Kaleidoscope: An SCO Journal of Graduate Student Research

Vol. 1, No. 1, Fall 2002, pp. 66-77

Don’t Read This Paper:

Performing Performance Studies

Amy K. Kilgard

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Amy K. Kilgard is currently finishing her dissertation titled "Articulating Directing

Performances: Viewpoints, Process, and Collage." She has also accepted an Assistant

Professorship at San Francisco State University and begins teaching there in Fall 2003.

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Foreword

I wrote this paper five years ago and submitted it for publication in a journal our graduate student organization was trying to get

off the ground. The journal never came into being and, as these things go, I promptly forgot about this paper. When several current

members of the organization approached me about issuing the journal with this paper in it, I was surprised and a little worried. This

is not the essay I would write on this subject now. I’m not sure the one I might write/perform now would be better scholarship, but

it would be more disciplined, more citational, more humble. At least that’s what I would like to believe. The most glaring omission,

which must be remedied now, is the lack of special thanks. Thank you to Dr. Ronald Pelias for allowing me this much latitude in my

first graduate class. You continue to teach me the hope in this “hopeless discipline.” Thanks also to Dr. Elyse Pineau for granting

me the first of many performance opportunities in the Kleinau Theatre. I am indebted to you for “setting the stage,” literally and

figuratively, for much of my current thinking/performing about embodied scholarship.

__________

Don’t read this paper.

I SAID, DON’T READ THIS PAPER!

Perform it.

You don’t know how to do that?

You just don’t want to?

Are you afraid you won’t learn anything by performing it?

Too much work?

Are you afraid you will learn something by performing it?

Ah. It isn’t really scholarship.

I know, I’ve lost my mind.

You don’t have time to go around performing papers.

Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to everyone else if you just performed mine.

But did everyone else ask you to perform their papers?

I guess everyone else knows better.

Why not perform them all?

Now I’ve really gone off the deep end.

Aren’t I just asking of you exactly what everyone outside this discipline is asking of us? I have been asked to

trust written accounts about performance. Why should I trust that? It has obviously worked for a lot of people.

But for whom has it not worked? Who has been privileged? Who has been lost?

There is a part of me that wants to give in, to train myself to be a great traditional writer. But, if I take the time

to do that, I will be giving up time in which I could be practicing performance. I can’t help feeling I’ve lost either way.

All I can do is ask,

Won’t you perform this paper?

All you can do is say

No.

I walk into SPCM 570, Performance Methodologies, my first class of graduate school. My palms are sweating. I don’t even know what “performance methodologies” means. Even with the help of my dictionary, I cannot get a clear picture of what this class will be about. I have photocopied the 873 pages that we will be the reading for this class. That makes me a little nervous. With five classes, I cannot afford to get behind. I am not nervous about the other students. I have met most of them during the orientation week. They all seem very nice, and the department seems excited about performance studies.

Now, here we are in class. Room 2012 seems different. We gather in assorted chairs and desks and wait for Ron. We get our syllabi, and I read mine with interest. I groan inwardly as I read the last page—a fifteen to twenty-five page paper worth fifty percent of the grade. The longest paper I’ve ever written is seven pages. Maybe I shouldn’t be here after all. Everyone else seems calm about it. I’d better play along.

I mask my uncertainty and try to focus on the topic: What is performance studies? I think I know something about that. Performance studies is studying things using performance. But the class has already passed me. “You don’t have to do performance to be in performance studies,” someone is saying. “That’s right,” others agree. I assimilate this quickly, and nod my head silently.

Before we leave, we talk about “performance itself as a way of knowing.” I put an exclamation point after this phrase in my notes. I nod vigorously as Ron talks about the difficulties of translating performance into scholarly knowledge, and of reporting performance knowledge. Others are nodding too. I wonder if they feel like I did about their statements earlier, or if I’m the only one who is pretending.

I walk into auditions for Alias Grace, my first audition of graduate school. My palms are sweating, but not because I don’t know what audition means. I have been to many auditions. I fill out my information slip in the hallway as more people join the little crowd waiting there. There are many familiar faces, but some I don’t recognize. Elyse invites us into the theatre space. We do some warm-up exercises and listen to her describe the show. She hands out bits of the script and asks us to look over these before we read for her. I look at my segment and try to formulate a character in my mind. She describes Lydia as young and flirtatious. The part we’re reading says she has a very small waist. I guess that takes me out of the running.

