘Unheimliche’, or ‘utterly different to us’ (Browning, 1982: 222). The
opposite of ‘unheimlich’, ‘heimlich’ – familiar, ‘belonging to the house or the family’
(Freud, 1990: 342) – as Freud elucidates, is a word the meaning of which develops in
the direction of ambivalence, until it finally coincides with its opposite, ‘unheimlich’,
for ‘heimlich’ also means ‘secretly’ or ‘covertly’, eluding apprehension. The ordinary
Nazi perpetrator is both strange and familiar and whether or not I can or seek to
understand how s/he could implement the Nazi project, I am called upon to respond to
Levi’s imperative: ‘Consider if this is a man / Consider if this is a woman’, which as
in the case of the title of his testimonial work, If This is a Man, must be applied both
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Browning, does not, incidentally, reject the project of understanding, as he states in his study of the
Reserve Police Batallion 101 (2001: xviii), ‘[w]hat I do not accept, however, are the old clichés that to
explain is to excuse, to understand is to forgive.’
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to the victims, tortured, abused, stripped of their human dignity, and to the
perpetrators.
I would argue that the projects of understanding and refusal of understanding
of the Holocaust are secondary to the more crucial project of remembrance. Levi’s
dictum – ‘[m]editate che questo è stato’, ‘meditate that this came about’ (Levi, 2005a:
17) – is clearly not just addressed to the Germans; it calls to accountability all ‘who
live safe / In your warm houses’. Deborah Eisenberg (2008, xxii) evokes a similar
image of the passive bystander, inured against the tragedies unfolding close-by, in her
introduction to the English translation of Gregor von Rezzori’s Memoirs of an AntiSemite: if, as it seems, it takes only a handful of evil people to carry out a genocide,
that handful ‘requires the passive assistance of many, many other people who glance
out of the windows of their secure homes and see a cloudless sky.’ Each of the three
pieces of theatre I am analyzing is primarily concerned with the project of memorywork and remembrance and thus, I will be arguing, makes a contribution towards
enabling silences to be ruptured, traces of testimonies and ‘screams of the victims’ to
be heard and consequently towards restoring lost humanity. As so many of the victims
and the witnesses are among the (nameless) dead, I will be arguing that the theatre
actor can function as a conduit through which the past – not just through linguistic
means – can be claimed on the basis that we are all implicated in each others traumas
and that traumas can and must be claimed by subsequent generations. In the context
of her work with the victims of South African apartheid, playwright Yael Farber
(2008:22) refers to the actor’s role as channel for a community’s catharsis, ‘I do
believe in the ancient concept that the actor has a calling to channel the needed
catharsis of their community’. While catharsis may well be possible in the case of
more recent difficult histories, this becomes complicated, however, in the case of
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histories that were not communicated in words by a generation that has since died but
continue to mark the lives of individuals, families and communities. I will
nevertheless be arguing for the actor’s role in facilitating the process of remembrance
and claiming the past.
1.3. Trauma and Returning
What at one time one refuses to see never vanishes but returns, again and again, in
many forms (Griffin, 1992: 17)
In order to discuss theatrical representations that bear witness to trauma and the
inheritance of silence surrounding the inexpressible, it is necessary to first establish
what gives rise to the inexpressibility and the silence. For those who have inflicted
injury on others or were party to it, it is less difficult to understand the process of
suppression or manipulation of the facts. As Levi writes (2008: 12), ‘the person who
has inflicted the wound pushes the memory deep down, to be rid of it, to alleviate the
feeling of guilt’. Levi also speaks about those who ‘fabricate for themselves a
convenient reality’ where the truth about their past actions is too uncomfortable for
them, undergoing a ‘silent transition from falsehood to self-deception’, so that they
end up believing the fabrication. At this point bad faith becomes good faith (Levi,
2008: 14). Bearing witness in the case of the victims is a much more complex issue.
One factor undermining the possibility of testimony was the fear of the victims, on the
one hand, and the cynical confidence of the Nazi perpetrators, on the other, that
accounts of the death camps and the sheer scale of the atrocity and the massacre
would not be believed by those who had not experienced it. Levi (2008: 1) refers to
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survivors’ memories of how the SS militiamen cynically enjoyed taunting the
prisoners:
However this war may end, we have won the war against you; none of you
will be left to bear witness, but even if someone were to survive, the world
would not believe him.
Not surprisingly, many survivors shared the experience of a recurring dream while
still in imprisonment: they had returned home, were trying to tell their story to a loved
one but the interlocutor just turned away in silence (Levi, 2008: 2). Hitler’s brief
‘millennial Reich’, can be reread, Levi tells us (2008: 18), ‘as a war against memory’,
‘a negation of reality’, or as Shoshana Felman (2008: 108) writes in her response to
Claude Lanzmann’s film Shoah, the Holocaust was an historical assault on seeing:
where possible the Nazis destroyed evidence of their crimes, for example, each team
of the so-called ‘crematorium ravens’, referred to above, were initiated into their
terrible task by being forced to burn the corpses of their predecessors (Levi, 2008:
34). All of those whom Levi describes as the true witnesses did not survive to tell
their stories and for this reason the Holocaust can be described as ‘an event without
witness’ (Horowitz, 1992: 51). Dori Laub (in Caruth, 1995: 65) also argues that the
nature of the event, in fact, precluded the possibility of witnessing to it:
The event produced no witness. Not only, in effect did the Nazis try to
exterminate the physical witnesses of their crime; but the inherently
incomprehensible and deceptive psychological structure of the event precluded
its own witnessing, even by its very victims.
A further definition of ‘to testify’ offered by the Chambers Dictionary is ‘to
make a solemn declaration’. This implies a recounting of memories of events which
took place, as required in the context of a court of law. Testifying in this sense in the
context of traumatized victims of atrocity has an inherent difficulty built into it, in
that, as survivor Jean Améry tells us:
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Atrocity unmakes the self, unmakes the world, and thus undoes the very
possibility of coherent testimony….. “Whoever was tortured, stays tortured”.
Impossibly, the self unmade by atrocity is called upon to narrate its own
unmaking, its own inability to narrate. To articulate one’s own unmaking from
first-hand experience gives it the lie, presenting a coherent self not unmade,
and thereby mitigating the radical negativity of the Holocaust. In other words,
the unmaking of the self works against the making of the witness that
constitutes testifying (in Horowitz, 1992: 52).
The inherent difficulty for the trauma victim of creating a narrative around the
traumatic event, the mechanism whereby traumatic events preclude registration, is
explained by Babette Rothschild in her study of trauma The Body Remembers: The
Psychophysiology of Trauma and Trauma Treatment (2000, 12). The process that
takes place in the hippocampus that ‘gives events a beginning, a middle and an end’
can get suppressed during traumatic threat and:
When this occurs, the traumatic event is prevented from occupying its proper
position in the individual’s history and continues to invade the present. The
perception of the event and the victim as having survived is missing. This is
the likely mechanism at the core of the quintessential PTSD symptom of
“flashback”- episodes of reliving the trauma in mind and or body.
The organization of such experience is described by Van der Kolk and Van der Hart
(in Caruth, 1995: 172) as follows:
The experience cannot be organized on a linguistic level, and this failure to
arrange the memory in words and symbols leaves it to be organized on a
somatosensory or iconic level: as somatic sensations, behavioural
reenactments, nightmares, and flashbacks.
The experience of being possessed by the events as opposed to having integrated them
into one’s narrative memory causes the victim, furthermore, to doubt their truth, as
Caruth (1995: 6) explains:
Yet the fact that this scene or thought is not a possessed knowledge, but itself
possesses, at will, the one it inhabits, often produces a deep uncertainty as to
its very truth.
A further complication to which survivors and theorists alike draw our
attention is that survival itself or revisiting the trauma can be traumatic. Caruth (1995:
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9) elucidates Freud’s discovery surrounding the problematic relation between trauma
and survival:
Freud’s difficult thought provides a deeply disturbing insight into the
enigmatic relation between trauma and survival: the fact that, for those who
undergo trauma, it is not only the moment of the event, but the passing out of
it that is traumatic; that survival itself, in other words, can be a crisis.
Since its emergence at the turn of the 20th century in the work of Freud and Pierre
Janet, as Caruth writes (1996: 91), ‘the notion of trauma has confronted us not only
with pathology but also with a fundamental enigma concerning the psyche’s relation
to reality’. Caruth refers to Freud’s interpretation of dreams and to one dream in
particular which Freud deemed to be an exemplary explanation for why we sleep and
for ‘how we don’t adequately face the death outside of us’ (1996, 92). This is the
dream of the father who watched over his ill child until his death, and then went to
sleep in the next room leaving an elderly man to sit by the laid out body. The elderly
man nods off, however, and a lighting candle falls over and burns the sleeve and arm
of the body. The glare of the flames do not cause the father to awaken in the next
room, rather he dreams that his son, who had died of fever, is standing by his side
tugging his sleeve and asking him, ‘Father, don’t you see I’m burning?’ (Caruth,
1996: 93). The dream causes the man to awaken to the – even worse – horror of
reality, that is, that his son is already dead and his dead body is burning. In answer to
his question, why dream rather than wake up, Freud comes to the conclusion that the
dream is not the disturber, but the guardian of sleep, the wish to sleep comes not just
from the body, but from consciousness itself ‘which desires somehow its own
suspension’ (Caruth,1996: 96). A further question, as identified by Lacan, is not what
does it mean to sleep, but what does it mean to awaken, as Caruth writes (1996: 100),
‘awakening represents a paradox about the necessity and impossibility of confronting
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death, and ‘awakening is itself the site of a trauma, the trauma of the necessity and
impossibility of responding to another’s death’.
The crisis of awakening is clearly linked to the crisis of survival, but I would
also like to posit the call to awakening – Father, don’t you see I’m burning? – as the
call to accountability of the spectator, the call to accept our implication in the trauma
of others, the ethical imperative to engage with the fate of those less fortunate than us.
Felman (2000:146) refers of the Czech women who, before being gassed in the gas
chambers to be then burnt in the crematorium, tell eye witness Phillip Müller (who
wants to die with them), ‘you must get out of here alive, you must bear witness to the
injustice done to us’. Through Phillip Müller the voices of these women continue to
convey the question – don’t you see I am burning? The question is whether we, who
have the good fortune not to be subjected to atrocity, are willing to lend our ear to the
victims and integrate their dehumanizing experience into our narratives of selfrepresentation. Deborah Eisenberg (in von Rezzori, 2008: xxii) asks the question,
‘what does it take to be a “decent person?”’, which most of us perhaps consider
ourselves to be, and answers it as follows:
Maybe the most significant component is luck – the good luck to be born into
a place and moment that inflicts minimal cruelty and thus does not require
from us the courage to discern and to resist its tides.
The idea of returning to or being re-visited by that which has not been
understood at the time of its occurrence, or as Valéry expresses it (in Felmann, 2000:
144), ‘[r]epetition is addressed to incomprehension’, is central to discussions of
trauma. Freud turns to literature, Caruth (1996: 3) tells us, to describe traumatic
experience, because ‘literature, like psychoanalysis, is interested in the complex
relation between knowing and not knowing’. An example in literature that Freud
(1991: 293) cites to illustrate this complex relationship is Tasso’s romantic epic
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Gerusalemme Liberata in which Tancred unwittingly kills his beloved Chlorinda in a
duel when she is disguised in the armour of an enemy knight. In a magic forest that
frighten’s his army he strikes a tree which bears Chlorinda’s spirit, and blood gushes
forth from the tree, the voice of Chlorinda crying out that he has wounded his beloved
for the second time. Tancred returns to the event – the killing of his beloved – which
he missed at the time of its occurrence, because it ‘is experienced too soon, too
unexpectedly to be fully known’ (Caruth, 1996: 3). Caruth elucidates Freud’s theory
of trauma and how the parable illustrates the complex relationship between knowing
and not knowing:
What the parable of the wound and the voice thus tells us, and what is at the
heart of Freud’s writing on trauma, both in what it says and in the stories it
unwittingly tells, is that trauma seems to be much more than a pathology, or
the simple illness of a wounded psyche: it is always the story of a wound that
cries out, that addresses us in the attempt to tell us of a reality or truth that is
not otherwise available. This truth, in its delayed appearance and its belated
address, cannot be linked only to what is known, but also to what remains
unknown in our very actions and our language.
In the context of this study, we could argue that because the Holocaust, by virtue of
the very scale of the atrocity, challenges our comprehension, we are required to
address repetition to it, to re-visit, to re-engage, to return, and in this case through the
medium of theatre.
1.4. Theatre and Witnessing
What then, we must ask, is the relationship between witnessing and art, and,
more specifically for this project, how does the medium of theatre lend itself to
testifying, to bearing witness to events and attitudes that because they perhaps cannot
be concretized and framed in a narrative, do not lend themselves to literalistic
representation? We might first turn to the medium of film and the example of Claude
Lanzmann’s groundbreaking film Shoah, referred to above, as an example of an
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exploration of the relationship between art and witnessing, and witnessing and history
in order to identify its emphases. Described at the time of appearance in 1985 as ‘the
film event of the century’ (Caruth, 1995: 201) and ‘a truly revolutionary artistic and
cultural event’, all of the film takes place in the time of its production. The filmmaker
asks questions but never comments; instead he allows the images and testimonies of
the disparate groups of witnesses bearing witness in the now of the making of the film
– the survivors that had been victimized, the Poles who witnessed from the outside,
and the perpetrators – to speak for themselves. The film, therefore, is not an historical
film or a documentary but rather a film about witnessing, and the relation between
history and witnessing. Shoah, as Felman writes (2000: 104), ‘refuses systematically
to use any historical, archival footage. It conducts its interviews, and takes its
pictures, in the present.’ It is also, I would argue, a film about measuring the aftereffects of the past in the present, in accordance with Benjamin’s idea of
Eingedenken.60 As Felman writes:
The film offers a disorienting vision of the present, a compellingly profound
and surprising insight into the complexity of the relation between history and
witnessing. […] It constantly unsettles and puts into question the very limits of
reality (Felman: 2000: 104).
For Felman (2000: 112) the film is more philosophical than historical, and she uses
the concepts of ‘incarnation’ and ‘resurrection’ to express what the film achieves or to
establish the status of the film. The key witness, Srebnik, 13 years old at the time of
his captivity in the ghetto, whom the narrator finds in Israel and persuades to return
with him to Chelmno, the site of burial of thousands of corpses, in himself represents
a resurrection: he managed to postpone his death in the first instance until the
60
Karen Remmler (1996: 6) differentiates between a historiography that ‘separates the present from the
past’, one that ‘petrifies the past into static images’ and a materialist historiography that demonstrates
‘how the past not only affects the present, but how its image reemerges in personal memories’ and
invokes in this context Benjamin’s concept of Eingedenken in order to ‘instill history with redemptive
power’. Remmler (1996: 6) elucidates the concept of Eingedenken as follows: ‘A materialist
historiography that incorporates insightful remembrance, searches out the forgotten remnants of the
past, not to restore them, but to measure their after-effect in the present’.
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dissolution of the Treblinka Concentration Camp on 18 January 1945 by virtue of his
talent as a singer and his extreme physical agility, ‘which made him the winner of
jumping contests and speed races that the SS organized for their chained prisoners’
(Felman, 2000: 124). Then, in the second instance, when shot in the back of the head
on the night of 18 January 1945 like all the other remaining prisoners, the bullet
miraculously bypassed his vital brain centres and he survived, making him one of two
survivors of the 400,000 victims at Treblinka. He subsequently went to live in Israel.
As Srebnik looks again – forty years later – at the fields of burial in Chelmno, a
peaceful, quasi pastoral scene, he expresses his inability to believe what happened
there, ‘[y]es, this is the place, no one ever left here again…It was terrible. No one can
describe it… And no one can understand it. Even I, here, now…’. Although he
witnessed the scene himself, it passed from the outside to the inside unmediated
because when he first came to Treblinka at the age of 13 he was already ‘deadened’
by all the deaths he had witnessed in the ghetto. It is only at the age of 47 when he
returns with Lanzmann that he:
in effect is returning from the dead (from his own deadness) and can become,
for the first time, a witness to himself, as well as an articulate and for the first
time fully conscious witness of what he had been witnessing during the War
(Felman, 2000: 127).
By persuading the reluctant Srebnik to return to the scene, as Felman argues (2000:
116), the narrator therefore is the one who ‘opens, or re-opens, the story of the past in
the present of the telling’. Srebnik, who worked in the crematoria and once saw what
were supposed to be dead bodies falling from the gas vans coming back to life, then
being burned alive, as Felman writes (2000:126):
Srebnik’s witness dramatizes both a burning consciousness of death, and a
crossing (and recrossing) of the boundary line which separates the living from
the dead, and death from life.
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While Lanzmann does not comment – we hear only his questions – he is the
enabler of the testimony, the addressable other, and through this mode of enabling,
which amounts to an act of getting out of the way of the testimony, he becomes a
conduit through which the acts of witnessing can speak for themselves. His is ‘a
narrative of listening’ (Felman, 2000: 131). Furthermore, by juxtaposing, again
without commentary, the acts of witnessing of the three groups – the victims, the
perpetrators and the bystanders (the Poles) – other texts emerge, which add further
insights into the relation between history and witnessing. These texts do not
necessarily involve language: the most powerful moment of witnessing in the film, in
my view, is when the camera focuses on the face of the silent Srebnik surrounded by
the Poles in front of the Catholic church in which a group of Jews had been held
prisoner before being gassed. One of the Poles pushes through the crowd to tell the
interviewer of a story they claim is true about a rabbi who asked SS officers if he
could address a group of Jews held captive in Myndjewyce, near Warsaw. This Rabbi
apparently tells the group of Jews that the innocent Christ was murdered by Jews
2000 years previously, whereupon they cry, ‘[l]et his blood fall on our heads and on
our sons’ heads’. The rabbi then says to the prisoners, ‘[p]erhaps the time has come
for that, so let us do nothing, let us go, let us do as we’re asked’ (Felman, 2000: 132).
The group of Poles endow the Holocaust with facile comprehensibility: when
Lanzman asks whether they think that the Jews expiated the death of Christ, the man
answers, ‘[i]t was God’s will, that’s all …That’s all. Now you know’ (Felman, 2000:
133). The Poles, as Felman writes, begin to dream reality and to hallucinate their
memory; they are false witnesses. A searing text emerges on the screen from the
juxtaposition of the close-up shots of the faces of the ‘false witnesses’, evidently all
comfortably in agreement with this explanation for the Holocaust, with those of the
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silent Srebnik, the true witness, whose personal tragedy is lost on the complacent
Poles in these moments, and whose silent witnessing speaks volumes about their selfdeception and the falseness of their testimony. Taking, then, these ideas of the art
work as an ‘incarnation’ and a ‘resurrection’ (Felmann, 2000:115), as being about
witnessing rather than presenting an account of the past, of the film maker as an
enabler of the testimony, and silence and the expressivity of the body as part of the
testimony, we could ask how such elements might translate in the medium of theatre
and what happens in the shift from the medium of film to the medium of theatre?
Felman uses the term ‘event’ to characterize the status of Lanzmann’s film
Shoah, in the sense of incision or watershed in the history of filmmaking; Shoah is the
first film of its kind. There is no doubt that the collective viewing of a film in an
auditorium can also signify an event in the sense of a unique, momentous occasion for
a particular group of viewers. It could of course also constitute an event or a series of
events for each individual viewer of the film in his or her own private viewing space.
Unlike theatre, however, it is always a one-way relationship and not fixed in time and
space and therefore there is an essential difference in the mode of engagement. This is
described by Hutcheon (2006: 27) as follows:
And when we sit in the dark, quiet and still, being shown real live bodies
speaking or singing on stage, our level and kind of engagement are different
than when we sit in front of a screen and technology mediates […] for us.
Furthermore, the film, fixed in its medium, impacts on the viewer but the reverse is
not the case; s/he can view it in whatever setting that provides the necessary
technology, when s/he pleases, can pause the film, rewind, fast forward, take breaks
and un-pause where it was stopped, and watch the same film all over again as many
times as s/he pleases. Live theatre, on the other hand, is always only experienced in
the moment, and the spectator has a material and immediate impact on the
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performance. Even if there is no actual audience interaction, there is a joining in the
performative moment of the energetic bodies of the performers and spectators. JürsMunby’s (in Lehmann, 2006: 17) definition of theatre gives expression to the shared
experience of the event in the now:
Theatre means the collectively spent and used up lifetime in the collectively
breathed air of that space in the which the performing and the spectating take
place……The theatre performance turns the behaviour onstage and in the
auditorium into a joint text, a ‘text’ even if there is no spoken dialogue on
stage or between actors and audience.
We can look also to Peter Brook (1993: 83) to provide us with a definition of what he
considers to be the essence of theatre, which he locates within ‘a mystery called “the
present moment”’:
[I]n the millisecond-long instant when actor and audience interrelate, as in a
physical embrace, it is the density, the thickness, the multi-layeredness, the
richness – in other words the quality of the moment that counts.
The term ‘event’, furthermore, takes on a different significance in the context
of theatre that we might characterize as postdramatic theatre, a theatre, which has
shifted from being ‘spectatorial’ to being instead ‘a social situation’ (Lehman, 2006:
106). The aesthetic distance that characterizes dramatic theatre, in which the world
presented is ‘surveyable’ disappears in postdramatic theatre, as Jürs-Munby (in
Lehmann, 2006:12) writes, ‘here, “World” does not mean the walled-off (by a fourth
wall) fictional totality, but a world open to its audience, an essentially possible world,
pregnant with potentiality’. The role of the spectator as a meaning-maker is, therefore,
heightened: The world presented ‘does not add up to an Aristotelian dramatic fictional
whole but instead is full of holes. The onus is on the spectator/witness to help ‘repair’
[…]’ (Lehmann: 2006, 12). In this dissertation I am arguing that modes of
performance that relate to but break with classically dramatic principles such as unity,
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wholeness and sense provide a more appropriate ‘container’ within which to give
theatrical expression to experiences relating to the Holocaust. In relation to his work
with victims of the Hiroshima bombing, psychoanalyst Robert J. Lifton speaks of the
shattering of prior forms as a necessity for new insight. Where existing forms or
systems do not allow for the re-creation of unprecedented experience, new forms are
required, as he says in interview (in Caruth 1995: 135), ‘we never receive anything
nakedly, we must recreate it in our own minds, and that is what the cortex is for’.
Likewise, Shoshana Felman writing about the poetry of Holocaust survivor Paul
Celan, expresses a similar idea (in Caruth, 1995: 32), ‘The breakage of the verse
enacts the breakage of the world’. In relation to theatre which seeks to explore events
that represent the collapse of Western civilization, we could assert that the breakage
of the forms enact the breakage of the world. This thesis argues that such modes of
theatre offer a real possibility for representing something of the experience of being
undone, the self being unmade by atrocity, one’s childhood development being
shaped by vicarious memories, or the effects of the suppression of the truth and
substitution with a lie that an intact container could not. It does not argue against the
relevance and possibilities of forms of dramatic theatre but rather for the importance
and relevance for this study of its Other or binary opposite, which, as Lehmann writes
(2006: 44), asserts ‘the right of the disparate, partial, absurd and ugly against the
postulates of unity, wholeness, reconciliation and sense’. Drawing on Menke’s
reading of Hegel, Lehmann shows that we cannot in fact have one without the other
(2006: 43), that, ‘[i]t is that dialectical abstraction that makes drama possible as a
form in the first place’ and,
In the shape of an insolubly contradictory experience of the ethical problem
and abjected materiality, there already slumber in the depths of dramatic
theatre those tensions that open up its crisis, dissolution and finally the
possibility of a non-dramatic paradigm.
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Western philosophy having taught us to be positivist, we tend to eschew that
which threatens the sense of unity we strive for, including the aspects of ourselves
that disrupt our sense of who we are as subjects. This tendency was taken to a horrific
extreme by the Nazis in their creation of Auschwitz, which Levi (2008: 47) refers to
as ‘anus mundi, ultimate drainage site of the German universe’. The concept of the
‘abject’, as discussed by Julia Kristeva and Judith Butler, which posits an insoluble,
dialectical relationship between the bounded subject and its eschewed disparate
counterpart, provides a model for interrogating this mechanism. Butler defines the
abject as follows (1999: 169):
The ‘abject’ designates that which has been expelled by the body, discharged
as excrement, literally rendered ‘Other’. This appears as an expulsion of alien
elements, but the alien is effectively established through this expulsion. The
construction of the ‘not me’ as the abject establishes the boundaries of the
body which are also the first contours of the subject.
This principle is also reflected in how conscious memory is constructed, as discussed
above, that is, we create meaningful narratives or stories about our experiences by
integrating them into schemes of prior knowledge. Caruth (1995: 153) elucidates the
difference between such conscious or narrative memories and the ‘eschewed’ or
unconscious memories, in this instance, traumatic memories:
The trauma is the confrontation with an event that, in its unexpectedness or
horror, cannot be placed within the schemes of prior knowledge – that cannot,
as George Bataille says, become a matter of “intelligence” – and thus
continually returns, in its exactness, at a later time. Not having been fully
integrated as it occurred, the event cannot become, as Janet says, a ‘narrative
memory’ that is integrated into a completed story of the past.
In order to give expression theatrically to that which we have failed to integrate, then,
it follows – we can argue – that we must engage forms that are the dialectical
counterpart of those that posit a notion of unity. As Salverson (1996: 184) writes:
[r]isky stories’, stories of emergency and violation, need to be constructed in
such a way that the subtleties of damage, hope, and the ‘not nameable’ can be
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performed. There must be a ‘gap’ in the container to hold open ‘the circle of
knowing.
As spectators we are likewise called upon to open ourselves to an experience of
theatre that disrupts, disorientates, addresses us in ways we are less prepared for and
therefore less capable of consciously assimilating and integrating, and to entertain the
idea that this kind of experience may in fact be an-other way of knowing. Caruth
(1995: 156) expresses a similar appeal within the field of trauma therapy:
The attempt to gain access to a traumatic history, then, is also the project of
listening beyond the pathology of individual suffering, to the reality of a
history that in its crises can only be perceived in unassimilable forms. This
history may speak through the individual or through the community, which in
its own suffering, as Kai Erikson makes clear, may not only be the site of its
disruption but the locus of a ‘wisdom all of its own’.
Finally, I will furthermore be arguing that modes of theatrical representation
that displace the linguistic text from its position as central signifier to becoming one
of a pallet of systems of representation, including, for example, the actor’s body,
likewise lend themselves more readily to an engagement with the kind of subject
matter discussed here. Rothschild (2000: 5) clearly demonstrates, for instance, that
‘[t]rauma is a psychophysical experience, even when the traumatic event causes no
direct bodily harm’ by explaining first the link between somatic memory and the
senses and then sensory memory and trauma (Rothschild, 2000: 44):
Our first impressions of an experience usually come from our senses – both
interoceptive and exteroceptive. These impressions are not encoded as words,
but as the somatic sensations they are: smells, sights, sounds, touches, tastes,
movement, position, behavioral sequences, visceral reactions. […] Sensory
memory is central to understanding how the memory of traumatic events is
laid down – how as Bessel van der Kolk (1994) would put it, ‘the body keeps
the score.’ Memories of traumatic events can be encoded just like other
memories, both explicitly and implicitly. Typically, however, individuals with
PTS and PTSD are missing the explicit information necessary to make sense
of their distressing somatic symptoms – body sensations – many of which are
implicit memories of trauma.
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We could argue, therefore, that modes of theatre that are psycho-physical in their
orientation, that run counter to a Cartesian bodymind dualism and rather foreground a
bodymind61 continuum, such as required by the late plays of Samuel Beckett in which
the language of gesture is a central signifier, allow for an audience experience of a
different kind of knowing. If we take, for example, Footfalls, whereby the
composition of the actor’s posture, movement and the light signify the entropy of the
figure, May’s repetitive walking and successive ‘curling round slowly within’ until
she finally disappears, ‘spiraling inward, inward’ (Ben-Zvi, 1992: 9) was the most
significant element of the play for Beckett,
[I]f it is full of repetitions, then it is because of these life-long stretches of
walking. That is the centre of the play, everything else is secondary’
(Knowlson, 1996: 628).
We could also refer to the visual image of the mouth in Not I, a supremely powerful
signifier, ‘at once the female mouth spewing words and at the same time the female
genitals, ‘a “hole” that represents absence, “the horror of nothing to see” within the
systematics of representation in western logic’ (Cronin, 2006: 155). In the context of
such forms of theatrical representation the word text refers not just to the written
language component but to the sum of all theatrical signifiers – the actor’s body,
performance space, lighting and sound – any of which can be given less or more
weight according to individual artistic concerns.
61
I have referred to this concept of the actor’s bodymind in my article on the late plays of Beckett and
Bachmann’s novel Malina (2006: 156): ‘In his psychophysical approach to actor training Phillip
Zarrilli thematises the concept of the bodymind, as do the most prominent avant-garde theatre
practitioners of the 20th century, such as Antonin Artaud, Jerzy Grotowski and Michael Chekhov. Such
approaches oppose a body-mind dualism that posits the body as the instrument of the mind. Zarrilli
(1995: 14) quotes Richard Schechner to explain why the performer must “realize an organic connection
between the body and mind”: “When I talk of spirit or mind or feelings or psyche, I mean dimensions
of the body. The body is an organism of endless adaptability. A knee can think, a finger can laugh, a
belly cry, a brain walk and a buttock listen”’ (in Cronin, 2006: 156).
109
110
CHAPTER THREE
And might it not be […] that we also have appointments to keep in the past, in what
has gone before and is for the most part extinguished, and must go there in search of
places and people who have some connection with us on the far side of time, so to
speak?
(W.G. Sebald, 200: 360)
Speaking Stones: images, voices, fragments …’from that which comes after’ is a piece
of devised theatre that emerged from a collaboration between Theater Asou (A),
director Phillip Zarrilli (Wales / USA) and playwright and dramaturge Kaite O’Reilly
(IRL / UK). It was first performed in a dedicated theatre space, the Theater im Palais,
Graz, on 12 September 2002. During this first series of performances the company
heard of an underground Roman quarry – die Römer Höhlen – in Aflenz, southern
Styria, close to the Slovenian border, which had begun to be used as a performance
space in the late 1980s. After a reconnaissance trip to the quarry there was an
immediate consensus among the team that this was the space in which the piece
‘belonged’, as Zarrilli told me in interview (2006).62 The company was subsequently
invited to stage two series of performances in the underground site in Aflenz, one in
November/December 2002 and another in October 2004 as part of an exhibition in the
context of a wider cultural event in the region to mark its heritage. One section of the
exhibition in the quarry was dedicated to the period from 1943 – 1945 when the
quarry was appropriated by the Nazis for the manufacture of armaments, to which end
concentration camp prisoners from Mauthausen were subjected to slave labour. The
62
‘When I was taken to the Aflenz site during our initial run in the theatre in Graz, I – and I think all of
us – immediately “knew” that this was the space in which the performance we were creating
“belonged”’ (Zarrilli, 2006).
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original English-language version, scripted by Kaite O’Reilly63, premiered on
invitation to the Grotowski Centre in Wroclaw, Poland in November 2003. For the
purposes of this study I will focus specifically on the staging of the piece in the
underground site and what emerged out of this ‘composition’ of site and performance
piece.
Broadly speaking, Speaking Stones is concerned with the traumatisation,
displacement and dispossession of peoples in situations of war. It was not the team’s
intention to anchor the material in any specific situation of war, although once housed
in this underground site, it was inevitable that it would resonate most clearly with the
events of WWII. The intention was rather to allow for any number of possibilities that
would resonate with each spectator’s individual aggregation of narratives, the
thinking behind this being that, given a conducive set of circumstances, war and
genocide can take place at any given time and place in the world. Klaus Seewald of
Theater Asou gives expression in interview to this intention (Seewald, 2004):
Es soll vom Inhalt her ein Versuch sein, […], das weder auf das Judentum,
sprich auf die NS-Zeit zu fixieren noch auf den Krieg in Jugoslawien, im
früheren Jugoslawien, weil die Thematik so aktuell ist, dass sie jeder Zeit und
an jedem x-beliebigen Ort auf der Welt wieder auftreten kann.
Speaking Stones is one of 5 case studies discussed by Phillip Zarrilli (2009:
174-187) in Psychophysical Acting: An Intercultural Approach after Stanislavski.
After a brief introduction to the context and inception of the piece, the influences that
inspired and informed the work, and the performative premise, the main focus is on
the application of Zarrilli’s psychophysical training process to the creation of the
piece of theatre. In my discussion I will begin with an introduction to the genesis and
development of the project and a structural outline of the piece. This section will also
63
O’Reilly’s experience as aid worker and drama therapist in former war-torn Yugoslavia from 1994 to
2000 was one of the reasons she was invited by Theater Asou to collaborate on this project.
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include references to Phillip Zarrilli’s actor-training and directorial approaches. I will
go on to introduce the underground site and its history, and discuss how it impacted
not just on the spectator but also on the performer. My discussion of the piece of
theatre, then, will include a consideration of the reciprocal relationship between the
performance site and the piece – between the ‘ghost building’, that is the scenographic
architecture that was the piece, and its ‘host building’, the site, to draw on the
vocabulary of Theatre/Archaeology (Pearson and Thomas, 1994: 135), the
relationship between the subject matter and the chosen modes of theatrical
representation, and the role of the spectator as witness and meaning-maker. Finally, I
will consider the question as to whether performance and performativity can give rise
to acts of disturbance and allow for interventions in histories. In addition to the
theoretical framework centered on trauma and memory discussed above in Chapter
Two, I will draw on discourses relating to the archaeological imagination for my
discussion of this piece and the site-sensitive space in which it was performed, both in
terms of the creation of the piece and my reception of it. Archaeology and the
memory-work related to difficult histories are both concerned with retrieval and
assemblage. In the case of both, that which is retrieved is necessarily a collection of
shards, fragments which point to what is missing, leaving the assemblage full of gaps
and holes, as Pearson writes, ‘Archaeology’s semiotic can only ever be synechdochic
– pieces for whole ways of life gone’ (Pearson, 2001: 56). The task in the case of
both Archaeology and the reception of performance arising out of memory-work,
therefore is not just to respond to what is retrieved but also to what is absent, to make
meaning of that which remains fragmentary, to speak with Jennifer Wallace
(2004:24):
Though the archaeologist might spend much of his day digging, he studies the
results of that excavation back at the top, looking only at debris ‘projected up
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upon the surface’, in Jameson’s words, ‘in the anamorphic flatness of a
scarcely recognizable afterimage’. Thus the archaeological imagination
responds to what is missing rather than to what is there. It snatches objects
from the ground only to try to restore some sense of their original context in
the earth so as to understand them properly.
My discussion of Speaking Stones is informed by interviews I carried out with the
director, the dramaturge, cast members, a local community officer in Aflenz, and an
eye-witness to the events – Franz Trampusch – which took place in the underground
quarry during WWII. A further interview with Franz Trampusch, carried out by Mag.
Bettina Messner, is also drawn upon in this discussion.
3.1. Speaking Stones: Genesis, Development and Structural Outline
The work on Speaking Stones was developed over a six-month period
beginning with a two-week workshop phase in Graz in April 2002, followed by a
further phase the following August at Phillip Zarrilli’s studio in Wales. A final series
of rehearsals took place in Graz in September that led up to the premiere. Theater
Asou brought two main concerns to the initial discussions for the piece: one was their
dismay at the formation of a coalition in Styria in 2002 between the centre-left CSP
(Christlich-Sozialistische Partei) and the right-wing FPÖ (Freiheitliche Partei
Österreich) headed at the time by Jörg Haider, whose anti-immigration rhetoric had
gained him increased popularity in the region. The other motivating force was their
interest in elements of the theatre of the Japanese playwright Ota Shogo such as
slowed down everyday movement and the exploration of objects (Seewald, 2004).
Sources of inspiration for the project for director Phillip Zarrilli (Interview, 2006)
were A Chorus of Stones by Susan Griffin – which also inspired the title of the piece –
and her often poetic way of writing about the private life of war, trauma and the ongoing resonances in the lives of human beings of hidden or denied histories, The Body
114
in Pain by Elaine Scarry in which the author explores the inexpressibility of pain and
the unmaking of an individual’s world through the infliction of torture, the imagebased work of Japanese butoh, especially that of Kazuo Ohno such as in The Dead
Sea, How Societies Remember by Paul Connerton, The Semiotics of Zero by Brian
Rotman, and the psychophysical requirements of performing the theatres of Samuel
Beckett and Japanese playwright Ota Shoga, such as The Waterstation, with its nonverbal scores and ‘stories that are always present, but just not heard’ (Zarrilli, 2009:
176). Playwright and dramaturge Kaite O’Reilly drew on her experience as aid
worker in the field of drama therapy with victims of trauma, warfare, and
displacement in the war-torn former Yugoslavia from the early 1990s to 200064, and
64
The following is taken from an interview I conducted with Kaite O’Reilly in 2006, where the
playwright gives an account of her experience as aid worker in former Yugoslavia. I quote at length, as
apart from its socio-historical and theoretical relevance to this study, it is of interest in its own right as
the document of an eye-witness to this period of European history (O’Reilly, May 2006): ‘I went
primarily to Karlavac, a garrison town in the disputed Krajina (‘Krajina’ just means ‘country’ or ‘land’
– and it was the site of much of the bloodiest fighting between the Serbs and Croats). Karlovac was a
frontline town and very much what Michael Ignatief coined ‘faultline town’ – when families were split
during the conflict (mixed marriages between Croats and Serbs) – it became very harsh and bloody.
When I was there, Karlovac was experiencing both the ‘official’ conflict between the Croats and Serbs
over controlling the area as well as guerilla warfare between the rebel Krajina Serbs and rebel Krajina
Croats – so we had the ‘national’ fighting – rocket launches from the hills, missile attacks, etc, and then
local dirty fighting – snipers on the roof, car bombs, etc. (The area was important to both sides
economically and culturally/historically: the area is landlocked, except for the road to the coast –
important economically for whoever controls and ‘owns’ this area – also, a mythical area to both owing
to Knin – which has resonance to the history and folklore to both sides - conflicts going back to 14th
century between the two factions in Knin, which was maybe 30km from Karlovac).
I first went in 1994 with my friend Christina Katic and we worked up to three times a year,
every year until 2000, with Suncokret, a non-sectarian grassroots humanitarian relief aid agency, made
up of people who were themselves displaced owing to the war. I worked supported by social workers,
teachers and psychologists with children and young adults experiencing severe post traumatic disorder.
We went every year, staying in the orphanage (the hotels were bombed), working with the displaced
children and adults in the refugee camps and orphanage, and with local adults experiencing ‘war
stress’. I worked primarily from Augusto Boal’s Theatre of the Oppressed techniques – initially with
children in 1994 just to try and get them playing again (war stress reduces young children to being
virtually catatonic and inactive, with sudden violent bursts of rage) – with adults to reduce stress and
encourage them to externalize their worries, concerns, things they’d seen, things they’d done etc – to
find a forum where people could express themselves and then be supported by their local professionals
who were witnessing. We found it very important to have an’outsider’ there. People would share things
with me a) because I was exotic and strange, not being local, b) because I was someone from the west
and they desperately wanted people in the UK and western Europe to know what was happening to
them.’ […] After the war, in post-war reconstruction, I worked in conflict resolution with the young
adults and families who had ‘returned’, trying to stop the next generation picking up arms in ten years
time………….
In the early 90’s I also worked briefly in Osijek (again, on the frontline) and briefly, in Sebrenica, after
the massacre – which informed some of the writing in Speaking Stones – the fragments from the
115
her use of a theatricalised form of British Sign Language in her work with disabled
actors to inform textual and dramaturgical elements. While the text is authored in the
main by O’ Reilly, it also includes what the director describes as ‘found texts’, such
as fragments of text from The Semiotics of Zero by Brian Rotman and A Chorus of
Stones by Susan Griffin, a poem by Larry Zarrilli, the director’s father, and also a text
fragment by one of the performers, Gernot Rieger.
What emerged from the collaboration is a piece of postdramatic, postpsychological theatre, consisting of a montage of eleven structures and involving six
performers. The piece has neither plot nor psychologically motivated characters with
coherent identities, and the ‘text’ that emerges is a composition of all theatrical
signifiers – the actor’s body and its gestural language, performance space, set,
costumes, props, lighting and sound. It is ‘theatre that cannot be taken in at once’
(Lehmann, 2006:11), one which operates in a liminal space: although it relates to the
world – fragments of stories are heard and certain character types are embodied by the
actors intermittently – it does not represent ‘the world as a surveyable whole’.
Through this form or container, fragments of stories of emergency, trauma, loss,
violation are conveyed. This container is full of gaps and holes, unmarked spaces, and
it is precisely this circumstance that allowed the piece to resonate with the space –
enabling the latter to become the main protagonist rather than a suitable back-drop –
and with the spectator’s individual aggregation of narratives. To speak with Julie
Salverson (1996:184,186), it is these gaps in a non-literalistic representational form
‘that hold [..] the circle of knowing open’, that create space ‘across which the familiar
and the strange can gaze upon each other’. Zarrilli elucidates in his case study the
survivors – ‘the telephone bill came in his name’ ‘the spoon was still in the bowl on the table’, etc. The
litany of loss.’
