I was delighted at his having guessed my intentions.
‘Did you understand that feeling of an out-going current?’
‘I think I did,’ I replied, with slight indecision.
‘In our slang, we call that irradiation.
‘The absorbing of those rays is the inverse process. Suppose we try it.’
We exchanged roles: he began to communicate his feelings to me and I to guess them.
‘Try to define in words your sensation,’ he suggested after we had finished the experiment.
‘I should express it by a simile. It is like a piece of iron being drawn by a magnet.’
The Director approved. Then he asked me if I had been conscious of the inner bond between us during our silent communion.
‘It seemed to me that I was,’ I replied.
‘If you can establish a long, coherent chain of such feelings it will eventually become so powerful that you will have achieved what we call grasp. Then your giving Out and absorption will be much stronger, keener and more palpable.’
When he was asked to describe mote fully what he meant by grasp Tortsov continued:
‘It is what a bull-dog has in his jaw. We actors must have that same power to seize with our eyes, ears and all our senses. If an actor is to listen, let him do it intently. If he is called upon to smell, let him smell hard. If he is to look at something, let him really use his eyes. But of course this must all he done without unnecessary muscular tension.’
‘When I played that scene from Othello, did I show any grasp?’I asked.
‘There were one or two moments,’ admitted Tortsov. ‘But that is too little. The whole role of Othello calls for complete grasp. For a simple play you need an ordinary grasp, but for a Shakespeare play you have to have an absolute grasp.
‘In everyday life we don’t need complete grasp, but on the stage, above all in playing tragedy, it is a necessity. Just make the comparison. The greater part of life is devoted to unimportant activities. You get up, you go to bed, you follow a routine which is largely mechanical. That is not stuff for the theatre. But there are purple patches of terror, supreme joy, high tides of passion and outstanding experiences. We are challenged to fight for freedom, for an idea, for our existence and our rights. That is material we can use on the stage if, for its expression, we have a powerful inner and outer grasp. Grasp does not in any way signify unusual physical exertion, it means greater inner activity.
‘An actor must learn to become absorbed in some interesting, creative problem on the stage. If he can devote all of his attention and creative faculties to that he will achieve true grasp.
‘Let me tell you a story about an animal trainer. He was in the habit of going to Africa to pick out monkeys to train. A large number would be gathered together at some point and from these he would choose those he considered the most promising for his purpose. How did he make his choice? He took each monkey separately and tried to interest it in some object, a bright handkerchief, which he would wave before him, or some toy that might amuse him with its colour or sound. After the animal’s attention was centred on this object the trainer would begin to distract him by presenting some other thing, a cigarette, perhaps, or a nut. If he succeeded in getting the monkey to switch from one thing to another he would reject him. If, on the other hand, he found that the animal could not be distracted from the first object of his interest and would make an effort to go after it when removed, the trainer would buy him. His choice was established by the monkey’s evident capacity to grasp and hold something.
‘That is how we often judge our students’ power of attention and ability to remain in contact with one another—by the strength and continuity of their grasp.’
7
The Director began our lesson by saying:
‘Since these currents are so important in the interrelationship of actors, can they be controlled by technical means? Can we produce them at will?
‘Here again we are in the situation of having to work from the outside, when our desires do not come spontaneously from the inside. Fortunately an organic bond exists between the body and the soul. Its power is so great that it can all but recall the dead to life. Think of a man apparently drowned. His pulse has stopped and he is unconscious. By the use of mechanical movements his lungs are forced to take in and give out air! That starts the circulation of his blood, and then his organs resume their customary functions, so life is revived in this man practically dead.
‘In using artificial means we work on the same principle. External aids stimulate an inner process.
‘Now let me show you how to apply these aids.’
Tortsov sat down opposite me and asked me to choose an object, with its appropriate, imaginative basis, and to transmit it to him. He allowed the use of words, gestures, and facial expressions.
This took a long time until finally I understood what he wanted and was successful in communicating with him. But he kept me for some time watching and becoming accustomed to the accompanying physical sensations. When I had mastered the exercise he restricted, one after another, my means of expression, words, gestures and so on, until I was obliged to carry on my communication with him solely by giving out and absorbing rays.
After that he had me repeat the process in a purely mechanical, physical way without allowing any feelings to participate. It took time for me to separate the one from the other and when I succeeded he asked how I felt.
‘Like a pump bringing up nothing but air,’ I said. ‘I felt the out-going currents, principally through my eyes, and perhaps partly from the side of my body towards you.’
‘Then continue to pour out that current, in a purely physical and mechanical way, as long as you possibly can,’ he ordered.
It was not long before I gave up what I called a perfectly ‘senseless’ proceeding.
‘Then why didn’t you put some sense into it?’ he asked. ‘Weren’t your feelings clamouring to come to your aid and your emotion memory suggesting some experience you could use as material for the current you were sending out?’