After some initial reading, Elyse asks me to join a group doing an improvisation. I have never been great with improvisation, but I have always thought it fun. I play along. In this improv, I play a scatterbrained maid, sidekick of a motherly cook. I think of myself as a child, helping my mother prepare a holiday meal. I wonder if my mother ever thinks of me like that now.

Before we leave, we watch two women audition for the part of Grace. I know that the choice is now between the two of them. I watch with interest as these two women successfully negotiate their ways through a very difficult test of instantly adapting to direction while trying to maintain a character. I put an exclamation point next to this work in my mind. To take on a character so completely in an audition is remarkable, although I know they both are acting.

“You belong to a hopeless discipline. You are already failures because you’re expected to know all literature, all sociology, all philosophy. And if that weren’t enough, you have to know all Western theatre, and because we have to be multicultural, all Eastern performance, and really all public entertainments, rituals, street theatre, etc. As for our academic writing, where is it? There isn’t enough to amount to anything. And, if you want to argue for aesthetic contributions, our shows are garbage. They’re boring.” As I perform Ron’s words, others in the class laugh with me at these statements, which we all found troubling when Ron first performed them. Maybe it is acceptable from him because he has already embraced this “hopeless discipline” in his own life. But, how has he been formed because of this choice? He obviously does not believe that the discipline is hopeless. If he did, he would not still be an active participant in it. What are we, as his students, to believe? What is problematic here? The actions and the words don’t match. He says one thing and his body performs another. His body is the one I really listen to. Is there a lesson here?

I focus on the words in my performance, but my body is also speaking. Perhaps by performing, rather than simply reading, these words, my body is becoming a tangible part of the discussion. I am able to make literal and physical the ideas I have been feeling. Being literally handcuffed to the page, I search for ways to break out of the traditional acceptable forms of the academy. I know that my performative essay will be acceptable in this class. My form will not be questioned. It is already acceptable in this part of the academy. Am I really breaking out of anything?

“I am hopeful that this will be a great production. We have a wonderful, multitalented cast and production crew. I look forward to working with all of you.” I listen to Elyse at our first rehearsal, her optimism and enthusiasm welcome in this sometimes unfriendly academy. We read through the script. I am playing Lydia and Agnes. We sit on the floor of room 2012, often shifting positions, waiting for our turns to talk. Why are the words so important, I begin to wonder.

One of my Lydia scenes is coming up. My body immediately responds. I sit up, breathe deeply, and try to imagine myself in the scene. The line about my thin waist has been cut. I am relieved, but also disappointed. Even in this performance, in which the audience will know we are acting, we cannot transcend our physical bodies. They might speak more loudly than the words. Better to just erase the issue altogether. Or is it?

I focus on the words in the read-through. I think, maybe it was silly of me to use my body so early in the process. It seems strange, though, that a discipline that privileges the experiences of the body still usually begins with the words. The read-through takes more than four hours. Lines, words, will have to be cut.

For another class, my assignment is to observe the ways in which one of my professors communicates in his or her classroom, and think about the ways this style influences the learning environment. I walk into 570, and instead of completely engaging the material for discussion, I think about what Ron is wearing. Today he is in his traditional fare, jeans, and an untucked oxford shirt. He sits in a chair, not a desk, as part of our circle. His legs are crossed at the knees, and his hands are folded over his knees. When he addresses the group, he leans forward. When he is listening to someone else, he leans back in the chair, sometimes rubbing his chin with his fingers and nodding. He moves his leg nervously when he talks about himself.

What does this tell us about Ron as a teacher? Or, what does this not tell us about Ron as a teacher? He creates an environment in which class members and teacher are equally responsible for the discussion? We create an environment in which class members and teacher are equally responsible for the discussion? He does not take his job of professor seriously? He takes his job of teaching and learning from his students very seriously?

Is it fair that I am looking at him in this way when he doesn’t even know? Is any of this behavior planned? It is certainly rehearsed. He often sits in that position, with his hands and legs exactly the same way. I suddenly feel guilty. My mind rushes back to our class discussion—about everyday performance events—where it had already been.