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planning behind the creation of such a container that would hold ‘the circle of
knowing open’ (2009: 177):
Before we began work, we knew that some structures would be non-verbal,
emphasizing psychophysical engagement in tasks, while others gave voice to
text – fragmentary memories, images, recollections, exchanges. Each structure
and the etching as a whole would put into play many possible moments of
resonance for the audience, but the impact and meaning would depend as
much on what the audience brought as what we provided for them.
The performers – three female and three male – represent agents or figures
rather than characters. It was required of the performers to carry out specific ‘tasks’
and embody psycho-physical states in performance, as Zarrilli stated in interview
(2006a). Dressed similarly in combinations of white or off-white tops, skirts, trousers
and substantial boots to create a neutral or generic effect, elements of specific
costume, such as headscarves for the female performers or belts for carrying weapons
in the case of the male performers added to the neutral costume – in structure 5, for
example – gesture toward character and gender. When these are removed the figures
or agents regain their indeterminate status and potentiality for multiple points of entry.
Zarrilli, who trains actors’ bodymind through the medium of Asian martial art forms –
kalarippayattu and tai chi chuan – and yoga to discover ‘what is “necessary” in the
performative moment’ (Zarrilli, 1997: 105), works with a paradigm of acting whereby
psychology ‘is no longer the central organizational force […] guiding the work of the
actor’ but rather descriptors such as ‘energetics’ and ‘tasks’. In this kind of model
acting is understood more in ‘qualitative terms of the shaping of “energies” toward
engagement of “tasks”’ (email, 2006). Zarrilli explains (2009: 186) that ‘the “psycho”
of the “psycho-physical” in the enactment of a scenario like this is not ‘psychology’
but rather the state of ‘resonant awareness’ that is generated within one when one
fully embodies this simple score and actually listens and is “sensuous to” the tasks in
117
which one is engaged’. This kind of performance work requires intensive training
‘toward an alternative bodymind consciousness and awareness accomplished through
attentiveness to the breath, and to focus / concentration in and through the breath’
(Zarrilli, 1997: 105). This is not to say that thoughts and resultant emotions are not
part of this kind of performance (practice), but rather that instead of being based on
psychological motivation the practitioner learns to locate thought and feeling through
and in the embodiment of forms, developing an intuitive awareness of ‘“thought” as it
takes shape in action’ (Zarrilli, 1997: 105). Drawing on Artaud’s teachings, Zarrilli
describes this development of ‘an affective musculature which corresponds to the
physical localization of feelings’ (Zarrilli, 1997: 105). What distinguishes Zarrilli’s
approach to actor training, as Jerri Daboo argues (2004: 16), – here specifically in
relation to his work on the plays of Samuel Beckett – from that of other theatre
practitioners who use martial art forms and yoga as part of their actor training
approaches, is that it does not remain as part of the pre-performative training, but
rather ‘it goes beyond an initial training period, and has direct importance in not only
the embodiment of the actor in performance but also, in the case of Beckett, in an
enhanced understanding of the dramaturgy of the play and how this can be
actualized’. Klaus Seewald, who has trained intensively with Zarrilli as part of the
Theater Asou ensemble, but has specialized further in the training as an individual
artist, gives the following detailed and illuminating insight – with specific reference to
the work on Speaking Stones – into the connection between the training and the
performance work. He also explains how by proceeding in a task-based mode rather
than a psychologically motivated one, emotions are bodied forth in the performative
moment:
Phillip hat uns klare physische Aufgaben gestellt, jede Szene hat da ihre
eigenen, wie etwa die Aufmerksamkeit ins Hören zu legen, in bestimmten
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Szenen den Fokus – die Augen – zu gewissen, klar definierten Punkten zu
richten, um Aufgaben zu haben, die ‘points of entry’ in diese Szenen
darstellen. Zum einen ist für mich als Schauspieler in diesem Moment klar,
worin mein ‘task’ besteht und in welchem Rahmen meine Spielmöglichkeiten
sind, formal gesehen. Gleichzeitig ist diese Form etwas, die aus meiner
Erfahrung und Geschichte als Schauspieler heraus, mich in einen Zustand
bringt, in dem ich Images und / oder Assoziationen habe / haben kann, die
diesen Formen Leben geben, sie lebendig machen. Durch die, wenn man es so
bezeichnen will, Einengung in dem‘Was’ ich tue, bekomme ich Freiheitsgrade
in dem ‘Wie’ ich es tue.65
[...]
In Speaking Stones war es immer so, dass es gewisse Szenen gegeben hat, wo
ich fast gegen die Tränen angekämpft habe, ohne dass ich großartig
irgendwelche Bilder in mir hervorgerufen hätte oder auf die ich
zurückgegriffen hätte, oder irgendwelche Bilder erzeugt hätte, sondern einfach
nur dadurch, dass ich dem Menschen vor mir die Hände rauflege, nach vorne
schaue, zu dieser Person schaue, und diese Momente von einem Moment zum
anderen mit einander verbinde, genau wie es im Tai chi oder es im Kalari ist,
wo es, glaube ich, ab einem gewissen Punkt hauptsächlich darum geht,
nämlich diese Momente mit einander zu verbinden und einen Fluss
reinzubringen und eine Kontinuität reinzukriegen. Genau so macht das auf der
Bühne irgendwas mit dir, und erzeugt Emotionen mehr oder weniger in
welche Richtung auch immer, das hängt davon ab, wo es hingeht, aber es
erzeugt Leben, ohne dass man versucht, was draus zu machen, einfach nur
dadurch, dass man diese gewissen, auf Speaking Stones bezogen sehr
reduzierten Anweisungen folgt, erzeugt das etwas mit dir.
It follows, I would argue, that this kind of acting ‘at the nerve ends’ provides a clearer
basis for the exploration through performance of human experience that defies
integration and cannot therefore be ‘organized on a linguistic level’ but is left to be
organized on a somatosensory level (Van der Kolk and Van der Hart in Caruth, 1995:
172).
65
In the following Seewald also gives an important insight into the difference between embodying the
forms of the martial art for fitness purposes and cultivating an interiority to accompany each physical
attitude in order to enable the actor to make each moment unique and alive for the spectator, ‘Im reinen
(Kalari) Training mache ich eine Übung, mit sehr exakten Vorgaben. Sobald ich aber lediglich die
Form mache, ohne auf meine innere Haltung zu achten ‚WIE’ ich die Übung ausführe, läuft sie Gefahr,
eine mechanische Übung zu werden, die vielleicht einen Fitness-Effekt hat, aber die die Qualität
entbehrt, die mir als Schauspieler von Nutzen ist. Ich muss also eine Fähigkeit entwickeln, den
Moment neu wie zum ersten mal zu erleben, um auch diese ‚tasks’, mit denen ich bei Speaking Stones
konfrontiert bin, für mich, und damit fürs Publikum lebendig zu halten – im Moment zu leben, d.h.
auch auf den Raum und die dich umgebende Situation zu reagieren bzw. an dich ran zu lassen. Das ist
vielleicht ein, wenn nicht DER Kernpunkt: diesen Moment zu leben und die
‘Informationen/Erfahrungen’ von diesem (Kalari / Tai Chi Chuan / Yoga) Training mitzunehmen auf
die Bühne’.
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The devising process was intended to be as collaborative as possible during
the developmental period of work (Zarilli, 2006a). Possible scenarios were developed
during the workshops using three main catalysts: ‘(1) psychophysical states – also
incorporating BSL – set to music, (2) ‘found’ texts such as from The Semiotics of
Zero, or A Chorus of Stones and (3) text authored by Kaite O’Reilly’ (Zarrilli, 2006a).
The task of shaping the material into a whole is described by Zarrilli (2006a) as
follows:
Once we assembled sufficient ‘material’ within scenarios which we felt had
potential, we began the difficult work of shaping the score as a whole, and
shaping the transitions between the scenarios.
The initial outcome consisted of a montage of twelve structures including a final
structure entitled ‘Rubble’. This structure concluded with the incantation by one of
the performers of the names of victims of abduction during the Balkan wars in the
early 1990s and their activity at the time of abduction followed by a popular antiimmigration slogan of Austrian right-wing politicians as part of their election
campaign in Styria in 2002: ‘Das Boot ist voll’. During the first run of performances
in the Theater im Palais in Graz the director and the playwright / dramaturge decided
that this was not the right concluding note for the piece. Consequently, they cut this
structure, incorporating some elements from it into earlier structures, and brought the
piece to a conclusion with structure eleven: ‘Why did you leave?’ This structure
thematizes the inadequacy of the spoken word to communicate traumatic experience
and uses the gestural language of theatricalised BSL to this end. The director (2006a)
explains the motives for the change:
In terms of what we were trying to accomplish with regard to the ‘failure’ of
language to fully represent experiences of displacement and trauma, finishing
with a scenario in which words fail and are frozen in the final sepia image
created a much better overall dramaturgy.
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The structures making up the final montage are entitled66 as follows: 1. ‘Preset’67, 2.
‘Bewilderment’, 3. ‘Leaving’, 4. ‘Footsteps’, 5. ‘Internment’, 6. ‘Marching’, 7.
‘United Fucking Nations’, 8. ‘Semiotics of Zero’, 9. ‘Chair Stones’, 10.
‘Interrogation’, and 11. ‘Why did you leave?’ This revised version became the
definitive version, which was presented in subsequent performances: in the premiere
of the English-language version in Poland and the two sets of performances in Aflenz.
3.2 The Site
Ein besonderes Stück, eine besondere Ambiente, das erfordert auch besondere
Sicherheitsmaßnahmen. Daher ersuche ich Sie, egal was passiert, Ruhe zu
bewahren und unbedingt auf Ihren Sitzen zu bleiben. Sollte es, ich garantiere,
bis jetzt ist es noch nie vorgekommen, zu einem Stromausfall kommen,
verhalten Sie sich bitte ruhig. Das Personal, die Feuerwehr und ich sind mit
vom Netz unabhängigen Notlampen ausgerüstet. Wir werden Sie sicher
hinausbegleiten. Danke.
This announcement preceded each performance of Speaking Stones performed in one
of the central caverns of the Roman Quarry of Aflenz. The announcement was
delivered by Walter Gluschitsch, a local community officer in Aflenz, who has made
it his hobby over the past ten years to conduct guided tours and facilitate the
organisation of cultural events in this underground site. The announcement is similar
in form, yet quite different in content to typical safety announcements made in
dedicated theatre spaces where spectators are requested to switch off their mobile
phones and take note of the nearest fire exit. Once these requests have been met, the
spectator can generally forget about her body, sit back in a more or less comfortable
seat and receive the performance from what feels like a ‘safe’ vantage point. Here in
66
The titles of the structures comprising the montage were not made available to the audience as the
director did not want spectators’ expectations to be led by these.
67
Note that this first structure is not included in the appended DVD of Speaking Stones as the light was
so dark that it was not possible to see anything in the videographed footage. Also, structure 6.,
‘Marching’, is included in structure 5., ‘Internment’.
121
the damp, chilly, underground Austrian quarry the spectator is more acutely conscious
of her spectator’s bodymind. In the constant 8 degrees of the caves and with humidity
levels varying seasonally between 40% and 90%, 300 meters from the nearest and
only exit, and knowing, should there be a power cut, that she would be enveloped in
absolute darkness, the stakes seem somehow higher. The events manager, Walter
Gluschitsch, is clearly also more closely engaged than one would normally expect. In
his capacity as security officer in this site, he has a more complicated duty of care
towards the spectators than in a dedicated theatre space, yet he is clearly also an active
spectator during each performance. A man who confesses to having no particular
knowledge of theatre much less of experimental theatre forms, Walter Gluschitsch
(2004) struggles to find words to explain why this piece of theatre fascinates and
affects him so deeply, remarking that he is unable to describe his responses:
Ja, speziell in Zusammenhang mit der Thematik, die es anspricht mit den
Geschehnissen im 2. Weltkrieg, die gesamte Inszenierung, die ganze……. bin
auf dem Gebiet nicht so versiert. Ich kann’s nicht ausdrücken, also der
gesammte Eindrück ist eben … fasziniert mich. Es passt alles zusammen, und
es passt alles her in den Steinbruch, es ist so ergreifend, dass ich es gar nicht
beschreiben kann.
Had the playwright been familiar with the quarry before scripting the piece, he adds,
he would have guessed that she had written it with this space in mind; he cannot
imagine a piece of theatre that would work better in the space.
Another key force behind the re-opening of the Aflenz quarry to the public is
Franz Trampusch, a local elderly politician and eye-witness to the events which took
place in the quarry during WWII. Trampusch worked untiringly for an inclusion in the
Styrian Landesausstellung of the Roman history of the region, including the
exhibition in the Aflenz quarry entitled ‘2000 Jahre Arbeit’68, and scripted himself the
68
‘[I]ch habe viele Jahre darum gekämpft als Bürgermeister schon von Wagna, dass wir eine
Ausstellung zur Römer Zeit bekommen, weil die Stadt Flavia Slova war sozusagen die erste römische
Stadt hier in der Steiermark und das ist dann gelungen und dieser Römer Stollen oder diese Römer
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laminated placards on the walls of the caverns which inform the visitor of the quarry’s
history. One section of the exhibition is dedicated to the period 1943 – 1945 when the
Nazis transferred their war industry underground after the Allies began to attack
strategic military targets from the air. This section of the exhibition, entitled
‘Sklavenarbeit im 20. Jahrtausend’, focuses on the plight of the concentration camp
prisoners from Mauthausen, moved to a subsidiary camp in Aflenz, who carried out
slave labour in the quarry during that period. Up until the opening of the exhibition in
the quarry in June 2004 this chapter of the region’s history had been largely cloaked
in silence. Although the local community was aware at the time of what was taking
place in their immediate environment, they were, according to Gluschitsch, forced by
the regime to remain silent. Franz Trampusch (in Messner, 2007) gives important
insights in interview into this process of silencing – over decades – an entire
community. He begins with the example of his own mother, who together with her
two young children69 – Trampusch, eight at the time, and his younger sister – and
extended family constituted one of four families who lived within an area around the
entrance to the quarry cordoned off by the Nazis. The families were allowed to
continue living within this ‘Postenkette’ in order to maintain the appearance of normal
rural life from the air. Trampusch explains how he went with his mother to the first
meeting called by Nazi officials in a local inn in 1942 to inform the locals that a
concentration camp would be instituted in the region and that ‘es dort nur
Schwerstverbrecher und Mörder gibt, und jeder Kontakt mit diesen Menschen per
Todesstrafe verboten ist.’ This sufficed to intimidate the locals from the outset, ‘[d]as
war sozusagen der erste Eindruck und die Leute waren auch sehr eingeschüchtert’. He
Höhle war für mich ein Teil dieser Ausstellung’ (Trampusch, 2008).
69
The women were largely living on their own with their children at this stage of the war as by then all
but the elderly men in the region had been conscripted.
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explains then how as a 9-year-old he was taken from his home to witness over 40
executions in the quarry as a means of silencing his mother:
Meine Mutter hat sich einmal furchtbar aufgeregt, da hat ein Häftling vor
lauter Hunger von einem Zwetschkenbaum Blätter runtergerissen und
gegessen. Er wurde an Ort und Stelle erschlagen wegen ah Beschädigung
deutschen Eigentums, obwohl der Baum meiner Mutter ghört hat. Und sie hat
sich dann darüber aufgeregt und wurde selbst eingesperrt, weil das war ja
verboten, drüber zu reden. [...] Man hat die Mutter dann wieder freigelassen,
aber unter der Bedingung, dass ich geholt werde zu Exekutionen, also der
Sohn, damit die Mutter schweigt und sie hat dann a kaum mehr drüber gredet.
Sie hat viel viel später erst wieder drüber gredet, wie viele andere in Aflenz
auch, vor lauter Angst. Und so wurde ich dann zu Exekutionen gholt net, nur
damit die Mutter still ist. Und des hat a funktionert net, also, da hat sie sich
nicht mehr getraut zu reden (Messner, 2007).
The local community was not just intimidated into silence by the Nazis during
their occupation. When the Russians came in 1945 to claim the modern machinery
from the quarry, the former Kapos, who had overseen the slave labour of the prisoners
and gone into hiding once the camp was liquidated, knowing of course where all the
best equipment was located, re-emerged to assist the Russians in their task. They
proceeded to threaten the locals against revealing their identity as war criminals:
Jedenfalls die Kapos waren die großen Chefs auch bei den Russen, denn sie
haben ja genau gewusst, wo die besten Maschinen stehen. Also sie haben ja
das alles gekannt. Und diese Kapos sind gekommen auch zu meiner Mutter
und i kann mich gut an einen erinnern, der einer der grausamsten war, das war
ein Herr Langer aus Leoben, der hat gsagt, wenn ihr erzählts, was ihr gsehn
habts, kommt ihr nach Sibirien. Also das heißt, man hat die Zivilbevölkerung
noch einmal eingeschüchtert, zerst wars die NS, also Verwaltung, die gsagt
hat, ihr kommts ins Konzentrationslager, wenn ihr drüber redets, und 1945
warens die Kapos, die gsagt haben, ihr kommts nach Sibirien, die Russen
nehmen euch mit, net. Daraufhin haben die Leute beschlossen in Aflenz, sie
haben nie was gsehn und ghört (Messner, 2007).
Walter Gluschitsch explains (2004) that the local community now wants the silence,
what Griffin (1994: 8) describes as ‘the unnatural heaviness of unspoken truth’,
surrounding the past to be broken. The current generation feels weighed down by a
sense of guilt for crimes it did not commit, but needs to claim this part of the
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community’s past. For the most part, however, those members of the community who
could speak about the events of the past are either dead or have suppressed the
memories for so long that they scarcely have access to them.70
3.3 Site Report – The Host Building of the Ghost Building
As the spectator’s task is not just to read the piece of theatre in this case but
also the site-sensitive71 space and to consider how the space bestows meaning upon
the piece and vice versa, before going on to take a closer look at the structures of
Speaking Stones I will present my ‘site report’, the aggregation of narratives that arose
out of my investigations. Pearson defines site report as ‘the exposition of evidence
with hypothesis, interpretation, and conclusion’ with a definite bias towards data. He
posits the idea of an alternative site report in the overlap between performance and
archaeology that ‘could embrace other narratives and draw them into dynamic
juxtaposition’ (Pearson and Thomas, 1994: 136). In presenting my site report of the
Aflenz quarry I will reference my own spectator’s bodymind – as an instance of the
70
Walter Gluschitsch tells, for example, of an elderly man he encountered on one of the tours he led
through the quarry, whom he assumed had been part of the Nazi surveillance apparatus in the quarry.
The man indicated to him that he had been in the quarry during that period but despite Gluschitsch’s
best efforts to get the man to communicate further with him on the matter, he did not: ‘Mir selbst ist es
passiert, ich hatte eine Führung mit einer Pensionistengruppe aus Steiermark. Ein grauhaariger,
hagerer, älterer Mann war während der ganzen Führung an meiner Seite. Sein Blick hing an meinen
Lippen und als die Gruppe dann in den Bus stieg, war er der Letzte und …..zum Schluss, sagte er: “Ich
war in der Zeit hier drinnen.” Ich habe dann natürlich, weil ich wusste, wo die Gruppe herkommt,
Nachforschungen angestellt, habe einige Male mit ihm telefoniert aber er war nicht bereit, näher
darüber zu berichten. Ich habe ihn dann gebeten, sollte er, er möge das niederschreiben und in seinem
Nachlass mich dann bedenken. Ich habe dann die letzten Jahre nicht mehr Kontakt mit ihm gehabt. Ich
werde wieder nachfragen, ob er noch unter uns weilt oder ob es im Nachlass etwas gibt. Meiner
Meinung nach hatte er mit Sicherheit etwas mit den Aufsichtspersonen zu tun gehabt, weil er absolut
nicht darüber sprechen wollte.’ Gluschitsch later informed me that the man had died without leaving
any account of his experience.
71
We would describe this piece of theatre as site-senstive as opposed to site-specific, given that it was
not originally created in relation to the space, but once moved into the site it dialogued in a particularly
resonant way with it. Pearson (2001: 23) defines site-specific as follows: ‘Site-specific performances,
[…] “are conceived for, mounted within and conditioned by the particulars of found spaces, existing
social situations or locations, both used and disused’.
125
spectator as meaning-maker – how the space activated it and influenced my reception
of the piece of theatre I was to witness on arriving at the performance space.72
The access to the Roman quarry of Aflenz, situated approximately 10
kilometers from the Slovenian border, is described in a Kleine Zeitung article from
1989 as follows:
Gleich hinter Wagna steigt am anderen Ufer der Sulm ein kleiner Hügel steil
an, ehe er in rund 40 Metern Höhe wieder abflacht und in Aflenz bei Retznei
sanft ausläuft. In diesem von Tourismus und Transit kaum heimgesuchten
reizlosen Dörfchen weist fast nichts darauf hin, was sich im Herzen des
Bergleins außer Grundwasser und Gestein alles verbirgt. Nur wer durch ein
riesiges Tor – zu Fuß, per Auto oder etwa auch mit dem Tieflader – Einlaβ
findet, dem tut sich buchstäblich eine Unterwelt auf. Fernab von 1001 Nacht
und Tutenchamun (Jungwirth, 1989).
The portal referred to that leads to the maze of chambers constituting the quarry is to
be found in a rock wall at the end of a gravel track on this small mountain beyond the
village. The Roman pillar to the left of the massive wooden doors and a plaque
commemorating Caesar Titus Flavius Vespanianus testify to the first use of the stone
by the Romans shortly after the birth of Christ to build the nearby ancient city of
Flavia Solva (where the town of Wagna is now situated). The quarry was first opened
to the public when it came to be used as a performance space in 1989. A music
teacher had become aware of the existence of the underground quarry and enlisted
Gluschitsch’s aid in approaching the company Stein von Grein, the current owners, to
request access for the purposes of staging a concert there.
72
Zarrilli (2009: 180) refers to this process that each spectator (and of course each performer)
underwent en route to the performance space: ‘For the performers and the audience alike, the space
itself becomes an actor/activator – both physically and historically. This sense of activation begins with
the ten minute walk from the parking lot, and the journey into this cold, dark, underground
environment.’
126
Fig. 3.1 The only remaining access to the ‘Römer Höhlen’ beyond the village of
Aflenz. There were formerly four other entrances and the Roman pillar to the left of
the entrance in this photograph was moved from one of those other entrances to this
one. (Photograph: Bernadette Cronin)
On first entering the quarry in October 2004 I am struck by the impact on my
bodymind of moving from the golden daylight, which illuminates the bucolic Styrian
landscape with its picturesque hills and valleys, into the darkness, the transition from
127
pleasant autumnal temperatures of around 20 degrees to the constant 8/9 degrees
celsius of the quarry. These temperatures of themselves do not, of course, pose
Fig. 3.2 A picturesque view of the bank of the river Sulm. (Photograph: Klaus
Seewald)
a challenge to the human body. The atmospheric humidity in the caves, however,
which ranges from around 90% in the summer to 40% in the winter, creates a chilling
dampness that seeps relentlessly into the body the longer one remains underground.
As I move through the exhibition, entitled ‘2000 Jahre Arbeit’, I am informed about
the geological origins of the calcareous sandstone and the history of the quarry during
the period of the Romans, the Middle Ages, through to its appropriation by the Nazis
from 1943 to 1945. I learn that the quarry was first used by the Romans, who seized
the land from the early Celtic settlers, to build the town of Flavia Solva at the
confluence of the rivers Sulm and Mur. The town took its name from the Roman
Caesar who vested it with the Roman city charter, Titus Flavius Vespanianus, and the
river Sulm – Solva – on which it is built. The next recorded use of the quarry occurs
in the 12th Century when it passed into the hands of the
128
Fig. 3.3 Just inside the entrance to the Römer Höhlen, Aflenz. (Photograph: Klaus
Seewald)
archbishops of Salzburg, who had several churches built with its stone in southern
Styria. In the late Gothic and Renaissance periods several more churches and
landmark historic buildings, such as the Stephansdom in Vienna and the Burg in Graz,
were built with this stone from Aflenz.
The work in the quarry to build the ancient Roman city of Flavia Solva was
carried out mostly by slaves and prisoners. This circumstance repeated itself almost
2000 years later: when the first US military planes approached from Foggia in Italy in
the summer of 1943 to drop bombs on strategic military targets in Styria, the quarry
with its area of 8000 square meters was appropriated by the Nazis to be used as an
underground armaments factory. Machines were installed in the quarry’s chambers,
many of which are 10 meters high, which produced gear wheels and crankshafts for
airplane and tank engines for the German Armed Forces. The machines and conveyor
belts were operated by concentration camp prisoners, who were detained in a nearby
subsidiary camp of Mauthausen concentration camp, camouflaged under the name
‘Kalksteinwerk’. There were 49 subsidiary camps of Mauthausen in all, seven of
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which were situated in Styria. This final section of the exhibition is mounted in an
alcove where the ceiling of the quarry is at its lowest. This was a deliberate choice,
Walter Gluschitsch relates, to house this period of the quarry’s history in the most
oppressive part of the caves. The creeping damp and oppressive atmosphere of the
space heighten my sense of mortification as I look at images of the emaciated
concentration camp prisoners displayed on the walls, and meet the gaze of those
whose eyes are focused on the camera.
Fig. 3.4. The images and texts that constitute the exhibition for the most part take the
form of laminated posters mounted on the walls of the caves. Having visited the
quarry in October 2004 and again in June 2008, I noticed that they were disintegrating
due to the high levels of humidity. In some instances this in evident in the
‘photographs of the photographs’, which bears witness to the environment in the
quarry. (Photograph: Bernadette Cronin)
I read that approximately 600 lost their lives of malnutrition and exhaustion in the
quarry that year, in accordance with Himmler’s concept of ‘Vernichtung durch
130
Arbeit’ and that the prisoners’ labour was employed mostly for the annexation of the
caves in the quarry. Those too weak to work were beaten to death or shot on the job.
Fig. 3.5. (Photograph: B. Cronin)
A list of the groups that comprised the body of prisoners of the Mauthausen
concentration camps is displayed on the wall and it includes the following entries:
15,118 Hungarian and Polish Jews, 17,232 civilian workers, mainly from the Sowiet
Union, 68 homosexuals, 196 bible scholars, 13 members of religious orders, 243
members of the Wehrmacht, 2,191 Spaniards, 551 antisocials, 200 Gypsies, 5,144
Soviet prisoners of war and 37,251 political prisoners. Another poster explains the
colour code that categorized the prisoners. When I ask Franz Trampusch to describe
from his memory as a young boy the appearance of the prisoners he replies that apart
from the thin, cotton striped uniform and hat they had to wear all year around73 they
73
‘Die Insassen des Konzentrationslagers haben alle dieses gestreifte Gewand gehabt, so mit blauem
Streifen, so ein grobes, eine grobe Leinwand war das, also sehr dünn, was ja auch in dem Stollen, der 8
131
wore a patch of colour on the sleeve and the chest. The Jews wore yellow and the
political prisoners, red. These two groups were always the first to die. In answer to my
question as to what else he remembers of scenes in the quarry, he speaks of the
acoustics and the atmosphere (Trampusch, 2008):
Es war einmal ein besonders starker Lärm, der fast nicht zu ertragen war, es
sind sehr große Maschinen zur Metallverarbeitung gelaufen, und das Echo, die
Akustik ist ja dort in dem Stollen einmalig, das sieht man ja auch bei
musikalischen Aufführungen, bei Theateraufführungen, und das hat sich
natürlich verstärkt, also das heißt, es war fast nicht auszuhalten, das ist die
eine Geschichte, die zweite war, dass natürlich dieser Stollen voll gefüllt war
mit Menschen, die schwer gearbeitet haben, die Angst gehabt haben, also man
hat schon diese Atmosphäre gespürt.
On another part of the alcove wall I see an image of a rusty handcart, with the
words ‘der Totenkarren’ written underneath. I move up close and read in the text
beside the image that this cart was one of a number used to remove the iron filings
from the milling machine during the day and in the evening to convey the bodies of
those who had died on the job back to the concentration camp, that the prisoners
pulling were frequently forced to sing as they carried out this task.74 As I back away
from the image struggling to integrate this information, I almost collide with an object
I had not seen at first and turn to discover that it is the actual ‘Totenkarren’ standing
there in the dimly lit alcove on the dirt floor of the quarry, exactly as it must have
stood when used by the prisoners, only now it is covered in rust. At first I am
disturbed by the fact that there
Grad zu jeder Jahreszeit gehabt hat, schon einmal ein großes Handikap war, und sie haben auf der
Brust und am Ärmel alle einen farbigen Fleck gehabt. Aufgrund der Farbe wusste man, was man im
Konzentrationslager war, und sie haben alle so eine Mütze gehabt, so ja, die sie tragen mussten, sie
haben alle so eine Uniform angezogen, nich, und sie waren alle unterernährt und blass und krank
aussehend’ (Trampusch, 2008).
74
Franz Trampusch relates in interview (2008) that those not pulling the cart were frequently forced to
carry a stone weighing as much as 60kg: ‘Es waren einige, die immer wieder die Häftlinge dazu
gezwungen haben, ihre Toten singend ins Lager zu bringen, was noch schlimmer war, es waren einige,
die die Häftlinge dazugebracht haben, auch schwere Steine mitzuschleppen ins Lager, die Leute waren
ja sehr entkräftet und trotzdem mussten sie Steine mit 40, 50, 60 Kilo Gewicht mit ins Lager tragen und
am nächsten Morgen wieder zurück zum Steinbruch’. The ostensible reason for this was that it made it
more difficult for prisoners to attempt escape.
132
Fig. 3.6. The colour coding for the different categories of prisoner. (Photograph:
B.Cronin)
is no barrier between my bodymind and this object. It is not encased in any form of
display structure, not mediated by any framing effect such as are used in museums
and art galleries. I find that it is somehow not surveyable: there is no distance between
me and it across which I could gaze and integrate it into some existing cognitive
framework. Gluschitsch tells me that it had been uncovered under a pile of clay and
stone just some months earlier when the alcove was being cleared to mount the
exhibition in June, 2004. Apparently, it had been rumoured for the last 6 decades that
it was buried somewhere in the caves but noone knew where.
133
Fig. 3.7. Image of the object standing the alcove of one of the caves, as I first
encountered it. (Photograph: Phillip Zarrilli)
Another discovery that was made during the clearing of the alcove the
previous summer – again rumoured to have been present somewhere in the quarry – is
the image of a woman’s face chiseled by one of the prisoners into a section of the wall
of the alcove, the anonymous face of the loved one of an anonymous victim75. There
is something almost uncanny about the circumstance that these two remnants, each
possessing a densely layered aura in the Benjaminin sense, were excavated in the very
site where the organizers decided to install the part of the exhibition relating to the
75
Trampusch explains how the image was found (interview, 2008): ‘[D]as mit dem Bild war so, da hat
es ein Gerücht gegeben, dass ein Häftling vor lauter Heimweh das Bild von seiner Frau oder von seiner
Tochter wo eingraviert hat in den Stein, nur haben wir das Bild nie gefunden und wir haben gedacht,
das war nur so eine Erzählung und wie wir das Steinmaterial weggeräumt haben für diese Ausstellung,
ist dieses Bild zum Vorschein gekommen, das war hinter einem Steinhaufen einfach versteckt, wir
haben ja insgesamt an die 40 solche Erinnerungen in den Stollen, und meistens versteckt, also die
Häftlinge haben versucht, sich irgendwie in Erinnerung zu rufen’.
134
Fig. 3.8. Image engraved in the wall of the cave that hosts section 4 of the exhibition
dedicated to the period 1943-45. (Photograph: B. Cronin)
Holocaust, almost as though, like memory-shards, they floated back up to the surface
when the community at large was ready to break the silence, to ‘keep their
appointments in the past’ (W.G. Sebald, 2002: 360). The archaeological imagination
certainly offers itself here as a medium through which to approach this space and the
few objects from former times that are in evidence here. In the following section I will
explore the notion of the ‘aura’ - as seen from an archaeological perspective – first in
relation to the death cart as an emblem of the Nazi project and then to the site in
which it was excavated.
In his essay entitled ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical
Reproduction’ the twentieth century philosopher Walter Benjamin (1982: 222-3)
argues that what is lacking in even the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is
what he calls its ‘aura’. This he describes as ‘its presence in space and time, its unique
existence at the place where it happens to be’. The question of authenticity inevitably
135
poses itself in the context of the aura, and Benjamin describes this as ‘the essence of
all that is transmissible from its beginning, ranging from its substantive duration to its
testimony to the history which it has experienced’. Although the cart was originally
one of many of its kind, a mass-produced object, as it were, it was the only one left
behind in the Roman quarry by the Russians in 1945, thereby acquiring a certain
uniqueness in this context, and I would like to apply this idea of the aura to the death
cart and its photo-reproduction hanging on the wall. In Digging the dirt: The
Archaeological Imagination, Jennifer Wallace (2004:24) draws attention to the
usefulness of Benjamin’s concept of the aura in the context of the archaeological
object. Apart from whatever appeal the object might have had in its original form:
its value for the archaeologist, its aura, comes from its context in the ground
and in time. It gains significance from its position in the soil, its reception
within popular myth or history, the subsequent tales told about it, the historical
information it can offer about owners long since deceased and disappeared.
The Nazis’ death cart, in spite of its duration in time being much too brief to classify
as what would generally be of archaeological interest, fits many of the criteria that
Wallace applies to the archaeological object. Another aberration perhaps is that it only
had one set of ‘owners’ and they are not so very long deceased and disappeared. The
juxtaposition in the exhibition of the object and its reproduction makes the effect of
the aura all too palpable. The photo, infinitely reproducible, displayed in a little
laminated poster, is in itself not particularly powerful. The object, on the other hand,
standing there in the dim light, an emblem of the systematized, rationalized cruelty of
the Nazi project, possesses what could be described as a monstrous aura. Drawing on
the archaeological concept of stratigraphy, used to describe the cultural layering of an
excavated object, we could posit the idea of the layering of the death cart’s aura: the
many hands that pulled it, calloused, sore, their deposits of sweat and skin cells, its
cargo, alternating between the filings that were piled high in it during the day and the
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dead bodies of the victims that lay in it in the evening, the singing that enveloped it,
produced by the exhausted, malnourished
Fig. 3.9 Photograph of the photo-reproduction of the death cart in the quarry
(Photograph: Bernadette Cronin)
bodies that accompanied it as it was wheeled back to the concentration camp. That
kind of layering of its aura stopped there. But frozen in time under the layers of earth
and stone in the quarry, a new layering of the aura began as its specter remained in the
minds of the people down through the following six decades, who knew that it was
buried there somewhere.
I myself might have added another layer to aura of the death cart in the local
people’s consciousness: had I not seen it in time I could have fallen backwards into it,
and had the incident been witnessed, the story might have spread among the local
community of a woman visiting the quarry to see a piece of theatre, who had stumbled
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backwards into the death cart. As far as I am concerned, however, I have added a
layer to the aura of the cart: I am conscious of somehow having taken it back to my
country with me. Branded on my consciousness, it has taken up its place on this other
European soil. My first experience of the Nazis’ death cart in the Roman quarry was
that it visited itself upon me, without my seeking it out, something ‘alien’, breaking
through my lines of defence, reminding me of my implication in the suffering of
others. It almost felt like it had been waiting there for me: like a dark presence in a
dream over which I had no control, it took me by surprise. I could liken it to a
traumatic memory, one subject to its own laws, and not to the laws of conscious
retrieval. This emblem of the Nazi project of extermination through slave labour and
malnutrition defies my comprehension. The only way to look at it, I find, is with ‘a
refusal of psychological understanding’, with ‘a blind gaze’ (Lanzmann in Caruth,
1995: 154). I wonder afterwards how I would have dealt with the experience had I
actually fallen into the death cart, had I imbued it with my bodymind and it left its
imprint on my cells. The source of my unease derives from a sense of being caught in
a dialectical tension between the ‘Heimlichkeit’ and ‘Unheimlichkeit’ of its owners,
the Nazi perpetrators. They are familiar yet strange, both self and other, and even
though I cannot and do not want to be able to understand how they could conceive of
and implement their project, I am compelled to ask myself where the similarity
between them and me ends and to follow Primo Levi’s (2005a:17) dictum of
remembrance: ‘Consider if this is a man / Consider if this is a woman’.
If we posit the death cart as an archaeological object, it follows that the quarry
is an archaeological site and thus has its own aura, as Wallace writes (2004:25)
‘Archaeological sites possess a resonance or “aura” based on what is there now, what
used to be there and what happened in between’. There is very little ‘there now’ in
138
terms of archaeological findings. However, as we are reminded in the first section of
the exhibition, the quarry’s very existence bears testimony to the work of thousands of
pairs of hands, the owners of whom have disappeared, nameless, from history, and to
whom Trampusch dedicated the exhibition:
Die große Mehrheit der Menschen ist im Laufe der Jahrtausenden namenlos
aus der Geschichte verschwunden, da sie weder Goldschmuck noch
Sarkophage oder persönlichen Besitz hinterlassen haben. Doch jeder behauene
Stein, jeder geformte Ziegel trägt Spuren menschlicher Arbeit. In diesen
Höhlen wurden Spuren Jahrtausend langer Arbeit gefunden. Diese kleine
Ausstellung soll daher jenen Zahllosen und namenlosen Menschen gewidmet
sein, die außer der Spuren ihrer harten Arbeit nichts hinterlassen haben.
Der Ausstellungsgestalter, Franz Trampusch
The fact that what is absent is foregrounded in this exhibition further reinforces the
idea of the quarry as an archaeological site, as ‘the archaeological imagination
responds to what is missing rather than to what is there’ (Wallace, 2004: 24).
Between this last section of the exhibition and the performance space are
approximately a further 100m. The spectator’s bodymind continues to be activated by
the quarry, its aura, its history, its chilly dampness. This journey has the quality of a
pilgrimage or a moving meditation; one arrives in the performance space reflecting
upon the fact, to quote Levi again, ‘that this came about’. These reflections make me
aware of the space as a protagonist, the sounds and visual images that are presented to
the spectator, a densely layered presence that is in constant dialogue with the actors,
who have also made this ‘pilgrimage’ before their performance.76 This ‘pilgrimage’
has also made me aware of my spectator’s responsibility as witness and meaning
76
Klaus Seewald references how the site activated his actor’s bodymind before the performance:
‘Der Weg zum Veranstaltungsort bzw. Ort der Aufführung, der einen vorbeiführt an dem Stahlkarren
und den Bildern, die von der Geschichte dieses Ortes zeugen, in die stets gleichbleibende, konstante
Kälte und Dunkelheit des Steinbruchs, ist schon ein eigener und unvergesslicher Beginn einer
Aufführung, dem sich ein/e Schauspieler/in wohl nur schwer entziehen kann. Eine Vorbereitung, die
keine aktive ist, sondern vielmehr das zwangsläufige Eintauchen in die Unterwelt des Steinbruchs von
Aflenz und seiner Geschichte.’
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maker. In being a witness to the live performance I am party to the creation of ‘the
joint text’ (Lehmann, 2006: 17) between the actors and the spectators. In the
following I will present my reading of Speaking Stones in the site-sensitive site. In
reading the piece I will make reference to Pearson and Shanks’s (2001: 26-27)
description of the subtle practice of assemblage, ‘a stratigraphy of pattern and
Fig. 3.10. The last section of the passage through the quarry which leads to the area
used as a performance space. (Photograph: B. Cronin)
detail’, described as follows:
Pattern only gains dramatic coherence through a judicious use of dynamics,
modulations of speed, intensity, rhythm, mounting tension, pushing on and
pulling back, energy expenditure, relaxation. Set one level of dynamics, of
energy expenditure, at the outset and we may run the risk of alienating the
audience, however intense that be. We may need a more subtle graph of speed,
exertion, intensity, rhythm……And the use of ruptures – sudden unexpected
changes in direction, emphasis, rhythm – will serve as a shock, a refocusing.
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A third notion forwarded by Pearson and Shanks (2001: 1) that I will reference –
specifically in relation to apprehension of performance – is ‘sensorium’, the seat of
sensation in the brain.
Fig. 3.11. The performance space.77 (Photograph: B. Cronin)
4.1 Performance Analysis
On arriving at the performance space the spectator was invited to make use of
a heavy woolen blanket to protect against the cold damp air while seated during the
performance. One bank of seats facing the performance area constituted the seating
area for the audience. Preset in the initially very dimly lit performance area were:
Miscellaneous stones and two dry stone walls – one upstage. A second about
half-way upstage, and across approximately one half of the stage width,
inside/in front of which are three chairs and a bench. Three other chairs, and
a television set on a stand are also visible at the sides of the space, dispersed
(O’Reilly, 2002: 2).
Structure 1: ‘Preset’
At the beginning of the performance the audience first hears the sound of the actors’
voices in the distance singing a mourning song from Crete before seeing them emerge
in a slow procession – 6 faint figures clad in functional, light-coloured dress – from
the back of the large cavern in which the performance space is situated. As the light
fades to black one of the figures slowly crosses the stage holding a large clock in her
77
Due to the lack of light in the back of the cavern, it is scarcely possible to get a clear sense from this
image of the dimensions or the ‘aura’ of the performance space.