‘Of course, if I were obliged to continue this mechanical exercise, it would be difficult not to use something to motivate my action. I should need some basis for it.’
‘Why don’t you transmit what you feel at this very moment, dismay, helplessness, or find some other sensation?’ suggested Tortsov.
I tried to transmit my vexation and exasperation to him.
My eyes seemed to say: ‘Let me alone, will you? Why persist? Why torture me!’
‘How do you feel now?’ asked Tortsov.
‘This time I feel as though the pump had something besides air to bring up.’
‘So your “senseless” physical giving out of rays acquired a meaning and purpose after all!’
Then he went on to other exercises based on receiving rays. It was the inverse procedure and I shall describe only one new point: before I could absorb anything from him I had to feel out, through my eyes, what he wanted me to draw from him. This required attentive search, feeling my way into his mood and making some kind of connection with it.
‘It is not simple to do by technical means what is natural and intuitive in ordinary life,’ said Tortsov. ‘However, I can give you this consolation, that when you are on the stage and playing your part this process will be accomplished far more easily than in a classroom exercise.
‘The reason is: for our present purpose you had to scrape together some accidental material to use, while on the stage all your given circumstances have been prepared in advance, your objectives have been fixed, your emotions ripened and ready for the signal to come to the surface. All you need is a slight stimulus and the feelings prepared for your role will gush out in continuous, spontaneous flow.
‘When you make a siphon to empty water out of a container, you suck the air out once and the water flows out by itself. The same thing happens to you: give the signal, open the way and your rays and currents will pour out.’
When h
e was asked about developing this ability through exercises he said:
‘There are the two types of exercises that we have just been doing:
‘The first teaches you to stimulate a feeling which you transmit to another person. As you do this you note the accompanying physical sensations. Similarly you learn to recognize the sensation of absorbing feelings from others.
‘The second consists of an effort to feel the mere physical sensations of giving out and absorbing feelings, without the accompanying emotional experience. For this, great concentration of attention is imperative. Otherwise you might easily confuse these sensations with ordinary muscular contractions. If these occur choose some inner feeling which you wish to radiate. But above all avoid violence and physical contortion. Radiation and absorption of emotion must take place easily, freely, naturally and without any loss of energy.
‘But do not do these exercises alone, or with an imaginary person. Always use a living object, actually with you, and wishing to exchange feelings with you. Communion must be mutual. Also do not attempt these exercises except under the supervision of my assistant. You need his experienced eye to keep you from going wrong and from the danger of confusing muscular tenseness with the right process.’
‘How difficult it seems,’ I exclaimed.
‘Difficult to do something that is normal and natural?’ said Tortsov. ‘You are mistaken. Anything normal can be done easily. It is much more difficult to do something which is contrary to nature. Study its laws and do not try for anything that is not natural.
‘All the first stages of our work seemed difficult to you, the relaxation of muscles, the concentration of attention, and the rest, yet now they have become second nature.
‘You should be happy because you have enriched your technical equipment by this important stimulus to communion.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ADAPTATION
1
The first suggestion that the Director made, after seeing the big placard ‘ADAPTATION’ that his assistant had put up, was to Vanya. He gave this problem:
‘You want to go somewhere. The train leaves at two o’clock. It is already one o’clock. How are you going to manage to slip away before classes are over? Your difficulty will lie in the necessity of deceiving not only me but all of your comrades as well. How will you go about it?’
I suggested that he pretend to be sad, thoughtful, depressed or ill. Then everyone would ask: ‘What’s the matter with you?’ That would give an opportunity to cook up some story in a way that would oblige us to believe he really was ill and to let him go home.
‘That’s it!’ exclaimed Vanya joyously, and he proceeded to go through a course of antics. But after he had cut a few capers, he tripped and screamed with pain. He stood rooted to the floor with one leg up and his face twisted with suffering.
At first we thought he was fooling us, and that this was part of his plot. But he was apparently in such real pain that I believed in it, and was about to go over to help him when I felt a little doubt and thought that for the tiniest part of a second I saw a twinkle in his eye. So I stayed with the Director, while all the others went to his rescue. He refused to let anyone touch his leg. He tried to step on it but he yelled so with pain that Tortsov and I looked at each other as much as to say, is this real or is it fooling? Vanya was helped off the stage with great difficulty. They held him up by the armpits and he used his good leg.
Suddenly Vanya began to do a fast dance, and burst into laughter.
‘That was great! That I really did feel!’ he chortled.
He was rewarded with an ovation and I was once more aware of his very real gifts.
‘Do you know why you applauded him?’ asked the Director. ‘It was because he found the right adaptation to the circumstances that were set for him, and successfully carried through his plan.
‘We shall use this word, adaptation, from now on to mean both the inner and outer human means that people use in adjusting themselves to one another in a variety of relationships and also as an aid in effecting an object.’