I stand, script and pencil in hand, ready to begin the process of blocking. I glance at Elyse as she scowls at her script, perhaps trying to make her vision for this scene come back to her in this difficult moment. Suddenly she bursts into movement, her arms and hands motioning directions to people on stage. I realize she is not talking to me, so I take this opportunity just to watch her work. It is such a joy to be in rehearsals again. Although I have participated in many capacities of aesthetic performance, it has been a while since I have actually been a performer. Performing was for me, as for many people, what made me fall in love with this field. I remember my first big show, The Music Man. I was in sixth grade, and I loved every second of it. I stood in the wings one night, watching Karen Heck sing “My White Knight,” and knew I would do this for my life’s work. Although Alias Grace is a far cry from The Music Man, I am compelled to think about that performance, which had, and has such an influence on my life.

Elyse is quickly working through the scene, tracing entrances and exits, sometimes walking them to experience how they feel. She then steps back to see where the performer will take it. I know this step is the most difficult for a director. When you relinquish control to an actor, you also relinquish your power to completely determine what happens. In some ways, you lose your voice, your ability to speak—your right to speak? Elyse gestures to me and I suddenly feel embarrassed. Does she realize I was daydreaming in rehearsal? I quickly snap my mind back to the present performance—where it already was.

Scene: Communication Building, room 2012, October 8, 1997, 11:00 A.M., SPCM 570, Performance Methodologies class meeting. Participants

include John W., Deanna F., Larry R., Jill H., John P., Ron P., Denise M., Marcy C., Jason D., Amy K., Carleen S., and Dawn N. There

are assorted chairs and desks, several long tables, a music stand, a step unit, a TV cart.

Act: Amy participates in class about how to dramatistically examine a text, in this case a video of a performance art piece. The class members

gather into groups to discuss the piece. After the group work, the class, as a whole discusses the processes used by each of the groups.

Agent: Amy Kilgard is a first year graduate student at Southern Illinois University at Carbondale. She is a student in SPCM 570. She does not

have particular experience with Burke, but she does have experience using dramatic language to explore texts. She believes this exercise

will help enlighten her, in some way.

Agency: The university has given Amy a fellowship so that she might take this class. She has never taken this class before, but she has taken

other classes, and is familiar with the university environment. She also has several weeks of experience in this class.

Purpose: The purpose of this exercise is to explicate the dramatistic model. Although all the groups use the Burkean model in their discussions,

this is not the only available model. Class members should realize that dramatism is not only Burke’s method, but is also the practice of

using dramatic language to explain everyday as well as artistic events.

Scene: Communication Building, Kleinau Theatre, September 21, 1997, 4:00 P.M. Rehearsal for Alias Grace, Participants include Jill H., John W.,

John P., Marcy C., Carleen S., Amy K., Denise M., Elyse P., Jason H., Jennifer C., Jeff M., Amanda G., Brett K., and Dave R. The stage is

set with a bench, several chairs, a table, a raised platform upstage with steps in front and ramps running down stage right and stage left.

The working lights are on, as is the air conditioning. The women are wearing rehearsal skirts and rehearsal shoes.

Act: Amy participates in a rehearsal for Alias Grace. This rehearsal is a run-through of Acts I and II. Act I is to be rehearsed off book for the

first time. Amy will perform both Lydia and Agnes in these acts.

Agent: Amy Kilgard is a trained performer. This is her first role at Southern Illinois University at Carbondale. She is playing Lydia, a young

aristocrat who is swooning over Dr. Simon Jordan, and Agnes, a dour, religious serving-maid.

Agency: Amy has an undergraduate degree in dramatic art and in speech communication. She has studied acting, movement, voice (both acting

and singing,) directing, stage management, technical theatre, and other aspects of aesthetic performance. She understands how the

rehearsal process works. She knows how critical these rehearsals are, especially in a short rehearsal process like this one.

Purpose: The purpose of this rehearsal is to begin to polish the scenes in Act I, without the performers being tied to their scripts. This polishing

will help to improve timing and rhythm. For Act II, the purpose is to revisit the recently blocked scenes and begin to see how these scenes

fit together coherently. It also allows for some exploration of initial solutions for problems like very quick costume changes.