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left hand, as the others disappear into the wings. The figures to seem to be released
from and then reabsorbed back into the rock formation of the cavern, human
embodiments of stones as witnesses to and records of the experiences of those who
have passed through the quarry. The large clock in the hand of the sixth performer
points to the passage of time, on the one hand, invoking the long line of generations
throughout the two millennia whose hands created this large ‘wound’ in the earth. On
the other hand, the shiny ticking object stands out as an incongruity in the midst of the
timelessness of the shared experience of those who passed through the quarry.
Structure 2: ‘Bewilderment’
This structure consists in the main of a psycho-physical score only, against the
backdrop of a sound score – ‘Monk Drone’ (O’Reilly, 2002). Still in darkness and
silence, the audience hears first the sound of faint breathing in the dark. As the light
fades up – down / dump light – but remaining low, we see the actors swaying, one
foot positioned on a stone, mouths open wide, gaze upwards. (Because of the
humidity in the cave the actors’ breath is always visible when they speak or are
breathing with their mouths open as in this structure.) The sound fades up, increasing
in volume, and then fades again as the figure with the clock, who continues a slow
walk through the swaying ‘mouthless dead searching for love’ (O’Reilly, 2002),
completes her journey. When the sound fades we hear again only the actors’ breathing
before the light fades again to black. After a beat, then, a burst of laughter penetrates
the darkness, first from one woman, then together with a second. The laughter mounts
to a wild cacophony. First one fades to silence, then the other fades to a giggle before
cutting suddenly to silence.
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The gaping mouths cast upwards – pleading to be filled – bespeak trauma and
loss: holes blown in the bodyminds of the figures who stand for so many other
figures. Their destabilized swaying bodies, lack balance or equilibrium. They are
trapped, suspended in a time zone that is outside of chronological time, represented by
the slow, steady journey of the seemingly unseeing figure that treads a path through
them carrying a clock. It could be read as a visual representation of the simultaneity of
the two incompatible worlds that exist in the trauma survivor, as L.L. Langer writes
(in Caruth, 1995: 177) ‘[Trauma] stops the chronological clock and fixes the moment
permanently in memory and imagination, immune to the vicissitudes of time’. He
describes the impossibility for one Holocaust survivor he encountered (in Caruth,
1995: 176):
It can… never be joined to the world he inhabits now. This suggests a
permanent duality, not exactly a split or a doubling but a parallel existence. He
switches from one to the other without synchronization because he is reporting
not a sequence but a simultaneity.
Not having been integrated into narrative memory, the traumatic experience remains
outside of time. The burst of disembodied laughter, then, breaking through the
darkness has the force of a shock to the spectator’s senses, a rupture, which again
points to a loss of balance or equilibrium. According to Baudelaire (in Caruth: 1995:
244) the loss of balance involved in laughter ‘can be traced back to mankind’s
universal fallen condition with respect to a transcendental principle of unity and
wholeness’. The shock of laughter for Baudelaire – the ‘choc perpétuel’ – Caruth
writes (1995: 244) designates in his text, ‘the loss of equilibrium that is always
entailed by an actual fall into history, where history itself can be experienced only
nonteleologically as a constant falling. In this scene the fall into history that is
experienced as a constant falling, is first represented on a visual level by the figures
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suspended in a state of imbalance and then on the level of sound by the shock that is
laughter. The content works both on the level of sensorium and intellect.
Structure 3: ‘Leaving’
This structure opens with five of the figures seated and facing out towards the
audience, they sit silently, some with travel bags, or suitcases at their feet, sometimes
reaching out tentatively for something or someone that is not there. They gaze ahead
as though trying to penetrate the darkness. From stage right a sixth figure enters going
from one of them to the next, apprehending each in turn mindfully before placing his
hand or hands on their shoulders. Those seated respond almost imperceptibly to the
touch, but there is no verbal communication as they continue to gaze ahead into the
darkness. Perhaps he represents a lost loved one they search for in vain in the
darkness. When he reaches the fourth seated figure, the fifth takes a violin, stands and
silently invites the other two to dance. They dance a slow, joyless dance, a kind of
anti-dance or death dance, as the sixth begins to speak, explaining that the one thing
never to reveal is your name. Once ‘they’ have that and call you, you have no choice
but to respond. His partner pulls away from him, slaps him on the face and goes to
leave with another figure. The narrator continues with the story of how his father
earned a living by picking stones from fields that belonged to others to make their
land more arable. It was a thankless, Sisyphean task, as each year they seemed to
wander back from the edges of the fields to take back up their position in the soil.
Finally he leaves with another figure, both taking suitcases with them. One figure is
left seated, still gazing out into the darkness, before the scene fades to black.
These figures, in a quasi Beckettian landscape, pausing on their way from
nowhere and headed nowhere, are clearly united by their experience of trauma, loss
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and displacement. They represent ‘a gathering of the wounded’, to use Kai Erikson’s
phrase (in Caruth, 1995: 186-7), as he explains in the context of his work with
communities of trauma victims:
[E]strangement becomes the basis for communality, as if persons without
homes or citizenship or any other niche in the larger order of things were
invited to gather in a quarter set aside for the disfranchised, a ghetto for the
unattached.
While just one of the figures communicates some fragments of his story, it is clear the
others would also have stories to tell, we just do not hear them.
Structure 4: ‘Footsteps’
This structure, which consists purely of a psycho-physical score partly set to music,
opens with a rupture: out of the darkness and silence come the sounds of a stone wall
crashing down. As the lights fade up the company of actors is revealed in a dusty
monochrome light advancing slowly in a staggered formation towards the pile of
rubble. This consists of the stones that made up the second wall and the chairs over
which they have tumbled down. The figures’ mouths, first clamped shut, open wide as
they struggle over the pile of rubble, straining under the weight of something invisible
they seem to cradle in their arms. The soundscape is a traditional Korean instrumental
version of Pachelbel’s Canon, and while it retains its melodious quality, the staccato
effect of the plucked strings creates a sense of disjointed rhythm. The actors slowly
and silently assume erect positions as the music fades to silence and they begin to sign
in unison the following: ‘footsteps’, ‘dead’, ‘carry’ and ‘love’ (O’Reilly, 2002). They
gaze ahead towards the audience and into the dark. Finally, still in unison they begin
to retreat slowly backwards into the darkness.
The opening and shutting mouths of the figures enact a wound, as do their
empty arms which could be cradling the absent bodies of lost loved ones, their
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straining under the ‘weight’ of the emptiness bespeaking their trauma. The transition
to silence, the silent signing in unison and the steady gaze of the actors towards the
spectators have the effect of shifting the focus from the activity of the physicalization
of loss and redirecting it towards the spectator and the space around. The intensity of
the figures’ focus, their entire bodyminds seeming to listen to the surrounding dark,
silent space and their gaze challenging the spectator to listen with them, bring the
nameless dead of the quarry rushing into the spectator’s consciousness, as the actors
back away into the darkness as though to join the countless faceless and nameless
others who ‘inhabit’ the caves. Although the spectator may not understand on the
level of cognition what the signing signifies, a profound ‘joint text’ emerges between
actor and spectator, as the actors’ bodyminds seem, to quote Zarrilli (1997: 103), to be
‘precariously counterpoised and counterbalanced “on the edge of breath”’.
Structure 5: ‘Internment’
Internment presents two different modes of performance. The three female actors
positioned crouching behind massive stones to the rear of the space, facing outwards,
are lit from below. They each wear a kind of headscarf that gestures towards a female,
quasi-peasant status. The stones or boulders divide the performance space and
performance modes. In front of the stones one of the male actors sits in profile in a
large armchair facing a television, which he presently gets up to switch on. The title
music of the television series ‘Dallas’ is heard playing very low. As the women
slowly sink to their knees they struggle intermittently to articulate something, but only
produce explosive, strangled sounds. Once on their knees they begin to utter
monologic, disjointed fragments, microscopic details from anonymous lives, for
example, ‘Her shoe, unlaced beneath the table’, ‘When I saw him lying there, he was
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smiling’, ‘It was a silly argument – some cross words’ (O’Reilly, 2002). When they
finish, the two other male actors enter – laughing convulsively – to join the first. They
are wearing belts for weapons, gesturing to a military status. They tell of their
experience of entering the houses of the displaced, as though it were a source of
enormous hilarity, laughing wildly at each other’s additions. This exchange closes as
follows:
A: Sometimes they travel separately. Women silent at the destination, the men
yet to arrive. Being told to be patient, there was a diversion, a delay.
Pause
C: They’ll have a long fucking wait. (All laugh) (O’Reilly, 2002).
This structure again thematises the incompatibilities that characterize the
traumatized mind. The two scenes constitute two parallel worlds, one happening in
‘real time’ in front of the rocks, and the other suspended in the now behind. The
women addressing first their stymied attempts to speak, to testify to their stories, and
then their fragments of stories out towards the audience reflect the spectator back to
herself and also cast into relief the character-based scene that takes place in the space
between. As the ‘soldiers’ laugh convulsively at the plight of the women who will
wait at their destination in vain for their dead men, the silent watchful figures, the
light from below making their eyes seem like huge dark hollows, become projection
surfaces for the women the men refer to. Again, the laughter is a sign of ‘a choc
perpétual’, ‘the explosive collision of two irreducible infinities’ (Newmark in Caruth,
1995: 242) contained in human consciousness, infinite misery on the one hand ‘by
comparison to the Supreme Being of which it possess only the conception’, and
infinite grandeur, on the other, ‘by comparison to the natural world’ (Newmark in
Caruth, 1995: 241). The laughter, which as Newmark (in Caruth, 1995: 251) writes,
‘is not necessarily a laughing matter’, is indicative of both the women’s trauma and
that of the soldiers, in that ‘it always refers to its inability to occur as anything other
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than a compulsively repeated reference that is never allowed to come to rest in the
fullness of a final meaning’.
Structure 6: ‘Marching and Singing’
Structure 5 transitions straight into structure 6: as the sound of ‘Power of One’ fades
up over the laughter. I quote the stage directions, ‘All melt into music. The rhythm is
picked up in feet as they stamp’ (O’Reilly, 2002). As the male actors stand facing out
stamping a quick rhythm to the beat of the music the women rise in the background,
remove their head-gear and come forward to join the men in a similar stamping mode.
Powerful search lights come up from the back of the cavern casting the actors into
dark silhouette as they come downstage in unison, parting three and three at the pile
of rubble centre stage to come around it and advance further downstage toward the
audience, their movements stiff, jerky and rhythmical throughout. As the music fades
out, the back lighting cuts out and the actors are lit with a warm, gentle redish light
from in front. Without pause they begin to sing in harmony a Carinthian folk song
about the joy of being in a mountain idyll:
In die Berg bin i gern. Und do gfreit si mei gmiad. Wo die olmreslan woxn,
und da enzian bliat, wo die olmreslan woxn und da enzian bliat (O’Reilly,
2002).
At the end of the song, a subtle lighting shift to a colder colour presents the actors
standing in silence before the audience and then slowly in unison they begin to raise
both arms in front of them to shoulder height, at which point, after a beat, they let
stones drop to the ground that have been concealed in their hands.
The rhythmic advancing downstage of the silhouetted figures has a powerful
kinaesthetic effect on the spectator, the tension mounting as they come closer.
Because they can be perceived only as indeterminate figures without faces, they are
interchangeable, can stand for any party of people moving in unison, bound by the
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rhythm of the music. They could call to mind for instance the marching of the
concentration camp prisoners as they return from their day’s labour, their feet swollen
and covered in sores from the deadly wooden shoes they were forced to wear, as
described by Levi in the context of his Auschwitz experience (2005a: 36):
They walk in columns of five with a strange, unnatural hard gait, like stiff
puppets made of jointless bones; but they walk scrupulously in time to the
band.
Or likewise, they could call to mind a company of soldiers. The shift in dynamics
signaled by the abrupt transition to song could read as a representation of the swift
transition in post-war Austria from Nazi perpetrator or sympathizer to a sanitized selfimage: the meticulously rendered harmonious singing of the folk song conjures up the
carefully fabricated image of ‘heile Welt’, the ‘Heimatfilme’ of the 1950s, Julie
Andrews as Maria with her pupils in The Sound of Music, for example, which Austria
projected in order to deflect away from the immediate past. Another abrupt transition
then to complete silence, the actors’ gaze towards the spectator and the raising of the
arms in unison apparently sent a shock wave through some of the older spectators,
who communicated to cast members that at this point they anticipated the ‘heil Hitler’
salute. Whatever the silent sequence communicated to the individual spectator, it had
the effect of stripping away the mask of identification with an idyll.
Structure 7: ‘United Fucking Nations’
Again, structure 6 transitions straight into structure 7: a shift in lighting and
performance mode where the men remove their belts and all take up a position on the
ground to explore piles of stones at their feet. While carrying out this activity two of
the men tell fragments of stories from the traumatizing lives of soldiers deployed in
foreign war-torn territories, the experience of entering the homes of the displaced,
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finding isolated traces, fragments of the lives that used to be at home there: ‘A birth
certificate, a love letter and a fucking tax bill. Just that. No more’ (O’ Reilly, 2002).
One of the female actors asks at this point: ‘What’s that to say for someone’s life?’
(O’Reilly, 2002), and after repeating the question, the three female actors rise, back
away first and then turn and run upstage to the back of the cave, where they are lit,
pinned to the wall in varying physical attitudes. One of the male actors then quotes
from the love letter: ‘My darling, you must remember – there is no fear only love’, a
sentiment which is eschewed by the other: ‘Saying it like a mantra, a fucking prayer
in some ditch…’ (O’ Reilly, 2002). At this point the other picks up the sentiment and
repeats it as though compulsively and then all the actors join in, the women running
back downstage to form a chanting group with the male actors, as the tempo and
volume mount to a crescendo before freezing suddenly to silence. After a beat, one of
the male actors reverses the ‘mantra’, ‘There is no love, only fear’ (O’Reilly, 2002),
which is followed by a blackout.
This scene first has a meditative quality, as the tension of the previous
structure gives way to the mindful exploration of the stones. It is as though the
meditation on the stones allows memory shards to be released, fragments of stories
that stones might tell if they could speak. One of the ‘soldiers’ recounts how he spent
an afternoon in someone’s former home doing a jigsaw puzzle, ‘I would have fucking
cried if I wasn’t laughing’ (O’ Reilly, 2002). The actor enacts the attempt to
reassemble the fragments of the lives that have been unmade by war and trauma. Out
of the state of emergency created by the actors’ desperate insistence that love
conquers fear, comes the cold realization that fear in fact conquers love. The
transition to black and silence leaves the spectator alone in the dark with this thought.
Structure 8: ‘Semiotics of Zero’
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As the lights come up downstage one actor kneels with a bowl of water beside the
supine body of another, ‘washing’ the dead body with a stone. Behind them, seated,
are three other performers. Upstage right a desk light is switched on to reveal a figure
at a lectern. As Bach’s 1st Cantata for Altos fades up the washer begins to wash while
the three figures behind begin to make circular movements with their arms, their
whole bodies reaching as though for something or someone that is not there. In the
background the figure at the lectern discusses in an evenly modulated voice the
problem of the absence of a cipher that would best inscribe absence, ‘The most
elemental solution, the ur-mark of absence, is an instance of an iconographic hole;
any simple enclosure, ring, circle, ovoid, loop, and the like, which surrounds an
absence and divides space into an inside and an outside’ (O’Reilly, 2002). When the
speaker has finished speaking, the dead body, now representing stone taken from the
earth, ground, mixed, fashioned into a bathroom tile, sits up and addresses the
audience: ‘You think it is over? Who is fenced in? Who is fenced out? Who is it now
who lives in fear?’ (O’Reilly, 10). When he has finished speaking, the light fades to
black.
This structure, which draws on a text by Brian Rotman, ‘The Semiotics of
Zero’ represents a juxtaposition of attempts on two levels to grasp absence, one
through the body and the other through the mind. The figures downstage use their
arms to reach for the absent one who remains beyond their grasp using gestures that
draw a hole or a zero in the empty space. Behind them, the calm rational voice of the
figure at a lectern representing scientific enquiry as a means of exploration, also fails.
The gap between the two modes of inquiry, it could be argued, points to the nature of
massive psychic trauma and the difficulty of integrating traumatic experiences into
existing meaning schemes. The figures’ elegiac, hopeless configurations in space,
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which enact the impossibility of grasping that which is gone and the melancholic
inability of letting go, underline the futility of language and rationality as a means to
penetrate the darkness and assign meaning. All we are left with is the contemplation
of the invisible spaces drawn by the dancers’ arms in the air, unmarked spaces that the
lost ones might occupy for an instant in the spectator’s imagination. The final address
from the actor-as-stone on the ground likewise challenges our sense of the supremacy
of the human mind and its ability to contain, explain, harness, and its tendency to
eschew chaos.
Stucture 9: ‘Chair Stones’
As the lights come up on the actors in structure 9 they are all positioned in varying
physicalizations of stones on chairs, which are placed in a straight line facing the
spectators. The sound track is a piece of Korean meditation music. Occasionally all
seem to experience something like a spark or a shudder through their bodies. Three in
turn ‘melt from stone to human’ (O’Reilly, 2002) as such a shudder signals an
impulse to speak. Once they have finished speaking, they ‘melt’ back to stone.
This structure thematizes the relationship between trauma and language, and
trauma and melancholia. The first figure speaks of alienation and dislocation from a
familiar linguistic environment due to displacement. This section is taken from
Griffin’s A Chorus of Stones (1992: 77):
I have often wondered what it would be like to be a refugee, to find oneself
suddenly in a place where no one knew the same names for things. I would
have to learn a new language but always there would be a longing for the old
words. And perhaps at night, falling off to sleep, to comfort myself, I would
whisper certain sounds: Leaf, river, doorbell, cup.
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The second figure is driven by a more urgent need to relate her experience of being
overwhelmed by the need she has encountered in a homeless family for whom the
signifier ‘home’ has become dislocated from the signified:
[…] and I asked them, ‘Why don’t you go home?’ but they looked at me like I
spoke another language. ‘Home’, I said, but they didn’t understand the word, it
was old, outside their vocabulary, a definition didn’t exist in their dictionary.
So I repeated it – home, casa, and one laughed and said home, Lucifer,
burning. Gone.
The speaker’s tempo and sense of urgency increases as she expresses the
overwhelming effect of the encounter:
All those mewling mouths open with want. Fingers like little fish hooks,
catching at your clothes, snagging in your skin – pulling, tugging, ‘I want! I
want! The need!
This sequence enacts a common need among trauma victims to communicate their
traumatic experiences in order to reverse the state of being possessed by the events, as
Dori Laub writes:
There is in each survivor an imperative need to tell and thus to come to know
one’s story, unimpeded by ghosts from the past against which one has to
protect oneself. One has to know one’s buried truth in order to be able to live
one’s life.
The third figure tells a story about his lost love: she requests from him a handkerchief
and when he returns with it she is gone, ‘the door was open, the house was empty and
you were gone’ (O’Reilly, 2002). As the figure melts back to stone he pushes the
handkerchief into his mouth. In doing this he represents performatively the nature of
melancholia as described by Freud (1991: 258) in Mourning and Melancholia.
According to Freud, when the subject is unable to withdraw the libido from the lost
object, fails to displace it onto another object, it becomes withdrawn into the ego and
establishes an identification of the ego with the lost object:
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[T]he ego wants to incorporate this object into itself, and, in accordance with
the oral or cannibalistic phase of libidinal development in which it is, it wants
to do so by devouring it.
Here the actor enacts the identification of the ego with the lost object by engorging
the handkerchief that stands for his lost love. This sequence might resonate very
clearly for the spectator with the engraving on the wall of the cave of the anonymous
woman by one of the Mauthausen concentration camp prisoners s/he passed earlier on
the way to the performance space (see fig. 3.8).
Structure 10: Interrogation
In this structure the three female actors face out towards the audience and seem to
address an invisible silent interrogator. The male actors remain rock-like, further
upstage with their backs to the audience. One woman protests her ability and her
desire to work for her living; she does not want to take in exchange for doing nothing.
Another tells of a mother’s desire for a better world for her child, how when having a
child to care for ‘you see the order of things – and your place within that order’. A
third witnesses to her inability to speak about the things she has experienced, ‘I can’t
tell you….I’m sorry, I’m sorry…. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you’. She hints at a rape that
she and the other young women in her village were subjected to, ‘[t]hey came into our
village and rounded up all the girls’ (O’Reilly, 2002). This third figure represents the
state of being possessed by the trauma, which she has not managed to integrate into
her narrative memory and relegate to the past. She is not able to give coherent
testimony as she has not managed to reconstitute the internal ‘thou’, as Dori Laub
expresses it (in Caruth, 1995: 70):
The testimony is […] the process by which the narrator (the survivor) reclaims
his position as a witness: reconstitutes the internal ‘thou’, and thus the
possibility of a witness or a listener inside himself.
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If the survivor fails to undergo this process s/he is in danger of becoming what Levi
terms the ‘damned of the earth’ (2005c:185):
The traumatized mind holds on to that moment, preventing it from slipping
back into its proper chronological place in the past and relives it over and over
again in the compulsive musings of the day and the seething dreams of the
night.
This structure has a gender-specific character: posited as suppliants before an
interrogating force and set against the backdrop of unyielding, anonymous male
backs, it calls to mind how women specifically are victimized in situations of war –
abandoned, preyed upon, left to rebuild the wreckage and fend for themselves and
their children on their own. The soundscape throughout this scene – the ‘Nosferatu
Gong’ – creates a sense of unrelenting danger, a call to remembrance and mindfulness
that women continually find themselves in such situations in the war-torn parts of our
world.
Structure 11: ‘Why did you leave?’
The piece ends in what could be described as a state of high emergency, thematising
how pain destroys language. Facing the audience three actors sit downstage with three
others standing behind them holding frames around the upper part of their bodies, as
though they were images of absent loved ones, or perhaps split into two parallel and
irreconcilable selves by their trauma. The three actors in front begin to sign the
following: ‘Why did you leave? Why did you not want me? Why did you not want
us? Words…destroyed’ (O’Reilly, 2002). The signing begins slowly and in silence,
gradually gaining momentum as the actors first begin to mouth the text and then
whisper it. As the gestures and aspirated and voiced sounds gain in momentum and
urgency the three behind let the picture frames fall to the ground and join in. The
tempo and volume gain in momentum and the faces and bodies of the actors become
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convulsed, as though driven to this frantic state by the lack of response from
unresponding or unavailable addressees. As the desperate questions are addressed out
towards the audience, the spectator’s bodymind is hit by the full force of this
ferocious need. At a moment of high crescendo, the actors suddenly cut to silence and
freeze. The image of the six actors with bodies and faces contorted, gazing towards
the spectator, is held for a moment in a sepia wash of light, like an old yellowed
photograph. In the resounding silence the space and its history once again rushes into
the spectator’s consciousness before an abrupt cut to darkness. This rapid shift had the
effect of leaving a negative of the ‘photograph’ burned onto the retina of the
spectator’s eye. Levi’s call to remembrance, Benjamin’s call for a state of emergency
to be created as the only hope of winning the war against fascism, and Adorno’s
pronouncement that since Auschwitz ‘the need to enable suffering to speak [has been]
the precondition of all truth’ (Adorno xviii) come to mind here.
The dramatic coherence of Speaking Stones was organized along the principles
of dynamics – drawing on a palate of sound, light, movement and text fragments –
rather than story. The ‘subtle graph of speed, exertion, intensity, rhythm’ (Pearson and
Shanks: 2001: 26-27) and ruptures allowed the spectator to make meaning, to fill the
gaps and holes in the fragmentary montage. It would be difficult having seen the piece
to give an account of it, produce a narrative around it. The montage breaks back up
into fragments once the performance has passed, as Pearson and Shanks (2001: 55)
write,
What begins as a series of fragments is arranged in performance: dramaturgy
is an act of assemblage. It then immediately falls to pieces as traces and
fragments of a different order, ranging from documentary photographs to the
memories of its participants: fragments/order/fragments.
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The piece functioned more on a somatosensory or iconic level, which is why Walter
Gluschitsch was unable to explain why it affected him so much, it somehow got under
his skin; he could not ‘organise’ it on a linguistic level. I would like to posit the idea
of Speaking Stones as a montage of ‘stories of wounds that cry out’, which are
ultimately always the same story, the story of a hole blown in the bodymind of a
human being. The quarry, which itself could be characterized as a wound that has
begun to cry out in recent years, a hole blown in the belly of a mountain, was not the
only site within which the piece was intelligible, making it site-sensitive as opposed to
site-specific. The site, however, re-contextualised the piece, to use Pearson/Shanks’
(2001: 23) expression, interpenetrating narratives jostled to create meaning. The
images and impressions the spectator brought with her from the journey through the
quarry formed a palimpsest with the piece, the experience of one being filtered
through the other, the site with its deeply layered aura emerging as the primary actor,
to quote the director (Zarrilli, 2006a):
Performed deep within one of the large, central caverns of the quarry, the
primary actor here became the space itself as the quarry’s walls and ceilings
are sounded and illuminated--as if for the first time, summoning forth its Nazi
past and bringing that past into the present realities of south-central Europe. It
was not to literally “tell” this history, but to “resonate” with that particular
history in the images, voices, fragments, words, and tasks offered by Speaking
Stones. Aflenz offers moments and glimpses backward and forward through
time. The impact of Speaking Stones in Aflenz is in the actual play of light,
shadow, and sound along the caverns’ walls, ceilings and some of the massive
stones cut from within.
While the spectator had an individual experience of how the space bestowed
meaning upon the piece, it would be difficult to measure the reverse: how was this
space, and by extension the community so closely connected to it, affected by this
piece of theatre? We could read it as a further event in the acts of disturbance carried
out by Franz Trampusch and his colleague, Walter Gluschitsch, who do not cease in
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their efforts to make known the history of the quarry and to speak with the younger
generations about what took place there. The excavation work, a further act of
disturbance, they had carried out in the quarry, which produced the shards from the
past, has had its counterpart in an act of disturbance in the sedimented consciousness
of their community. Having witnessed the reactions of some of the local community,
an elderly woman on walking sticks, who refused the offer of help to lead her to the
performance space because, as she explained, she knew her way around in the quarry,
or another elderly woman seated in the front row who, overcome with emotion, had to
bury her face in her hands several times during the performance,78 it was clear that for
some of those among the local community who saw the piece, it had something in the
realm of a cathartic effect. Walter Gluschitsch’s reference to his community’s need
for the silence to be broken amounts to a need for some kind of catharsis or
intervention in their history and by association the history of the quarry and its
environs, which brings us back to the idea of the actor as a conduit or channel. For
some of the actors, the performances of Speaking Stones in the quarry clearly
constituted something like an intervention in history, an act of disturbance in the lives
of those who – now long dead – left the traces of their labour in the walls of the
quarry and by association those who inherited a past they have had difficulty in
reclaiming. Uschi Litschauer (2004) relates how she drew on images of the
concentration camp prisoners to inform her performance work, which she dedicated it
to them:
Persönlich haben mich das Trauerlied am Beginn, das ich für die Gefangenen
gesungen habe, ‘Bewilderment’: unsere Geste mit der Hand nach Liebe zu
suchen, den Mund zu öffnen und quasi ein atmender Schornstein zu werden
und ‘Footsteps of the Dead carrying love’ am meisten berührt an diesem Ort
zu spielen. Ich habe in Andenken an diese unbekannten und vergessenen
Menschen gespielt, die hier arbeiten mussten und umgekommen sind.
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One of the performers, Monika Zöhrer, told me after that particular performance that this spectator’s
emotional reactions almost overwhelmed her at various stages during the performance.
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For Christian Heuegger (2004) a sense of intervention in history was most particularly
pronounced as he testifies in his reflections on the question of the dialogue between
site and piece:
Der Steinbruch mit seiner Vergangenheit war ein ganz spezieller Ort für dieses
Stück, weil Speaking Stones die Geschichte dieses Ortes, der unterirdischen
Fabrik im Steinbruch von Wagna erzählt in der hunderte Menschen ihr Leben
gelassen haben. Jeder Blick streift Mauern und Steine, die das nicht nur
mitangesehen haben. Ich hatte im Stück selbst immer wieder das Gefühl, dass
all die Vorfälle die im Berg und auf den Feldern davor geschehen sind, wo das
Außenlager von Mauthausen war, noch immer dort gespeichert sind. Stille
Schreie der Menschen, die dort die Höhlen des Römersteinbruchs vergrößert
und für die Fabrikation von Flugzeug und Fahrzeugteilen nutzbar gemacht
wurden. Jedes Stück Felsen trägt die Inschrift eine Pickels, der von Hand
geführt wurde und jeder Quadratmeter is voll von den Riefen, die das
metallene Werkzeug in den Sandstein gerissen hat.
Besonders eindrucksvoll war die letzte Aufführung im Römersteinbruch, weil
ich das Gefühl hatte, vor den versammelten Seelen, die dort Zwangsarbeit
verrichten mussten, zu spielen, die gekommen waren, um Speaking Stones zu
erleben, und während der ganzen Aufführung glaubte ich Raunen, Murmeln
und Schritte zu hören.
Zusätzlich dazu waren immer wieder Menschen aus der Umgebung, die das
Stück durch den bekannten Kontext einfach anders aufnehmen. Ich
Glaube, dass es durch den Ort und die Verbundenheit mit den
Auswirkungen des Krieges, die für jederman und jedefrau sichtbar,
spürbar sind im Steinbruch von Wagna, einfach an Kraft gewinnt,
damit es nicht nur ein Theaterstück ist sondern sehr dramatisch in
die Herzen der Menschen dringt, so das Erinnern ermöglicht. (erinnern
= spanisch - recordar, wieder ins Herz führen) (Christian Heuegger, 2005)
Following on from the performances of Speaking Stones in the Römer Höhlen,
Heuegger initiated a collaboration between the company and the ‘Büro für
Erinnerungen’, which was established in 2003 when Graz was European cultural
capital, on a project entitled ‘Spuren der Erinnerung’. A series of interviews with eye
witnesses in the area of Aflenz were carried out, and in June 2008 Theater Asou
performed a new piece of work in the quarry – Unknown Origin – which spoke to
issues that came to light in the interviews. We could conclude, then, that Speaking
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Stones was also ‘an act of disturbance’ with further repercussions and reverberations,
and therefore an important intervention in the history of the caves and the community
living around them.
CHAPTER FOUR
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Es geht um persönliche Wurzelsuche und Rückgewinnung, um individuelle Geschichte
und damit Identität, um das, was uns, die wir nach dem Krieg Geborene sind,
verschwiegen wurde, um das, was wir bereits verloren glaubten... (Eva Brenner)
Auf der Suche nach Jakob / Searching for Jacob / Szukajac Jakuba, a trilingual79
collaboration between the Projekt Theater Studio Vienna and Lee Breuer of Mabou
Mines, New York, premiered in Vienna at the Projekt Theater Studio in the Burggasse
38 on 1 April 2003, and toured to the Teatr Łaznia Nowa Kraków the following June
as part of the ‘Polish Year in Austria 2002/2003’. This was a two-part performance,
consisting of two devised pieces drawing on the same research material, presented
one after the other with a brief interval in-between.
Searching for Jacob is concerned with memory-work as theatre. This is not
memory in the sense of a chain of events that are readily retrievable and narratable but
rather the exploration of the after-effects in the present of a past that cannot be
recaptured because it was kept silent. The past in question relates specifically to the
director Eva Brenner. Hers, however, is a history like many others of her generation
in Austria: family life was characterized by silence and the withholding of histories,
which, as in so many families like hers, created a whole new complex of problems. As
Dori Laub (in Caruth, 1995: 64) writes, ‘[T]he “not telling” of the story serves as a
perpetuation of its tyranny. The events become more and more distorted in their silent
retention and pervasively invade and contaminate the survivor’s daily life’. Brenner is
one of a generation who vicariously experienced events surrounding the Holocaust,
79
The spoken elements of the pieces were largely in German, but a Polish member of the cast spoke in
Polish and there were also passages rendered in English. The trilingual aspect was in keeping with the
themes of the collaboration in question but also with the general intercultural and interlingual approach
of the company.
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whose life was shaped by the silence in her family. The history got lost to a large
extent, but the after-effects, the ‘post-memories’, got handed down and became, what
James Young (2000: 1) calls, ‘hypermediated experiences of memory’. As referred to
above in Chapter 2, Young examines the work of a post-war generation of artists and
architects in the context of Germany’s Holocaust Memorial project and how these
artists give expression to their vicarious experience of the Holocaust. Brenner uses the
medium of theatre to do something similar in the exploration of her ‘post-memories’
and the on-going effects of her father’s silence in the microcosm of her family with
regard to his former paradoxical existence as a ‘Jewish Nazi’. Her father, Wilhelm
Brenner (1917-1977), was the grandson of Jakob Brenner, who is believed to have
been a Polish Jew that migrated to Vienna some time in the late 1800s. His status as
‘Jewish’ is thus one that would have been imposed upon him by Nazi racial law rather
than one defined by matrilinear descent. Having joined the SA, Hitler’s
‘Sturmabteilung’ or Storm Troops, in 1938 at the age of 21, Wilhelm Brenner went to
Africa to serve under General Rommel, the so-called ‘Desert Fox’, during the latter’s
African campaign (1941-43) but soon got ill with hepatitis and had to be taken back to
Austria. During the war years he studied to be a medical doctor but discontinued his
neurology studies after 1945. He daughter surmises that he might have been excluded
from professional service as a doctor in the immediate post-war years due to his
membership of the SA. He retrained as a dentist, but after becoming ‘de-nazified’ in
1947 began to practice once again as a doctor. He also made a career as a politician
and president of his professional association before dying suddenly at the age of sixty
of cirrhosis of the liver and cancer, which were assumed to be consequences of his
war-time illness.
The theatre work took three basic principles as its point of departure:
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1.The individual / familial story represents a microcosm of what is / was taking place
in the macrocosm of society.
2. The future only becomes possible when we have understood the past.
3. The theatre as a social and ritual meeting place offers the framework that is
conducive to the practice-based exploratory memory-work. (PTS documentation)
In the following I will give an overview of the preparatory research work that took
place before rehearsals began, the stratigraphy of layers – including Brenner’s
collections of text fragments scripted around her family’s history – which was brought
to the devising process, the questions, and aesthetic and formal approaches the
directorial team identified as of interest or relevant in the context of the subject
matter. Finally, I will analyse the two-part performance. This consisted of two
discrete performance pieces presented one after the other, one directed by Breuer and
the other by Brenner – the original plan had been for just one performance, with
Breuer as artistic director and Brenner as dramaturge – both drawing on the same
research material. This circumstance allows for a consideration of the idea that the
assemblage yields as much an image of the individual storyteller as it does of the
history in question, as Walter Benjamin (in Pearson and Shanks, 2001: xii) writes,
‘thus the traces of the storyteller cling to the story the way the handprints of the potter
cling to the clay vessel’. My discussion of In Search of Jacob, in addition to the
discourses introduced in Chapter 2 above, is also informed by the idea of the theatremaker as archaeologist, someone who digs down through the sedimented strata of
time, using memory – her own and that of others – as a medium for exploring the
past, to retrieve fragments and shards, which must then be assembled to create an
image of the past. As Benjamin writes:
Language has unmistakably made plain that memory is not an instrument for
exploring the past, but rather a medium. It is the medium of that which is
experienced, just as the earth is the medium in which ancient cities lie buried’.
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Following Pearson and Shanks (2001: 11), archaeology/theatre is ‘a work of
mediation with the past’, and archaeologists/theatre-makers ‘work with material
traces, with evidence, in order to create something – a meaning, a narrative, an image
– which stands for the past in the present’. As Pearson and Shanks suggest, we can
apprehend devised performance through archaeological notions such as stratigraphy,
assemblage and sensorium. In his essay entitled ‘Excavation and Memory’ Walter
Benjamin (1999: 576) thematises the connection between memory-work and the
person doing the remembering, who in this case was Eva Brenner. Here he draws an
analogy between memory-work and archaeological excavation: ‘Genuine memory
must […] yield an image of the person who remembers, in the same way a good
archaeological report not only informs us about the strata from which its findings
originate but also gives an account of the strata which first had to be broken through.’
All the components that were used in Brenner’s personal research work – memories
(Brenner’s own and those of her relatives), conversations with family members,
ensemble discussions, self-authored and found text, authentic photos, audio-visual
material (an 8mm film from Brenner’s private collection), diverse objects (her father’s
suitcase, for example) – comprise part of the stratigraphy of layers that were brought
to the devising work.
A further idea that informs this discussion is Walter Benjamin’s (1982: 264-5)
idea of a materialist historiography, a historiography which offers us ‘a unique
experience with the past’ as opposed to historicism’s telling of events ‘like the beads
of a rosary’. An historically materialist approach, Benjamin (1982: 257) tells us,
‘wishes to retain that image of the past which unexpectedly appears to man singled
out by history at a moment of danger’. The impulse to make this piece of theatre came
from a vision or dream which Eva Brenner had in 1996 while attending a meditation
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seminar with a friend whose mother had been killed at the Theresienstadt
concentration camp. We might construe this vision or dream as a ‘moment of danger’:
in the dream she was standing at her father’s grave; on her right side was Steve, one
of her former acting teachers in New York, who was Jewish, and the space to her left
was empty. Slowly her father came out of his grave towards her and made three brief
utterances: ‘Ich entschuldige mich. Ich konnt’ es nicht tun. Du musst es für mich tun’.
After her vision, Eva Brenner wrote, ‘In diesem Moment wusste ich, wer er ist, wer er
gewesen war’. In a sudden flash of insight, we might say, a moment of ‘Jetztzeit’,
‘blasted out of the continuum of history’ (Bejamin, 1982: 263), she sensed that her
father had Jewish roots, something he had kept concealed during his lifetime.
Searching for Jacob was intended as an exploration of what this ‘it’ might be that her
father wanted her to do for him, ‘a personal search for traces of the past’ (PTSdocumentation), an individual history, that could nonetheless become symbolic of so
many other histories.
4.1 Preparatory Research Work
Beginning the search for what it was her father wanted her to do for him,
Brenner rang all her older relatives that same night to ask if they knew of the
existence of Jewish roots in the family. Her Aunt Franza told her of Jakob Brenner
from Kraków, Eva Brenner’s great grandfather, who had been a Jew. Eva Brenner’s
mother, who apparently had no knowledge of her deceased husband’s Jewish roots,
finally agreed to let her daughter take a suitcase from the attic belonging to Wilhelm
Brenner. The suitcase contained various documents and old photos: among the
aryanisation papers, student and travel IDs, passports (also ones belonging to Jakob
Brenner) and graduation certificates from the University of Vienna, Brenner found a
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handwritten family tree, which had been used during the 1930s as proof of Aryan
ancestry. The mother’s line reaches back for approximately two centuries whereas the
father’s breaks off abruptly after the great grandfather, Jakob Brenner. Details entered
for her great grandfather are that he came from Radziszów, near Kraków in Poland,
was baptized Roman Catholic and his profession was ‘Privatier’, a loose term for a
person of independent means. Above Jakob Brenner’s name is, as Brenner reports,
‘all white (painted over in white?) with tiny question marks in every column. Nothing
but white […], with question marks extending to the top margin of the paper’ (PTSdocumentation). Brenner deduced from this document that Wilhelm Brenner’s family
members had ‘doctored’ the family tree in order to remove evidence of Jewish
ancestry on the father’s side and thus to qualify as ‘pure Aryan’ under Nazi racial law.
The planning and research work for the theatre project took place at various
stages between Vienna, New York and Poland between 2000 and 2003 before
rehearsals began in January 2003. The search for further knowledge of Jakob Brenner
and traces of Brenner’s Jewish roots took the Brenner/Breuer directorial team on a
reconnaissance trip to Poland: Kraków, Radziszów, Auschwitz, in July 2001. Some
remarks recorded in the protocol of the train journey are worth noting here in that they
might serve to throw light on what ultimately led to differences of opinion between
Brenner and Breuer much later on in the process, giving rise to the circumstance of
the two-part performance. Breuer remarks after they comment on how triste the Polish
countryside looks: ‘The play should be funny, it should be fun! We are showing the
process of remembering, no docu-drama!’ A little later he proposes: ‘Midway the
play breaks off into open directions, away from the Jewish question into an
exploration of the outcast. The breaking point is a Kantoresque scene about the
migration of European Jews from the East to the West – to Vienna. It’s grotesque,
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circus-like, comical’ (PTS-documentation). Eva Brenner’s thoughts, on the other
hand, suggest quite a different mood for the piece: ‘For me it is a contemplation of the
silence… that horrific silence which we grew up with. To make it comprehensible,
sensationally’ (PTS-documentation). It also emerges during this conversation that
Lee Breuer is the only one of the directorial team who is actually Jewish, and after 30
years of being involved in theatre that this is his first production that deals specifically
with the theme of Jewishness. He also reveals that he is of Austro-Hungarian Jewish
heritage, his ancestors having come from the vicinity of Budapest. They were brewers
and thus the name Breuer. His first name, Lee, is in fact an abbreviation of his full
name, Leopold, a common Austrian name since the time of Leopold of Babenberg.
