‘Among other things he said:
‘ “Sincerity of emotions, feelings that seem true in given circumstances—that is what we ask of a dramatist.”
‘I add from myself that that is exactly what we ask of an actor.
‘Think deeply about this saying, and later I shall give you a vivid example of how if helps us to carry it out.’
‘Sincerity of emotions, feelings that seem true in given circumstances,’ I repeated with all sorts of intonations.
‘Stop,’ said the Director. ‘You make a banality of it without uncovering the essential meaning. When you cannot grasp a thought as a whole, break it up into its component parts, and study them one by one.’
‘Just what’, asked Paul, ‘does the expression “given circumstances” mean?’
‘It means the story of the play, its facts, events, epoch, time and place of action, conditions of life, the actors’ and regisseur’s interpretation, the mise-en-scene, the production, the sets, the costumes, properties, lighting and sound effects,—all the circumstances that are given to an actor to take into account as he creates his role.
‘If is the starting point, the given circumstances, the development. The one cannot exist without the other, if it is to possess a necessary stimulating quality. However, their functions differ somewhat: if gives the push to dormant imagination, whereas the given circumstances build the basis for if itself. And they both, together and separately, help to create an inner stimulus.’
‘And what’, asked Vanya, with interest, ‘does “sincerity of emotions” mean?’
‘Just what it says—living human emotions, feelings which the actor himself has experienced.’
‘Well then,’ Vanya went on, ‘what are “feelings that seem true”?’
‘By true seeming we refer not to actual feelings themselves but to something nearly akin to them, to emotions reproduced indirectly, under the prompting of true inner feelings.
‘In practice, this is approximately what you will have to do: first, you will have to imagine in your own way the “given circumstances” offered by the play, the regisseur’s production and your own artistic conception. All of this material will provide a general outline for the life of the character you are to enact, and the circumstances surrounding him. It is necessary that you really believe in the general possibilities of such a life, and then become so accustomed to it that you feel yourself close to it. If you are successful in this, you will find that “sincere emotions”, or “feelings that seem true” will spontaneously grow in you.
‘However, when you use this third principle of acting, forget about your feelings, because they are largely of subconscious origin, and not subject to direct command. Direct all of your attention to the “given circumstances”. They are always within reach.’
Toward the end of the lesson he said: ‘I can now supplement what I said earlier about if. Its power depends not only on its own keenness, but also on the sharpness of outline of the given circumstances.’
‘But,’ broke in Grisha, ‘what is left for the actor since everything is prepared by others? Just trifles?’
‘What do you mean, trifles?’ said the Director indignantly. ‘Do you think that to believe in the imaginative fiction of another person, and bring it to life, is a trifle? Don’t you know that to compose on a theme suggested by someone else, is much more difficult than to invent one yourself? We know of cases where a bad play has achieved world fame because of having been re-created by a great actor. We know that Shakespeare re-created stories by others. That is what we do to the work of the dramatist; we bring to life what is hidden under the words; we put our own thoughts into the author’s lines, and we establish our own relationships to other characters in the play, and the conditions of their lives; we filter through ourselves all the materials that we receive from the author and the director; we work over them, supplementing them out of our own imagination. That material becomes part of us, spiritually, and even physically; our emotions are sincere, and as a final result we have truly productive activity—all of which is closely interwoven with the implications of the play.
‘And that tremendous work you tell me is just trifles!
‘No, indeed. That is creativeness and art.’
With these words he ended the lesson.
6
Today, we did a series of exercises, consisting of setting ourselves problems in action, such as writing a letter, tidying up a room, looking for a lost object. These we framed in all sorts of exciting suppositions, and the object was to execute them under the circumstances we had created.
To such exercises the Director attributes so much significance that he worked long and enthusiastically on them.
After he had done an exercise with each one of us in turn he said:
‘This is the beginning of the right road. You found it through your own experience. For the present there should be no other approach to a part or a play. To understand the importance of this right point of departure, compare what you have just done with what you did at the test performance. With the exception of a few scattered and accidental moments in the playing of Maria and Kostya, all of you began your work at the end instead of at the beginning. You were determined to arouse tremendous emotion in yourselves and your audience right at the start; to offer them some vivid images, and at the same time exhibit all your inner and outer gifts. This wrong approach naturally led to violence. To avoid such mistakes, remember, for all time, that when you begin to study each role you should first gather all the materials that have any bearing on it, and supplement them with more and more imagination, until you have achieved such a similarity to life that it is easy to believe in what you are doing. In the beginning forget about your feelings. When the inner conditions are prepared, and right, feelings will come to the surface of their own accord.’