As we discuss Judith Butler, I begin to think about what is “real” and what is performance. If gender is performance, what is not? These boundaries are blurred, I write and think and act.

As I build my academic vocabulary, I am molded into “the elite,” “the educated,” “the academy.” As I build my American English vocabulary, I am molded into “woman,” “white,” “patriarchal.” As I build my communication ability, I am molded into “human,” “performer.”

Where, in this schema, is the self located? What, or who, constitutes the self? If there is no self before we look at a classification like gender, can there ever be agency? How much of these categories are consciously constructed or constituted? I think about the way I am sitting, my legs sprawled out. “Not very ladylike,” my mother would say. I am wearing jeans and a tee shirt. Does that constitute my gender? I listen carefully in class, but don’t talk as much as I should, according to some of my teachers. Is this because of my gender? Was that a conscious construction?

As a graduate student, I must speak confidently in class. As a graduate student, I often doubt my ability to speak articulately. I fear rejection or acceptance of this person that is and is not me. What is me?

As I increase my Alias Grace vocabulary, I am molded into “young,” “aristocratic,” “naive.” As I increase my production vocabulary, I am molded into “off book,” “comfortable with my blocking,” “part of the ensemble.” As I increase my bodily experience, I am molded into “aware of how I naturally walk,” “able to negotiate the set easily,” “ comfortable in skirt and heels.” All of these things are consciously constructed.

As a performer, I must speak and act confidently as my character. As a performer, I often doubt my ability to perform my character adequately. Do I fear rejection or acceptance of this person that is and is not me?

I walk slowly into class, my body bending with the weight of my heavy backpack. Each book it contains adds weight to by body and to my mind. I swing the pack down and squeeze into a desk that is really too small for me. I cannot even cross my legs under it. Although I am right-handed, I prefer the desks made for left-handed people because it allows more freedom for my right arm. There is only one such desk in 2012, and it is rarely easily accessible. Today I sit in a right-hander’s desk and begin to take out my notebooks. I cannot fit everything I need on the tiny desk, so it spills over onto my lap and the floor. My body is cramped because of my effort to hold all my necessary papers. My fingers are molded around my pen, ready to write if I hear something enlightening. I am sitting close to my classmates on each side. I begin to feel slightly claustrophobic. I am sore from my exercise program of sit-ups, which I do while reading for this class. I don’t think this program is going to last.

At least my body has been trained for this experience of being student. I have spent many years in desks, which were too small, holding far too many papers. I have written many notes, both with my right hand and with my left, during my ambidextrous phase. I look around at my fellow-students, all with books and notebooks galore. I think about the way they’re dressed, and the stresses they’re carrying with their books. Are these images who they thought they’d be in graduate school?

I walk on stage, my heels lifted, my long skirt brushing the steps. I step lightly down the ramp and across the stage. My chest is out and I strut when I walk. My body has been physically transformed. It is constantly transforming, negotiating the space between and within Amy and Lydia. I feel the stress creeping back into my shoulders and consciously push it away. It never seems that easy when it’s just Amy.

My feet are killing me.

Lydia loves high heels.

I can’t walk in these things.

Lydia wants to dance when she’s wearing them.

I don’t do skirts very often.

Lydia couldn’t wear pants.

Little by little, I am taken over. My body is the playing ground for this exploration. But, it infects other things too.

In class, I begin to approach the readings with fresh eyes. I try to take away prejudices I know have been learned. I begin to remember the questions I used to ask, and the things I took for granted. I used to know I was a self. I used to wonder how much I could learn in a day. I remember the fun and silliness of life.

In rehearsal, I begin to consider the implications of doing this performance of Lydia in Alias Grace. What kind of critique is Elyse trying to make? Is this an effective discussion of classist society? In what ways does this performance encourage political action? By making all members of the aristocracy comic figures, has Margaret Atwood, and by extension has Elyse or have I made any contribution to the disintegration of stereotypes? Have we just reified the system? I try to think about what I can learn from this performance, and what the audience might learn.

Is there something more meaningful about this production as a scholarly investigation of this literature, than about a more conventional scholarly essay? My immediate answer is, of course, yes. Can I say that easily anymore? I don’t think so.