However, although he sees many figures around Vienna who remind him of his
grandmother, who in his childhood had taught him fragments of Yiddish, he had no
prior first-hand experience of Austrian, Central or Eastern European life. In spite of
his Jewishness and Austro-Hungarian extraction he is the only member of the cast and
crew who is outside of this specifically European or Eastern European experience of
socialisation. The questions that arise for him on this trip that he sought to explore
later in the theatre work are recorded as follows: (in relation to Brenner’s father)
‘What was he afraid of?’, ‘What are the qualities of Jewishness?’ or ‘Is there such a
thing as a ‘Jewish Nazi’?’ ‘What are the characteristics of a Nazi?’ (PTSdocumentation)
The first stop was Kraków, a former Austro-Hungarian metropolis, where they
found the Jewish quarter Kazimierz – in sharp contrast to the inner city, which is
pulsating with a new tourism – to be dominated by the silence of tombs: ‘a Jewish
ghetto without Jews’ (PTS-documentation). Various attempts to garner further
information in situ yielded few results. The Kosher restaurant they eat at turns out to
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be run by an American Jew. The plaza looks like ‘a Jewish Disneyland’, a phrase
repeated next day by the Director of the Centre for Jewish Culture. The latter
apologizes for not being Jewish himself explaining that the City of Kraków officials
could not find a qualified Jewish historian for the position. They discuss Polish
history there with him for the evening. The following day they visit the Kantor
archives, Tadeusz Kantor’s small Spartan apartment and a Kantor exhibition in a
cellar, filled with grotesque puppets, props, old costumes and photographs which have
already become theatre history. Eva Brenner’s reflections on this exhibition are worth
quoting here as they are reflected in the piece of theatre which subsequently emerged
from the research:
Here the ‘scandal’ called Eastern-Europe reigns supreme, dreams which
became reality, dreams become nightmares of a society of scarcity, of
deprivation, century-old repression, dreams are more than illusions around
here, a sad reality, distorted to the grotesque, reminiscent of a cruel circus,
simultaneously very funny and very tragic at the same time, crazed, menacing,
then again cheerful (PTS-documentation).
The following day the team is welcomed in Radziszów, a village 20 miles
from Krakow, by the Mayor in her home. The locals, who initially seem to remember
a family of Brenners, become less certain as the afternoon progresses. One elderly
woman has a faint memory of Jews living in the village but then remembers the name
more as ‘Bima’ than ‘Brenner’. The local priest, who had promised to come by,
excuses himself at the last moment, saying that church archives had yet to be
consulted. They find nothing but green grass on the site where Jewish houses were
said to have once stood. In short, apart from a few documents and passports attesting
to the existence of Jakob Brenner, statements made by older family members that he
was Jewish and a photograph of an old man with a long white beard, who only may
have been Jakob Brenner, seated on a rock next to Eva Brenner’s father, Wilhelm,
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there were no other traces of him to be found. For lack of concrete evidence they
decide to use the photograph as a cover motif for the promotional material for the
piece. The fact that the religion entered for Jakob Brenner in the family tree was
‘Roman Catholic’ created further difficulty in the attempt to clearly establish whether
or not Jakob Brenner was in fact Jewish. This latter detail could perhaps be
interpreted as a further element in the family’s strategy to protect itself during the
period of Nazi rule.
The fruitless search for tangible traces of Jakob Brenner led Eva Brenner back
to herself and the reality of having inherited the silence when approaching the
devising process. It was decided that the central themes of the piece would be, on the
one hand, an exploration of the after-effects of the experience of growing up with the
unbroken silence and, on the other, the sociological phenomenon of (Jewish) victim
turned (Nazi) perpetrator:
In der theatralen Forschungsarbeit sollen Konturen einer Topographie des
Schweigens sowie das Soziogramm eine Opfers, das Täter wurde, sichtbar
werden, Antworten auf die bedrückende Stille der Nachkriegsjahre, die
grossteils bis heute währt (PTS-documentation).
Brenner’s father Wilhelm saw himself compelled to deny his history twice, once in
1938 (his Jewishness) and again in 1945 (his war-time activities serving in the Nazi
army). The shadowy figure of her great-grandfather Jakob would remain an emblem
of lost Eastern European Jewry, conspicuous by his absence. Why, we might ask,
make a piece of theatre relating to narratives that are for the most part not
recoverable? James Young stresses the centrality of the memory-work itself in the
process and the outcome of creating pieces of work related to the Holocaust by the
generation whose experience was mediated through the generation who had lived
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through it. While Young (2000: 9) is discussing American visual artists, it would not
be inappropriate to extend his ideas to other artistic processes:
[T]he void left behind by the destruction of European Jewry demands the
reflection previously accorded the horrific details of the destruction itself. For
these artists, it is the memory-work itself, the difficult attempt to know, to
imagine vicariously, and to make meaning out of experiences they never knew
directly that constitutes the object of memory.
The interviews that Eva Brenner carried out with the various members of her
family were worked into the scripted scenes, of which there are 17 in all, a collection
of texts which Brenner describes as ‘a puzzle of fictionalised memoires’ (PTSdocumentation). A collection of short narrative texts depicting typical episodes from
her childhood and her father’s role in their family life, his funeral, a self-authored
love-song for Jakob, extracts of poetry, for example, by Elfriede Gerstl and Christian
Morgenstern, formed the body of the unpublished script that was to be used as the
basis for the devising process. In the scenes depicting her father in his role as family
man, he is featured as someone who suffers from self-inflicted isolation in his own
home, someone who is distinctly patriarchal, at times frightening, and who exerts his
control and seeks attention, for example, by suddenly pulling open doors or slamming
them to break up cosy, domestic scenes shared by his wife, her female friends and his
daughters. In other scenes he is depicted as a comical Chaplinesque figure or a little
Desert Fox – after his secret hero General Rommel – without a desert or an army,
then as a tourist, a conqueror, a brilliant orator with a magnetic social persona, a
‘Renaissance man’ and an intellectual who worshiped Sigmund Freud, Karl Kraus,
Kurt Tucholsky and Ludwig Wittgenstein but despised Bertolt Brecht. A man whose
life was marked by three different political systems – monarchy, dictatorship and
democracy – his preferred scenario was that the Habsburg monarchy would never
have ended. Elsewhere he becomes a mysterious figure who would spend time in the
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Western Viennese train station every Sunday morning, although he never travelled by
train, and return several hours later armed with a thick wad of foreign newspapers
presenting the appearance of someone who had travelled a great distance and
experienced a lot. In whichever guise he is portrayed, he is mainly characterised by
his continuous shape-shifting and his inability to connect with those around him.
Attempts to engage with his loved ones generally result in alienating them.
Brenner’s mother is portrayed as the significantly younger, unreflecting
trophy-wife, who knows nothing about her husband’s inner life and who does not
attempt to explore it. She does not appear to be interested in anything that goes
beyond the role ascribed to her by patriarchy, and thus we only see her managing the
domestic sphere and being decorative. Her husband typically loves to show
photographs to friends and associates of his beautiful young photogenic wife. In scene
four, which features the conversation about the suitcase containing all her husband’s
documents, she tells her probing daughter that she knows nothing about the
documents because she has never looked at them. The part of a scene where her
daughter asks her about Jakob Brenner is scripted as follows using the third person in
a quasi Brechtian distancing style (PTS-documentation):
The daughter says: Did you know father was partly Jewish?
The mother says: (amazed): No! What gave you that idea?
The daughter says: His grandfather was a Jew!
The mother says: Who told you that?
The daughter says: I had a vision in which Father came out of his grave…
The mother says: And so…?
The daughter says: I called a few relatives, Aunt Franza, she knew about it!
The mother says: What did Franza know?
The daughter says: Not much, she told me about Jakob Brenner from Poland…
The mother says: Who is Jakob Brenner?
The daughter says: My great-grandfather! He must have been Jewish.
The mother says: I wouldn’t be so sure!
The daughter says: Did you know about Jakob? Did you ever speak about it?
The mother says: I’ve never heard of him! I didn’t know anything! We never spoke
about it!
The daughter says: Franza says that Jakob was baptized!
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The mother says: (relieved) Thank goodness, there you are! He was baptized!
Scene fourteen portrays the mother-figure in a dream sequence, dancing on a
red carpet in a narrow corridor of mirrors. She is dressed in a 1950s silk ball gown
which she has expertly sewn herself during many nights’ work. Brenner interjects
autobiographical elements, quoting what her father used to say in relation to his wife:
‘Meine Frau hat goldene Hände’, and, ‘Darf ich meine bessere Hälfte vorstellen?’ The
lines construct an apotheosis of the wife and leave her imprisoned by clichéd
compliments. In the dream, the wife / mother-figure remains in the corridor hoping
that something will happen, that somebody will come for her and lead her out of the
frightening narrowness of the corridor into the freedom of the big wide world, where
she can be admired in public. She is a woman who has internalised the patriarchal
principle, who refuses any agency outside of the roles allotted to her. Elsewhere, in a
recorded dialogue, she describes her years as a member of Hitler’s Bund Deutscher
Mädchen (League of German Girls) as the best ones of her youth because of the
organised programme of activities and the companionship of the collective. She
protests, ‘[w]ir haben von nichts gewusst, und hinterher sollten wir auch noch die
Schuld tragen!’ A displaced sense of guilt, however, at being a member of the Nazis’
chosen race, is expressed in the dream by the threat of engulfment. The other main
figures who feature in the collection of scripted scenes are two sister-figures, based on
Eva Brenner herself and her younger sister, Monika Anzellini. The Brenner-figure
always seeks engagement and answers in relation to the issues in question whereas the
younger sister figure, on the other hand, frequently resists, wanting to leave matters
rest.
A further layer was added to the stratigraphy by the cast and crew, all of
whom, as it transpired early in the working process, had either Eastern European or
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Southern European ancestors. It became clear that the existence of the latter had been
denied or played down in the respective families during the Third Reich, and that
members of the cast were directly affected by their family’s personal history of the
Second World War. At the beginning of the rehearsal period in January 2003, the
ensemble members were encouraged by the directorial team to take the fragmentary
sketch of Jakob as an impulse to reflect on their own biographies. Importance was
attached to personal associations regarding the proposition ‘that one’s blood and soul
are mixed and not “pure”’, be it Aryan or other’. Together the ensemble was to
investigate and attempt to find answers to the questions: ‘Who am I?’, ‘Where do I
come from?’ and ‘How did I become who I am?’ (PTS-documentation). In keeping
with Eva Brenner’s interest in the use of the personal biography in performance, cast
members were to be invited to work elements of their own histories into the
preparatory improvisations and ultimately the performance work. Brenner explains
her interest in this approach to performance (Interview, 2005):
Ich suche jetzt seit Jahren die Möglichkeit, wie ich erstens rauskomme aus
dem reinen Rollenspiel des Theatralischen und was wir die Emanzipation des
Schauspielers nennen, dass der Schauspieler sich aktiv in den Prozess
einbringt. Also, dass ich als Regisseurin eine Spielleiterin bin oder
Animateurin oder Dinge ermögliche oder zur Verfügung stelle, entwickele von
Strukturen, aber nicht sage, was passiert, ich wähl dann aus, oder wenn
Angebote kommen, leite ich oder lenke ich das, aber ich glaube nicht dran,
dass ich den Leuten, gerade bei so einem sensibelen Thema, vorschreiben
sollte oder könnte: sag das oder jenes oder zeig das oder jenes. Und eine Form
der Emanzipation im Theater, glaube ich, ist schon dieses radikale sich in
Beziehung setzten persönlich zu einem Thema.
This idea further underlines the notion of theatre as memory-work, I would argue,
where performance becomes performative, in the sense proposed by J. L. Austin in
How to Do Things with Words. The cast member is thus not ‘merely’ performing in
that moment but perhaps also altering something in their own state of consciousness
and that of others witnessing the performance through the act of testifying to
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something relevant and sensitive in their biography, to speak with Archbishop
Desmond Tutu (in Farber, 2008: 7), ‘for there is a capacity to heal the human heart in
the act not only of speaking – but in finally being heard’. Clearly this kind of material
has to be treated with sensitivity for the sake of the theatre work and all concerned,
actor and spectator alike, and the challenge is to find an appropriate form to give it
expression. Maren Rahmann, a performer who has worked with Brenner over an
extended period of time, discusses in interview the complexities of introducing such a
performance element (Rahmann, 2005):
Es ist nicht einfach, find ich, das rüberzubringen, entweder es wird zu
sentimental, das kommt auch vor, ja wenn jemand wirklich in der Erinnerung
in Tränen ausbricht, verliert es für mich diesen Performance-Charakter, wenn
ich’s nur erzähle, hat es sowas Drüberstehendes, es ist irgendwas dazwischen.
Ich erzähle eine Erinnerung ich versuche, mich zurückzuerinnern, ich vergess
nicht, dass ich den Abstand habe.
Extracts from ensemble members’ reflections on their personal biographies
were recorded in the documentation: Axel Bagatsch, a German, explained that he has
no Jewish roots, that his mother was a Sudeten-German and one of the
‘Volksdeutschen’ who had been driven out of their home region directly after the war.
He and his sister were deeply affected by this circumstance as their mother tended to
burden them on a regular basis with accounts of how much she had suffered and
continued to suffer as a result of being exiled at the age of 14. When he began to
engage with the Jewish question, then, however, he was readily able to relate to the
issue of homelessness. The Polish member of the cast, Agnieszka Salamon, remarks
that although the Jewish culture in Poland was destroyed as a result of the Holocaust,
this culture was so deeply rooted in all of Europe that traces of it are present in all
Europeans. Stephanie Wächter, an Austrian, whose aunt and uncle were killed in a
concentration camp, explained that her first thoughts centred on the question of the
difference between guilt and the collective unconsciousness. While she distanced
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herself from a personal guilt, at the same time she felt very much part of the collective
unconsciousness that continues unaltered if it is not reappraised. She adds that this
process of self-questioning forms one stone in the mosaic, as Fascism can begin in
everyone. Maren Rahmann, a German, expressed her discomfort at how the past is
made taboo, how guilt in one’s own family never gets spoken about. She added that
there were so many who took the easy path and went along with the fascist regime
and did not discover until later what was really going on. She remarks on how much
more difficult it is to see oneself in this light as opposed to seeing oneself as a victim.
Daniel Kundi, an Austrian, suddenly discovered a year before rehearsals began that
his father was Jewish. He wanted to use the performance as an incentive to talk to his
father about this. Clemens Matzka, an Austrian, identifies with the search for the
great-grandfather, as he is still searching for his own family. He discovered as a
teenager that his paternal grandparents were not his biological grandparents that his
father had been adopted. Barbara Liebhart, an Austrian, finds the whole area
frightening, would like to have a meaningful talk with her relatives whose parents
were killed in concentration camps, but doesn’t feel she has the right to and does not
know how to formulate the questions.
Lee Breuer, co-founder of the internationally renowned New York avant-garde
theatre company Mabou Mines, added further layers to the stratigraphy. One of
America’s foremost experimental authors and theatre practitioners, Breuer is worldrenowned for his productions of the theatre of Samuel Beckett, who wrote pieces of
theatre for Breuer and his company. Other landmark productions include ‘Ecco
Porco’, a review of 30 years’ work with Mabou Mines, and his Broadway production
‘Peter and Wendy’, an adaptation of the story of Peter Pan. He has received numerous
awards including the prestigious Mac Arthur-Foundation Grant for his life’s work.
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The fundamental principle that informs all of Breuer’s work is ‘that “high” and “low”
and “seriousness” and “entertainment” are not aesthetic antitheses and that popular
forms project a vitality rarely duplicated by high art’ (Foreman, 2005: 142). Drawing
frequently on elements of other theatre cultures, particularly Asian ones, Breuer’s
work has a strong intercultural emphasis. In an interview with Gerald Rabkin
(1984:1), Breuer tells the interviewer, for instance, that he ‘is more and more
interested in the musical support of dialogue’ and that is why he is particularly
interested in Japanese theatre: ‘[i]n the Noh and Kabuki, the narration is basically
sung and the drama is interspersed’. In answer to Rabkin’s question about
interculturalism in theatre and the loan from one culture to another Breuer replies:
I am desperately trying to develop an overview of what it means to be working
interculturally in the theatre. There are a lot of underviews. They fall in the
pattern of either I love the world and the world loves me, let’s all get together
and party interculturally, or, the notion of Western cultural imperialism – that
we are ripping off every cultural icon we can get hold of, and then selling it.
Josette Féral (1996) refers to Breuer’s reservations on the one hand regarding the
ultimate purpose of interculturalism and his belief on the other hand that ‘cultures can
be shared without its power being taken away in the process of the exchange’.
4.2 Aesthetic and formal approaches
The proposed style and methods used to approach the performance work are
documented by the company: The aim was to develop ‘a new style of commemorative
acting’ employing a synthesis of forms to create a ‘poetically dense, spirited, lyrical,
musical and humorous play with grotesque, ironic, and deconstructivist elements’
(PTS-documentation). The choral work was to be central to the creation of this style:
The actors working in groups of 2 and 3 would portray one character sometimes
speaking in chorus – like Balinese puppets linked together. This form of choral work
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is an adaptation of Balinese dance forms which Breuer has developed during years of
rehearsals following a period of studying traditional forms in Asia. Three actors
representing different, sometimes conflicting, aspects of the same figure maintain
bodily contact with one another while speaking sometimes in chorus, sometimes over
one another, sometimes in succession. The signification is multi-layered, working on
the levels of poetry, music, dance and psychology. The intention was also to employ a
simultaneity of old and new epic performance techniques à la Meyerhold and Brecht,
a split between psychologically motivated acting and performance art, including
commentary in speech and gesture, supported by dance and live-music. The devising
process would also draw on post-modern dance forms such as Pedestrian Movement,
Contact Improvisation, Six Viewpoints of Performance and Presence Work. Personal
narrations were to be used in combination with the latest developments in
motivational acting, influenced by Strasberg, Meisner, Breuer and others, to explore
both specific characters in the play and epic personae who comment on their own
‘physical actions’ and emotions. The overall model was to be the theatre of Tadeusz
Kantor (1915 – 1990), a Polish visual artist and theatre director, who founded the
theatre company Cricot 2 in Kraków in 1955. As British director Katie Mitchell writes
(in Kylander-Clark, 2001: 12), ‘To the British observer, Kantor’s work is startling and
opaque, but Polish audiences are accustomed to decoding what is allusive, visual and
not literal’. Given the subject matter of the Breuer/Brenner production, this would
seem like an appropriate formal and aesthetic approach to apply to the theatre work.
Furthermore, there is a link between the memory-work at the core of the production
and the key concerns that informed Kantor’s theatre work: According to Jan Kott (in
Kylander-Clark, 2001: 12) Kantors’s theatre is ‘one that is concerned with the
juxtaposition of memory and forgetting, life and death’:
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Kantor’s theatre renders visible the shadow cast by a world that has been
forever effaced and can return only at odd times when doggedly summoned by
the importuning of memory.
The rehearsal and devising process began in January 2003, but in spite of the
carefully planned working process, which spanned a period of roughly five years, a
few weeks into rehearsal Brenner became dissatisfied with how Breuer was dealing
with the material. As she admitted herself, it was probably inevitable that she should
react like this given the personal and sensitive nature of the material she had scripted
and the fact that most of her family members portrayed in the work were still alive.
What she felt was Breuer’s irreverent and frivolous handling of the material, his
emphasis on drill, choreography, and timing was not what she had envisaged. She felt
he was too distanced from the theme and indifferent to cast members’ individual
experiences,80 to the fact that for her as an Austrian the past was still present, and that
there were still so many skeletons left in people’s cupboards. Breuer was unhappy
about the fact that his approach was being questioned, and the production was almost
cancelled. Fortunately, however, they decided on a compromise and that was a twopart performance: using the same performers, less one, and drawing on the same body
of textual material, the same set and musical resources, a separate piece was to be
devised and directed by Eva Brenner and presented directly after Lee Breuer’s piece.
4.3 Performance Analysis
Breuer’s mise-en-scène drew on the following text fragments from Brenner’s
scripted material: the first was entitled ‘The Suitcase’ in which the daughter asks the
mother to allow her access to her father’s papers, contained in a suitcase in the attic.
The daughter explains about her vision and Jakob, and finally persuades the mother to
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Breuer did not, for example, choose to integrate any elements of individual cast members’
biographical details relating to the themes of the piece.
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let her have the suitcase. She takes it home and covers it with an African quilt, only
opening it months later to discover the documents mentioned above. The second is
entitled ‘The Kitchen’, a scene depicting the four female members of the household
around the kitchen table – mother, two daughters and ‘Aunt Lala’, the housekeeper.
The atmosphere is cheerful, everyone enjoying the fresh bread Aunt Lala has brought
with her, the preserves, coffee and boiled eggs. Suddenly the father’s footsteps are
heard in the corridor and the women’s voices fall quiet. Father pushes open the door
abruptly, switches on the bright light, stands in the doorway surveying the scene but
says nothing. The convivial atmosphere is destroyed: the oldest daughter leaves the
table in anger, her breakfast unfinished, and Aunt Lala gets up hurriedly to do chores.
The third is entitled: ‘Where are you going? To the Westbahnhof!’,which treats of the
father’s odd habit of spending Sunday mornings as the western railway station in
Vienna. The fourth is ‘The apple Tree’. Again this scene presents an image of the
father as a figure in self-imposed isoloation but who tries to get the attention of his
female family members and exert his power as the patriarch: the mother and her
friends are sitting chatting in the garden in the midday sun; the daughters are playing.
Suddenly father emerges from his study and stands in the doorway, pale-skinned and
shading himself from the sun. When noone pays him any attention, he strides up to a
small apple tree – planted by the mother – that has just begun to bear fruit, picks one
of the small apples, holds it up and announces to the company, ‘I have harvested!’
The fifth depicts the father’s burial in the Catholic area of the Viennese cemetery, a
large-scale, pompous affair almost resembling a state funeral. The sixth scene, entitled
‘The Vision’, features Brenner’s experience at the meditation seminar as outlined
above, and the final scene was written by Brenner’s sister Monika Anzellini, in which
she describes going to see her older sister in her small third-floor apartment to hear
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about her vision and her plans for the theatre project. Anzellini expresses her aversion
to what she perceives as her sister’s obsession with their father. She does not want to
open up the old wounds, would rather not get involved.
The set, which was completely white, was created by architect Walter
Lauterer: an hermetically sealed and yet permeable visual memory landscape on three
sides (the fourth wall was made up of the audience, seated in a single row before the
performers) made entirely of strips of white medical elastic bandaging fixed at the
floor and the ceiling, a ‘memory box’ connecting with the father, Wilhelm Brenner,
who was a medical doctor and a dentist. The soundtrack was presented in two modes,
one a pre-recorded, experimental electronic score, and the other a live and interactive
accompaniment with accordion, cello and percussion, as briefly outlined above. The
live music also contained elements of Klezmer, in keeping with the Eastern Jewish
theme of the piece. Klezmer, which originated in the Jewish ghettos of Eastern
Europe, is characterized by its adaptability to the pace, rhythm and mood of the
situation at hand and its improvisatory quality.
All of the approaches to the theatrical work outlined above were present in
Breuer’s mise-en-scène: drawing on Brenner’s texts, comical, grotesque and serious
elements were all juxtaposed within the various sequences. The performers frequently
worked linked together in twos and threes, sometimes portraying different aspects of
the same character. Two of Wilhelm Brenner’s guises, soldier and family man, for
example, were portrayed by two male performers linked together wearing different
hats, a trilby and a Wehrmacht soldier’s hat. In the sequence drawing on ‘The
Kitchen’, the female figures sing in chorus to a ‘cello accompaniment, describing the
happy scene at the breakfast table. Suddenly an over-sized silhouette of the twoheaded father-figure appears projected onto the white surface of the set from behind.
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The female four figures immediately sink onto all fours whispering the rest of the
narrative as they drag the cellist on the floor across the performing space behind them.
‘Aunt Lala’ brings up the rear, subserviently scrubing the floor behind them. Once
they have exited the set, the shadow-play continues with the four female figures – as
much smaller projections – running girlishly to the comparatively enormous fatherfigure projection, who places one of his four hands on each of their heads. The effect
is of the controlling partriarch dominating his infantilized women-folk. The
impressionistic portraits gave theatrical form to the elusive question of personal
identity, which was central to the piece, while at the same time exploring Breuer’s
questions relating to the father.
The choric element characterised the performance style throughout as figures
narrated and/or sang the narration in unison while they embodied the action. In an
early sequence, for instance, three female performers narrated in unison the passage in
Brenner’s script which details the contents of the father’s suitcase. As they narrated
they danced seductively, pinning (authentic) photos to their breasts and buttocks. The
scene took on an incestuous orgiastic element when they were joined by a fatherfigure dressed in a Nazi Wehrmacht uniform, who proceeded to do a striptease, a
daughter-figure taking his belt in her mouth. The sequence ended with the father as a
ridiculous figure sitting on a chamber pot and wiping himself with pieces of torn
newspaper that were handed to him through the porous membrane framing the
performance space, frustrated by the gleeful laughter of watching hidden others. The
effect of having three female embodiments of the daughter, narrating in unison, was
to amplify the significance of revealing elements of the father’s identity that had
hitherto been secret. The spectator’s eye could shift to and fro from one figure to the
next, all dressed identically but with very individual qualities, and each narrator’s
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embodiment seemed to add a different layer to the narrative, taking it beyond the level
of one personal history. The seductive movements of the daughter-figures and the
father-figure’s striptease created a parallel visual narrative, which suggested that the
father had compromised his integrity, that is, prostituted himself to the Nazis.
The role of music was also important and was used as an associative trigger
for memory and as a counterpoint to the action of the scenes. In the scene just referred
to above, for example, the performers moved to a version of Pachelbel’s Canon with a
rhythmic percussive layer that lent it a sensuous character. This added a further layer
of irony to the visual narrative, given that the Canon is generally associated with
positive events (specifically weddings, and graduation ceremonies in the USA). In the
following sequence, which related to Jakob and his birthplace Radziszów, five of the
performers silently created and animated together a violin-playing puppet out of
newspapers that first danced to the directions of the Polish performer, portraying a
kind of stereotypical folk-dancing Pole. The sound score added to the visual image to
create a new narrative: the Canon became distorted as the puppet began to tremble, a
threatening percussive element was added, a haunting Klezmer sequence
superimposed, and suddenly the comical scene evolved into something sinister and
disturbing.
The very physical character of the performance, the use of the chorus and
cabaretistic elements with live music – accordion and percussion – gave a Brechtian /
Meyerholdian tone to the performance. The overall feel of the piece, however, was
Kantoresque: the projection of a cruel circus, the audience ‘suspended between voiced
and choked laughter’ (The Theatre of Tadeusz Kantor, Facets Video, 1991), and the
use of puppetry and ‘poor’ objects, such as the suitcase.81 For Kantor an entity could
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Kantor was interested in the ‘worn, unusable object’, because it ‘is available for art’, the object that
‘lies between eternity and the garbage’ (The Theatre of Tadeusz Kantor). Also, the intention for the
piece - to measure the effects of the past in the present - are in keeping with Kantor’s theatre: ‘Kantor’s
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contain side by side ‘barbarity and subtlety, tragedy and coarse laughter’ and ‘the
more marked the contrasts the more the entity is palpable’. He also sought a
democracy of sorts for the theatrical event in maintaining that ‘all elements of the
representation are staged as equals: actors, spectators, text, stage, (poor) objects’ (The
Theatre of Tadeusz Kantor, Facets Video, 1991). In a sequence relating to the
father’s mysterious Sunday mornings at the Wiener Westbahnhof, umbrellas were
used to powerful effect, for instance, to portray military tanks and gunfire: an audiorecording of excerpts from Winston Churchill’s 1945 victory speech form a
background to the sequence, another figure Brenner’s father admired. The sequence is
both comical and farcical on the one hand and poignant on the other, the double male
figure enacting a sort of slap-stick chaplinesque routine, while at the same time
conveying a sense of the figure’s vulnerability. The father’s many personae –
democrat, intellectual, medical doctor, Renaissance man, able politician, tourist,
conquerer etc. – are declared by an actor representing him, who is conveyed across
the space by bodies rolling beneath him, suggesting again a military tank and again
presenting an image of the father as both ridiculous and vulnerable. The apple tree
scene begins with choral singing of the narrative, one actor then breaking away to
continue the story supported by gestures. The chorus’s note is held at the end after the
father figure has announced that he has harvested, while apples are passed around to
all of the performers. The sequence ends with everyone biting into an apple and
‘dying’ instantly, leading neatly into the funeral sequence, the father-figure remaining
‘dead’ on the ground while the others get up.
Breuer’s montage began and ended with a story-telling sequence: at the
opening a daughter-figure was curled up in the embrace of a father-figure reading her
theatre experiments and his chronicling of the official and unofficial history of the twentieth century
are a testimony to his belief that theatre is an answer to reality rather than a representation of it’
(Kobialka, in Mitter and Shevtsova, 2005: 74).
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a bedtime story; she recited elements of the story along with her father, as with a
favourite story that she has learned by heart. Only this story happened to be the
narrative in Brenner’s script of the tense exchange with her mother that ends with the
handing over of the suitcase. The final sequences portrayed a pompous funeral,
narrated by a daughter-figure in drag complete with a blonde wig and large
sunglasses. Following this sequence three figures raised the father-figure’s ‘dead
body’, puppet-like, from the ground and walked it towards the daughter-figure in drag
who lay sleeping on the ground. In this sequence, which portrayed Brenner’s dream or
vision in which her father rises from his grave to address her, the father-figure uttered
his apology and request, picked up the daughter-figure and the scene returned to the
story-telling mode seen at the beginning of the piece. The bedtime story that was told
at the end concerns the two sisters and was taken from Monika Anzellini’s scripted
version of her conversation with older sister conducted after the latter’s vision. And so
the piece ends with a representation of the event that triggered the initial impulse to
engage in the memory-work, creating a fitting circularity. We are reminded of
Benjamin’s advocacy of a concept of history whose site is ‘time filled by the presence
of the now’, because the call for remembrance, whatever form it takes, must be
blasted again and again out of the continuum of history if we are to ‘improve our
position in the struggle against Fascism’ (1982: 259).
Brenner’s mise-en-scène drew on some of the same scripted material – the
suitcase scene, the vision and the funeral – but also on some different scenes: the
dream of her mother threatened with engulfment in the corridor of mirrors, a joke
about Jews that her father used to tell, before which he would always laugh
uncontrollably and which was always followed by an awkward silence, a scene
between the two sisters, but from the older sister’s point of view, and a scene in which
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the father relives and recounts his brief period in the African desert. This mise-enscène also used ‘found texts’ such as Elfriede Gerstl’s poem ‘Wer ist denn schon?’,
which in a subtle play of repetition and ellipsis asks the question, who of us is at home
with ourselves.This second piece opened with the five ensemble members – each
carrying a suitcase – in transit, moving around the performance space on a grid,
speaking Gerstl’s verse:
Wer ist denn schon? Wer ist denn schon bei sich? Wer ist denn schon
zuhause? Wer ist denn schon zuhause bei sich? Wer ist denn schon zuhause,
wenn er bei sich ist?
The poem echoed, both on the level of text and content, the themes of fragmentedness
and the ever-elusive answer to the search for identity that informed the theatre work.
The suitcases, which connected to the father, containing clues, shards, shreds of
evidence, served also as objects for exploration and space and body improvisations.
There was frequently more than one focus of attention in the space, individual
performers occupied with individual explorations. Brenner’s account of her vision
was rendered by a father-figure following a daughter-figure through the space urging
her to do this ‘it’ that he had not been able to do. The ‘Jewish’ joke was told in
varying renditions, but none ever reached the punch line: one figure cried her way
through it; another stumbled through it forgetting the details. Another began a comical
Chaplinesque rendition, which he stepped out of mid-way to insert a fragment of
personal biography asking the audience – as himself the actor Daniel Kundi – to
imagine suddenly finding out as an adult that your father was Jewish, not having had
any inkling of this previously. The contrast between the two modes of performance
and the abrupt shift from one to the other, arrested the flow of the performance and
confronted the spectator with herself in an instant, a moment of ‘Jetztzeit blasted out
of the continuum’, we could say with Benjamin (1982: 263), or an act of disturbance.
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The act of confiding in the audience, to speak with Yael Farber (in Stuart Fischer,
2009) created ‘an intimacy and accountability with the audience’.
The dream about the beautiful young trophy wife, imprisoned by her fear of
autonomy and her role in the marriage, was narrated by an epic figure who danced
while representing gesturally what she was narrating. Her ‘goldene Hände’, encased
in white elbow-length gloves, were held high over her head in a contorted position,
almost as though handcuffed, underlying how she was trapped in her husband’s
apotheosis. The fond recollections of her time in the Bund Deutscher Mädchen, in the
collective, with all the other girls in white dresses, were disrupted by sounds of
warfare in the recorded soundscape, causing her to momentarily take fright and lose
her train of thought and rhythm. The disruptions served to create a sense of
suppressed feelings of guilt and an attitude of avoidance and looking away.
This second performance piece ended in a very moving and arresting
sequence: a father-figure pressed the suitcase on a daughter-figure, who took it and
after considering it for a moment, opened it up, turning it towards the audience as the
lights faded to black. The inside of the top of the case was covered with a white
surface onto which an old black and white video clip was projected showing Wilhelm
Brenner playing delightedly with his infant daughter, Eva Brenner. Although
mediated by the camera and ‘fixed’, it was another moment of ‘Jetztzeit’ in the
performance, underlying the importance of the memory-work.
The spectator was free to connect the two pieces in whichever way she saw fit.
This circumstance was involuntarily productive, as it served to underline the
archaeological aspect of devised performance: two different dramaturgies and
assemblages of the material that had been excavated yielded two different images of
the storytellers. It underlined the fact that, as Pearson and Shanks (2001: 56) argue,
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‘there is never a complete and definite picture’ and served to deconstruct any notion
of objectivity. The two pieces shared stylistic elements: the use of puppets, the choric
and epic elements, a tension between speech, gesture, music and/or percussion and of
textual elements. The essential difference was in the mood: Brenner’s section was
quieter, more meditative, the contrasts between ‘barbarity and subtlety, tragedy and
coarse laughter’ not as marked, as compared with the emotionally distanced, faster
moving, and more tightly choreographed quality of Breuer’s mise en scène.
The refusal in either piece to suggest meaning acted as a catalyst for the
audience. As a spectator I found myself being drawn into the memory-work, bringing
my own memory processes to bear, adding my shards and fragments to the respective
dramaturgies, and thus becoming a co-creator of meaning. During the scene outlined
from Breuer’s mise-en-scène for instance, in which the performers silently created a
puppet out of newspaper I had a shattering moment of Jetztzeit, which haunted me for
a long time after seeing the piece: Paul Celan’s poem Todesfuge (Death Fugue)
emerged from my memory to complete this fragment: ‘Er ruft spielt süsser den Tod
der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland / er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann
steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft. dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man
nicht eng’ (‘He shouts play death more sweetly this Death is a master from
Deutschland / he shouts scrape your strings darker you’ll rise up as smoke to the sky /
you’ll then have a grave in the clouds where you won’t lie too cramped’) (Felstiner,
2001: 31-33). In the now of the live performance, in a joining of the energetic bodies
of the performers with my own, Celan’s poem, with which I have been familiar for a
very long time, was unlocked for me in a totally new and unique way, letting me
understand the responsibility of accountability on another level. For me this amounted
to something in the realm of an intervention in my own history. The puppet also
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jogged my memory of Primo Levi’s account in his testimonial work If this is a Man
of the experience of being transformed into a concentration camp prisoner in
Auschwitz: ‘There is nowhere to look in a mirror, but our appearance stands in front
of us, reflected in a hundred livid faces, in a hundred miserable and sordid puppets’
(Levi, 2005a: 32).
The title of the piece might suggest to the spectator that Jakob, symbolic of
Eastern Europe’s lost Jewry, would be a significant figure in the performance. He was
represented by a newspaper puppet in the first mise-en-scène and not at all directly in
the second and was therefore conspicuous by his absence; there was a gap where he
should have been, symbolic of the void left behind by the annihilation of Eastern
Europe’s Jewish population. This gap found expression in the open grave of his
grandson in his great granddaughter’s vision, a wound in the earth crying out, calling
for remembrance and for us, the subsequent generations, to remain in a state of
wakefulness. The gap resonates with what Rolf Tiedeman (in Adorno, 2003: xiii)
refers to as the ‘rupture that civilization has experienced’, referring to what took place
in Auschwitz during WWII, Auschwitz as synecdochic of the entire Nazi project. This
rupture does not allow for any assignation of meaning or construction of narratives, as
that might lead to some kind of interpretation, which in turn might allow us to draw a
line under that chapter of history and forget it. As such Searching for Jacob is a valid
answer to Benjamin’s call ‘to bring about a real state of emergency’, the fragmented
nature of the two-part performance bespeaking its open-endedness as ‘a project
against forgetting’ and its status as work-in-progress.
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CHAPTER FIVE
Pola, a piece of bi-lingual – German/Polish – theatre, was devised by the Projekt
Theater Studio and performed in November / December 2002 at the Projekt Theater
Studio, Burggasse 38 in Vienna. In creating this piece of theatre the company drew on
two main literary sources: the short story ‘Pola’ by the Polish author and journalist
Hanna Krall (1937 -) from her collection entitled Da ist kein Fluss mehr / There,
there won’t be another River / Tam juz nie ma zadnej rzeki (1998), for which she was
awarded the Leipziger Buchpreis in March 2000. The second was Beckett’s dance or
movement piece for Television - ‘Fernsehballett’ - Quad or Quadrat 1 + 2, in its
original German title. Central to Krall’s short story, based on true facts outlined in
Christopher Browning’s historical account (2001: 125-6) Ordinary Men – Reserve
Police Battalion 101 and the Final Solution in Poland, and Daniel Goldhagen’s
Hitler’s Willing Executioners is the eponymous protagonist Pola or Apolonia
Machczyńska, a Polish woman who concealed 25 Jews under the floorboards of her
house on the outskirts of Kock, in the district of Lublin, Western Poland, in the spring
of 1943. Pola was betrayed by a Jewish neighbour, who hoped to save her own and
her children’s lives by doing so, hunted down by members of the Police Batallion 101
and shot together with some of the Jews she had sheltered. The policeman, ordered at
gunpoint to shoot Pola, had been her lover and she was pregnant by him at the time of
her death. The Reserve Police Batallion 101 consisted of middle-aged family men of
working- and lower-middle-class background from the city of Hamburg. Considered
too old to be of use to the German army they had been drafted instead into the Order
Police, the Ordnungspolizei or Orpo. Most were raw recruits with no previous
experience in German occupied territory (Browning, 2001:1). They were first sent to
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Poland in 1939 as part of Hitler and Himmler’s demographic scheme to ‘germanise’
the occupied regions; this involved expelling all Poles and so-called ‘undesireables’,
that is, Jews and Gypsies into central Poland, and repatriating and ‘resettling’ ethnic
Germans from the Soviet territory in the evacuated farms and apartments of the Poles
(Browning, 2001: 39). By 1942, the year in which the story is set, Himmler’s ‘final
solution’, that is to exterminate the Jews, was being implemented, and Batallion 101
was given the task of rounding up the Jews in their villages in the district of Lublin
and murdering them in nearby woods in sessions that sometimes lasted up to
seventeen hours. This chapter analyses how the dramaturgy was shaped in response to
the literary sources and how Krall’s text itself featured as a performer in the piece. I
will consider some of the adaptation issues in the light of Linda Hutcheon’s A Theory
of Adaptation (2006), first examining the sources the piece of theatre drew on and
then going on to discuss the adaptation for theatre. The adaptation by the Projekt
Theater Studio also allowed for a consideration of the idea of the text as performer in
the piece.
5.1 Literary Sources
Quad, first transmitted in Germany by Süddeutscher Rundfunk in 1982 under
the title Quadrat 1 + 2, is a piece for four players, light and percussion. I quote from
the outline offered in The Faber Companion to Samuel Beckett: 472):
Four figures, each in pastel djellabas, appear to describe a quadrangle to a
rapid, polyrhythmic percussion, then depart in sequence. Each describes half
the quad, but abruptly avoids the centre, turning to the left, like Dante’s
damned. The action first seems comic, as characters rush toward a central
collision, avoided by abrupt turns, but ‘something terrifying’ emerges. The
pattern repeats, from one to four participants, then back to one, then none in an
oscillation, crescendo, and diminuendo that shatters whatever comic
possibilites were anticipated. The effect is of prescribed, determined, enforced,
motion.
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This describes the original Quadrat 1. Quadrat 2 is of a considerably slower tempo
and the colour is monochrome. Like much of Beckett’s work, Quad represents a
central tension between the futility of human existence and endeavour, on the one
hand, and the imperative to keep going on, on the other. Beckett’s choreography is
reminiscent of Kasimir Malevich’s revolutionary painting from 1918 ‘White Square
on White Background’ and could be said to be an adaptation in itself, a transcoding
from visual art to performance mode of Malevich’s representation of modernity.