CHAPTER FOUR
IMAGINATION
1
The Director asked us to come to his apartment today for our lesson. He seated us comfortably in his study, and began: ‘You know now that our work on a play begins with the use of if as a lever to lift us out of everyday life on to the plane of imagination. The play, the parts in it, are the invention of the author’s imagination, a whole series of ifs and given circumstances thought up by him. There is no such thing as actuality on the stage. Art is a product of the imagination, as the work of a dramatist should be. The aim of the actor should be to use his technique to turn the play into a theatrical reality. In this process imagination plays by far the greatest part.’
He pointed to the walls of his study, which were covered with every conceivable design for theatre sets.
‘Look,’ he said to us, ‘all these are the work of a favourite artist of mine, now dead. He was a strange person, who loved to make sets for plays which had not yet been written. Take for instance this design for the last act of a play Chekhov was planning to write just before his death: about an expedition lost in the icy North.
‘Who would believe’, said the Director, ‘that this was painted by a man who, in all his life, never stirred beyond the suburbs of Moscow? He made an arctic scene out of what he saw around him at home in winter, from stories and scientific publications, from photographs. Out of all that material his imagination painted a picture.’
He then turned our attention to another wall, on which were a series of landscapes, seen in varying moods. There, in each one, was the same row of attractive little houses near a pine grove—except that the time of year, the hour of the day, and the conditions of the weather were different. Farther along the wall was the same spot without houses, with only a clearing, a lake, and various kinds of trees. Evidently the artist enjoyed rearranging nature and the attendant lives of human beings. In all his pictures he built and tore down houses and villages, changed the face of the locality, and moved mountains.
‘And here are some sketches for a non-existent play about life between the planets,’—pointing out other drawings and water colours. ‘To paint suc
h a picture the artist must have not only imagination, but fantasy as well.’
‘What is the difference between them?’ asked one of the students.
‘Imagination creates things that can be or can happen, whereas fantasy invents things that are not in existence, which never have been or will be. And yet, who knows, perhaps they will come to be. When fantasy created the Flying Carpet, who could have thought that one day we should be winging our way through space? Both fantasy and imagination are indispensable to a painter.’
‘And to an actor?’ asked Paul.
‘What do you think? Does the dramatist supply everything that the actors need to know about the play? Can you, in a hundred pages, give a full account of the life of the dramatis personae? For example, does the author give sufficient details of what has happened before the play begins? Does he let you know what will happen when it is ended, or what goes on behind the scenes? The dramatist is often a miser in commentary. In his text, all that you find may be “the same and Peter”; or, “exit Peter”. But one cannot appear out of the air, or disappear into it. We never believe in any action taken “in general”: “he gets up,” “he walks up and down in agitation,” “he laughs,” “he dies.” Even characteristics are given in laconic form, such as “a young man of agreeable appearance, smokes a great deal”. Hardly a sufficient basis for creating his entire external image, manners, way of walking.
‘And what about the lines? Is it enough merely to learn them?
‘Will what is given paint the character of the dramatis personae and give you all the shadings of their thoughts, feelings, impulses and acts?
‘No, all this must be made fuller and deeper by the actor. In this creative process imagination leads the actor.’
Our lesson was interrupted at this point by an unexpected call from a famous foreign tragic actor. He told us all about his triumphs, and after he left the Director said with a smile:
‘Of course he romances, but an impressionable person of his sort really believes in his fabrications. We actors are so accustomed to embroider facts with details drawn from our own imaginations, that the habit is carried over into ordinary life. There, of course, the imagined details are as superfluous as they are necessary in the theatre.
‘In talking about a genius you would not say that he lies; he sees realities with different eyes from ours. Is it just to blame him if his imagination makes him wear rose-coloured, blue, grey, or black glasses?
‘I must admit that I myself have to lie quite frequently, when as an artist, or as a director, I am dealing with a part or a play that does not attract me. In such a case my creative faculties are paralysed. I must have some stimulant, so I begin to tell everyone how thrilled I am over my work, I am compelled to hunt for whatever there may be of interest and to boast about it. In this way my imagination is spurred on. If I were alone, I would not make this effort, but when working with others one must back up one’s lies substantially. It often happens that one can use these lies as material for a role or production.’
‘If imagination plays such an important part in an actor’s work,’ asked Paul rather shyly, ‘what can he do if he lacks it?’
‘He must develop it,’ answered the Director, ‘or else leave the theatre. Otherwise he will fall into the hands of directors who will make up for his lack by using their own imaginations, and he would become a pawn. Wouldn’t it be better for him to build up an imagination of his own?’
‘That, I am afraid,’ said I, ‘is very difficult.’
‘It all depends on what kind of an imagination you have,’ said the Director. ‘The kind that has initiative of its own can be developed without special effort, and will work steadily and untiringly, whether you are awake or asleep. Then there is the kind that lacks initiative, but is easily aroused and continues to work as soon as anything is suggested to it. The kind that does not respond to suggestions presents a more difficult problem. Here the actor takes in suggestions in a merely external, formal way. With such an equipment, development is fraught with difficulty, and there is very little hope of success unless the actor makes a great effort.’.