In class, we talk about models of performance scholarship. We think about two models today. Performance as synecdoche, or part of the whole, explores performance as a way of reporting knowledge gained from an examination of the texts. This model constitutes and, dare I say, constructs much of performance scholarship. Even when we think we are using performance to gather the information, the source of the information in this model is a text. Performance as metonymy, or one independent thing standing for another but retaining its original identity, is a fertile concept to me. In this model, the text, the production, and the report are each separate things, mutually informed and informing. I approach Ron after class and ask how we can do a report in this way. He says it’s still being negotiated. He doesn’t say, but I understand, we need to teach this to ourselves.

Backstage in the Kleinau Theatre, I set out all my costumes and begin to warm up. I have to do an intensive vocal warm-up because I sing in the show. I also need the physical warm-up to release my normal tensions, so that I can add Lydia’s tensions. I shake off synecdoche and metonymy. I toss my arms and my thoughts of performing scholarly knowledge. I breathe away Judith Butler, Dwight Conquergood, and the rest. Without these tensions, I add my constructions of character, including gender, race, and class. I physically transform my appearance with makeup, and costumes.

During the performance, I must forget my usual thoughts of privacy. Several of my costume changes involve disrobing in public, and being dressed by two other people. Their hands push and tuck the prop, my body, so that it will be ready to go on stage. At intermission, I must squeeze myself into a dress, which was made for me ten years ago. I have developed a lot in ten years. I pull my body into position almost without thinking. The show must go on.

I once performed with a woman who broke her ankle during a big tap number. She kept dancing until the end of the number. When she got off stage, she fainted.

I once knew a graduate student who stayed up until 8:04 A.M. to get to this point of her final paper. She kept writing until the paper ended. When she got finished, she fainted.

The room is ready. The desks and chairs have been set in their appropriate places. The fluorescent lights are illuminating the playing area. The students are ready to enter, just outside, their papers in hand. They have spent many hours preparing for this day. They all feel a little bit nervous. Will Ron like what they have to say? Will his reviews be good or bad? Will this affect their placement in the program? They glance around at the other students with small, encouraging smiles, which seem to say, “Good luck.”

I take a last look at the product, or process, which is my paper. Although it is concretely written on visible paper with visible ink, it is not really any more tangible than the performances it represents. It, too, is fleeting, applicable to this moment in my life. Next year, I’ll look at this paper and see things I should have changed. I’ll have learned more vocabulary and more experiences. I’ll have learned my role of graduate student a little better. I’ll have had a lot more practice.

We enter the classroom and ceremoniously hand our papers to Ron. They are already outdated, but this is as far as we can go in this imperfect medium. Perhaps, one day there will be a way to account for this fleeting quality of academic writing.

The stage is set. The set pieces are on their marks, the props are all in place. The stage lights have been warmed up and are ready for the first “go.” The performers are ready, just offstage, their props, newspapers, in hand. They have spent many hours rehearsing for this day. They all feel a little bit nervous. Will the audience like the production? Will the reviews be good or bad? Will this performance affect their likelihood of being cast again? They glance around at the other performers with small, encouraging smiles, which seem to say, “Break a leg.”

The performance goes by in three hours, more time than it takes to read many papers. Afterwards, there is much discussion, between students and faculty members, between family members and friends. The performance is fleeting. Because the context is invisible and always changing, the performance can never be exactly the same again. Would we really want it to be? By the next performance, I will have learned more vocabulary and more experience. I will know my role of Lydia a little better, although I will not have had much more rehearsal.

Was that good for you?

Did you learn anything?

Maybe we should take it again from the top.

I walk into SPCM 570, Performance Methodologies, my first class of graduate school. My palms are no longer sweating.

I think I know some of what performance methodologies means. I know that I still believe in the power of performance

as academic and aesthetic scholarship. I know that I believe in performance as a way of knowing. My understandings

of performance have been expanded to include our performances in everyday life. I still uphold my belief in the

importance of aesthetics in this discipline. At least, that is my place in it.

There are still so many questions.

These are the things I can say with certainty at this moment.

Tomorrow, who knows?

Copyright © 2002 Kaleidoscope/Speech Communication Association/Department of Speech Communication, SIUC. All rights reserved.