A main point of interest for the Polish writer Hanna Krall in her work is the
disappearance of the Jews in Europe and the after-effects in the present of WWII. She
has gathered stories by interviewing countless survivors of the Holocaust in Europe,
North America, Canada, Israel, always ending her readings with the request that
people tell her stories: ‘Erzählen sie mir eine Geschichte. Eine wahre…wichtige…
eine fremde oder was über sich selbst..’ and with these stories she creates literary
documents (PTS-documentation). Pola, from her collection, Da ist kein Fluss mehr /
There, There Won’t be Another River / Tam juz nie ma zadnej rzeki (1998) is a
montage of 15 brief chapters in 17 pages, which draws together several strands of
narrative in a non-linear mode. All of the motifs that are central to Krall’s prose are
present in this short text: persecution of the Jews, the role of Poles, Jews and
Germans, during and after the war, crime and its origins, resistance and collaboration,
love and the quotidian (PTS-documentation). Apart from the heroism and bravery of
the central figure of Pola, who is betrayed and murdered on account of her attempt to
conceal 25 Jews from the Nazi occupiers, also portrayed is the insolence of the SS
officers during their occupation of Poland, the cruelty but also vulnerability of
individual German police officers of the Reserve Battalion 101, the silence of Pola’s
neighbours who choose not to see other than from behind their curtains, Pola’s father
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who when given the choice of his life or his daughter’s surrenders his daughter, Pola’s
children who are left orphaned, the young pregnant German wife of a police officer
who stands by in the heat for an entire day watching executions over which her
husband presides, the troupe of travelling performers from Berlin who ask to be
allowed to take a turn at shooting Jews. We also get a sketch of the tragic love story
between Pola and her assassin. Krall writes with a remarkable economy and
simplicity of language, the writing style blending a mixture of journalism,
documentary and poetry. The narrator keeps herself very much out of the way and the
tone is almost laconic in its complete absence of pathos. This style has the effect of
the figures retaining a sense of mystery, which allows them to take on a universal
quality, almost parable-like. The simplicity of the language is deceptive, however: the
narrative is constantly disrupted as the various threads of the story are interwoven, so
that the reading experience is one of going back and forth between the fragments to
get a complete picture of the story. This structure, which includes abrupt shifts to the
present to include references to Browning and Goldhagen’s texts, generates a certain
dynamic or magnetic field that endows all the figures and events depicted in the story
with a searing quality. The narrative voice has something of the quality of
Lanzmann’s ‘blind gaze’, a refusal of ‘psychological understanding’. There is no
sense of resolution at the end the narrative, that the events have been relegated to the
past. It calls to mind Benjamin’s (1982: 265) idea of the materialst historian who:
stops telling the sequence of the events like the beads of a rosary. Instead, he
grasps the constellation which his own era has formed with a definite earlier
one. Thus he establishes a conception of the present as the ‘time of the now’
which is shot though with chips of Messianic time.
Although the story-line is clear, the fragments of the text somehow resist
integration and the reader has the impulse to revisit, pick up the threads and try to
piece it all together. This effort evokes, as it were, the greater issue of trying to come
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to grips with the Holocaust and the central question: how was it possible? This
question is framed in the narrative in the context of these ordinary middle-aged
policemen who came to massacre thousands of innocent victims in the woods in
Poland (Krall, 2001: 23), ‘[w]arum waren normale Hamburger Bürger, zu alt für die
Front, zu Mördern geworden?’ The narrator leaves the reader suspended between the
two polarised viewpoints of Browning and Goldhagen:
Weil sie Deutsche waren, und den Deutschen wurde der Hass gegen die Juden
jahrhundertelang beigebracht, gibt Daniel Goldhagen in seinem Buch zur
Antwort.
Weil sie Menschen waren, und jeden Menschen kann man zum Mörder
machen, antwortet Christopher Browning.
A dialectic is established which functions as a provocation and an appeal to the
reader’s accountability. The events are not just reflected in the narrative; the reader –
an ordinary person – is called upon to consider the question how ordinary men could
have become mass murderers. The important thing, we could argue, is not to find a
simple answer to the question, as Daniel Goldhagen does, but to keep meditating on
the question and remain awake to the dangers of history repeating itself. Here again
we could invoke Benjamin’s call for a state of emergency, and Levi’s directive in his
testimonial work of literature, ‘[m]editate that this came about’.
If the reader is left struggling to take a position on the central question, out of
the centre of the ‘magnetic field’ of the text emerge two very vivid and poetic images
that also function as metaphors in the text: through a gap in the floor boards – sighted
by Pola’s young sons – the image of the 25 Jews concealed in Pola’s cellar: ‘Unter
unserm Fußboden sitzen irgendwelche Leute…’ (Krall, 2001: 19), could be said to
function as a metaphor for the repressed memories, the silence and the refusal of
many to engage with the past. Another image presented to the reader is the heart of a
Jew discovered under the melting ice by children playing by the lake in the springtime
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after Pola and the Jews are murdered. One of the Jewish victims is buried there after
first being dragged on a cord behind the sledge that conveys Pola and the others to
their place of execution:
In der Grube erblickten sie Teile eines menschlichen Rumpfes.
‘Das sind Rippen’ sagte der Fischer.
Daneben lag etwas Längliches, Rötlichblaues, das aussah wie zwei gefaltete
Hände.
‘Das ist ein Herz’, sagte der Fischer. ‘Wem mag das gehören?’
‘Einem Juden’ sagte einer der Jungs. ‘Dem, den sie vom Schlitten
abgeschnitten haben’.
‘Das Herz von einem Juden’, sagte der Mann, hob den Sack an und schüttete
die toten Fische in die Grube (Krall, 2001: 27).
The heart of the Jew re-emerging, returning unexpectedly from a hole in the earth,
preserved by the ice, could be said to function as a metaphor for the wound or trauma
left behind by the annihilation of Eastern Europe’s Jewry. Here we can invoke
Freud’s writing on trauma, the idea of the return linked to trauma and his
interpretation of the parable of wound referred to in Chapter Two, the idea that trauma
‘is always the story of a wound that cries out, that addresses us in the attempt to tell us
of a reality or truth that is not otherwise available’ (Caruth, 1996: 3).
We can conclude on the basis of the literary devices identified above that
Krall’s text would lend itself well to the shift from the ‘telling to showing mode’, that
is, ‘from print to performance’ (Hutcheon, 2006: 38), the ‘leap from imagined and
visualized literary text to the “directly perceived”’ (Hutcheon, 2006: 42), in that this
text is not characterized by features that pose particular challenges in the transcoding
process from prose to performance such as interior monologue, point of view,
reflection, comment, irony, ambiguity. Transcoding print texts, as Hutcheon writes
(2006: 43), is not easy as ‘stage and screen must use indexical and iconic signs’,
whereas ‘literature uses symbolic and conventional signs’. The very clear images and
personae – apart from the central motifs – that emerge from the 15 brief chapters also
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suggest that this text would be ‘adaptogenic’ (Hutcheon, 2006: 15) for performance
mode. Brenner reinforced this argument in interview (2005):
Ja, die Bilder und die, ja man konnte den Text auch in Szenen aufteilen, also
sie erzeugt in einer halben, auf einer drittel Seite, auf einer viertel Seite von
einer halben Seite, in einem Paragraphen eindeutig ein Bild einer Zeit, eines
Ortes, man sieht die Figuren, man sieht das Haus, man sieht den Weg dort, in
dem Dorf, man sieht die Dunkelheit, die Dämmerung, das Eis, die Kinder, die
dort fahren, man sieht das. Also das ist eine sehr bildliche Sprache und ich
habe gedacht, das eignet sich sehr gut.
5.2 Adaptation and Context
Every adaptation has a context, as Hutcheon writes, (2006: 142): ‘[a]n
adaptation, like the work it adapts, is always framed in a context – a time, a place, a
society and a culture; it does not exist in a vacuum’. As mentioned above, Pola was
devised and performed in the context of the ‘Polish year in Austria’ and also in this
context a round-table discussion was organized by the Studio as a special event
relating to the project. In discussion with members of the team were, among others,
Thomas Richards and Mario Biagini (Workcenter of Jerzy Grotowski and Thomas
Richards, Italy), Ludvik Flaszen (formerly dramaturge with Grotowski) and Jan
Tabaka (co-founder of the Gardzienice Centre in Poland). Tabaka and his wife
Susanna were also members of the cast of Pola, Susanna Tabaka a classically trained
violinist who was largely responsible for the musical component of the piece.
As regards the political climate in Austria in the early years of the 21st
Century, the rise to power of the extreme right-wing Freedom party, who managed to
secure an alarmingly high percentage of the votes (27%), was a source of concern to
many in the ‘green’ 7th District of Vienna. In the microcosm of the company Eva
Brenner, the director, planned Pola as a precursor to Searching for Jacob which, as
outlined above, related to her own family’s history with National Socialism and their
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lost Eastern European Jewish roots. A key concern for all the members of the
ensemble that was central to the piece of theatre they were creating was what Brenner
identified in interview (2005) as the act of looking away that characterizes Austrian
families:
Wir wollten versuchen dieses Wegschauen, das gerade in Österreich und Wien
eines der Übel ist, als sehr bekannt in allen Familien, das kam in den
Erzählungen mit den Schauspielern immer wieder vor, wie setzen wir das um?
As part of the adaptation and devising process, the five performers were furthermore
invited by the directorial team, director (Brenner) and dramaturge (Bagatsch, who
also played accordeon) to work elements of their personal biographies into the
performance work, which were relevant to the thematic concerns of the piece, an
approach that Brenner characterises as ‘the emancipation of the actor’, as discussed
above in Chapter Four. (Two of the five performers ultimately chose to act on this
invitation.) Two of the performers were Polish (Jan Tabaka and Susanna Tabaka), the
rest Austrian (Clemens Matzka) or German (Maren Rahmann and Anna Wiederhold).
5.3 Performance Analysis
The performance space was divided into two areas – a quad in the middle of
the space created by four rows of seats positioned facing out. Spaces were left at the
corners of the square to enable the performers to move between the two areas. The
audience was seated consequently with their backs to the quad. The other playing area
was in front of the audience, a circular space, subtending the square. The audience
therefore separated the two playing areas, and if they wanted to see what was
happening in the central space they had to turn around in their seats. As regards the
rest of the set, the space, as mentioned above, was a rectangular room, all painted
white. Krall’s prose text, printed in blocks of type script on a continuous narrow band
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of white paper, was mounted at eye-level along the four walls of the space, including
the sliding door in one of the walls that led away from the performance space. The
only other element of the set consisted of eight iron frames, two suspended at two
ends of the space, in the outer playing area and two mounted on each of the other two
remaining walls in front of sections of the text. The performers were dressed in
generic, grey pin stripe suits, the women in long skirts and the men in trousers.
Beckett’s quad provided the answer to the question of how to represent the act
of looking away. In the early phases of the theatre work the ensemble came to the
conclusion that it was impossible to employ an illustrative approach to depicting the
elements and themes of the text, that more abstract forms were required. Central
questions which informed the dramaturgy were:
Wie verhält man sich performativ rund um das Thema, ohne es zeigen zu
müssen, ohne auch in die Versuchung zu geraten, und trotzdem eine Nähe zu
behaupten zu dem Thema? Wie halte ich mich fern und lasse trotzdem das
Bild leben?’ (Brenner, 2005).
The company came up with the idea of adapting Beckett’s Quad as a constant
structure throughout the piece, which could be broken away from periodically to
perform in different modes in the space in front of the audience and then returned to.
The precise choreography of the direction of the movement was adhered to but the
tempo varied, a slowing of the tempo signalling a breaking out of the structure in the
inner performing area to move into memory-work and scenic representation in the
outer area. When the audience entered the performance space, then, the adapted
version of Quad was already being performed. The spectators were immediately
confronted with the dilemma of taking a seat with their backs to the action. As the
performers broke out of the quad in turn, shifting to another mode of performance,
this took place in front of the spectators and involved representations of scenes from
Krall’s text. The adapted Quad was kept going, however, for the most part throughout
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the 70-minute piece as the performers shifted between the two areas. Overall, it
corresponded more to Quadrat 2, both in terms of tempo and colour scheme. The
central point of the Quad, designated as ‘E’ ‘a supposed danger zone’ (Beckett’s stage
directions), which the performers avoid by a sharp turn to the left, became the point of
silence and avoidance that was central to Krall’s text and one of the key thematic
concerns of the ensemble. I quote from an interview with the director (Brenner,
2005):
[Es ging] um eine Choreographie einer immer wiederkehrenden Bewegung,
die sich auf das Zentrum zubewegt aber immer das Zentrum vermeidet, was
irgendwie dieser Punkt des Schweigens und des Ausweichens war in/mit dem
Text von Hanna Krall.
In the dialogue between the Krall’s text and Beckett’s Quad the latter became a death
machine evoking the extermination on an industrial scale of Hitler’s victims in the
concentration camps. By virtue of their positioning in the space the spectators
performed the act of not looking at what was behind them, that is the past, and, in the
Austrian context, how Austria has dealt with its role in the Holocaust. In the act of
turning around, if the audience chose to turn around, they performed the act of a
conscious engagement with the past and in the act of remembering. In interview Eva
Brenner (2005) related how interesting it was at each performance for the ensemble to
see how the audience members would react as they entered the space to find Quad
already being performed in the central area - would they accept the fact that, should
they take a seat, they would be seated with their backs to the action? Would they,
once seated, turn around in their seats to watch what was going on behind them?
Would they move through the central space, the ‘death machine’? Needless to say, the
reactions were different at each performance and the performers had to adjust their
performance to some extent depending on the actions of the audience members. In
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this sense the audience members became co-creators of the piece, ‘active witnesses
who reflect on their own meaning-making’ (Jürs-Munby in Thies-Lehmann, 2006: 6).
Text fragments from Krall’s text were grafted onto the ‘death machine’ as a
futher part of the process of adaptation, sometimes enunciated in chorus and
sometimes solo, this marked a further divergence from Beckett’s script. Sentences,
begun by one performer, were taken up by another. The first text fragments, for
example, that were uttered by the individual performers at they paced the quad: were
‘101’, in Polish, (for the Police Battallion), ‘1942’ (for the year in which Pola, 25
Jews and many others were murdered by the German policemen) and ‘500’ for the
500 Jews who were hunted down by the Nazis and murdered in October 1942. The
tone of the delivery in the inner space was devoid of colour and expression. This
space represented the dark world of suppressed memories, caught up in the relentless
machine. We could invoke here Primo Levi’s portrayal of the prisoner’s life in
Auschwitz and the impossibility of acquiring ‘an overall vision of his universe’: ‘[i]n
short he felt overwhelmed by an enormous edifice of violence and menace but could
not form for himself a representation of it because his eyes were fastened to the
ground by every single minute’s needs’ (2008: 6). The breaking away from the ‘death
machine’ and into the other playing area constituted a shift from the the hic et nunc to
memory-work and scenic representation of passages from Krall’s text.
It could also be argued that the adaptation allowed the text to become a
performer in the piece: it was not just drawn upon for its elements of dialogue and
narrative, the performance work drew attention to the materiality of the text. In the
first instance, as I mentioned, the text was an object in the space. The audience was
confronted throughout with the visual, paratextual effect of the prose text running
around the four walls of the performance space. Going beyond the visual impact, the
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performers frequently interacted on a physical level with the text: when, for example,
Plebanki, the scene of the executions, was described, one of the performers pointed to
what first seemed to indicate an imaginary place, saying: ‘There is Plebanki’, but as
he moved towards that place, arm and forefinger extended, the movement was
completed by his forefinger making contact with the word ‘Plebanki’ in the text
mounted on the wall. A shift took place in one gesture between a traditional dramatic
form and what could be described as a more post-dramatic mode of performance: the
spectator is first required to suspend disbelief – the actor pointing to a place he sees in
his imagination, conjuring it up for the spectator – and as the performer’s finger
makes contact with the word in the text, the spectator is brought back to the here and
now of the performance and their own material presence as a ‘reader’ in a broader
sense in the space. We could argue that the aesthetic distance of the spectator, which
is characteristic of dramatic theatre, is broken down here in the arc of one gesture. In a
later scene some of the performers positioned themselves behind the iron frames
suspended in the space and enunciated in turn the section of Krall’s text that relays the
account in Browning’s book of the activities of the Police Battallion 101 in Lublin.
The performers read the text as a machine-like dictation, including the diacritical
marks, comma, full-stop etc., where they occurred. Towards the end of the piece four
of the five performers literally exited the text by pulling back the sliding door in the
back wall of the space, on which part of the text was mounted, and closed it again
behind them. This had the effect of leaving the fifth character, representing Pola’s
lover who had shot her, locked into the text. He ran at the door trying in vain to break
out of the text, then proceeded to run along the walls from one word or phrase to the
next, beginning to say the words, which, however, seemed to get stuck in his throat.
The text as an agent, as material evidence of the facts, became a performer in the
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piece, a force that refused to give way to any pleas or explanations or excuses; the
text, it could be argued, enacted ‘a refusal of psychological understanding’.
The multi-layered and non-linear quality of the text was reflected in the
performance, which was characterized throughout by ruptures, from the performance
mode in the inner space to that in the outer space, from performers inhabiting roles of
figures in the story, victim and perpetrator, to becoming epic-narrator figures, to
becoming ‘themselves’ in order to include an element from their personal histories.
Maren Rahmann, a German actress, for example, chose a moment during the
performance to take an old family photograph including her grandmother Gertrude
from where she had inserted it in a gap in the wall of the set and explain to everyone
present how she had only recently discovered that her ‘Oma Gertrude’ had been in a
concentration camp during the war because she had hidden Jews in her house from the
Nazis. Clemens Matzka, an Austrian actor, likewise chose a moment to explain how
his grandfather, an exceptionally short man with a hunchback, had been mistreated by
the Nazi authorities on account of his disability. The shifting between different modes
of enunciation added further to the fragmented, multi-layered quality of the
performance: from monotone, to expressiveness, to dictation, to chorus, to chant, to
song.
In its use of ruptures and shifts between very abstract modes of performance
and elements of modes suggestive of more traditionally dramatic theatre we could
refer here to Karen Jürs-Munby’s analysis of the prefix ‘post’ in postdramatic in her
introduction to Lehmann’s seminal work (2006: 2):
‘post’ here is to be understood neither as an epochal category, nor simply as a
chronological ‘after’ drama, a ‘forgetting’ of the dramatic ‘past’, but rather as
a rupture and a beyond that continue to entertain relationships with drama and
are in many ways an analysis and ‘anamnesis’ of drama.
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We could cite here the example discussed above where the performer’s finger made
contact with the word Plebanki in the text. Pola could also be characterized as
postdramatic in the context of Lehmann’s discussion in that it did not constitute
representation of a (fictionalized) reality from behind an invisible fourth wall, but
rather an enquiry, an act of engaging with memory-work carried out in a site-specific
performance space. It could also be described an ‘event’ in the way that Lehmann
(2006: 106) uses the term, in that it was, I quote, ‘a provocative situation for all
particpants’. The spectator, who in traditional ‘dramatic theatre’ can expect to sit back
in the dark and forget about her body, had to engage psychophysically in this
performance and reflect on her own meaning-making, as her psychophysical presence
impacted directly on the performance. What took place here is what Lehmann (2006:
106) describes as ‘a reversion of the artistic act towards the viewers’: ‘[t]he latter are
made aware of their own presence and at the same time are forced into a virtual
quarrel with the creators of this theatrical process: what is it they want of them?’
Pola was also postdramatic according to Lehmann’s concept in that it did not
represent the world as a ‘manageable’, ‘surveyable whole’ which has a place for
assignation of meaning and grand narratives. In tracing the genesis of the term
postdramatic theatre, Jürs-Munby (in Lehmann, 2006: 13) makes the link to aspects of
postmodernist and poststructuralist thinking, in particular to Lyotard’s analysis of the
postmodern condition as an ‘incredulity towards grand narratives’ and - in relation to
theatre - to the rejection of the model of classical drama with its conflicts and
resolutions by post-WW2 playwrights such as Samuel Beckett, Tadeusz Kantor and
Heiner Müller. Pola, in keeping with the source text by Krall, was not motivated by
any impulse towards resolution but rather by ‘a refusal of psychological
understanding’.
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In the video-recording of the performance that I saw, there was no applause at
the end of the performance. I would argue that this was the case because the
performers were not making the shift at the end from ‘a closed-off fictional cosmos’
(Lehmann, 2006: 3) to the hic et nunc. Since the audience members had positioned
themselves in the performance space and had performed their bodies in response to
what was happening in the piece, applause would have signalled a distance between
the audience and the performers that would have somehow been at odds with the
nature of the theatrical. The five performers stood in silence before the audience for
approximately one minute, returning the audience’s gaze rather than waiting to
receive applause. Once again the latter did not know what was expected of them,
should they clap? Was the performance over? Was this yet another rupture signalling
a departure into another phase of the performance? Above all they were made acutely
conscious of their own material presence in the here and now of the shared time and
space of the theatrical event and the core concerns of remembrance and engagement
with the past. As discussed above in Chapter Three, we could configure the
performers in this event as conduits or channelers for the spectator of a process of
engaging with an unclaimed past, and, in the sense that the piece was based on true
facts, as witnesses to troubled his- and her-stories. Here, at the end of piece, they were
silent witnesses deflecting away from their own persons through the act of reflection
in the moment, inviting the audience to join them in reflection and to allow the
literary text surrounding them all to speak. In this way Pola was also testimonial
theatre in that it created an intimacy and accountability with the audience.
After the performance the spectators could take the opportunity to read the text
in its entirety had they not already been familiar with it, filtered through a rich
‘palimpsestuous intertextuality’ (Hutcheon, 2006: 21) created by the multilayered
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adaptation, many components of which were in themselves adaptations. These
consisted of Beckett’s Quad, itself an adaptation haunted by Malevich’s painting,
Susanna Tabaka’s musical sequences (together with other cast members’
contributions using a variety of instruments), drawing on Eastern European forms
such as Klezmer, all layered into the company’s Austrian adaptation of a Polish
source text. The source text was also an adaptation in that it had been translated into
German and as such filtered through another’s sensibilities, as Benjamin (1984: 16)
writes, ‘[t]ranslation [is] an engagement with a text that makes us see it in a different
way’. Had the audience already been familiar with the source text, this new
‘palimpsestuous reading’ would have been quite a different experience, as Hutcheon
(2006: 121) writes, ‘what is intriguing is that, afterward, we often come to see the
prior adapted work very differently as we compare it to the result of the adapter’s
creative and interpretive act’.
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CONCLUSION
In this dissertation I have discussed a selection of pieces of contemporary theatre
created by theatre-makers working outside of the Austrian theatre establishment
against the background of relevant thematic, theoretical and structural issues. Each of
these pieces sought to address a specifically Austrian concern, that is, the impact of
the repression of his- and her-stories by the generations who lived through WWII on
the post-war generations within the microcosm of the family and the macrococosm of
society. Each of the pieces represents an attempt to do the difficult and subtle work of
remembrance and reclaiming the past, both in relation to those who have died and in
relation to the heirs of the silences surrounding problematic histories. The tendency to
repress difficult or risky stories, stories of emergency, oppression, violation and
passivity is, however, a condition common to all human beings, and this circumstance
allowed for the consideration in a broader context of the significance of these attempts
to find theatrical forms to address such issues.
Many prominent Austrian writers of the 20th and 21st Century, some
mentioned above, produced powerful works of dramatic literature which mounted
scathing attacks on Austria’s attitude of avoidance and looking away, its
unwillingness to face its role in Hitler’s Nazi project. The staging of such works
offers the spectator not just a theatrical experience of engagement with the issues but
in many instances also historical narrativity and specificity. The pieces of theatre I
examined in this thesis were not stagings of dramatic literature and did not generate
dramatic literature. They offered only to very limited extent, except perhaps in the
case of Pola, but scarely at all in the case of Speaking Stones historical narativity and
specificity. They offered something different, which, one could perhaps argue, is
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more relevant to an era in which the generation who experienced the events has
almost disappeared leaving many behind without access to narratives but still faced
with the task of claiming the past, and in which to some extent – especially for the
younger generations – narrative (and documentary) accounts perhaps no longer have
the impact they once had.
This is not to say that each of the three pieces examined did not differ
significantly from one another: Speaking Stones mounted in the site-sensitive space
was the most abstract of the three pieces, an assemblage of structures made
dramatically coherent not through character, psychology and story, for example, but
rather through the shaping of energies, the use of dynamics, rhythm, intensity,
rupture. The structures were generated during the workshops, and the script for the
most part followed the devising process. The exception to this was in the case of
‘found texts’ such as from The Semiotics of Zero by Brian Rotman. The performance
area was end-on and the performers played with the so-called fourth wall rather than
engaging in any way with the spectators or acknowledging their presence as an
integral part of the performance. In terms of content the piece almost totally resisted
any historical specificity and this was one of the reasons why it read so differently in
the shift from a dedicated theatre space to the Roman quarry. It seems almost uncanny
that this piece found its way into the Roman quarry where it ‘fit’ so well and triggered
further acts of disturbance in the sedimented silence surrounding the specific history
of the quarry. In Search of Jacob was devised around a body of previously scripted
material concerning a specific Austrian family. It worked with epic narrator figures
and clear archetypes, father, mother, daughters, about whom, although fragmented,
coherent stories emerged. While the piece was performed in a clearly defined playing
area, it did not play to the fourth wall: the spectators, who lined the space, were
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addressed by the performers in a number of ways. How the piece worked or could be
read would not, I would argue, have changed significantly had it been moved to
another performance space. Furthermore, an ‘accident’ in the form of a disagreement
between members of the directorial team gave rise to an interesting circumstance and
a unique feature – the juxtaposition of two disconnected performance pieces devised
by different directors around the same source material – which allowed for further
reflection in the context of the theoretical framework. Pola, then, as an adaptation of a
literary narrative text had a greater degree of historical specificity and narrativity,
although it worked with a very broad range of performance modes, some very
abstract. The spectator, if s/he chose, was positioned right in the middle of the playing
area and had the potential to impact significantly on the performance depending on
where s/he sat and whether or not s/he moved during the performance. These choices
as regards movement and positioning also determined to a very significant degree
what the spectator saw of the performance. The spectator’s viewpoint varied
considerably depending on her/his position in the space. Also, in the case of this piece
the spectator was most challenged in terms of what s/he felt was expected of her/him:
there was no clear code of behaviour for the audience member in relation to certain
aspects of the performance. This piece, like In Search of Jacob, was devised in the
space where it was subsequently performed and used the unique features of the space,
like sliding doors leading into a back room. However, this piece could also have been
moved to a different space without that necessarily changing in any significant way
how it worked or how it could be read.
A crucial element common to all of the three pieces, however, was the fact
that they were created with and for a specific ensemble of actors, who were all
affected in their personal lives by the key concerns of the work and to one degree or
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another brought their personal his- and her-stories to the devising process. The actors,
like their audiences, had a very strong personal motivation to explore these concerns
and channel their memory-work into the performance work. In the course of my
investigations and observations for this research project on my trips to Graz, Aflenz
and Vienna, through the encounters I have been fortunate enough to have had with
creative individuals who give so much and so generously of themselves to their work,
I was struck again and again by the consciousness of the implications for the lives of
individuals and communities caused by the withholding of histories between
generations. During the days I spent in the Roman Caves in Aflenz with Theater
Asou, for example, it became increasingly clear to me that the histories and events
this quarry witnessed are still very much affecting the life of the local community. I
got an urgent sense of the importance of the work of people like Franz Trampusch and
Walter Gluschitsch for this particular small community, which could no doubt stand
for many other communities throughout Austria, that as the generation of Austrians
who witnessed the events during WWII is fast disappearing and in many cases taking
their stories with them to eternal silence, it is a matter of crucial importance to engage
in the work of remembering and re-claiming the past, of creating spaces in time and
place to allow the past to enter in order to contemplate its after-effects in the present.
Histories are sometimes withheld or made tabu with the intention of protecting
loved ones from danger, shame or hurt. A mood, a look or a gesture, however, can
undermine such an intention and cause confusion in the absence of explanation.
Children, in particular, are susceptible to personalizing and taking on responsibility
for their adult carers’ conflicts, as Susan Griffin writes (1994: 33), ‘[i]n the paucity of
explanation for a mood, a look, a gesture, the child takes on the blame, and carries
thus a guilt for circumstances beyond childish influence’. Eva Brenner (PTS-
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documentation) of Projekt Theater Studio uncovers such intentions as misguided acts
of ‘love’, which do not generate closeness but rather alienate and lead to a
burdensome inheritance of silence and loss of cultural identity:
Psychoanalytisch gesprochen, haben viele von uns die Last des Schweigens
von den Vätern/Müttern übernommen – eine klassische Übertragung, die
sofern sie un(ter)bewusst bleibt, oft selbst/zerstörerische Züge annimmt.
Obwohl es sich dabei in komplexer Weise um Akte der ‘Liebe’ handelt, geht
diese ‘Liebe’ heute ins Leere. Sie erzeugt keine Nähe, sondern Entfremdung
und kulturelle Distanz.
As playwright and director of testimonial theatre, Yael Farber (2008: 25), says in
interview that it is precisely the issues that cause shame or secrecy that need to be
exposed and publicly claimed because, ‘shame is usually a heat-seeking missile for
precisely what is most valuable for the narrator to expose and publicly claim’. Perhaps
that elderly man, who having hovered around Walter Gluschitsch all day during the
pensioners’ tour to the quarry and finally tugged at his sleeve at the end of the day to
confide in him that he had been in the quarry during the Nazi occupation period, had a
great personal need to break his 60-year silence – his reported behaviour would
certainly suggest this – but wanted to spare his children and their children the
association with his history and consequently chose not to. One could conjecture that
the breaking of his silence might have allowed his family members to consciously
claim a difficult history, which will now, however, continue to get perpetuated on an
unconscious level. One of the ensemble members of Theater Asou told me how as
children she and her brother and cousins often used to ask their grandfather about
what it was like for him during the war, but all he would ever reply was that they
should just be glad that they were not alive during that time. His refusal or inability to
recount from this chapter of his past just kept them wondering about things they felt
they needed to know. Susan Griffin (1994: 33) writes about the destructive effects of
the withholding of knowledge, ‘[t]he soul has a natural movement toward knowledge,
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so that not to know can be to despair’. Brenner (PTS-documentation) also gives
expression to the destructive power of avoidance:
Verstecken, Verdrängen, Verschweigen, Vertuschen, Verharmlosen - endlos
ist die Liste der Strategien, die wir gegen uns selbst an/wenden, um historische
“Wahrheiten” zu umgehen. Diese List macht krank, zerstört kulturelle
Identitätsfindung.
In chapter two above I argued for a collective sense of responsibility towards
the victims of the Holocaust, that personal histories of crisis are never merely personal
on the basis that we are all somehow implicated in each other’s traumas, and that
traumas can and must be claimed by subsequent generations. Levi made it clear to us
that it was of utmost importance to the victims of the Holocaust that the world would
remember them, and Adorno draws our attention to the fact that the one thing we can
offer the victims in our powerlessness is remembrance. To forget the past, as Bishop
Desmond Tutu (in Farber, 2008: 12) expresses in relation to the victims of South
African Apartheid, would constitute a ‘further victimization of victims by denying
them their awful experiences’. Lanzmann’s Film Shoah taught us that we cannot
represent these highly complex issues illustratively, that more subtle and innovative
forms are required, and I have argued in this dissertation that a theatre, which is open
to exploring new forms, juxtaposing and breaking open existing forms that are
founded on psychological motivation and a positivist philosophy that assigns meaning
and tends to present the world as ‘a surveyable whole’, provides a more suitable
container to explore the impact of events which proved such thinking to be untenable.
As Horowitz (1992: 51) writes:
[O]ur cultural frames of reference and our preexisting categories..[which]
delimit and determine our perception of reality have failed, essentially, both to
contain, and to account for, the scale of what has happened in contemporary
history.
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I am arguing, then, that each of these theatrical projects represents an act of
disturbance, an excavation. To use the language of Archaeology, the objects for
contemplation – the silence, the buried memories, the after-effects in the present of
the past – can only be measured once the context in which they lie buried has been
disturbed. As Wallace (2004: 24) writes of the archaeologist, we could also argue that
the theatre/archaeologist,
Digs deep into the earth, reading the language of its strata, only to bring all the
fruits of his quarrying up to the surface, laying one period’s debris beside
another, flattened out on trays to present a simultaneous history. It is the depth,
the sedimentation, the embedding soil, which gives the objects their aura, their
historical, political significance or, as Elizabeth Stone puts it, their ‘voice’.
Nevertheless, those objects can only be contemplated once that context has
been disturbed.
The excavation tools of such theatre makers include memory-work as a cutting tool,
their psychophysical possibilities as performers, and essentially, the willingness to
take risks in the search for new forms to respond to what is missing when
contemplating the debris that constitutes their find.
Theatre as a social place of meeting and ritual provides, I would argue, a
particularly conducive context in which to carry out this work. Theatrical forms can
create a distance, which paradoxically allows us to experience something in the
moment on a deeper level, as Hutcheon (2006 : 131) writes,
[T]he theatre audience is more distanced from the action (ie than the film
audience); indeed it is at a fixed distance physically, even if actors can create
intimacy through their ‘presence’. Brook noted that ‘the degree of
involvement is always varying…’ This is why theatre permits one to
experience something in an incredibly powerful way, and at the same time to
retain a certain freedom.
I would also argue that each of the theatre projects discussed above had the potential
to intervene in a personal history (which is never ‘merely’ personal) in that they all
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dealt – directly or indirectly – with testimony. Salverson (1996: 110) explains how the
performance of testimony can intervene in history:
In this way, the performance of testimony can be seen to intervene in the
historical process, rather than simply ‘reflect’ it in a representational form.
It bears witness to that which lies beyond knowable and comprehendible facts
and draws us into what Agamben describes as the ‘non-coincidence’ between
facts and truth, between verification and comprehension’ (Agamben 1999: 12)
Finally, I would argue that the structures, practices and cultural and political
orientation of companies and theatre makers such as Theater Asou and the Projekt
Theater Studio working outside of the theatre establishment are better positioned to
succeed at this kind of work. The artistic freedom they claim comes with a high price,
as we saw above in Chapter One, but without their willingness to pay this price, such
projects would be unthinkable: to take a piece of theatre such as such as Speaking
Stones into the Roman caves of Aflenz knowing that there would be no financial
return and that in this remote corner it would reach only a handful of spectators, or
Brenner’s decision to mount her own theatrical montage in In Search of Jacob at risk
of alienating an international theatre star such as Breuer, would be inconceiveable
within the theatre institution. Most important of all, I would argue, is such companies’
drive and desire to formulate on the one hand and willingness on the other to act on
their questions, such as Brenner’s key question in relation to the complex of issues the
companies sought to address with these projects against forgetting:
Können wir heute Frieden schliessen, indem wir anschliessen an eine
verschüttete Wahrheit? Kann der individuell und kulturell wirksame Verlust
wieder gutgemacht werden ?
There are and can be no easy answers, as we have seen, but such theatre makers show
us that the search for the answers to such questions is what counts most, as Brenner
insists:
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Wir haben keine Antworten anzubieten aber wir verweigern die postmoderne
Beliebigkeit und Utopielosigkeit, die keine mehr sucht. Unsere Utopie liegt in
der gemeinsamen Erinnerungsarbeit. Diese heißt Selbst-Erfahrung,
(Rück)gewinnung kultureller und biografischer Identität/en,
Grenzüberschreitung, Emanzipation!
I would like to conclude by paying a tribute to these artists who have dedicated and
continue to dedicate their lives to work that is so socially relevant and crucial for the
world in which we live, and also by remembering Gernot Rieger of Theater Asou,
who, like all of his colleagues I encountered in the free theatre scene of Graz and
Vienna, was truly ‘an athlete of the heart’.
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APPENDICES
Interviews:
1. Franz Trampusch / Bernadette Cronin, 28th May 2008, Wagna.
BC: Herr Trampusch, was muss Ihres Erachtens noch passieren, was ist wichtig in
dieser Zeit, wo die letzten Zeitzeugen noch am Leben sind, um der Vergangenheit
entgegenzuwirken? - Sie leisten ja sehr viel Arbeit, und wie ich in Ihrem Interview
mit Frau Mag. Bettina Messner gelesen habe, ich finde es unglaublich
bewundernswert, wie Sie Ihr Leben gelebt haben, hren Mut, Ihre Integrität, und was
Sie noch alles bewirken wollen - um der Vergangenheit entgegenzuwirken, was ist
wichtig, was muss passieren?
FT: Erstens die Menschen lernen sehr wenig aus der Geschichte und eine wichtige
Aufgabe von Zeitzeugen ist es, einfach zu sagen, man darf keine Feindbilder
erzeugen, denn es ist ein Instinkt der Menschen, dass sie vor Allem Angst haben, was
sie nicht kennen, was unbekannt ist. Ob das jetzt Menschen sind mit einer anderen
Sprache, mit einer anderen Religion, mit einem anderen Aussehen, es ist sehr einfach
zu sagen, die sind schuld, wenn man selbst Probleme hat, und das ist leider noch
immer so und das war auch seiner Zeit die Situation, die zu diesen schrecklichen
Dingen geführt hat, man hat Feindbilder erzeugt und die Aufgabe ist es eben, vor
allem, den jüngeren Menschen zu sagen, dass man alles tut, damit keine Feindbilder
entstehen oder vermehrt werden.
BC: Diese Gegend und speziell der Steinbruch, diese Geschichte lastet sozusagen
vielleicht auf der Psyche der Menschen, auch wenn man das nicht miterlebt hat, erbt
man irgendwie etwas aus dieser Zeit. Was ist wichtig, damit Heilung stattfinden
kann?
FT: Der Mensch hat auch das Bedürfnis, unangenehme Dinge zu verdrängen, also das
heiβt, er kann sich nicht erinnern, er weiβ nichts davon, und damit werden die Dinge
aber nicht erledigt, sondern man muss darüber reden und man muss vielen Menschen
sagen, lernen wir aus diesen Fehlern der Vergangenheit, und das ist auch hier passiert,
viele Menschen sagen, ich hab nie etwas davon gewusst oder so schlimm war es ja
nicht und es gibt eigentlich wenige, die den Mut haben, darüber zu reden und zu
sagen, dass man daraus lernen müsste und gerade dieser Steinbruch hat viel Schönes
erlebt, wenn man denkt, wieviele historische Gebäude, Skulpturen und andere
künstlerische Dinge dort mit diesem Stein passiert sind, und er hat schlimme Dinge
erlebt, also das heiβt, man muss über Beides reden, man muss darüber reden in dem
Steinbruch, und das ist sicher auch eine Aufgabe von Theater Asou zu sagen, was es
da Schönes gibt aber was da auch Schlimmes passiert ist und das Wichtige ist eben,
das nicht zu verdrängen, sondern darüber zu reden.
BC: Darüber zu reden, das scheint immer ein sehr wichtiger Punkt zu sein, was heiβt
das so für Sie persönlich so als Zeitzeuge, wie ist diese Erfahrung? Wie erfahren Sie
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das am eigenen Körper, am Geist, an der Seele, über diese Dinge zu reden, was ist das
am Aussprechen, das Sie meinen so wichtig ist?
FT: Ich hab das alles als Kind erlebt, ich war so 9 Jahre, 10 Jahre alt, und ich habe
sicher in den ersten Jahren danach, Schwierigkeiten gehabt, aber die Bandbreite, was
der Mensch alles machen kann, führt dazu, dass man sagt, man soll das Positive in
den Vordergrund stellen und man muss halt nur immer wieder auch die Mahnung
aussprechen, dass der Mensch so viel Schönes kann aber auch so viel Schlimmes kann
und man muss eben darüber reden und das habe ich als Aufgabe empfunden, mit den
Menschen darüber zu reden.
BC: Über Ihre persönliche Geschichte?
FT: Persönlich war das so, dass ich eher zum Einzelgänger geworden bin, in dem
Alter, spielt man ja mit anderen Kameraden. Ich wurde in der Schule geohrfeigt, weil
ich nicht bereit war, dieser Hitlerjugend beizutreten, also durch diese dramatischen
Erlebnisse wird man ein politischer Mensch, auch schon als Kind, und das hat mich
natürlich auch beruflich und im Leben geprägt, meine Kompensation war, dass ich
angefangen hab, Lyrik zu schreiben, schon als Zehnjähriger, und das war für mich
damals das Ventil, mit diesen Dingen fertigzuwerden.
BC: Können Sie sich noch daran erinnern, wie Sie, also durch die Lyrik
wahrscheinlich in erster Linie, das war das erste Ventil, haben Sie gesagt, aber dann
anderen Menschen gegenüber, das zum Ausdruck zu bringen, können Sie sich noch
daran erinnern, was das in Ihnen bewirkt hat?