He further explained what he meant by adjusting or conforming oneself to a problem.
‘It is what Vanya has just done. To get out of his classes early he used a contrivance, a trick, to help him solve the situation he was in.’
‘Then adaptation means deceit?’ asked Grisha.
‘In a certain way, yes; in another, it is a vivid expression of inner feelings or thoughts: third, it can call the attention to you of the person with whom you wish to be in contact: fourth, it can prepare your partner by putting him in a mood to respond to you: fifth, it can transmit certain invisible messages, which can only be felt and not put into words. And I could mention any number of other possible functions, for their variety and scope is infinite.
‘Take this illustration:
‘Suppose that you, Kostya, hold some high position and I have to ask a favour of you. I must enlist your aid. But you do not know me at all. How can I make myself stand out from the others who are trying to get help from you?
‘I must rivet your attention on me and control it. How can I strengthen and make the most of the slight contact between us? How can I influence you to take a favourable attitude toward me? How can I reach your mind, your feelings, your attention, your imagination? How can I touch the very soul of such an influential person?
‘If only I can make him conjure up a picture in his mind’s eye that in any way approximates the dreadful reality of my circumstances, I know his interest will be aroused. He will look into me more attentively, his heart will be touched. But to reach this point I must penetrate into the being of the other person, I must sense his life, I must adapt myself to it.
‘What we are primarily aiming at, in using such means, is to express our states of mind and heart in higher relief. There are, however, contrasting circumstances in which we make use of them to hide or mask our sensations. Take a proud sensitive person who is trying to appear amiable to hide his wounded feelings. Or, a prosecuting attorney who covers himself most cleverly with various subterfuges in order to veil his real object in cross-examining a criminal.
‘We have recourse to methods of adaptation in all forms of communion, even with ourselves, because we must necessarily make allowances for the state of mind we are in at any given moment.’
‘But after all,’ argued Grisha, ‘words exist to express all these things.’
‘Do you suppose that words can exhaust all the nicest shadings of the emotions you experience? No! When we are communing with one another words do not suffice. If we want to put life into them, we must produce feelings. They fill out the blanks left by words, they finish what has been left unsaid.’
‘Then the more means you use, the more intense and complete your communion with the other person will be?’ someone suggested.
‘It is not a question of quantity but of quality,’ explained the Director.
I asked what qualities were best suited to the stage.
‘There are many types,’ was his answer. ‘Each actor has his own special attributes. They are original with him, they spring from varied sources and they vary in value. Men, women, old people, children, pompous, modest, choleric, kind, irritable and calm people all have their own types. Each change of circumstance, setting, place of action, time—brings a corresponding adjustment. You adjust yourself differently in the dead of night, alone, from the way you do in daylight and in public. When you arrive in a foreign country you find ways of adapting yourself in a way suitable to the surrounding circumstances.
‘Every feeling you express, as you express it, requires an intangible form of adjustment all its own. All types of communication, as, for example, communication in a group, with an imaginary, present or absent object, require adjustments peculiar to each. We use all of our five senses and all the elements of our inner and outer make-up to communicate. We send out rays and receive them, we use our eyes, facial expression, voice and intonation, our hands, fingers, our whole
bodies, and in every case we make whatever corresponding adjustments are necessary.
‘You will see actors who are gifted with magnificent powers of expression in all phases of human emotions and the means they use are both good and right. Yet they may be able to transmit all this only to a few people, during the intimacy of rehearsals. When the play goes on and their means should grow in vividness, they pale and fail to get across the footlights in a sufficiently effective, theatrical form.
‘There are other actors who possess the power to make vivid adjustments, but not many. Because they lack variety their effect loses strength and keenness.
‘Finally there are actors whom nature has maltreated by endowing them with monotonous and insipid, although correct, powers of adjustment. They can never reach the front rank of their profession.
‘If people in ordinary walks of life need and make use of a large variety of adaptations, actors need a correspondingly greater number because we must be constantly in contact with one another and therefore incessantly adjusting ourselves. In all the examples I have given the quality of the adjustment plays a great part: vividness, colourfulness, boldness, delicacy, shading, exquisiteness, taste.
‘What Vanya did for us was vivid to the point of boldness. But there are other methods of adaptation. Now let me see Sonya, Grisha and Vassili go up on the stage and play me the exercise of the burnt money.’
Sonya stood up rather languidly with a depressed look on her face, apparently waiting for the two men to follow her example. But they sat tight. An embarrassing silence ensued.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Tortsov.
No one answered and he waited patiently. Finally Sonya could not stand the silence any longer, so she made up her mind to speak. To soften her remarks she used some feminine mannerisms because she had found that men were usually affected by them. She dropped her eyes and kept rubbing the number plate on the orchestra seat in front of her to disguise her feelings. For a long time she could not bring out any words. To hide her blushes she put a handkerchief to her face and turned away.
An Actor Prepares Page 22