Has my imagination initiative?
Is it suggestible? Will it develop by itself?
These questions give me no peace. Late in the evening, I closed myself in my room, settled myself comfortably on my sofa with pillows all around me, shut my eyes, and began to improvise. But my attention was distracted by round spots of colour that kept passing across my closed eyelids.
I put out my light, as I supposed it was causing these sensations.
What should I think about? My imagination showed me trees in a large pine forest, gently and rhythmically stirring in a soft breeze. I seemed to smell the fresh air.
Why . . . in all this serenity . . . can I hear a ticking clock? . . .
I had fallen asleep!
Why, of course, I realized, I should not imagine things without a purpose.
So I went up in an airplane, above the tree-tops, flying over them, over the fields, rivers, cities, . . . tick, tick, goes the clock. . . . Who is that snoring? Surely not I . . . did I drop off . . . have I been asleep long . . . the clock strikes eight. . . .
2
I was so discomfited by the failure of my attempts to exercise my imagination at home, that I told the Director about it at our lesson today.
‘You did not succeed because you made a series of mistakes,’ he explained. ‘In the first place, you forced your imagination, instead of coaxing it. Then, you tried to think without having any interesting subject. Your third mistake was that your thoughts were passive. Activity in imagination is of utmost importance. First comes internal, and afterwards external action.’
I pointed out that in a sense I had been active, since I was flying over the forests at a high rate of speed.
‘When you are reclining comfortably in an express train, are you active?’ asked the Director. ‘The engineer is working, but the passenger is passive. Of course, if you are engaged in some important business, conversation, or discussion, or are writing a report, while on the train, then you would have some basis for talking about action. Again, in your flight in the airplane, the pilot was working, but you were doing nothing. If you had been at the controls, or taking topographical photographs, you might say you were active.
‘Perhaps I can explain by describing my little niece’s favourite game.
‘ “What are you doing?” the little girl asks.
‘ “I am drinking tea,” I answer.
‘ “But”, she says, “if it were castor oil, then how would you drink it?”
‘I am forced to recall the taste of castor oil, to show her the disgust I feel, and when I succeed the child fills the room with her laughter.
‘ “Where are you sitting?”
‘ “On a chair,” I reply.
‘ “But if you were sitting on a hot stove, then what would you do?”
‘I am obliged to think myself on a hot stove, and try to decide how I can save myself from being burned to death. When I succeed the child is sorry for me, and cries, “I do not want to play any more.” If I go on, she ends by bursting into tears. Why don’t you think up some such game as an exercise for arousing activity?’
Here I broke in to point out that this was elementary, and to ask how to develop the imagination in subtler ways.
‘Don’t be in a hurry,’ said the Director. ‘There will be plenty of time. Just now we need exercises bound up with the simple things that actually surround us.
‘Take our class here as an example. This is an actual fact. Suppose the surroundings, the teacher, the students, remain as they are. Now with my magic if I shall put myself on the plane of make-believe, by changing one circumstance only: the hour of the day. I shall say, it is not three o’clock in the afternoon, but three o’clock in the night.
‘Use your imagination to justify a lesson that lasts so late. Out of that simple circumstance there follows a whole series of consequences. At home your fa
mily will be anxious about you. As there is no telephone you cannot notify them. Another student will fail to appear at a party where he is expected. A third lives in the outskirts and has no idea how he will get home, the trains having stopped.
‘All this brings external changes and inner ones as well, and gives a tone to what you do.
‘Or try another angle.
‘The time of day remains at three in the afternoon, but suppose the time of year has changed. Instead of winter it is spring, the air is wonderful, and it is hot out even in the shade.
‘I see you are smiling already. After your lesson you will have time for a stroll. Decide what you intend to do; justify your decision with the necessary suppositions; and again you have the fundamentals of an exercise.
‘This is merely one of countless examples of how you can use forces within you to change the material things about you. Do not try to get rid of these things. On the contrary, include them in your imaginary lives.
‘That sort of transformation has a real place in our more intimate kind of exercises. We can use ordinary chairs to outline anything the imagination of an author or director can ask us to create; houses, city squares, ships, forests. It will do no harm if we find ourselves unable to believe that this chair is a particular object, because even without the belief we may have the feeling it arouses.’
3
In opening the lesson today the Director said: ‘Up to this point our exercises for the development of the imagination have, to a greater or lesser degree, touched on material facts, like furniture, or on realities of life, like the seasons. Now I shall transfer our work to a different plane. We give up time, place, and action, as far as their external accompaniments are concerned, and you will do the whole thing directly with your mind. Now,’ he asked, turning to me, ‘where would you like to be, and at what time?’
An Actor Prepares Page 6