FT: Ich habe nie Probleme gehabt, das Anderen mitzuteilen, weil ich das nicht
theoretisch gemacht habe, sondern immer mit Beispielen sagen konnte, also aus dem
persönlichen Erlebnis heraus, aber ich habe auch nie pauschal Verurteilungen
vorgenommen, denn ich habe bei vielen Menschen, die Schlimmes getan haben, auch
wieder menschliche Seiten erlebt und umgekehrt, also das heiβt für mich war es eher
eine Frage, vor allem anderen jungen Menschen mitzuteilen, dass man den Menschen
einfach, ja, dass man sie irgendwo prägen sollte, dass man ihnen gewisse Werte
mitgibt, und sie nicht allein lässt, das ist bei den jungen Menschen heute wichtig
noch, ich habe viele Führungen, die jungen Menschen sind sehr beeindruckt, aber sie
sagen fast alle, wieso habt ihr euch das gefallen lassen? Es ist sehr schwer in einer
Demokratie, und wir leben doch in einer relativ freien Welt, dann zu erklären, was
Diktatur und was Zwang ist, also diese Frage ist nach wie vor schwierig zu
beantworten, man weiβ, was eine Diktatur ist, wenn man sie selbst erlebt hat.
BC: Und wie erklären Sie das für sich, dass Sie so stark bleiben konnten, Sie haben
offenbar, eine individualistische Art zu denken und Sie haben reagiert, Sie haben
gemerkt, dass es nicht geht, man sollte die Leute nicht zu etwas zwingen, was sie
nicht machen wollen, wie können Sie das für sich erklären, dass als so junger Mensch,
Sie diese Einsichten hatten, diese innere Kraft, diese Stärke, diese Klarsicht?
FT: Man wird sicherlich durch verschiedene Umstände geprägt, auch schon als Kind,
zum Teil mag es Vererbung sein und zum Anderen sind es andere Erlebnisse, ich
habe eine schwere Kinderlähmung hinter mir gehabt, also ich war eine Zeitlang
gelähmt und hab schon als Kind gemerkt, man braucht einen irrsinnig starken Willen
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und viel Energie, um etwas zu überwinden und ich bin dann relativ gesund geworden
und hab dann diese Energie verwendet, um sozusagen, gegen dieses Unrecht, das ich
schon als Kind als Unrecht empfunden hab, aufzutreten und das hat mich einfach
bestärkt und je mehr ich gemaβregelt worden bin dafür, umso, würde ich sagen, sturer
bin ich geworden, das heiβt, ich habe einfach meine Mentalität entwickelt, dass ich
nichts tue, wenn jemand zu mir sagt, du musst, für mich ist da die Überzeugung viel
wichtiger als irgendein Zwang und das war dann mein Leitmotiv, also das ist heute
noch so, dass bei mir niemand was erreicht, wenn er zu mir sagt, du musst. Man muss
einen Menschen überzeugen, mit Argumenten, und wenn das nicht gelingt, man muss
sagen, man hat nicht genug gute Argumente gehabt, um zu überzeugen, aber man darf
nie jemanden zu etwas zwingen, das ist einfach für mich widernatürlich und
unmenschlich und das ist für mich dann das Leitmotiv, wie ich sagte, und dann hab
ich sehr viele Jugendgruppen gegründet in dieser Zeit, nicht nur hier sondern in der
ganzen Steiermark, weil ich die jungen Menschen dazu bringen wollte, gemeinsam
was zu unternehmen, ja, und das hat funktioniert, und das war meine Aufgabe und das
habe ich gerne gemacht und so habe ich eigentlich das Ganze, sagen wir mal,
kompensiert.
BC: Um auf den Steinbruch zu kommen und auf die Ausstellung, also ich habe von
Walter Gluschitsch mitbekommen, Sie haben da sehr viel Energie investiert und
insbesondere in diesen Teil über die Zeit von 1943 – 45, können Sie ein klein
bisschen darüber sagen?
FT: Gerne, es war so, wir haben hier in der Steiermark früher jedes Jahr eine
Landesausstellung gehabt, das ist eine Kultursache, die auch öffentlich gefördert wird
und ich habe viele Jahre darum gekämpft als Bürgermeister schon von Wagna, dass
wir eine Ausstellung zur Römer Zeit bekommen, weil die Stadt Flavia Slova war
sozusagen die erste römische Stadt hier in der Steiermark und das ist dann gelungen
und dieser Römer Stollen oder dieser Römer Höhle war für mich ein Teil dieser
Ausstellung. Die Wissenschaftler wollten aber das Ganze konzentrieren auf ein
Schloss ja, bei der Gelegenheit sind immer alte Schlösser renoviert worden, das war
eher eine politische Frage, und daraufhin haben wir gesagt, wir machen eine
Subausstellung, also selbst noch eine Ausstellung zur Geschichte des Römer Stollens
und da hat es ein klares Ziel gegeben. Alle historischen Ausstellungen, und ich nehme
keine aus, haben einen groβen Fehler, sie zeigen immer das, was so die Oberschicht
einer Gesellschaft hinterlassen hat, denn was bleibt von einem Menschen übrig nach
zweitausend Jahren, wenn er keine Marmorsarkophage gehabt hat, keinen
Goldschmuck, also diese Ausstellungen zeigen nie, die Maβe der Menschen, weil sie
haben nichts gehabt, und sie haben keine Spuren hinterlassen, und in diesem
Steinbruch ist aber jeder Kratzer an der Wand, die Spur eines Menschen, der
irgendwann gelebt hat und der dort gearbeitet hat, und der sonst nichts hinterlassen
hat, also man findet von diesen Menschen nichts mehr als nur Spuren ihrer Arbeit und
dann habe ich die Ausstellung in Erinnerung an diese Menschen gemacht. Und der
Erfolg war, dass wir fast mehr Besucher gehabt haben als die offizielle Ausstelllung.
BC: Und dort wo Sie die Ausstellung montiert haben, speziell zu der Zeit 1943 bis
1945, können Sie dazu was sagen, so speziell zu diesem Teil der Höhle.
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FT: Ja es ist so, es waren insgesamt 5 Stollen, die da als Rüstungsbetrieb adaptiert
worden sind, und dieser Stollen war der gröβte, dort haben sich auch die meisten
dramatischen Dinge abgespielt, und es war strengstens verboten, den Stollen als
Ausβensteher zu betreten, auch wir Kinder durften nicht hinein, ich bin aber einige
Male von der Wachmannschaft miteingeschleust worden, weil das waren Leute, die
selbst Kinder gehabt haben und die sozusagen ja auch Heimweh gehabt haben und so,
und da hat sich halt das ergeben, dass sie an mich herangetreten sind und versucht
haben, mit mir zu reden und umgekehrt war das bei mir auch der Fall und ich bin
einige Male hineingekommen und hab auch Exekutionen erlebt also es sind auch
Leute da drinnen erschlagen worden, weil sie nicht mehr arbeitsfähig waren, und das
war der geeignete Ort, eine Ausstellung zu machen, und diese Ausstellung gliedert
sich in vier kleinen Abschnitten, einer davon heiβt eben „Sklavenarbeit im 20.
Jahrhundert“.
BC: Können Sie das Bild ganz konkret beschreiben, was haben Sie gesehen zu der
Zeit, wenn Sie als Kind da hineingegangen sind, wie sah das konkret aus?
FT: Es war einmal ein besonders starker Lärm, der fast nicht zu ertragen war, es sind
sehr groβe Maschinen zur Metallverarbeitung gelaufen, und das Echo, die Akustik ist
ja dort in dem Stollen einmalig, das sieht man ja auch bei musikalischen
Aufführungen, bei Theateraufführungen, und das hat sich natürlich verstärkt, also das
heiβt, es war fast nicht auszuhalten, das ist die eine Geschichte, die zweite war, dass
natürlich dieser Stollen voll gefüllt war mit Menschen, die schwer gearbeitet haben,
die Angst gehabt haben, also man hat schon diese Atmosphäre gespürt.
BC: Wie haben diese Menschen ausgesehen, was haben sie getragen?
FT: Es waren eigentlich drei Gruppen von Menschen dort: das war einmal die
Bewachung, also die Aufsicht, das waren aber im Stollen in erster Linie Kapos, also
nicht die SS-Mannschaft, die Kapos, die waren selbst Häftlinge, allerdings alle mit
dem grünen Fleck, also Kriminelle, die haben sich durchgesetzt in der Lagerhierarchie
und die waren einfach die grausamsten, denn sie waren für die Arbeitsmoral
verantwortlich und den Groβteil der Exekutionen, die ich erlebt habe, sind also von
den Kapos durchgeführt worden, also die haben als kleine Gruppe das Ganze dort
beherrscht. [Kaffeemaschine eingeschaltet im Hintergrund von einem Kollegen, der
Zigaretten-/Kaffeepause macht] Dann waren die sogenannten Facharbeiter, das waren
Zivilarbeiter, also keine KZ-Häftlinge, die wurden vom Militärdienst freigestellt, weil
sie Spezialisten waren, also Schlosser, Elektriker, die mussten dort auch arbeiten aber
sie waren ansonsten frei, das heiβt, die haben mehr zu essen bekommen und waren
nicht eingesperrt, sie waren nur zur Arbeit verpflichtet, also und dann waren die
Insassen des Konzentrationslagers, die sozusagen alle Hilfsarbeiten und Bauarbeiten
zu verrichten hatten, das waren die, die halt dann zum Teil umgekommen sind.
BC: Können Sie beschreiben, wie die Menschen ausgesehen haben, was sie getragen
haben?
FT: Die Insassen des Konzentrationslagers haben alle dieses gestreifte Gewand
gehabt, so mit blauem Streifen, so ein grobes, eine grobe Leinwand war das, also sehr
dünn, was ja auch in dem Stollen, der 8 Grad zu jeder Jahreszeit gehabt hat, schon
einmal ein groβes Handikap war, und sie haben auf der Brust und am Ärmel alle
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einen farbigen Fleck gehabt. Aufgrund der Farbe wusste man, was man im
Konzentrationslager war, und sie haben alle so eine Mütze gehabt, so ja, die sie tragen
mussten, sie haben alle so eine Uniform angezogen, nich, und sie waren alle
unterernährt und und blass und krank aussehend.
BC: Gefunden worden im Steinbruch in 2004 ist dieser Toteskarren und dieses Bild
eingraviert in die Wand von der Frau, wie sind diese Gegenstände entdeckt worden?
FT: Der Toteskarren, das war einer von vielen, sie haben jeden Tag riesen Mengen
von Eisenspähnen hinausgeführt, die bei den Arbeiten entstanden sind, da waren
Fräsmaschinen für die Metallbearbeitung, und diese Metallspähne hat man mit diesen
Karren hinausgebracht und dort dann die Eingänge zugedeckt, damit die
Luftaufklärung nicht sehen konnten, was da los war, abends hat man dann die Toten
mit ins Lager geführt mit solchen Karren und deshalb nennen wir sie Toteskarren, in
Wirklichkeit waren das Karren für den Transport von Eisenmaterial, und das mit dem
Bild war so, da hat es ein Gerücht gegeben, dass ein Häftling vor lauter Heimweh das
Bild von seiner Frau oder von seiner Tochter wo eingraviert hat in den Stein, nur
haben wir das Bild nie gefunden und wir haben gedacht, das war nur so eine
Erzählung und wie wir das Steinmaterial weggeräumt haben für diese Ausstellung ist
dieses Bild zum Vorschein gekommen, das war hinter einem Steinhaufen einfach
versteckt, wir haben ja insgesamt an die 40 solche Erinnerungen in den Stollen, und
meistens versteckt, also die Häftlinge haben versucht, sich irgendwie in Erinnerung zu
rufen.
BC: Aber keiner weiß, wer das war.
FT: Na, na, also es steht da ein Monogram, F.K. steht dort, ob das der Gleiche war,
das entzieht sich unserer Erkenntnis.
BC: Um auf das Theaterstück zu kommen: Sie haben das Stück Speaking Stones
erlebt, waren Sie einmal dabei, als es aufgeführt wurde? Wie haben Sie auf das Stück
reagiert, wie haben Sie das empfangen, empfunden?
FT: Na, ich war schon sehr beeindruckt, weil es die Atmosphäre dieses Stollens in
besonderer Weise zum Ausdruckt gebracht hat, und das ist schade, dass das nicht
noch mehr Menschen miterlebt haben.
BC: Meinen Sie, dass Menschen aus der Gegend reingegangen sind, um das Stück zu
sehen?
FT: Leider war das keine gröβere Anzahl, soweit ich das in Erinnerung hab, war das
in erster Linie Leute aus Graz, also aus dem Kulturraum Graz, die hier halt auch einen
engeren Bezug zu dieser Form von Theater haben.
BC: Das ist einfach zu fremdartig...?
FT: Ja, ja.
BC: Aber manche Leute aus der Gegend haben das schon miterlebt?
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FT: Sind schon, ja.
BC: Wissen Sie, wie sie darauf reagiert haben?
FT: Na ja, wie ich schon gesagt habe, sie waren alle sehr beeindruckt und
nachdenklich, würde ich sagen, war ja nicht etwas zum Feiern sondern zum
Nachdenken.
BC: Und meinen Sie, dass Theater eine Rolle spielen kann, um sich mit der
Vergangenheit auseinanderzusetzen? Um in diesem Ort, in dem Steinbruch etwas zu
bewirken, Sie haben gesagt, dieser Steinbruch hat gute Dinge und schlimme Dinge
erlebt. Meinen Sie, dass Theater spezifisch etwas bewirken kann, eine Rolle spielen
kann bei dieser Arbeit, die Sie ja betreiben?
FT: Ich glaube schon, nur, vielleicht ist das eine etwas konservative Ansicht, ich
glaube Kunst in jeder Form, also Theater, Malerei, Lyrik, Musik, ist dann echt, wenn
der Zuschauer, der Betrachter, der Zuhörer Ähnliches Empfinden kann als der
Künstler, der das produziert, dann ist das für mich Kunst. Wenn diese
Kommunikation nicht stattfindet, ist es für mich Scharlatanerie, das heiβt, ich bin da
kein Anhänger dieser extremen Malerei, wo man dann vielleicht nur mehr einen
schwarzen Würfel sieht und sonst nichts mehr, also ich will da nicht in die Richtung
zu weit gehen, aber ich will da sagen, Theater ist sicherlich ein sehr geeignetes Mittel,
es muss nur rüberkommen zwischen den Schauspielern oder dem Regisseur, oder wer
das immer macht, und dem Publikum, wenn das gelingt, dann ist das sehr gutes
Theater, und das ist in dem Fall passiert.
BC: Und warum meinen Sie, es ist in dem Fall passiert? Bei dieser Truppe, bei diesen
Schauspielern, bei diesem Stück?
FT: Ja, na, dieser Stolle hat eine besondere Atmosphäre, wenn man etwas weiβ von
der Geschichte, von dem was sich dort ereignet hat, dann ist das die Brücke genau am
Ort des Geschehens, wo dieser Funke zwischen dem Schauspieler und dem Publikum
überspringen kann, das mag woanders unter anderen Voraussetzungen gar net
funktionieren, aber dort funktioniert es sicher, weil es einfach zeigt in künstlischer
Form, was dort passiert ist, oder was hätte passieren können, was der Mensch damit
zum Ausdruck bringt, oder wie er das vermitteln möchte, was da passiert ist, für
diesen Ort sicher die geeignete Form der Darstellung gewesen.
BC: Der eine Schauspieler hat mir gesagt, Christian Heuegger, dass die letzte
Vorstellung von Speaking Stones, die beste für ihn war und die ganze Zeit, während er
gespielt hat, hat er das Gefühl gehabt, er hört Stimmen und Raunen und spürt was von
den Seelen der Menschen, die dort gearbeitet, gelitten haben, er hat das Gefühl
gehabt, sie wären gekommen, um das Stück zu sehen. Meinen Sie, das klingt
vielleicht ein Bisschen phantasiereich, aber meinen Sie, das so auf dieser Ebene ein
Stück, eine solche künstlerische Arbeit, irgendwie eingreifen kann in die Geschichte,
oder etwas bewirken kann, so als Heilmittel.
FT: Sie haben ein Stichwort gesagt, Phantasie, die menschliche Phantasie ist sowieso
etwas Unbegrenztes, also der Mensch kann eigentlich in seiner Phantasie alles
erleben, da gibt es nichts, was nicht sein könnte, nur die Frage ist, wie kann das
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vermittelt werden, was der Einzelne empfindet, und jeder empfindet anders, es gibt
nicht zwei Menschen, die hundertprozentig gleich empfinden und jetzt kommt es sehr
darauf an, ob es gelingt zu sagen, eine gewisse Anzahl von Menschen dazuzubringen,
Gleiches zu empfinden, und ich kann mir schon vorstellen, dass jemand, der sehr
sensibel ist, hier, und im Wissen, was sich alles da getan hat, eine andere
Vorstellungswelt und auch eine andere Empfindungswelt dann erlebt, als jemand, der
völlig unbefangen dort hingeht und halt das einmal anschaut, daher glaube ich, dass es
schon Schauspieler gegeben hat, die das besonders tief empfunden haben, das glaube
ich schon, und das ist auch das Schöne, was uns vom Computer unterscheidet, der
Computer wird nie die Menschliche Phantasie ersetzen, vielleicht alles Andere.
B.C: Ihr Wunsch für die Zukunft, für diese Gegend, für die Gemeinde, für die
Nachgeborenen, ich weiβ nicht, ob Sie selbst Kinder haben, Herr Trampusch, was ist
Ihr Wunsch für die Zukunft?
FT: Na, ich hab selbst drei Kinder und schon 5 Enkelkinder, ich seh das auch selbst
bei den Eigenen, man muss einfach eine Brücke bauen, man kann nicht mit
Argumenten, die halt vielleicht vor 50 Jahren aktuell waren, junge Menschen
beeindrucken, man muss sie anders hinführen, und man muss einfach alles
unternehmen, damit solche Dinge nicht ganz vergessen werden, wir werden heuer
noch ein Mahnmal, dort künstlerisch gestaltetes Mahnmal bekommen, im Bereich
Aflenz, oder Römer Höhle, der Standort steht noch nicht fest, also auch ein sichtbares
Zeichen, und wir hoffen schon, da wird auch der Bundespräsident kommen zur
Einweihung, dass das wiederum eine Breitenwirkung hat, dass noch mehr Menschen
aufmerksam gemacht werden auf den Ort des Geschehens und wir sind vor Allem
dabei, möglichst viele Schulen dazuzuanimieren, sich das einfach einmal
anzuschauen, es ist ja nicht nur die tragische Geschichte interessant, sondern diese
Erlebniswelt eines groβen Stollens, einer Höhle im Korallenrief, d.h. für junge
Menschen könnte man das auch in anderer Form attraktiv machen, und bei dieser
Gelegenheit dann natürlich auch sagen, was ich früher schon betont hab, was der
Mensche Schönes aber auch Schlimmes tun kann, wenn das gelingt, dass man nach
wie vor Menschen dorthin bringt, und mit ihnen darüber redet, wieso das passiert ist
und was man tun muss, dass das nicht mehr passiert, dann hat das schon, glaube ich,
eine bestimmte Funktion erfüllt.
B: Ich hätte noch eine letzte Frage zu dem Toteskarren: es hat geheiβen, dass die
Häftlinge mitunter noch singen mussten, wenn Sie den Karren mit den Leichen aus
dem Stollen geführt haben, zurück ins Lagen geführt haben, haben Sie das gehört oder
miterlebt?
FT: Ich habe das oft miterlebt, ich hab am Eingang eines dieser Stollen gewohnt, und
ja ich hab das fast jeden Tag erlebt bei Arbeitsschluss, es war immer sehr abhängig
vom Bewachungspersonal, es waren sicher welche dabei, die das nicht so provokant
organisiert haben, wo das still und leise passiert ist, aber es waren einige, die immer
wieder die Häftlinge dazu gezwungen haben, ihre Toten singend ins Lager zu bringen,
was noch schlimmer war, es waren Einige, die die Häftinge dazugebracht haben, auch
schwere Steine mitzuschleppen ins Lager, die Leute waren ja sehr entkräftet und
trotzdem mussten sie Steine mit 40, 50, 60 KiloGewicht mit ins Lager tragen und am
nächsten Morgen wieder zurück zum Steinbruch, also das heiβt..
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B: Um sie zu peinigen?
FT: Ja ja, offizieller Grund war, damit sie nicht flüchten konnten, net, denn diese
Häftlinge wurden auf einer Straβe ungefähr 300/400 Meter ins Lager getrieben und
vom Lager dann wieder zum Steinbruch und das ist klar, wenn jemand einen
schweren Stein trägt, und den wegwirft, dann wird er sofort wegen Fluchtgefahr
erschossen, nicht, so lange er den Stein auf der Schulter getragen war, war ja keine
Gefahr, also es war für die Bewachung übersichtlicher, wenn die Kolonne marschiert
ist, wenn alle einen schweren Stein getragen haben, und das dürfte neben sehr
provokanten der Hauptgrund gewesen sein, dass ja auch keine Flucht passiert.
BC: Und das Bild von dem Karren, wieviele Leute haben das gezogen?
FT: Es war so, dass manchmal ein Toter, manchmal zwei, in extremen Fällen
vielleicht auch drei Tote auf dem Karren gelegen haben, nackt, denn sie sind immer
nur nackt transportiert worden, und zwei Häftlinge haben den Karren gezogen, also so
habe ich es in Erinnerung.
BC: Vielen Dank, Herr Trampusch.
FT: Bitte, gerne.
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2. Walter Gluschitsch / Bernadette Cronin, 23. November 2004, Aflenz.
BC: Könnten Sie bitte erklären, wie Sie zu Ihrer Tätigkeit hier im Römer Steinbruch
gekommen sind?
WG: Ich bin Gemeindebediensteter. Im Jahr 1989 hat ein Musikschullehrer erfahren,
dass es den unterirdischen Steinbruch hier gibt und ist an mich herangetreten und hat
mich gefragt, ob man kulturelle Veranstaltungen drinnen abhalten kann. Ich hab mit
der Firma Stein von Grein Verbindung aufgenommen und die Firma hat uns das ohne
größere Schwierigkeiten erlaubt, allerdings ist das ja ein aktiver Bergbau und da sind
immer wieder sehr viele Aufgaben zu erfüllen. Nachdem mich das selbst interessiert
hat, habe ich mich der Sache speziell angenommen und mache es seit dem 1. Juli
1998, da hat die erste Veranstaltung stattgefunden, betreibe das und habe es zu
meinem Hobby gemacht.
BC: Können Sie erklären, wie diese Ausstellung im Steinbruch zustandegekommen
ist, die ja auch Informationen über die Zeit während des 2. Weltkrieges mit
einschließt?
WG: Der Grund, das ist überhaupt die Landesausstellung über die Römer, die es hier
bei uns gibt, ist Herr Franz Trampusch. Der arbeitet seit über 10 Jahren daran, dass
wir hier am historischen Boden von Flavia Solva zur Landesausstellung kommen,
endlich ist es soweit, da ja auch Steine aus diesem Steinbruch für Flavia Solva
Verwendung gefunden hatten, war nichts näher als, dass dieser Steinbruch auch mit
einbezogen wird. Eine Landesausstellung ist eine Veranstaltung des Landes
Steiermark, die Marktgemeinde Wagna hat aber als Rahmenprogramm zur
Landesaustellung 1) das römische Dorf, wo Streitwagenrennen, Gladiatorenkämpfe
und solche Dinge stattfinden, den Römer zum Angreifen zeigen wollen und 2) den
Steinbruch von der Firma Grein für 6 Monate gepachtet, um eben hier drinnen a) die
Ausstellung b) Veranstaltungen wie Konzerte, Theater usw. abhalten zu können.
Warum es zur Ausstellunng gekommen ist, Herr Franz Trampusch in seiner Jugend
als Kind eigentlich mit 9/11 Jahren, speziell in der Zeit 1943/1945 als es sich beim
Steinbruch um die Außenstelle des KZ Mauthausen gehandelt hat, ganz in der Nähe
gewohnt. Er wohnte bei seinen Großeltern, die eine kleine Landwirtschaft hier
führten. Er musste auch an ca. 40 Exekutionen teilnehmen, da seine Mutter einigen
Häftlingen Äpfel zusteckte, einer der Häftlinge konnte sich auf Grund des Hungers
nicht beherrschen und begann sofort das zu essen. Daher wurde festgestellt, von wo
sie die Äpfel herhatten. Bestraft wurde die Mutter in der Art, dass Franz Trampusch
beiwohnen muste, wie der besagte Häftling in der Nähe des Aflenz Baches seine
Grube aushob und als die Grube groß genug war mit einem Genickschuss getötet
wurde. In weiterer Folge diente er als Faustpfand gegenüber der Mutter, damit sie ja
in der Offentlichhkeit oder außerhalb des Gebietes nichts preisgibt, musste er ja
immer zu solchen Exekutionen und musste diesen beiwohnen. Aus diesem Grund
heraus, um diese Geheimnisse den Leuten zugänglich zu machen ist der 4. Teil der
Ausstellung zustandegekommen. Die Ausstellung hat auch den Untertitel 2000 Jahre
Arbeit. Franz Trampusch ist der Meinung, dass die Funde, die man hier in Flavia
Solva, oder allgemein archeologisch erforscht und findet meist von den reichen
Leuten stammen. Wer konnte sich goldene Fibeln (heute profan Sicherheitsnadeln, die
das Gewand zusammenhalten) leisten? Wer konnte sich derartigen Prunk leisten? Das
waren reiche Leute. Von den armen Leuten findet man kaum etwas, wenn man nicht
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oder wird nichts präsentiert, man braucht nur sehr genau schauen und man sieht sehr
wohl die Werke, die mit der Hände Fleiß geschaffen wurden. Sehe die Höhlen, das
ausgehöhlte, das nicht direkt darauf hinweist, dass die Leute gearbeitet haben, aber es
muss gewesen sein, weil sonst wären sie nicht da. Man schaue in weiterer Folge die
großen Bauwerke, ok finanziert von den reichen Leuten, aber wer hat sie geschaffen?
Die Handwerker, die armen Leute, die eben Hand angelegt haben und fleißig waren.
Darum auch diese Ausstellung von den Römern, von der Entstehung des Kalksteins,
über die Römer, über das Mittelalter bis hin zur traurigen Geschichte des 2.
Weltkrieges und alles Weitere wird außerhalb der Ausstellung bei Führungen dann
erklärt.
BC: Und wie stehen die Einheimischen in der Umgebung dazu, dass diese Tatsachen
bekanntgegeben werden?
WG: Auf Grund des Großen Erfolges – wir zählen jetzt im Römersteinbruch über
30,000 Besucher – steht die Bevölkerung auch dahinter. Es war natürlich so, die Leute
wussten von den Geschehnissen im 2. Weltkrieg, waren aber bei Todesstrafe dazu
verdammt, nichts (mehr) davon zu erzählen. Also mussten sie das mehr oder weniger
herunterschlucken und konnten auch danach ihr Gewissen nicht beruhigen, weil sie
wussten davon, dass Untaten stattfinden und konnten darüber nicht berichten, also die
hatten auf eine Art und Weise auch ein schlechtes Gewissen. Selbst Forschungen der
Uni Graz haben kaum etwas gebracht, weil die Leute immer wieder sagten, über diese
Zeit möchte ich nicht sprechen. Mir selbst ist es passiert, ich hatte eine Führung mit
einer Pensionistengruppe aus Steiermark. Ein grauhaariger, hagerer, älterer Mann war
während der ganzen Führung an meiner Seite. Sein Blick hing an meinen Lippen und
als die Gruppe dann in den Bus stieg, war er der Letzte und …..zuschließ, sagte er:
“Ich war in der Zeit hier drinnen.” Ich habe dann natürlich, weil ich wusste, wo die
Gruppe herkommt, Nachforschungen angestellt, habe einige Male mit ihm telefoniert
aber er war nicht bereit, näher darüber zu berichten. Ich habe ihn dann gebeten, sollte
er, er möge das niederschreiben und in seinem Nachlass mich dann bedenken. Ich
habe dann die letzten Jahre nicht mehr Kontakt mit ihm gehabt. Ich werde wieder
nachfragen, ob er noch unter uns weilt oder ob es im Nachlass etwas gibt. Meiner
Meinung nach hatte er mit Sicherheit etwas mit den Aufsichtspersonen zu tun gehabt,
weil er absolut nicht darüber sprechen wollte.
BC: Und haben Sie das Stück Speaking Stones schon gesehen?
WG: Bereits das 6. Mal jetzt.
BC: Und wie finden Sie es, dass dieses Stück in dem Römersteinbruch aufgeführt
wird. Wie wirkt das auf Sie?
WG: Wenn der Autor den Römersteinbruch vorher gekannt hätte, hätte ich gesagt, er
hätte das Stück dafür geschrieben. Ich habe es zuerst in Graz gesehen, im Theater im
Palais, habe es vor 2. Jahren hier im Steinbruch gesehen. Jetzt die Wiederaufnahme.
Ich kann mir kein Stück vorstellen, dass besser herpasst. Außerdem muss ich sagen,
die erste Vorstellung heute war die beste, die ich bisher gesehen habe.
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BC: Können sie vielleicht ein bisschen näher darauf eingehen, was Ihnen an diesem
Stück imponiert. Sie haben gesagt, das passt ideal in diese Umgebung. Können sie ein
bisschen mehr darauf eingehen?
WG: Ja, speziell in Zusammenhang mit der Thematik, die es anspricht mit den
Geschehnissen im 2. Weltkrieg, die gesamte Inszenierung, die ganze... bin auf dem
Gebiet nicht so versiert. Ich kann’s nicht ausdrücken, also der gesammte Eindrück ist
eben … fasziniert mich. Es passt alles zusammen, und es passt alles her in den
Steinbruch, es ist so ergreifend, dass ich es gar nicht beschreiben kann.
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225
3. Uschi Litschauer / Bernadette Cronin August 2002 / September 2009, Graz.
BC: Uschi, kannst du mir zunächst einmal sagen, wie du dazu gekommen bist,
Schauspielerin zu werden?
UL: Also meine Karriere sozusagen began ‘94, wo ich hier in Graz eine TheaterSommerschule besucht hab, einen Kurs, Straßentheater mit Abel Solares. Ja dann im
Anschluss an dem Kurs einfach weiter einen Kurs angeboten hat, aus dem her Theater
Asou letztlich hervorgegangen ist. Davor habe ich Pädagogik studiert, ich hab mich
im Speziellen mit Theaterpädagogik beschäftigt, aber mit einer anderen Methode,
nämlich der Methode von Augusto Boal, der brazilianischer Theatermacher ist, der
also von einem politischen Theateransatz auskommt, den wir auch dann schon in der
Praxis umgesetzt haben, im Bereich Erwachsenentheater, hauptsächlich Jugendarbeit.
Und davor war das eigentlich immer ein Traum, also ich habe ganz viele Kurse
gemacht nebenbei, einerseits Theaterkurse und Pantomime, Kontaktimprovisation,
aber so dieser Schritt dann, wirklich sich auch dafür zu entscheiden, auch das Studium
letztlich abzubrechen, hat der Abel Solares ausgelöst.
B: Und die Schauspielschule wolltest du nicht besuchen?
U: Nein, das war nie ein Ziel eigentlich, also an offiziellen Dingen zu spielen, das hat
mich nie so interessiert oder so fasziniert und natürlich war ich auch schon sehr vom
Abel geprägt, also unser Gründer von Asou, er war wirklich so der Vater vom Theater
Asou und auch von der Theaterrichtung, in die er uns eingeführt hat, und er hatte
immer eine sehr starke Opposition zu diesem klassischen Theater gestellt und von den
Kontakten, die ich gehabt hatte, hat sich das bestätigt, und für mich war es irgendwie,
also ich war schon 26 und ich habe mir gedacht, das ist zu spät für mich, weil ich, ich
bin aus Wien, ich bin 94 nach Graz gekommen, umgesiedelt, und in Wien war das
halt irgendwie Reinhardt Seminar, und ein paar Leute von einer privaten
Schauspielschule habe ich gekannt und das war eher so, sie haben die Ausbildung
gemacht, haben sich dann ein bisschen irgendwie umgehört im deutschsprachigen
Raum, sind dann auch davon abgekommen, also Theater zu machen, weil sie gesagt
haben, dieses ewige Vorsprechen, das wollen sie nicht mehr. Das war so mein
Eindruck von der klassischen Ausbildung, und ich arbeite gern in Gruppen und dann
hat sich sehr schnell diese Gruppe geformt, zunächst auch mit vielen Frauen, die
nebenbei berufstätig waren, die also 30-/40-Stunden Jobs gemacht haben, und in dem
Moment, wo wir dann zu produzieren begonnen haben, sind halt viele Leute, die das
quasi als Hobby machen, einfach gegangen. Die einzige, die aus der Zeit geblieben
ist, ist die Monika, die nach wie vor irgendwie ihre 40-Stunden Job macht und halt die
volle Theaterarbeit.
BC: Könntest du deine Rolle als Theatermacher in der Gesellschaft characterisieren?
UL: Es ist ja Groß. Es gibt schon Vorbilder. Es gibt schon für mich so Gruppen, also
einerseits ein Vorbild ist auch die Eva Brenner, die Leiterin des Projekttheaters in
Wien, die so einfach uns jetzt ermöglicht hat, Leute kennenzulernen, die halt in New
York arbeiten, und das ist ja dann Teil der offiziellen Ausbildung, einfach
experimentelle Theateransätze lehren, und sie hat irgendwie die Leute nach Österreich
gebracht, und halt einfach, aber für die freie Szene, die da im offiziellen Bereich
überhaupt keine Chance hat, Fuß zu fassen. Und das finde ich sehr bewundernswert,
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also dieses Engagement zu haben, ja als freie Szene, was ist die freie Szene? Einfach
eben freie und neue Formen auszuprobieren, auch zu experimentieren, Theater auch
an Plätze zu bringen, wo es normalerweise nicht stattfindet, kein Bildungstheater
machen zu müssen. Was unsere Schwierigkeit ist, ist die finanzielle Situation, also
das steht im krassen Widerspruch gegenüber dem Engagement……..
BC: Also du hast eben gesagt, Theater dorthinzubringen, wo es das normalerweise
nicht gibt, da wollte ich eigentlich darauf hinaus mit meiner Frage, was bewirkt das,
deines Erachtens, Theater irgendwohin zu bringen, wo es das sonst nicht gibt?
UL: Ja vielleicht ist das immer noch so eine politische Einstellung einfach, wobei das
muss nicht politisches Theater sein, aber auch halt Leute anzusprechen, die wo
normalerweise nicht in diese Bildungstheaterschicht gehören.
BC: Was kann dann das Theater bewirken, sagen wir mal, im Gegensatz zu anderen
Formen der Aufklärung?
UL: Na ja, da ist auf alle Fälle eine Lustkomponente dabei und auch die Komponente
der Unterhaltung, egal, das ist ja ein Aspekt.
BC: Meinst du damit, spielerisch lernen?
UL: Mit unserer form, sagen wir mal so, was wir in Asou machen oder mit dem Abel,
das waren sehr oft entwicklungspolitische Themen, die wir mit ihm behandelt haben.
Natürlich sind wir dann auch zu dem Publikum gekommen, die sich halt auch dafür
interessieren. Aber ab und zu war es doch auch so, dass einfach Leute
hineingestolpert sind in so eine Aufführung. Dann im Bereich vom Kindertheater
machen wir sehr viel auch im öffentlichen Raum, das heißt auf Spielplätzen, wo ich
jetzt mal sag, sie würden nie ins Theater gehen, also wir veranstalten einerseits auch
diese Spielplatzsachen, natürlich spielen wir dann auch im Theater, aber, wo ich jetzt
mal sag von den BesucherInnen, das fängt mit den Kindern an aber natürlich sind
denn auch die Mütter und auch die paar wenige Väter. Das ist so quasi Theater im
Hof, so betiteln wir das. Was wir noch nicht gemacht haben in dem Bereich, also was
ich mehr mache jetzt, ich habe dieses zweite Staatsexamen in Theaterpädagogik
gemacht und da gibt's den Michael Wrentschur, der ist auch noch sehr interessant, von
Inter-Act, die machen dieses Forumtheater, also wo es wirklich darum geht, einen
sozialen Konflikt quasi darzustellen, so eine Art Modell-Szene zu bauen,
dorthinzugehen und der Gemeinde alles vorzuspielen, und die Leute dazu zu
befragen, und sie steigen dann in diese Szene ein und spielen ihren Vorschlag, also
das ist nochmal eine andere Form, und sonst, wie es sich jetzt entwickelt, die Sache,
die Zusammenarbeit mit Phillip, das ist natürlich Theater für Festivals, also wo dieser
Anspruch, an ungewöhnlichen Orten zu spielen, eigentlich immer mehr zurückgeht,
aber was uns sehr viel Spaß macht.
BC: Also die Arbeit von Asou würdest du als experimentell bezeichnen?
UL: Schwer zu sagen, ich meine experimentell…. Das ist eine sehr schwierige Frage.
BC: Oder wenn nicht experimentell, dann hättest du vielleicht eine andere
Bezeichnung?
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UL: Sagen wir mal so, wir sind auch gerade in einem Prozess, unsere Theaterform zu
finden, ich würde sagen, das ist wirklich ein starker Prozess jetzt, weil wir so, zuerst
haben wir sehr vage definiert, wir machen experimentelles Theater, vor allen Dingen
im Erwachsenenberieich. Wir waren sehr frei. Also wir haben irgendwie, also alles
war körperorientierte Arbeit, sagen wir mal im weitesten Sinne anthropologische
Theateransätze, das heißt sehr viele Theaterformen, die aus dem Orient kommen, bzw
Phillips Kalari oder auch Kathakali, der Abel hat sehr viel eingebracht aus Japan, wir
haben Butoh Workshops gemacht und dann haben wir gearbeitet mit der New
Yorkerin Catherine Coray, Sharon Fogarty, Stephen Wangh. Das war mehr Grotowski
bezogen und Eugenio Barba bezogen, das heißt, die haben ja eigentlich die Prinzipien
von orientalischen Theaterformen übernommen und haben das eingesetzt quasi in eine
eigene Trainingsstruktur. Der Barba hat z.B. die ganze Energiearbeit halt genommen
und hat seine Leute aufgefordert, selber Formen zu entwickeln. Und so haben wir sehr
stark mit Abel gearbeitet. Wir haben unsere eigene Bewegungssequenzen entwickelt.
Grotowski hat schon diesen experiementellen Ansatz gehabt, aber ich denke, das
waren die 60er Jahre. Wir sind jetzt schon im Jahre 2002 und ich denke, das ist auch
schon was klassisches in irgendeiner Form.
BC: Ihr bewegt euch jetzt in eine neue Richtung?
UL: Wir haben aber nicht, wir haben nie z. B. mit Video usw experimentiert also von
der Performanceströmung, so experimentell in diesem sinn haben wir nicht gearbeitet.
Wir haben einfach mal ausprobiert, sagen wir mal so, und jetzt probieren wir im
Erwachsenenbereich, so eine Linie zu finden. Im Kindertheater, was halt unsere
finanzielle Basis ist, haben wir einfach diese Methoden umgesetzt, das heißt, wir
machen ein sehr verspieltes Theater, sehr körperorientiertes Theater, immer mit
Livemusik immer mit sehr einfachen Kostümen. Wir haben keine Kulissen, sondern
wir haben einfache Gegenstände, die wir transformieren und zu Requisitien
umgestalten……wir sind am Suchen, also irgendwie am Suchen, auch in der
Erwachsenenschiene. Was sicher bleiben wird, ist diese Suche und dieses Forschen,
um halt diese orientalischen Methoden für uns zu übersetzen.
BC: Also ihr bekennt euch zu der Suche?
UL: Ja.
[Sep 2009: Ich denke, dass sich Theater ASOU auch heute durch Vielfalt im
Erwachsenenbereich charakterisiert. Ein Grund dafür liegt sicher auch in der
Unterschiedlichkeit unserer Gruppenmitglieder, ihrer unterschiedlichen Interessen,
Anliegen und Arbeitszugängen.
Deshalb gab es in den vergangenen Jahren, neben einigen gemeinsamen Projekten,
auch kleinere individuellere Arbeiten in kleineren Teams.
Wir haben uns Klassikern, wie Becketts Endspiel und Shakespeares “Der
Widerspenstigen Zähmung” gestellt, in unserer Butohproduktion-“Henshin” die
Verbindung zwischen Butohtanz und Kafkas Verwandlung gesucht und oftmals in
Projekten persönliche Themen oder Anliegen bearbeitet, wie in “Aus dem Rahmen,
das Kinski-experiment”, “Das 33. Jahr”, “Zeit zu Lieben”.
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Eine neue Art der Arbeit war “Spuren der Erinnerung” Ausgangsbasis war das
Interesse und die Forschung/Spurensuche an diesem speziellen Ort, am unterirdischen
Römersteinbruch Aflenz bei Leibnitz und seiner Geschichte. Der Steinbruch war ab
1944 ein Außenlager vom KZ Mauthausen, dort wurde von den Häftlingen in
Zwangsarbeit unterirdisch Rüstungs – und Flugzeugteile hergestellt. Diese Geschichte
ist tabuisiert, bis vor kurzem gab es kein Mahnmal, keinen Hinweis darauf. Wir haben
uns auf die Suche nach persönlichen Erinnerungen an diesem Ort und dieser Zeit
gemacht. In Zusammenarbeit mit der Soziologin Mag. Bettina Messner entstanden
biografische Interviews mit ZeitzeugInnen. Dieses Material war Ausgangsarbeit für
unsere theatralen Aktionen und Abschlussperformance in Rahmen des 10 tägigen
Projektes “Spuren der Erinnerung” im Steinbruch, sowie in den benachbarten Orten
Wagna und Leibnitz im Juni 2008.]
BC: Können wir nochmal kurz zu der Geschichte von Asou zurückkommen. Ihr habt
mit Abel Solares in 1994 mit einigen von euch die Gruppe gegründet, kannst du ein
bisschen näher darauf eingehen, wie die anderen Mitglieder dazugekommen sind?
UL: Ja, von der ursprünglichen Gruppe, sind noch Monika, Christian und ich und
dann kam der Gernot dazu, der in Prinzip ein Freund von Christian war, der halt auch
in einer anderen Studentengruppe gespielt hat, und sie haben eine Produktion
gemeinsam gemacht und Gernot war dann auch sehr begeistert von der Arbeit, von
unserem Training mit Abel, und dann kam der Klaus dazu, der über einen Workshop
von Abel zu uns gestoßen ist - weil der Abel quasi der war, der diese Öffnung der
Gruppe irgendwie ermöglicht hat, das heißt, er hat Workshops gegeben und hat einige
Leute dann einfach entweder ausgesucht oder sie einfach oder sie sind, sie haben den
Abel angesprochen. Der Abel war eineinhalb Jahre da und dann ist er nach Japan
gegangen und dann waren wir quasi allein auf uns gestellt und zu dem Zeitpunkt
waren wir nur mehr 6 und wir haben dann beschlossen als Gruppe Fortbildungen zu
besuchen und halt dann als Gruppe die Ansätze in unserem täglichen Training
weiterzumachen, was sehr viel Disziplin erfordert hat, weil wir quasi ohne Leitung
waren und in der Phase haben wir dann noch den Phillip kennengelernt, bzw
Catherine Coray, die auch wieder kommt, diese New Yorker Leute.
BC: Also ihr arbeitet nicht mehr mit dem ursprünglichen Leiter?
UL: Wir haben mit dem Abel, das war halt so, wir haben allein quasi Kindertheater
Produktionen gemacht und er ist dann einmal im Jahr gekommen und hat quasi dieses
Stück, das wir entwickelt hatten, einfach geputzt also noch einmal regiemäßig
geputzt, und das war so ein Prozess für uns, das zu lernen, weil das erste Stück hatte
noch nicht einmal eine offizielle Regieleitung und jetzt ist es so, dass einer von uns
immer die Regie übernimmt oder hauptverantwortlich ist.
BC: Die Arten von Theater, die Asou macht, also du hast gesagt Kindertheater,
anthropologisches Theater. Ich verstehe das so, dass Abel das sowohl das
Erwachsenentheater als auch das Kindertheater geprägt hat, aber kannst du vielleicht
nocheinmal erklären, weshalb ausgerechent diese Formen von Theater?
UL:Das ist ganz stark von Abel geprägt worden. Es war einfach eine unheimliche
Begeisterung von ihm da, oder von us oder für ihn auch da. Es war faszinierend,
dieses Zusammenführen von der Körperarbeit, von Stilarbeit, und es war wenig Text,
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einfach zu lernen, sich mit dem Körper auszudrücken, zu spielen, ja es hat sehr viel
Spass, Enthusiasmus geweckt und dass das im orientalischen Theater nicht so getrennt
ist, also dieses Tanz und Theater und selbst Oper, das als eine Einheit - faszinierend.
BC: Du hast vorhin erwähnt, dass ihr Theater für Kinder und deren Mütter macht. Für
wen sonst macht ihr Theater?
UL: Ja für wen sonst. Ja beim Kindertheater für die Kinder und natürlich auch die
Eltern und die Begleiter, es soll ja für alle Spass machen. Dann die Zuschauer bei
diesen Grundstücken, das war sicher für Leute, die sich für entwicklungspolitische
Themen interessieren. Das hat sich sehr stark erweitert, also für Leute, die irgendwie
interessante Theaterformen kennenlernen wollen in prinzip, wie dieses Stück –
Speaking Stones – oder wie Beckett. Also, da haben wir uns überhaupt nicht an einer
zielgruppe orientiert, weil das völlig klar ist, dass das so eine Minorität ist ja, das ist
einfach für uns, um einen Schritt weiterzumachen, und auch mit Phillip Zarrilli einen
Schritt weiterzugehen. Also wirtschaftlich ist das eine Katastrophe, so ein Stück zu
machen, weil das Publikum dafür wirklich so eine Minorität ist, also auch
gesellschaftlich gesehen, also ich meine, wieviel Leute schauen sich Beckett an oder
so ein Stück wie Speaking Stones?
BC: Welche Rolle spielt überhaupt das Publikum für dich?
UL: Ja, eine untergeordnete, muss ich schon sagen, ich meine, im Entwickeln von
dem Stück denke ich ganz wenig ans Publikum, ja im Erwachsenenbereich. Bei
Kindern ist es anders. Ich finde, es macht riesen viel Spass, für Kinder zu spielen. Es
ist ein total ehrliches Publikum. Man weiß sofort, ob etwas funktioniert oder nicht und
ich mache das sehr gerne, das möchte ich auch weitermachen. Im
Erwachsenenbereich sind's wirklich, kommt das Publikum, also von der Idee her ist
das hinten angestellt. Es kommt, weil wir uns selbst vermarkten, kommen dann
irgendwann halt die ökonomischen Überlegungen dazu, an wen wir das richten und
für dieses Stück, ganz klar war es auch gedacht, an Festivals zu kommen und auch
irgendwie diesen Eintritt zu schaffen.
[Sep 2009: Dieses Statement stimmt für mich heute nur noch bedingt.
Nach wie vor steht am Anfang einer Produktion eine Idee, ein Anliegen, ein Text,
aber in der Entwicklung des Stücks auch immer die Frage, wie kann ich das Publikum
erreichen, wie kann und will ich das Publikum berühren. Daraus ergibt sich die Wahl
der Ästhetik, der Stilmittel, der Form, manchmal auch des Aufführungsortes, für die
wir uns entscheiden.]
BC: Und während der Aufführung die Beziehung zum Publikum?
UL: Bei dieser Form ist es ganz klar, dass man spielt mit der vierten Wand. Das
Publikum ist nicht das, was ich sehr wahrnehme, das ist viel stärker eine Arbeit, so
fast wie bei Butoh.Es geht viel um Imagination und Vorstellung, um in diese
geforderte Struktur hineinzugehen und die halt quasi mit meinen Bildern zu füllen,
irgendwie zu füllen, zu sagen, also das ist ganz stark eine Energiearbeit und
Vorstellungsarbeit, Image-work, und das geht natürlich darum, die Energie zu
projezieren, aber es ist nicht wie Straßentheater oder so wie bei den Kindern, wo das
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klar ist, dass das Publikum zu animieren wäre, mit einzubeziehen. Es ist bei dem
stück sicher nicht der Fall.
BC: Ein Geben und Nehmen, ein Nehmen und Geben. Das spielt für dich also keine
Rolle?
UL: [Sep 2009: Heute ganz klar, denn Theater ist Kommunikationsmittel.]
Bei dem Stück? Im Theater im allgemeinen nicht, weil es ist wirklich abhängig
davon, wie ich das Stück konzipiere. Ich mein, wir haben uns auch überlegt, das
Publikum völlig einzubeziehen also das heißt, dass sie quasi in einem Haus, das
zerstört ist oder z. B. bei dem Tuxa, das ist ein Stück, das erzählt die Geschichte eines
indigenen Volkes, das auf Grund eines Staudammprojektes vertrieben wird, das war
ganz bewusst so gewählt, dass das Publikum auf Matrazen tief sitzt, also wie in einem
Boot und wir haben auf Stegen rund um sie gespielt und das war ein ganz starker
Publikumsbezug, also das Publikum war Teil das Bühnenbildes im Prinzip.
BC: Und hat das dann deine Performance beeinflusst?
UL: Ja klar, ich will mal sagen, in unseren Stücken gibt's immer ganz unterschiedliche
Aufgaben, die an die Schauspieler gestellt sind. Ich will nicht sagen, dass wir Theater
machen, wo das Publikum nicht da ist, ich habe nur vorhin gemeint, wenn wir ein
Stück, oder wenn eine Stück-Idee entsteht, dann orientiert sich das nicht so an eine
Zielgruppe. Ich könnte auch sagen, z.B. wir haben einmal im Kindertheater eine
Entscheidung getroffen, wir brauchen einfach Geld. Wir müssen ein Stück machen
oder die Basis des Stücks muss ein Buch sein, ein Kinderbuch, das sehr bekannt ist,
da haben wir "Das kleine Ich bin ich" gewählt, haben es dann mit unseren Formen
umgesetzt, aber das war ganz klar eine Entscheidung, wo ich mal sag, das war zuerst
das Publikum und eine finanzielle Überlegung, an welches Publikum sich das richtet,
ich möchte eine breite Schicht erreichen. Wir überlegen auch jetzt mal, eine Komödie
zu machen, die auch auf der Straße spielt, zum Beispiel ein Straßentheaterfestival,
ganz klar eine ökonomische Orientierung, gute Unterhaltung, da ist der Gedanke an
das Publikum da. Bis jetzt war das im Erwachsenenbereich nicht so, aber wird auch
kommen, weil wir auch vom Theater leben wollen und es kommt die ökonomische
Überlegung dazu.
BC: Das Publikum, das ins Mainstream-Theater geht, in die staatlichen Theater, zu
euch kommt ein anderes Publikum?
UL: In der Regel schon. Aber es ist nicht so, dass sich das ausschließen muss, es ist
eher so, dass wir die Leute nicht erreichen und ich denke mir jetzt, es hat früher eine
sehr starke Trennung gegeben zwischen offiziellen Bühnen und freier Szene und
nachdem es jetzt insgesamt so eine Kürzung gibt vom Gesamtbüdget, beginnen sich
irgendwie Gesprächsbasen zu bilden, das heißt, dass wir gemeinsam überlegen, wie
wir überhaupt kulturpolitisch vorgehen und es gibt kleine Öffnungen und es gibt eine
Dramaturgin von dem Schauspielhaus, sie wird sicher kommmen. Wir spielen jetzt im
Theater der Schauspielschule, also es beginnt sich aufzuweichen. Es gibt
Berührungpunkte.
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BC: Kann man mit anderen Theaterformen das Bewusstsein, die Perspektive des
Publikums, der Gesellschaft ändern?
UL: Na, ich denk mir, die Szene ist für mich der Nährboden. Man muss auch den
Nährboden, auch für die offizielle Kultur und vieles, was so im Anfang im
Wildwuchs ist, wieder dann auch ein bisschen transformiert und offiziell gespielt.
Und mit einem viel besserem Budget und mit weit größeren Mitteln, da muss man
immer aufpassen, das ist auch immer unsere Überlegung, wieviel dann wird eigentlich
abgezogen an Resourcen von der Szene, z. B. wenn wir beginnen halt, im
Schauspielhaus zu spielen oder solche Sachen oder Produktionen dort anzubieten,
aber auf der anderen Seite, ich denke mir, man sollte die Konkurrenz einfach
aufheben und wirklich sich gemeinsam überlegen, wie man vorgeht, einerseits jetzt
gegenüber politischen Ämtern, die die Struktur vorgeben, also das ist ihre Aufgabe,
die Struktur vorzugeben, aber auch in Bezug auf Publikum, weil diese Minorität ist
bei beiden, also wer geht ins Theater, wieviel Prozent der Leute, wieviel erreicht man
mit der Form überhaupt noch, dass sind schon Überlegungen, denke ich mir, was kann
das Theater heute? Welche Aufgabe hat es?
BC: Es hört sich so an dann, also ich habe dich vorhin gefragt, für wen du Theater
machst. In erster Linie machst du das für dich?
UL: Ja, eigentlich schon, ist die ehrliche Antwort. Ich finde das einfach eine irrsinnige
Herausforderung und es ist so anstrengend und immer wieder, aber es ist irgendwie
mein Leben, es sind fast alle Bereiche, es ist nicht die Trennung zwischen Arbeit und
Freizeit, die gibt es nicht, ja es ist schön irgendwie, sich damit auseinanderzusetzen,
es ist fast, nachher denke ich immer so, fast ein Luxus, sich mit einem text und
Wörtern zu beschäftigen. Noch immer finde ich Theater zu machen herausfordernd,
bereichernd und natürlich habe ich Theater als mein Ausdrucksmittel gewählt und es
ist mein Beruf. Die Trennung zwischen Beruf und Freizeit gibt es noch immer nicht,
obwohl ich viel mehr darauf achte, wirkliche Auszeiten zu haben. Denn obwohl wir
angestellt sind, sind wir auch unsere eigene Firma, also selbständig. Durch unsere
veränderte Organisationsstruktur gibt es zeitliche Entlastungen.
BC: Können wir noch einmal auf die Texte zurückkommen, und ja überhaupt die
Frage der Ästhetik, wonach richtet ihr euch bei der Aussuche von literarischen
Texten?
UL: Ja, also ein Stück umzusetzen haben wir erst zweimal gemacht, das eine Mal war
das, weil wir den Autor gekannt haben aus Graz , Mathias Grill, der auch Regie
gemacht hat bei dem Stück. Wir sind irgendwie so zusammengekommen. Mit der
Kaite O’Reilly war es in Prinzip ähnlich, wir hatten schon ein Leitbild formuliert, das
war schon ein Punkt, mit Zeitgenössichen Autoren und Autorinnen zu arbeiten, so als
Ziel ja. Bis dahin hatter der Text immer eine untergeordnete Rolle gehabt. Das wir ja
Themenspezifisch im Erwachsenenbereich, das war eine mal Tuxa, das habe ich
vorhin kurz erzählt. Jetzt war die Idee rund herum um Flüchtlinge, so es war
irgendwie so dieses Thema Bosnien, Durchführungen der Flüchtlinge. Es war sehr
aktuell in den Medien und den Zeitungen, aus dem ist diese Idee entstanden. Und das
war ganz klar, dass wir das mit Phillip machen wollten und auch mit der Kaite und
das hat dann für alle gepasst. Und Beckett, dieses Projekt ist entstanden, weil wir
damals mit Becketttexten einfach herumgespielt haben und experimentiert haben mit
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diesen Methoden aus New York, die wir kennengelernt haben und da haben wir
einfach Beckett-texte hergenommen und ja und Phillip hat damals eine Workshop
gehalten in Utrecht und eben Kalari mit Umsetzung von Beckett-texten und da haben
wir ihn angesprochen und wir haben Beckett gemacht. Wir wollen einmal
Shakespeare machen mit diesen experimentellen New Yorker Methoden, also mit
diesem Grotowski-Ansatz, Imagework mit einem körperlichen Zugang, so
Beziehungsarbeit zu Textinterpretationen, also nicht für alle in der Gruppe, aber für
einen Teil.
BC: Wie hast du das empfunden, die Arbeit an dem Beckett-Stück?
UL: Ja, irrsinnig interessant, weil es für mich das erste Mal spürbar war, dass quasi
diese Energiearbeit und dieses Kalari in eine Textarbeit einfließt und dass dieselben
Prinzipien dort gelten, wobei Beckett natürlich ein sehr formaler Autor ist – es geht
jetzt nicht um Textgestaltung sondern eher wirklich um Geschwindigkeit, Rhythmus,
ja Tonhöhe, Energie, Fokus, also kein psychologischer Zugang sondern sehr formale
Kriterien.
BC: Wer hat was gespielt?
UL: Ohio Impromptu war der Klaus, Klaus war der Leser und Gernot der Zuhörer,
dann Spiel war Christian, Gernot und ich, wir haben das gewechselt – den Mann habe
ich gespielt und die zwei Frauen haben die Männer gespielt, Eh Joe war Christian,
Christian hat den Joe gemacht und ich die Stimme.
BC: Du hast leicht daraufhingedeutet, dass die Gruppe politisch motiviert ist, magst
du ein bisschen näher daraufeingehen, wie stark diese Komponente ist.
UL: Also, es gibt immer wieder Auseinandersetzungen über aktuelle Themen, die
sind unterschiedlich stark aber ich denke, es gibt so eine geteilte Meinung, das nicht
auszublenden und halt auch sich darüber auszutauschen, aber es ist jetzt nicht mehr so
stark im Vordergrund. Das war so auch, Abel ist ein Flüchtling, der ist aus Guatemala.
Der ist von Guatemala nach Mexiko geflohen, dann von Mexiko nach Frankreich und
ist jetzt in Europa, jetzt in Japan also der ist irgendwie nie sesshaft, ja er war ganz
politisch, sozialisiert. Es gibt nach wie vor sehr starke Kontakte nach Lateinamerika
oder Argentinien, wir haben Kontakt zu El Baldio wo natürlich ja das ganz stark im
Vordergrund steht. Da geht’s ganz viel darum, auf die Straße rauszugehen, aktuelle
Themen, politische Themen zu spielen, zu spiegeln. Das machen wir da viel, also im
minimalen Ausmaß, also ich denke mir, dieses Stück hat auch eine politische
Motivation, aber das ist überhaupt nicht agitatorisch, sage ich mal, überhaupt nicht.
Also wir machen nicht in der Straße Theater in dieser Form.
BC: Interessiert sich die Gruppe für die Frage einer österreichischen Identität?
UL: Überhaupt nicht, ganz im Gegenteil, also wir suchen die Internationalität.
BC: Warum?
233
UL: Warum? Einerseits weil die Kontakte immer sehr befruchtend waren, alle
Kontakte, die wir bislang nach außen gehabt hatten, nach Lateinamerika, nach
England, nach New York und nach Indien, und Österreich und Graz speziell ist
theatermäßig voll der Kaff. Also es heißt immer wieder so, ja was machen wir
eigentlich in Graz, warum eigentlich Graz, also ich meine Graz ist eine nette Stadt
und nett ist genau der richtige Ausdruck, Graz ist einfach fad, es gibt irgendwie wenig
Auseinandersetzung, Erweiterungen, also im produktiven Sinn, ja.
BC: Wäret ihr lieber in Wien?
UL: Ja, ich meine, wir hatten einen starken Kontkt nach Wien über die Eva, da hat’s
ja ein extended circle gegeben, also es waren hauptsächlich Grazer, weil wir ja aus
Graz sind. Es hat ein paar Leute von Innsbruck gegeben, die auch dabei waren. Es ist
dann wieder verlaufen, dadurch, dass wir selber alles organisieren müssen. Es ist dann
schwierig. Eine Zeit lang hat es einmal im Monat, hat’s dieses Treffen gegeben, das
war auch aussschließlich in Wien. Ja, aber Österreich, in Österreich habe ich das
Gefühl muss man sich wirklich erstmal einen Namen außerhalb gemacht haben, bevor
man dort hineinkommt. Vielleicht auch in diese Festivals, wo es wirklich auch
interessant ist, zu sein, zu spielen, sich auszutauschen, in Kontakt zu kommen mit
anderen Leuten.
BC: Auch innerhalb der freien Szene?
UL: Kann ich nicht so sagen, aber ich glaub, also ich vermute das, aber die Eva kann
dir da sicherlich viel erzählen, sie ist politisch sehr engagiert und voller Wut und
Zorn.
BC: Um nochmal auf die organisatorischen Faktoren zurückzukommen, wie würdest
du die organisatorische Struktur der Gruppe beschreiben?
UL: Chaotisch. Wir hatte jetzt eigentlich über drei Jahre jemanden im Büro angestellt
und zwar gab’s das vom Arbeitsamt-Sevice, das war eine sehr nette Frau, eine sehr
liebe Frau, die aber relativ wenig Erfahrung mitgebracht hat. Wir organisieren das zur
Zeit zu Dritt, also, und das funktioniert.
[Sep 2009: Heute ist das anders. Seit 2004 gibt e seine kontinuierliche Angestellte für
die Organisation, Mag. Lissa Gartler. Diese kontinuierliche Anstellung hat
Kontinuität und Professionalität in die Geschäftsführung gebracht und Gernot, Klaus
und mir ermöglicht, sich in viel höherem Ausmaß der künstlerischen Arbeit zu
widmen.
Zunächst war Lissa auch ein Jahr über eine geförderte Stelle vom AMS bei uns
angestellt, dann haben wir ihre Anstellung übernommen. Dies war aber nur möglich,
weil Christian zum gleichen Zeitpunkt aus der Gruppe ausgeschieden ist.
Von 2004 – Juli 2009 hatten wir somit 4 Angestellte (Lissa, Gernot, Klaus und ich).]
BC: Das heißt drei Leute sind quasi angestellt.
UL: Ja, wir sind angestellt. Also wir haben Subventionen, sie sind sehr gering, also
110,000 Schilling von der Stadt, 60,000 vom Landamt, 20,000 vom Bund,
Jahressubventionen, das sind ca 200,000 Schilling, das für sechs Leute.
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[Sep 2009: Die Subventionen sind ab 2003 gestiegen (auf grund unseres positiven
Abschneidens bei einer Evaluierung, die von der Stadt Graz in Auftrag gegeben
wurde) und wir haben derzeit mehrjährige Verträge mit Stadt und Land.Details dazu
kann ich dir schicken, wenn du das brauchst.Dennoch befinden wir uns mit unserem
Einkommen von € 954,-- pro Monat an der Armutsgrenze. Und nicht immer konnten
wir die Anstellungen finanzieren und mussten in die Arbeitslose gehen.]
BC: Was sind die Kriterien dafür, dass man Subventionen bekommt?
UL: Na ja, man stellt einfach Anträge. Es dauert immer bis die Leute kommen und
sich das anschauen. Dann sind sie da und es wächst langsam… Vom Bund war das
Kriterium, dass wir so auch Österreich-weit spielt, auch im Kindertheater, das heißt
wir spielen nicht nur im Steiermark sondern auch in Kärnten, in Tirol und Vorarlberg
auch in Niederösterreich und Burgenland, und durch diese Österreichweite Tätigkeit
haben wir die Budessubventionen im Bereich Kindertheater bekommen. Für dieses
Projekt gibt es eine eigene Kategorie.und Förderprojektspezifisch.Es gibt diese freie
Szene mit fixen Häusern. Sie haben die Standarkosten Kosten für Haus usw. Wir sind
da in einer anderen Bereichskategorie und dann gibt’s halt einen Restpost und Budget,
die zwischen diesen freien Gruppen, die kein Haus habe, aufgeteilt werden, und da
sind wir relative fleißig, da wir regelmäßig arbeiten, das heißt regelmäßige
Produktionen mit relativ guten ZuschauerInnenanteil, aber...
BC: ..Man kann nicht davon leben?
U: Wir leben von den Einnahmen.
[Sep 2009: Sie machen 50% unseres Jahresbudget aus.]
BC: Und nebenbei wird gejobbt?
UL: Nebenbei wird gejobbt, größtenteils.
BC: Was wünschst du dir, was ist dein Traum für die Zukunft?
UL: Also finanziell gesehen natürlich, dass wir mehr subventioniert werden, dass wir
uns mehr im Erwachsenentheater etablieren, dass wir auf Festivals letztlich kommen,
auch auf internationale Festivals. Unser Ziel ist weiter, diese internationale
Zusammenarbeit zu suchen, einen Austausch zu haben mit internationalen Gruppen,
zu reisen, Tourneen zu machen, also in Argentinien oder so Workshops zu machen,
aufzuführen, weil wir das Stadion erreicht haben, dass wir Workshops selber leiten
können, also diese Tätigkeit mehr zu etablieren und natürlich einfach ein gesicherteres
Einkommen auch zu haben aus dem. Auch die Organisation bald wieder an eine
kompetente Person abgeben zu können, um sich mehr auf das Künstlerische
konzentrieren zu können und die Gruppe aufzumachen, über die Workshops durch
neue Leute größer werden zu lassen.
[Sep 2009: Die Träume sind teilweise umgesetzt werden, wir waren auf regionalen
und internationalen Festivals und haben uns in einem gewissen Ausmaß auch im
Erwachsenenbereich etablieren können, wir werden höher subventioniert, wir haben
eine bessere Organisationsstruktur.
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Weiters gibt es vorallem 2 KünstlerInnen, die sehr regelmäßig mit uns, oder einem
Teil der Gruppe zusammenarbeiten, nämlich Michael Hofkirchner (Regie, Schauspiel,
Puppenbau, Grafik) und Uschi Molitschnig (Schauspiel), weiters Henrik Sande
( Musik und Komposition), Arian Andiel (Video, Fotografie, Bühnenbild), Sabine
Wiesenbauer, Eugen Schöberl (beide Licht) Barbara Häusl (Kostüm), Christine
Weber (Bühnenbild und Licht), Robert Riedl (Autor).
Es gibt fixe Veranstaltungspartner.]
BC: Was sind denn für dich die wichtigsten Unterschiede zwischen dem freien und
dem staatlichen Theater?
UL: Also der wichtigste Unterschied ist, dass wir als Gruppe existieren und nicht als
Schauspielerin oder Schauspieler, die für eine Produktion gekauft wird und dann
wieder weg ist, sondern, dass wir wirklich gemeinsam als Ensemble quasi wie Leiter
arbeiten, trainieren und produzieren und forschen auch letztlich, wobei das ist auch
ein Ideal, nicht wahr, es gibt auch die Realität, die anders ausschaut, und das Spielen
und die eigene Produktion halt zu machen und diese Produktion heißt eben Kostüme,
organisieren usw, bleibt dann wenig Zeit dafür. Also ich wünsche mir einfach bessere
Arbeitsbedingungen, sowie in Wales, ich finde es sehr gut also wirklich, so geblockt
zu arbeiten, nur künstlerisch zu arbeiten, dann Organisation zu machen. Dass wir ein
Ensemble sind, über längere Zeit arbeiten, dass wir halt unsere Themenschwerpunkte
selber wählen und selbst Regisseure/innen einladen, selbst Autoren/Autorinnen
einladen, das finde ich einen großen Unterschied. Ja, mit den Vor- und Nachteilen,
das ist halt diese Selbstorganisation, die auch anstrengend ist, und die auch immer an
Geld scheitert, also es gibt halt Ideale und dann gibt’s halt die Realität.
BC: Meinst du, dass ein Stück Kreativität durch die finanzielle Situation verloren
geht?
UL: Ja absolut, es fehlt dann die Zeit, und es hindert dich, die finanziellen Resourcen,
um bestimmte Projekte überhaupt zu konzipieren oder durchzuführen und es ist
manchmal einfach zuviel. Es gibt für mich Momente, wo ich denke, es ist, also ich bin
35, was habe ich für eine Absicherung, wie lange kann ich es noch machen, mit so
wenig Geld zu leben, mit so wenig Perspektive, dass sich das ändert letztlich, und das
ist auch körperlich und seelisch anstrengend. Wir haben auch manchmal sehr viele
Konflikte, wohingegen neulich in Wales, wo alle weg sind, gibt’s die Konflikte
einfach nicht, weil wir nicht tausend Sachen gleichzeitig im Kopf haben, die
entschieden werden müssen und wie eintscheidet man das mit so wenig Geld, all die
Sachen. Manchmal ist es sehr schwer.
BC:
Vielen Dank.
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4. Eva Brenner, Maren Rahmann / Bernadette Cronin, 23. September, 2005, Vienna.
BC: Eva, könntest bitte über das Konzept für Pola sprechen?
EB: Ja, so wir haben damals 2001 bis 2003 konkrete Vorbereitungen getroffen zu
einem projekt, dass wir erst 2003 aus finanziellen und terminlichen Gründen
verwirklichen konnten nach einem Text, den ich geschrieben habe, Auf der Suche
nach Jakob, über die Geschichte meines Vaters, also eine Erinnerung an diese
verdrängte jüdische Geschichte, auf die ich erst vor 10, 9 Jahren genau hingewiesen
wurde, und wir haben dann begonnen im Ensemble zu überlegen, dass wir gemeinsam
ein Projekt machen, wo wir uns mit der verdrängten jüdischen Geschichte
beschäftigen, bzw welcher Stellenwert das in der Familie, im Leben der Einzelnen hat
und da die Gruppe besteht aus sehr verschiedenen Leuten, ich würde sagen, zwischen
zwanzig und 50 sind die Erinnerungsmodelle sehr verschieden, wie man sich erinnert,
ob man sich erinnert, wie weit man weg ist, ob es einen betrifft oder nicht, und wir
haben damals nach einem Text gesucht und ich bin irgendwie durch eine Lesung im
Literaturhaus Wien auf die Hanna Krall gestoßen und da wir damals schon nach Polen
fuhren für Recherchen nach Krakow nach Warschau, habe ich Hanna Krall angerufen
und habe sie gefragt, ob sie uns die Rechte geben würde für eine der Kurzgeschichten.
Wir haben uns relativ schnell für Pola entschieden. Das ist eine Erzählung nach einem
tatsächlichen Vorfall. Da gibt’s auch ein Buch von Christopher Browning, das heißt
Ganz normale Männer oder so, also es handelt sich um ein Hamburger
Polizeibataillon, das ganz unerwartet gegen Ende des Krieges aufgerufen wurde, in
einen Zug gesteckt und nach Polen verfrachtet und sie sind dort angekommen früh
morgens und haben überhaupt nicht gewusst, was ihnen bevorsteht. Und das waren
keine Nazis oder auch nicht einmal Soldaten sondern ganz normale deutsche Männer,
und der Auftrag war – und das haben ganz viele überhaupt nicht verkraftet – ab dem
Moment, wo sie den Zug verlassen haben, Juden zu erschießen, also da waren
Massenerschießungen dabei und das ist also historisch aufgearbeitet, dieses berühmte
Polizeibataillon, das steht in der Pressemappe, ich glaube 133 oder so, also da
schrieben verschiedenste Wissenschaftler darüber, Christopher Browning, wie heißt
der Andere, der Hitlers willfährige Vollstrecker geschrieben hat – Goldhagen. Und
was mich so fasziniert hat, ist die Knappheit der Sprache von der Hanna Krall und
diese Fähigkeit, mit diesem ungeheurem Vorgang der Massenerschießungen und sie
ist auch aus einem teils jüdischen Elternhaus und sie hat, glaube ich, auch erst später
erfahren, dass das der Fall ist, also sie ist bei Christlichen Eltern aufgewachsen. Wie
sie mit dem Grauen umgeht und wie sie versucht, das zu fassen, dem habhaft zu
werden, in einer sehr trockenen aber doch empathischen Form, also man spurt ihre
Betroffenheit aber sie benennt die Dinge, ohne sie genau zu benennen, also der Reich
Ranicki, der kritischer Geist ist, hat also ihre Form mit dieser Geschichte, mit dem
Komplex umzugehen also ganz außerordentlich und wichtig erachtet. Also sie gilt als
eine der wichtigsten polnischen Schriftstellerinnen. Sie ist jetzt, glaube ich, schon 70,
über 70, glaube ich 1933 geboren. Da ist das ein Zitat von dem Marcel Reich Ranicki,
‘Eines der Merkmale der Prosa der Hanna Krall ist, dass sie alles berichtet und nichts
kommentiert’. Also sie stellt die Fakten einfach aus, natürlich gefiltert durch ihre
Wahrnehmungen, ja und die ist eigentlich eine sehr weibliche und eine
Selbstbetroffene und das hat uns interessiert und vor allem hat es uns interessiert als
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österreich- und deutsches Ensemble, also wir haben keine jüdischen Personen in
unserer Gruppe, uns damit zu beschäftigen, wie man das im Theater überhaupt
darstellen kann, und welche Formen man finden kann. Zu der Zeit haben wir uns auch
mit Beckett wieder beschäftigt. Wir haben 1998 bis 2000 am Endspiel von Beckett
gearbeitet, an 6 verschiedenen Versionen, die in Wien und Graz gezeigt wurden,
Endspiel in Prozess 1 – 5, hieß das. Die 6. war quasi eine Version für Graz und
irgendwie ist dieses Quadrat von Beckett in die Diskussion gekommen und ich habe
mir gedacht, das ware sehr interessant choreographisch mit dem Quadrat von Beckett
zu arbeiten und das als dieses Todesquadrat, das es in der Literatur von Hanna Krall
oft vorkommt zu behaupten. Wir haben das eigentlich nicht versucht aber man könnte
jetzt rätseln, hat es der Beckett auch so gemeint? Darum ging’s auch gar nicht sondern
um eine Choreographie einer immer wiederkehrenden Bewegung, die sich auf das
Zentrum zubewegt aber immer das Zentrum vermeidet, was irgendwie dieser Punkt
des Schweigens und des Ausweichens war in/mit dem Text von Hanna Krall. Das
fanden wir sehr interessant und wir haben also mehrgleisig geprobt, es war dann auch
spannend, dass zwei polnische KünstlerInnen dabei waren, also ein polnischer
Schauspieler und Musiker und eine Österreicherin, die aber lange in Polen gelebt und
gearbeitet hat und Violinistin ist, auch Klezmer, diese Tradition spielen konnte und
Polnisch spricht. Wir haben also polnisch und deutsch gearbeitet, parallel, auch in der
Aufführung. Das Polnische war eher 10%, knapp gehalten, aber trotzdem present, das
war mir wichtig, beide Personen auch nicht jüdisch, und das war sehr interessant im
Probeprozess, die Haltung des polnischen Kollegen, der sich oft schuldig gefühlt hat,
das ist alles bei uns passiert, also wir Polen sind schuld am Holocaust und an diesen
Massenmorden und das finde ich sehr richtig und wichtig, dass er das abgewehrt hat,
weil Polen ja besetzt war und dass die Polen auch Opfer waren und er hat seine
Familiengeschichte begonnen zu erzählen, also wir haben einerseits inhaltlich an den
Texten gearbeitet vor allem an der Frage, wie kann sich ein Ensemble, wie können
sich junge Menschen heut zu diesem ganzen Thema/Komplex verhalten und wir sind
gestoßen auf die Form biographische, kurze Erzählungen der Ensemblemitglieder
einzubauen, das war das erste Mal, dass wir das so konsequent gemacht haben und
das fand ich sehr wichtig, das war ein Durchbruch für uns, also ‚the use of personal
biography’, das ist natürlich nicht neu und in der Performance Art kennt man das, im
Experimentaltheaterbereich ist das immer wieder vorgekommen, aber eine ästhetische
Form dafür zu finden, also einen Fluss einer Performance, einer Rede zu
unterbrechen, rauszutreten, auch wenn ich das nicht physisch mache, aber klar einen
Bruch zu setzen, also zum Beispiel, die eine Schauspielerin hat dann in einer
Mauerspalt im Bühnenbild einfach ein Foto ihrer Oma rausgezogen, da war ihre Tante
drauf, die Juden versteckt hat und das hat sie auch erst erfahren vor einigen Jahren
und dann hat sie das geschildert, sie ist aus einer norddeutschen Familie und sie weiß
eigentlich nicht genau, was die Großeltern, sie ist damals eine so 35-jährige
Schauspielerin gewesen, was sie gemacht haben, woran sie beteiligt waren, was die
wussten, aber das hat sie erfahren und das scheinbar auch unter großen Mühen in der
Familie ist es erst herausgekommen, dass diese Tante sozusagen sich die Hände
schmutzig gemacht hat. Also diese Ambivalenz, dass man heute eigentlich stolz sein
müsste für Menschen, die im Widerstand waren, auf welcher Art auch immer im
Aktiven oder wo beginnt der aktive widerstand, also viele, viele Frauen, die geholfen
haben, indem sie Essen gebracht haben oder Menschen versteckt haben und
Geheimnisse bewahrt haben und darum geht’s auch in dem Text, also in dem Text
wird in wenigen Seiten geschildert, dass eine Polin sich in einen Deutschen verliebt
und dann von ihm erschossen wird, also dieser Polizist wird gezwungen, von seinem
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Vorgesetzten sie zu erschießen, weil sie nämlich Juden versteckt hat. Er kommt da
drauf durch die Liebesbeziehung, dass sie Juden versteckt hat und das kommt immer
wieder vor, dieses Bild ‘unter unserem Fussboden’ das wirst du im Video sehen, ‘hört
man Stimmen oder bewegen sich Menschen, oder da lebt etwas unter unserem
Boden’, und das hat sie auf so eine eindringliche Weise geschrieben, also im Grund
geht’s bei der Elfriede Jelinek auch um das, diese Verdrängung und diese Vision, dass
unter unserem Boden diese ganze unbearbeitete Geschichte noch immer vorhanden
ist. Das hat sie auch sprachlich auf so nutzbare Weise beschrieben, dass man wirklich
das Gefühl hat, man hört diese Stimmen, man kann sich das vorstellen, in diesen
einfachen polnischen Häusern, dass unter den Brettern Menschen leben, und diese
Breite der Assoziationen, dies sich dadurch ergeben, also das war total spannend und
wir sind dann drauf gekommen, wir können das eigentlich nicht bebildern, das war
auch ein Grund, warum wir den Beckett gewählt haben, weil das so eine abstrakte
Form ist, das Quadrat, das wir quasi drüber gelegt haben, oder umgekehrt das Quadrat
eigentlich zuerst geprobt haben. Das ist nämlich überhaupt nicht einfach, die
Choreographie überhaupt zu erfüllen mit vier Personen oder waren es sechs, Moment
Maren Rahman, Clemens Matzka, Anne wiederhold, Jan Tabaka und seine Frau
Susanne Tabaka-Pillhofer, das waren fünf Performer und der Axel Bagatsch hat dann
noch Akkordeon gespielt, aber es waren fünf. Also es waren immer vier im Quadrat,
und ein fünfter, der wartet und wir haben auch eine choreographische Mitarbeiterin
gehabt, weil es eben mindestens zwei oder drei Wochen in Anspruch genommen hat,
es überhaupt zu lernen, überhaupt einen Rhythmus zu finden, der nicht eine
Abbildung der Beckettschen Performance ist sondern einfach die Benutzung der
Struktur und dann haben wir Schritt für Schritt begonnen, Texte einzufügen und dann
sind wir drauf gekommen, dass das Quadrat eigentlich die Maschine ist, also diese
Todesmaschine, das innere Feld kann man sagen, ist das Todesquadrat oder könnte
das Todesquadrat sein und die Bewegung des Abschreitens der Linien des Quadrats
und des Zuschreitens auf das Zentrum, das Ausweichen vor dem Zentrum, vor
einander usw, dass das eigentlich eine Maschine ergibt, die kaum Denken zulässt,
weil du musst ununterbrochen arbeiten körperlich gehen, gehen, ob langsam, ob
schnell. Wir haben dann versucht, rund um das Quadrat bestimmte Szenen aus dem
Text anzusiedeln, weil es nicht möglich war, in das Quadrat diese Texte
reinzubringen. Es gab welche aber die waren meist chorisch, also wir haben einige
Stellen rausgesucht, die chorisch performt wurden, auf deutsch und polnisch, die so
Teil der Maschine waren und die ihre reflexiven und persönlichen essayistischen
außen angesiedelt, also es hat sich auch dann choreographisch und geometrisch im
Raum eine klare Struktur gegeben, also innen das Quadrat und außen vier leere
Stellen, an denen sich in den Ecken auch sehr assoziative Szenen, Körperbilder
entwickelt haben, wir haben dann überlegt, wie schaut der Raum überhaupt aus, wo
sitzen die Zuschauer, wir haben sehr sehr lange rumüberlegt, wir wollten versuchen
dieses Wegschauen, das gerade in Österreich und Wien eines der Übel ist, also sehr
bekannt ist in allen Familien, das kam in den Erzählungen mit den Schauspielern
immer wieder vor, wie setzen wir das um? Wo sitzen die Leute? Das schien mir sehr
wichtig, also wir wollten, dass sie mitten im Geschehen sind und nicht dass sie drauf
schauen, wir wollten sie einbeziehen und auch ansprechen als Selbstbetroffene, wir
haben uns dann entschieden, sie an den Schakeln des Quadrats rund um zu setzen und
zwar mit dem Rücken zum Zentrum und, das war total spannend also das heißt, es gab
nur 16 Stühle, weil der Raum sehr klein ist, also 16 Zuschauer pro Vorstellung und
die Zuschauer haben eigentlich nach außen geschaut und mit dem Rücken zur
Geschichte, zum Todesquadrat und wenn sich drinnen was abgespielt hat. Also dieser
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Wechsel der Positionen mussten sie sich umdrehen, es war relativ unbequem, über die
Schulter schauen, manche haben sich sogar umgesetzt, manche. Das war so
interessant, also ein weißer Raum, der sehr klar und karg beleuchtet war, also manche
sind aufgestanden und haben sich auf einen anderen Sessel gesetzt. Durchgegangen
durch das Todesequadrat ist nie wer, aber selbst diese kleinen Positionenwechsel
waren so bedeutsam, das hat was ausgesagt, also einige Leute haben das gemacht,
andere hätten das nie gemacht, es war total spannend, wie sitzen sie, nehmen Sie es
an, dass sie eigentlich mit dem Rücken zum Geschehen sitzen und dann haben wir uns
überlegt, wir wollen, dass dieser Text mitgelesen werden kann, weil wir haben nicht
den gesamten text untergebracht in die Performance, d.h. unser Bühnenbildner, der
Walter Lauterer, hat den Text in so eine Schreibmaschinenform, also wie wenn’s aus
der Schreibmaschine käme, aufbereitet und auf große Blätter projiziert, also drucken
lassen. Das wurde als Textband rundherum montiert, also an einer stelle des Raumes
beginnend herumführend bis zum Schluss, d.h. jeder Zuschauer konnte einen Teil des
Textes mitlesen, wir haben das auch in die Performance eingebaut. Es gab Szenen, wo
die Schauspieler neben oder vor oder unter dem Text standen/lagen und direkt mit
dem Text an der Wand gearbeitet haben und dann gab’s noch ein Raumelement:
Unser Bühnenbildner hatte aus schwerem Eisen leere Bilderrahmen, die hatte er für
irgendeine Installationsprojekt, die hat er dann umgebaut, variiert ein paar dazu
gestaltet und die hingen so in Augenhöhe an verschiedenen Punkten im Raum,
manchmal hat man die Schauspieler durch die Rahmen gesehen, manchmal neben den
Rahmen, manchmal über den Rahmen und das hat so durch das Material des Eisens so
eine Brutalität auch, es konnte auch musikalisch mitgearbeitet werden. Die ganze
Performance war sehr musikalisch. Das war das erste Mal, dass alle Schauspieller
auch ein Intrument gespielt haben, nicht nur die Stimme verwendet haben, also Cello,
Geige, Gitarre, Akkordeon und Klarinette. Das war sehr wichtig, und die Violinistin,
die eine klassische Musikausbildung hat, hat auch musikalisch mit der Gruppe
gearbeitet, um ein Paar so Orchesterstücke oder Lieder einzuproben, und das war
natürlich ästhetisch sehr entscheidend. Es hat den Ausdruck der Performance sehr
geprägt. Wir haben jetzt nicht versucht, das auf jüdisch zu machen oder Klezmer
irgendwie nachzuahmen aber den melancholsichen Ton und diesen Osteuropäischen
Charakter irgendwie einzufangen. Und die Hanna Krall war z. B. bei der Premiere,
das war ein glücklicher Zufall, weil sie in Wien eine Lesung hatte, d.h. wir haben die
Premiere so geplant, weil es war das Jahr Polnisch-Österreichisch oder war ja
irgendwie Österreich in Polen oder so, das steht aber im Pressetext. Und wir haben die
Premiere so gelegt, dass sie nach ihrer Lesung zur Premiere kommen kann, und sie
war, glaube ich, sehr überrascht, sie ist doch eine ältere Dame, sie hat sich bereit
erklärt, wir haben sie abgeholt im Hotel und ich habe gemerkt, dass sie sich denkt, na
ja mal schauen, was wird, so ein kleines Theater, kann ja jeder sagen, er nimmt so
einen Text, und ich habe auch gemerkt, sie spricht Deutsch aber sie wollte nicht
deutsch sprechen, dass da Resentiments sind gegenüber Österreich und Deutschland,
das hat sie klar abgegrenzt, dass sie Englisch sprach und nicht Deutsch. Man hat aber
gemerkt, dass sie es versteht und auch da denke ich, dass sie vielleicht Vorurteile aber
jedenfalls Befürchtungen hatte, und sie war am Schluss so gerührt und sie ist
aufgestanden und wir haben einen Blumestrauß überreicht und sie hat gesprochen
zum Publikum und zu den Schaufspielern, es war wahnsinnig berührend, weil sie hat
es angenommen. (Eva weint an dieser Stelle.) Sie hat gesagt, das ist eine tolle Arbeit,
wo man denkt, das Theater fügt dem Text etwas hinzu, es ist nicht Rezitation, man
stellt sich nicht eitel über den Text und macht da jetzt Riesenperformances und sie hat
sogar, glaube ich, in einem Brief oder in einem Telefonat mit mir, hat sie sogar
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gesagt, das hat etwas von Kantor, das war sehr beeindruckend. Das hat uns natürlich
sehr gefallen. Aber das hat sie zumindest angenommen und als eine wichtige Arbeit
bezeichnet, wissend, dass da wenig Mittel dahinter sind und, dass wir von Polen
wenig wissen, aber sie hat den Versuch, glaube ich, gemerkt, das auf die eigene
Situation zu beziehen und trotzdem die Distanz zu wahren.
BC: Dieses Schweigen und Verstecken zu thematisieren überhaupt?
EB: Ja. Das ist natürlich ihr Thema auch, also sie schreibt, dass in Polen, um in Polen,
diesen Aufarbeitungsprozess in Gang zu bringen oder diesen zu bestärken, der ist ja,
es ist ja nicht so lange her also Polen, wieviele ex-Kommunistische Länder haben
dieses Selbstbewusstsein, wir sind Antifaschisten und wir haben das Problem erledigt.
Das liegt hinter uns und wir sind nicht schuld, das ist aber auch danach auch noch in
der kommunistischen Zeit pogrommartige, dass es Judenverfolgungen gab und, dass
viele viele Dinge vorgefallen sind, an die man sich jetzt erst erinnert, also ich glaube
nicht, dass das so lang her ist, fünf bis zehn Jahre maximal und sie ist eine wichtige,
sie war ja eine Journalistin, ursprünglich eine wichtige journalistische und literarische
Stimme, die das verbindet explizit ohne drauf zu drücken auch mit ihrer persönlichen
Biographie. Sie lässt sich ja viele Geschichten erzählen, da sieht man auch, diesen
journalistischen Arbeitsprozess, also sie reist herum, Leute schreieben sie an, sie
macht Interviews, um die alltäglichen Geschichten zu hören und die bearbeitet sie
dann literarisch aber du merkst den journalistischen Ursprung noch. Und sie hat
germerkt, und das ist, glaube ich, uns gelungen, in irgendeiner Form, das auf
Österreich, auf Wien zu übertragen in einem Kontext von viel viel jüngeren
Menschen, und mein Angebot als Regisseurin war also dieses Quadrat und der
Versuch sehr minimalistisch sehr choreographisch zu arbeiten, die Texte nicht zu
emotional zu belegen sondern klar und deutlich zu lassen. Es gab so Momente von
Figurenarbeit schon, also man wusste, wer Pola ist, wer die Nachbarin ist, wer der
deutsche Polizist ist, aber die Kostüme waren z.B. Einheitskostüme, schwarze,
dunkelgraue Anzüge und die Frauen trugen lange Röcke, das war so ein Nadelstreif,
aber sehr heutig eigentlich und trotzdem Bühnenkostüme, aber nicht der Versuch jetzt
irgendwie Folklore zu machen oder Nazi…
BC: Zeitbezogen….
EB: Zeitbezogen, nein überhaupt nicht. Trotzdem war es, glaube ich, erkennbar fürs
Publikum, die Maren war die Pola und der Clemens war der deutsche Polizist, die
Anna war die Nachbarin und die zwei polnischen Darsteller so, waren irgendwie das
Volk rundherum und haben verschiedene kleine Nebenfiguren immer wieder gespielt.
Aber es war nicht so eine gradlinige Zuordnung. Und mein Angebot war auch an die
Gruppe, dass jeder, jede, zumindest eine Privatgeschichte, einen Kommentartext
verfasst, oder entwickelt oder schreibt und dann auch einbringt, und das ist nicht
gelungen bzw da haben sich einige dagegen entschieden. Also nur zwei Schauspieler,
die am längsten mit mir arbeiten, die Maren und der Clemens, haben das gemacht, ich
glaube, das hat mit Mut zu tun, also…
BC: Haben die anderen Schauspieler erklärt, warum sie nicht mitmachen wollten?
EB: Nicht wirklich, und ich habe da auch nicht gedrängt, aber ich glaube, dass es
ihnen peinlich war, oder was mir auch aufgefallen ist, das war in der ganzen Gruppe
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eigentlich am Anfang da, ich habe ja zu dem ganzen Thema nichts zu sagen. Bei uns
wurde nicht darüber gesprochen oder meine Eltern sind erst 50, die sind nach dem
Krieg geboren. Ich glaube, für den Polen war es sehr schwer, weil er aus einer
antifashistischen Familie kommt und er hat das Gefühl gehabt, jetzt muss ich mich da
zu irgendeiner Schuld bekennen, ich habe aber gar keine diesbezüglichen Gefühle. Ich
glaube, das ist eine Frage, wie weit ein Performer, also ein Schauspieler Mut hat, in
dem Moment privat zu werden, zum Performer zu werden, weil das ist keine
schauspielerische Aufgabe mehr, zu einem Text, den man theatral bearbeitet, jetzt
einen persönlichen Kommentar dazu zu sagen, zu sprechen, der nicht von der Regie
vorgegeben ist, der nicht wieder literarisch vorgefasst ist, z.B. der Clemens hat
erzählt, dass sein Opa, der kleinwüchsig war, er hat ihn kleinwuchsig genannt, jetzt
könnte man sagen, er war ein Zwerg, wie klein er war, wissen wir bis heute nicht,
verfolgt wurde, da waren Abende, wo er zu weinen begonnen hat, weil er scheinbar
seinen Opa sehr geliebt hat und er war auch Schriftsteller, er hat Gedichte
geschrieben, und er hat zitiert aus den Gedichten und er hat nie wirklich etwas
Bestimmtes gesagt, was mit dem Opa passiert ist, ihm ist in dem Sinn nichts passiert,
er hat überlebt, aber es hätte ihm was passieren können, nicht als Jude sondern als
Behinderter.
BC: Und er hat darunter leiden müssen.
EB: Ja, ich glaube schon, emotional. Ich habe nicht so sehr gepuscht, aber ich glaube,
dass der Schauspieler sehr klar emotional diese Geschichte ausgewählt hat.
BC: Und Eva, das ist dann real, inwiefern ist das denn Kunst, oder ist das eine
Begegnung zwischen Kunst und Realität, oder was ist das?
EB: Ich suche jetzt seit Jahren die Möglichkeit, wie ich erstens rauskomme aus dem
reinen Rollenspiel des Theatralischen und was wir wir die Emanzipation des
Schauspielers nennen, dass der Schauspieler sich aktiv in den Prozess einbringt. Also,
dass ich als Regisseurin eine Spielleiterin bin oder Animateurin oder Dinge
ermögliche oder zur Verfügung stelle, entwickele von Strukturen, aber nicht sage, was
passiert, ich wähl dann aus, oder wenn Angbote kommen leite ich oder lenke ich das,
aber ich glaube nicht dran, dass ich den Leuten, gerade bei so einem sensibelen
Thema, vorschreiben sollte oder könnte: sag das oder jenes oder zeig das oder jenes.
Und eine Form der Emanzipation im Theater, glaube ich, ist schon dieses radikale
sich in Beziehung setzten persönlich zu einem Text.
BC: Aber warum muss das einen Platz auf der Bühne haben oder warum muss das vor
einem Publikum geschehen? Kann das die Aufführung nicht einfach informieren?
EB: Hat es ja. Ich glaube auch, bei den polnischen Schauspielern, die das nicht
gemacht haben oder bei denen, die entschieden haben es nicht zu machen, hast du die
Betroffenheit oder die Verbindung auch gespürt. Vielleicht geht das über den Rahmen
hinaus, das kann sein. Und es waren vielleicht Abende, wo sich Zuschauer peinlich
betroffen gefühlt haben, besonders wenn es dann in so eine sicherlich nicht theatrale
Weise ausartete, als dass jemand zu weinen beginnt. Es ist nicht mehr kontrollierbar,
der Moment, nicht mehr kontrollierbar und ich bin sicher, dass einigen Leuten das
unangenehm war, ich weiß, dass as aber andere Leute sehr berührt hat, also einfach,
diese Grenze auszudehnen.
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BC: Weil manche sich strikt dagegen wehren, überhaupt so Persönliches mit
einzubringen; neulich sagte mir eine Schauspielerin, das findet sie entsetzlich, wenn
ein anderer Schauspieler/eine andere Schauspielerin mit den eigenen Emotionen
arbeitet.
EB: Es war nicht wirklich in dem Sinne emotional, also ich habe nicht gepusht, dass
hier geschrieen, geweint oder sonst wie emotional agiert wird sondern, dass diese
knappe, kurze, in alltagssprachige halt eine Erzählung dafür steht, was die Maren sehr
klar machte, und der Clemens war offensichtlich und ich glaube, das war für ihn auch
als Mann ein großer Schritt, sich das zu gestatten auch in der Öffentlichkeit, es hat ihn
so emotional berührt, die Geschichte von dem Opa. Manchmal blieb er cool, aber das
war ihm nicht immer möglich.
BC: Ist da ein Unterschied, weil das halt in dem Rahmen stattfindet, ist da ein
Unterschied zwischen dem, was die Schauspieler auf der Bühne gemacht haben und,
sagen wir mal, Konfessionellem?
EB: Es war so kurz und ich glaube, es wäre nicht gegangen in einer realistischen
Aufführung, es war so abstrakt, durch diese ständige Begehung des Quadrats das war
nämlich durchgängig, also es gab Momente, wo nur einer drin war, oder slow motion
gearbeitet wurde, aber es war immer jemand im Quadrat, d.h. die Maschine lief
ununterbrochen und dieser weiße, cleane Raum mit diesem Textband rundherum und
diesem auch wieder quadratischen, eisernen Bilderrahmen hat das so klar strukturiert,
dass es möglich war. Also ich wusste es auch nicht, ob ich es wagen soll.
BC Für dich war es aber ein wichtiger Moment, also das hast du mir einmal gesagt,
das war für dich ein wichtiger Moment.
EB: Es hat sich so ergeben, ich habe es vielleicht auch als Vorarbeit und Recherche
für meine Arbeit am Text ‘Auf der Suche nach Jakob’ benützt, weil ich mir überlegt
habe, wie kann ich das überhaupt zu Papier bringen, obwohl das großteils aus
Träumen und Erzählungen und Assoziationen besteht, weil ich ja nichts de facto weiß
über diesen angeblich jüdischen Großvater. Ich weiß nur, dass er Jakob Brenner hieß
und, dass er aus einem kleinen Ort kommt, das sich Radziszów nennt, bei Krakow.
Ich kann das Wort nicht einmal richtig aussprechen, und wir haben jetzt im Zuge der
Reisen versucht, Papiere zu finden, es ist unmöglich, weil die Rote Armee oder die
Nazis, man weiß es nicht genau, haben alles zerstört, aber wir wissen, dass er in
keiner der kirchlichen Listen mehr drin ist, also ich vermuute, dass er Ende des 19.
Jahrhunderts nach Wien kam, aus Gründen, die wir auch nicht genau kennen, aber
damals sind sehr sehr viele, die sind in diese Hauptstadt gekommen in die Nähe des
Hofes, um hier zu arbeiten, also das muss jetzt nicht aktive Diskriminierung gewesen
sein, aber in jedem Fall wäre mein Vater, der 1938 der SA beigetreten ist, da war er
21, 1917 geboren, und ich frage mich warum, weil mentalitätsmäßig und politisch war
mein Vater kein Nazi, eher ein Monarchist, also ein Konservativer aber kein Faschist,
das war er sicher nicht, das würde ich wissen und das hätte ich auch gespürt in der
Kindheit, in der Jugendzeit. Aber es hat mich immer beschäftigt. Stimmt es, stimmt es
nicht? Warum hat er das gemacht? Und ich habe vermutet aus Schutzgründen und um
zu vermeiden, dass da nachgeforscht wird, sind da z.B., wie ich herausgefunden habe,
in den Papieren sind alle auf der rechten Seite, die Mutterlinie lässt sich
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zurückverfolgen zwei, drei Jahrhunderte und alles, was unterhalb des Jakobs ist, ist
weiß mit Fragezeichen versehen in Bleistift und das halte ich für keinen Zufall, da ist
versucht worden, diesen Teil der Geschichte reinzuwaschen. Und ich habe mich
gefragt, wie geht man damit um? Wie beschreibt man das und vielleicht war das einer
der Ansätze, mal zu versuchen in einem objektiveren Setting mit einem anderen Text,
mit dem Text eines Autors, sich dem anzunähern, und ich glaube, dass auch für die
Schauspieler sehr wichtig war, wenn ich das ausgebreitet hätte, wenn es Szenen
geworden wären von 5 – 10 Minuten, dann wäre es unerträglich gewesen.
BC: Das waren nur Momente?
EB: 10 Sekunden, also das von der Maren waren 10/20 Sekunden, und das von dem
Clemens vielleicht ein bisschen länger, aber nicht viel. Es war so wie ein Blitz, der
plötzlich auftaucht, und das war sehr überraschend und sehr interessant. Manche
haben es vielleicht gar nicht gemerkt im Publikum und haben gedacht, das ist Teil des
Textes. Jetzt erzählt er halt vom Opa. Warum weiß man nicht genau, aber der Text
hat auch durch die Knappheit ein bisschen was Abstraktes gehabt, das ist eine
Erzählung, man weiß genau, worum es geht, jeder Satz ist verständlich aber es geht so
Schlag auf Schlag, und sie arbeitet auch mit poetischen Bildern, z. B. Das Herz eines
Juden, das Kinder unterm Eis finden, da ist jemand zu Tode gebracht worden und
offenbar sind Jahre später Kinder dort Schlittschuhgelaufen und haben einen
Leichnam unter der Eisdecke gefunden und ob das jetzt wirkich ein Herz war oder
nicht, aber es war eine wunderbare Metapher, das Herz eines Juden, und solche Bilder
also der Text hat etwas sehr Peotisches trotz dieser journalistischen Komponente.
BC: Deshalb hast du gesagt, dass es theatral zugänglich war, wegen der Stimme und
der Bilder?
EB: Ja, die Bilder und die, ja man konnte den Text auch in Szenen aufteilen, also sie
erzeugt in einer halben, auf einer drittel Seite, auf einer viertel Seite von einer halben
Seite, in einem Paragraphen eindeutig ein Bild einer Zeit, eines Ortes, man sieht die
Figuren, man sieht das Haus, man sieht den Weg dort, in dem Dorf, man sieht die
Dunkelheit, die Dämmerung, das Eis, die Kinder, die dort fahren, man sieht das. Also
das ist eine sehr bildliche Sprache und ich habe gedacht, das eignet sich sehr gut.
Dann ist immer noch die große Herausforderung, wenn ich es nur spreche, agiere ich
das auch aus, wie weit illustriere ich das, wie weit halte ich mich fern vom
Illustrieren? Das war eigentlich unser Ziel, wie halte ich mich fern und lass trotzdem
das Bild leben.
BC: Weil Bildliches zu literal oder zu plakativ ist?
EB: Na, es wäre Kitsch, und es wäre vor allen für Menschen, die so eine belastete
Geschichte haben zu dem Thema, das Thema ist zu schwer. Also es ist meiner
Meinung nach nicht zu bebildern, das wissen wir von Shoah, von Lanzmann, das ist ja
nicht umsonst, die Ikone des Umgangs mit dem Thema. Man kann es nicht zeigen.
Und wie verhält man sich performativ rund um das Thema, ohne es zeigen zu müssen,
ohne auch in die Versuchung zu geraten und trotzdem eine Nähe zu behaupten zu dem
Thema, also man könnte ganz cool darüber reden, das hat mit mir gor nix zu tun, es
war einmal. Ein bisschen hat die Schreibweise von der Hanna Krall einen Ton
manchmal von „Es war einmal“, als wär’s ein Märchen und dann kommen so knall
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harte historische Fakten und Zahlen, dass sie nennt, wieviele Polizisten das waren,
wieviele Schüsse abgegeben wurden etc, und da merkst du, es ist kein Märchen, es ist
passiert.
BC: Und vielleicht noch zu dem Probenprozess, Eva, du hast geschildert so wie ihr da
vorgegangen seid der wie ihr choreographisch gemacht habt, und konkreter, sagen wir
mal zu dieser Such- und Experimentierphase, welche Ansätze, welche theatralen
Ansätze, mit welchen hast du gearbeitet?
EB: Also eine Methode, die wir seit Jahren verwenden und wo wir jetzt an einem
Punkt sind – wir gehen hinaus auf die Straße mit dem neuen Projekt mit ‘Seit einem
Jahr’ mit der Fleischerei, mit dem neuen Raum, wo sich klar zeigt, wir brauchen neue
Methoden, auch körperliche, sprachliche, wir brauchen neue Methoden oder wir
müssen, und wir müssen die alten transformieren bis dahin. Wir waren ja bis 2004 in
dem alten Raum, von 1998 bis 2004, und in dem weißen Raum haben sich so
choreographische Ansätze wie die 6 Viewpoints of Performance von der Mary
Overlie sehr geeignet, also die haben wir verwendet und natürlich die rein
choreographische Arbeit ist und auch die Ensemblearbeit, wir machen ja Training und
da geht’s immer um also wenn’s geht, täglich von ca 1, manchmal 2 Stunden
Grotowski Training, Spiele, laufen, Ensembleübungen, Raumübungen,
Rhythmusübungen, erstens um einen Ensemblegeist zu erzeugen, diese körperliche,
diese synästhetische Wahrnehmung zu schärfen, zweitens um den ganzen Raum zu
füllen, weil wir immer versuchen, das Publikum hineinzusetzen in den Event. Auch
wenn die Leute quasi mit dem Rücken an der Wand entlang in einer Reihe sitzen, sind
sie in einem offenen, weißen Raum, jeder sieht jeden. Also da gibt’s keinen Abtritt, da
gibt’s keinen Auftritt in dem Sinn, es ist möglich als Zuschauer aufzustehen und sich
umzusetzen, und in dem Moment wird man gewisserweise Teil der Performance, was
in einem klassischen Theater nicht ist und ich glaube, dass man anders arbeiten muss,
also experimenteller oder kollektiver. Wir haben bis ungefähr 2001 – 2002 die
Bachmann Arbeit auf jeden Fall – 2000 – noch mit Riva-Arbeit von Grotowski
gearbeitet, das hat sich aber seltsamerweise mehr und mehr reduziert, obwohl gerade
die Riva-Arbeit sehr zum Autobiographischen führt. Wir haben das dann mehr in
diese textliche Ebene weiterentwickelt. Eines war sicherlich die räumlichchoreographische an dem Beckettschen Quadrat, dann die Viewpoint Trainingsarbeit,
die ja immer in unsere szenische Arbeit einfließt und die dritte wichtige, glaub ich, die
eher stark war, also vier sind’s eigentlich, aber die dritte ist die musikalische Ebene
gewesen, die musikalische Atmosphäre dieser Osteuropäischen, und die Qualitäten,
die hier musikalisch im Ensemble vorhanden waren, stimmlich aber auch
instrumental, die zu benutzen, und Lieder und instrumentale Stücke zu entwickeln.
MR: (Ist inszwischen hinzugekommen) Ich glaube, das 4. ist, dass wir versucht haben
am Erinnerungsgestus zu arbeiten, also wie ist es, wenn man einen Text nicht
behauptet sondern sich versucht zu erinnern, das haben wir versucht zu erforschen.
EB: Weil das in der Geste der Sprache ist, sie wechselt die Zeiten und es hat diesen
Ton von‚ wir erinnern uns an etwas, das passiert ist’. Mir ist es gar nicht mehr so
präsent, wie wir das gefunden haben, also es war sehr wichtig, dass ein Schauspieler
nicht wiederholt, was war gestern sondern, dass er den Erinnerungsgestus von dem,
was er gestern gemacht hat, versucht zu zeigen in den Raum zu bringen.
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BC: Maren, vielleicht kannst du auch einen Augenblick darüber sprechen – wir haben
geraden eben über die Augenblicke in der Performance gesprochen, wo für dich und
für Clemens reale Erfahrungen oder Reales aus eurem Leben mit reingebracht
wurden, ich habe Eva gefragt, inwiefern gehört sich das auf die Bühne. Wieso muss
Reales aus dem eigenen Leben plötzlich auf der Bühne geschehen oder mit
reingebracht werden oder was hat das für dich bedeutet? Weil viele sich dagegen
wehren. Sie wollen nicht, dass Persönliches dem Publikum entgegengebracht wird.
MR: Ja, mich wundert, ich stelle immer wieder fest, dass sehr viele Schauspielerinnen
ganz strikt sich eigentlich dagegen wehren, obwohl es ja natürlich immer in die eigene
Arbeit einfließt, also Strasberg hat ja eigentlich nur damit gearbeitet und auch
Grotowski mit der Erinnerung des Körpers,
BC: Das soll dann halt die Performance prägen oder gestalten aber nicht...
MR: Es soll im Geheimen bleiben, das ist sozusagen Werkgeheimnis des
Schauspielers, mit was für Erinnerungen er arbeitet.
BC: Die Quellen, die man anzapft.
MR: Ja, also ich persönlich finde das sehr spannend, dass jeder Mensch der in einem
Theaterprozess dabei ist, auch persönliches Material wirklich real verwendet, nicht
nur als Werkgeheimnis im Hintergrund, sondern als Teil des Stücks.
BC: Als Teil des Stücks?
MR: Es ist nicht einfach, find ich, das rüberzubringen, entweder es wird zu
sentimental, das kommt auch vor, ja wenn jemand wirklich in der Erinnerung in
Tränen ausbricht, verliert es für mich diesen Performance-Charakter, wenn ich’s nur
erzähle, hat es sowas Drüberstehendes, es ist irgendwas dazwischen. Ich erzähle eine
Erinnerung ich versuche, mich zurückzuerinnern, ich vergess nicht, dass ich den
Abstand habe.
BC: Oder das zu vergegenwärtigen ohne, dass es zu ermotionsgeladen wäre, oder dass
es, was weiß ich, so Therapie ist oder therapeutischen Charakter hätte??
MR: In die Situation wirklich reingehen, finde ich stimmt nicht, weil ich bin in einer
Theatersituation, ich kann nur versuchen mich zu erinnern.
BC: Sehr subtile Arbeit?
MR: Ja, ich, es ist sicher nicht immer gelungen. Es ist ein Forschen, glaube ich, auf
dieser, auf diesem Seil, ja wo ist die Balance?
BC: Aber es hat einen Platz für dich, oder das ist schauspielerisch interessant, oder
fürs Publikum?
MR: Für mich auf jeden Fall. Und ich seh’s auch gern, also nicht nur, dass ich gern
mich da selber einbringen möchte, sondern mich interessieren einfach Erinnerungen
von Menschen, ganz reale Erinnerungen nicht nur als Werkgeheimnis sondern ich
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finde, es gibt einen großen Schatz in den Menschen, nämlich diese Erinnerungen. Ich
finde das interessant, wenn er gehoben wird. Ich höre auch anderen Menschen gern zu
bei ihren Erinnerungen.
EB: Ich habe das zuwenig betont am Anfang, aber ich glaube, dass diese Frage des
Erinnerns und des Vergessens, wir haben noch viele Gespräche, sogenannte ‘special
events’ mit bekannten Personen, auch Leuten die hier rund um die
Holocaustforschung in Österreich tätig sind, veranstaltet, und es ist dann auch, es fällt
mir gerade ein, in der Arbeit, die wir gerade abgeschlossen haben in Korsika,
eingeflossen, also wo es um draste Memoir ging, Spuren der Erinnerung in einem
korsischen Dorf aus dem 9. Jahrhundert und da ging’s nicht nur um den Holocaust
sondern um ihre Erinnerungen, wie früher das Leben war, oder überhaupt die Frage,
diese Landschaft, die Häuser, die da stehen, die teilweise 900 Jahre alt sind, noch
länger also 1100 Jahre alt sind. Welche Erinnerungen bergen die? Und mit welchen
Erinnerungen leben die Menschen, die teilweise Vergangenheit und teilweise
Gegenwart sind, von Lebensweisen, von Arten, Landwirtschaft zu betreiben, wie das
soziale Leben sich gestaltet und diese enormen Veränderungen durch diesen
Modalisierungprozess. Eigentlich ist seit der Pola oder eigentlich seit der Bachmann
2000 dieses Thema der Erinnerung, ist in der Bachmannschen Arbeit stark vorhanden,
und auch der Holocaust ist sehr stark vorhanden auch wenn sie nicht davon spricht.
MR: Es ist ja auch interessant, dass es da kulturelle Unterschiede gibt, es gibt, glaube
ich, Kulturen, die das eher ablehnen, also haben wir jetzt festgestellt, dass es in
Korsika z.B. viele mit diesem Thema Probleme hatten, ich habe das jetzt auch gehört
in Bulgarien, dass das auch abgelehnt wird, dieses sich Erinnern.
BC: Man will sich nicht damit auseinandersetzen?
MR: Ja, keine Ahnung, ich meine in Österreich gibt’s das natürlich auch in gewissem
Maß und dann gibt’s natürlich die Gegenbewegung, die sagt, wir müssen jetzt
endlich, was unter den Teppich gekehrt wurde....
BC: Rausholen und anschauen?
MR: Endlich mal rausholen und anschauen, ja das...
EB: Wir haben (bei Pola) auch sehr rhythmisch teilweise, Maren macht ja sehr viel
sprachlich rhythmische Arbeit, das war z.B. einer dieser skandierten chorischen
Texte: ‘Unter unserem Fußboden sitzen irgendwelche Leute’, also in dem Text geht’s
um Erinnerung und Gedächtnisarbeit, aber warum das uns speziell so...ich weiß nicht,
woher es kam, nicht direkt aus Beckett, also nicht direkt aus der Endspielarbeit
sondern aus der Bachmannarbeit und der Arbeit an der eigenen Geschichte, dem
Umgang mit dem Holocaust, also dieser verdrängte jüdische Frage, die mich damals
sehr beschäftigt hat.
MR: Das hat dich schon immer beschäftigt...
EB: Ja, aber das ist irgendwann dann wieder aufgebrochen, als Lee Breuer, der
amerikanische Jude, sagte, der möchte mit uns an dem Jakob arbeiten, wir haben 5
Jahre fast auf das hingearbeitet, weil das ein sehr bekannter amerikanischer Regisseur
247
des Experimentaltheaters ist, es war zeitlich ganz schwierig, ihn nach Wien zu
kriegen, und finanziell und so weiter, wir haben sehr lange Vorbereitungsarbeiten
gemacht.
MR: Hängt das auch nicht mit deinem USA-Aufenthalt zusammen? Also ich glaube,
wenn man lange Zeit Distanz von seiner Heimat hat, hat man einen anderen Blick und
andere Bedürfnisse, mit Vergangenheit unnd Erinnerungen umzugehen.
EB: Aber warum es gerade 2000 war und nicht 2003 war, weiß ich nicht, weil ich
1994 zurückgekommen, also das habe ich mich noch nicht gefragt, aber es hat sicher
mit der Gruppendynamik zu tun, dass plötzlich klar war, dass es die anderen auch
interessiert. Bei Maren war das sehr stark und bei Clemens. Es waren nicht alle, die
unbedingt daran arbeiten wollten.
BC: Und würdet ihr diese Arbeit fortsetzen, ist es.. bleibt das für euch ein Thema?
EB: Ja, aber, für mich ist, ich, ja sicher, aber vorläufig wird diese jüdische
Erinnerungsgeschichte nach hinten gerückt. Wir beschäftigen uns im Moment mit
Erinnerungen im 7. Bezirk und eigentlich fast mit der Erinnerung unserer Existenz
vor 2 Jahren, weil durch die Theaterreform und die Krise, durch die wir unseren
Raum verloren haben und unsere Existenz über ein Jahr lang gefährdet war und
eigentlich die Arbeit, die wir gemacht haben bis vor einem Jahr schon Erinnerung ist,
und wir uns jetzt hier fragen, wie geht’s weiter mit dem Theater, wie geht’s weiter mit
dem Leben in dem Berzirk, z.B. was für Erinnerungen haben die Leute hier daran, wie
hier die Läden früher waren. Also viele Läden stehen leer, also irgendwie in den
letzten 2 Jahren, das Thema Globalisierung oder was das bedeutet... das wollte ich
eigentlich sagen, diese Insistenz, dass der Alltag oder die Geschichte der einzelnen
Leute, die Geschichte macht. Das stand sogar in der Pressemappe für Kosika drin, das
ist in allen Arbeiten da.
BC: Und das geht durch die Globalisierung ganz krass verloren....
EB: Ja, glaube ich schon, das Individuelle und die Möglichkeiten auch. Viele
Geschichten verschwinden, weil Menschen aus dem Blickwinkel geschoben werden,
MR: Oder sterben einfach...
EB: Sterben oder arbeitslos werden, ihre Geschäfte zusperren müssen, kein
Sprachrohr mehr haben. Es ist ja alles konzentriert und monopolisiert. Im Moment ist
diese jüdische Frage nicht mehr so, aber sie wird wohl wiederkommen.
MR: Sie kommt immer wieder, das glaube ich schon. Da gibt’s ja hier herum viele
Geschichte. Vor längerer Zeit da bin ich zufällig ins Gespräch gekommen mit einer
Geschäftsfrau hier, die erzählt hat von - ihre Mutter hatte ihr das erzählt, wie das
Geschäft arisiert wurde, die jüdische Bevölkerung plötzlich auf der Straße stand, wie
sie sich gefragt haben, warum sind die nicht mehr da auf einmal...
BC: Und habt ihr das Gefühl, so ihr beschäftigt euch damit so in dieser
Theatergruppe, beschäftigen sich auch andere Theatergruppen damit in Wien, so in
der freien Szene oder im Staatstheater oder ist es....?
248
EB: Glaub ich schon, oder es ist ein kleiner Prozentsatz, mir fällt die Nika Sommer
ein mit Weiterleben von der Ruth Klüger, Zweipersonenstück mit 2 Frauen, das sehr
erfolgreich war, Hubsi kramer, ein sehr politischer Theatermacher, der immer wieder
seine Hitlermonologe, wo er selber als Hitler in Uniform auftritt, natürlich sehr
ironisiert aber durch seine persönliche, politische Arbeit als Aktivist nimmt man ihn
sehr ernst, also das ist immer da. Und am Burgtheater ja, unter Peymann war’s stärker
da, durch Bernhard und auch natürlich durch Heldenplatz und durch die JelinekAufführungen. Wir werden nächstes Jahr wahrscheinlich an Jelinek arbeiten, da wird
es wieder kommen, nehme ich an. Durch Jelinek ist es auch da, auch durch
Streeruwitz, von der wir mehrere Texte gemacht haben, aber ich würde nicht sagen,
dass es annähernd den Stellenwert hat in der Theaterarbeit, den es haben sollte,
meiner Meinung nach, wobei ich jetzt nicht nur das jüdische Thema meine, also z.B.
ich habe dieses eine Stück oder diesen Text verfasst über die Erinnerungen an meinen
Vater, und meine Mutter habe ich irgendwie links liegen lassen, typisch, und jetzt
denke ich mir, ich würde gern etwas machen, weil sie lebt noch, über ihre Flucht, sie
war ein Mädchen, sie war 16 Jahre alt am Ende des Krieges und die ganze weibliche
Bevölkerung ist nach Tirol geflohen und was die erlebt haben auf dem Weg. Und da
gibt’s auch noch Tagebuchaufzeichnungen und Fotos und so, also ich meine jetzt
nicht, dass es nur um die jüdische Geschichte gehen sollte, sondern überhaupt um die
Vergegenwärtigung der näheren Vergangenheit also so ein Frauenprojekt mal zu
mmachen fände ich total spannend, sogenannte Täterfrauen oder Frauen aus
Täterfamilien, die damals zu jung waren, du kannst eine 15/16-Jährige nicht als
Täterin bezeichnen...
BC: Und wie steht ihr dazu, dass diese Generation, die diese Erinnerungen noch
haben, dass die quasi ausgestorben ist oder nur sehr wenige von ihnen noch am Leben
sind, und die die am Leben sind, sind teilweise nicht imstande zu sprechen, da höre
ich es immer wieder, so z.B. dass der Großvater sich geweigert hat zu sprechen, der
konnte nicht über diese Dinge reden, wollte nicht, und dass diese Geschichten dann
verlorengehen?
MR: Ich habe den Eindruck, die Opfergeschichten gehen eher nicht verloren, aber die
Tätergeschichten, da redet niemand drüber. Ich habe schon öfter alte Leute befragt,
was haben sie gemacht im Krieg, oder wie war das, da sind dann Geschichten
gekommen, ja haben wir dem und dem geholfen und einen Befehl verweigert und
irgendwem Essen zugeschoben, das sind eigentlich Heldengeschichten, ja, aus der
heutigen Sicht, die werden aufbewahrt und sie werden erzählt. Die Tätergeschichten...
EB: Oder sie werden sogar überbetont.
MR: Ich frage mich eigentlich, wer diese ganzen Leute waren, die wirklich, was weiß
ich, Massenexekutionen vollzogen haben. Wo sind die? Da redet niemand drüber.
BC: Und die ganzen Mitschwimmer....
MR: Da gibt’s, glaube ich, wirklich ein ganz großes Schamgefühl, zum Glück, ich
meine, wenn sie mit Stolz darüber reden würden...
249
EB: Es gibt ja in Österreich, obwohl der Haider im Moment eher nicht im
Wiederaufstieg begriffen ist, aber es kann sein, es war schon öfter der Fall, dass er
quasi abgestürzt ist und wieder wie ein Phönix aus der Asche wieder aufstieg, aber es
gibt dieses Sediment, das wird, glaube ich, auf fast 20% geschätzt. Der Haider hatte ja
vor einigen Jahren ja fast 27% der Stimmen. Es gibt dieses Sediment, das sich
ungerecht behandelt fühlt und missverstanden, und sie waren ja nur Opfer und sie
haben nur ihre Pflicht getan und ein großes Resentiment, ein antisemitisches haben,
dass so viel über die jüdischen Autoren und ständig kriegen sie Preise und sind in den
Medien und über sie wird halt nichts geredet. Ich glaube, das ist nach wie vor
vorhanden.
MR: Wir leben natürlich hier in Wien, Provinz in Österreich ist ein ganz anderes
Kapitel, glaube ich. In Kärnten, mir ist es unbegreiflich, dieser Widerstand immer
noch gegen die zweisprachigen Ortstafeln. Ich weiß nicht, was da eigentlich los ist,
dieser ganze Abwehrkampfgeschichte und diese Volksabstimmung, das wird
dermaßen glorifiziert, das war, glaube ich, damals 1912, diese Volksabstimmung, ja,
das ist so lange her, und in jedem Ort gibt es keinen jüdischen Friedhof oder ein
Denkmal dafür, aber eine Gedenktafel ‘Volksabstimmung 1912’. Wir haben
abgestimmt, dass wir nicht zu Jugoslawien damals gehören, ja, sondern zum
deutschen Reich, die großdeutsche Idee.
EB: Ja, ja, und es ist sicherlich heute in andrer Weise in der EU Debatte drinnen, in
Österreich gibt es sehr starke Ablehnung der möglichen Mitgliedschaft der Türkei,
wir haben einen hohen Prozentsatz von Türken und wir haben im letzten Projekt das
schon gestreift, da haben wir von der Lasker-Schüler ein Projekt gemacht
‘Herz.Angst’ und da war auch eine türkische Schauspielerin dabei, aber in Wien kann
man darüber reden, vor allem in diesen Innenbezirken, also wir sind hier im grünen
Bezirk Österreichs. Es sind hier sehr viele aufgeschlossene Menschen, auch in
unserem Publikum, und wenn ich das erzähle 30/35 Km von hier sind die Leute böse
auf uns, auf unser Schielfestival, weil am nächsten Tag die Blasmusik gestört war.
Die behaupten jetzt echt, die Neulengbacher Blaskapelle hat verloren, weil sie nicht
proben konnten, weil wir sie sabotiert haben durch unser Schiele-PerformanceAufbauwerk, und das kann mir auch keiner sagen, dass das ein Zufall ist, warum kann
man nicht beides? Ich find’s unangenehm, ich brauche nicht diese laute Musik und
zehn Blaskapellen und den ganzen Tag hörst du es, es schallt überall durch, aber sie
sollen es machen dürfen, aber wir sollen unsere Sache auch machen dürfen.
BC: Und warum macht ihr das ausgerechnet in Neulengbach?
EB: Weil meine Mutter von daher ist, und weil der Schiele dort im Gefängnis war,
weil wir wollten eigentlich dort, eigentlich unsere Workshops platzieren und haben
dann über diese Schiele-Geschichte gefunden, dass es eignet sich, dass man da tiefer
geht, und es entwickelt sich.
MR: Eigentlich auch eine Erinnerungsarbeit, weil Schiele auch nicht sehr angesehen
war oder immer noch nicht ist in Neulengbach.
BC: Heutzutage immer noch nicht?
250
EB: Es gibt Leute, die sagen er war ein Schmierant, schön sind ja nur die
Landschaften und wie kann man sowas zeichnen, und es wird schon einen Grund
gehabt haben, wieso sie ihn eingesperrt haben, obwohl bewiesen ist, dass er
niemanden verführt hat. Er ist wegen Verführung einer Minderjährigen angeblich in
Untersuchungshaft gekommen und es hat sich dann als falsch erwiesen...
MR: Es gab doch, wie der Platz in Egon Schiele Platz umbenannt wurde, gab’s da
auch große Proteste, dieses Schwein, danach soll jetzt ein Platz hier benannt werden,
und das war vor ein paar Jahren.
EB: Ja, ja, 2000. Also das ist noch sehr stark in Österreich da, insofern ist diese
Theaterarbeit...
BC: Dieses provinzielle Denken?
EB: Naja, das ist auch entartete Kunst, wenn man sagt, das Schwein, dieser
Schmierant, das kein echter Künstler, schön sind nur die Landschaften, d.h.
akzeptabel sind nur die Landschaften, dann ist das eine Aussage über Kunst auch.
BC: Vielen Dank fürs Gespräch.
251
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