An Actor Prepares

by Constantin Stanislavsky

  ‘What other types of adaptations exist?’ I asked.

  ‘Mechanical or motor adjustments,’ answered Tortsov.

  ‘You mean—stencils?’

  ‘No. I am not speaking of them. They should be exterminated. Motor adjustments are subconscious, semi-conscious and conscious in origin. They are normal, natural, human adaptations that are carried to a point of becoming purely mechanical in character.

  ‘Let me illustrate. Let us assume that in playing a certain character part you make use of real, human adjustments in your relations to others on the stage. Yet a large part of those adjustments grow out of the character you are portraying and do not stem directly from you. Those supplementary adaptations have appeared spontaneously, involuntarily, unconsciously. But the director has pointed them out to you. After which you are aware of them, they become conscious, and habitual. They grow into the very flesh and blood of the character you are playing, every time you live through the part. Finally these supplementary adjustments become motor activities.’

  ‘Then they are stereotypes?’ someone asked.

  ‘No. Let me repeat. A rubber stamp piece of acting is conventional, false and lifeless. It had its origin in theatrical routine. It conveys neither feelings, thoughts nor any images characteristic of human beings. Motor adjustments, on the contrary, were intuitive, originally, but they have become mechanical, without sacrificing their quality of naturalness. Because they remain organic and human, they are the antithesis of the rubber stamp.’

  4

  ‘The next step is the question of what technical means we can employ to stimulate adaptations,’ announced the Director as he came into class today. Then he proceeded to lay out a programme of work for the lesson.

  ‘I shall begin with intuitive adaptations.

  ‘There is no direct approach to our subconscious, therefore we make use of various stimuli that induce a process of living the part, which in turn inevitably creates inter-relationship and conscious or unconscious adjustments. That is the indirect approach.

  ‘What else, you ask, can we accomplish in that region into which our consciousness cannot penetrate? We refrain from interfering with nature and avoid contravening her laws. Whenever we can put ourselves into a wholly natural and relaxed state, there wells up within us a flow of creation that blinds our audience by its brilliance.

  ‘In dealing with semi-conscious adjustments the conditions are different. Here we have some use for our psycho-technique. I say some, for even here our possibilities are restricted.

  ‘I have one practical suggestion to make and I think I can explain it better by an illustration. Do you remember when Sonya coaxed me out of making her do the exercise, how she repeated the same words over and over again, using a great variety of adaptations? I want you to do the same thing, as a sort of exercise, but do not use the same adjustments. They have lost their effectiveness. I want you to find fresh ones, conscious or unconscious, to take their place.’

  On the whole we repeated the old stuff.

  When Tortsov reproached us for being so monotonous, we complained that we did not know what material to use as a basis for creating fresh adaptations.

  Instead of answering us he turned to me and said:

  ‘You write shorthand. Take down what I am going to dictate:

  ‘Calm, excitement, good humour, irony, mockery, quarrelsomeness, reproach, caprice, scorn, despair, menace, joy, benignity, doubt, astonishment, anticipation, doom. . . .’

  He named all these states of mind, mood, emotions and many more. Then he said to Sonya:

  ‘Put your finger on any one word in that list and, whatever it is, use it as the basis for a new adaptation.’

  She did as she was told, and the word was: benignity.

  ‘Now use some fresh colours in the place of the old ones,’ suggested the Director.

  She was successful in striking the right note and finding appropriate motivation. But Leo outshone her. His booming voice was positively unctuous and his whole fat face and figure exuded benignity.

  We all laughed.

  ‘Is that sufficient proof for you of the desirability of introducing fresh elements into an old problem?’ asked Tortsov.

  Sonya then put her finger on another word on the list. This time the choice rested on quarrelsomeness. With truly feminine capacity for nagging she went to work. This time she was outdone by Grisha. No one can compete with him when it comes to argumentative persistence.

  ‘There is fresh proof of the efficacy of my method,’ said Tortsov with satisfaction. Then he proceeded to go through similar exercises with all the other students.

  ‘Put what other human characteristics or moods you choose on that list and you will find them all useful in supplying you with fresh colours and shadings for almost every interchange of thought and feelings. Sharp contrasts and the element of unexpectedness are also helpful.

  ‘This method is extremely effective in dramatic and tragic situations. To heighten the impression, at a particularly tragic point, you can suddenly laugh as though to say: “The way destiny pursues me is nothing short of ridiculous!” or, “In such despair I cannot weep, I can only laugh!”

  ‘Just think what is required of your facial, vocal and physical apparatus if it is to respond to the finest shadings of such subconscious feelings. What flexibility of expression, what sensitiveness, what discipline! Your powers of expression as an artist will be tested to the limit by the adjustments you must make in your relation to other actors on the stage. For this reason you must give appropriate preparation to your body, face, and voice. I mention this now only in passing, and because I hope it will make you more aware of the necessity of your exercises in physical culture, dancing, fencing and voice placing. In time we shall go more fully into the cultivation of external attributes of expression.’

  Just as the lesson was over, and Tortsov was getting up to leave, the curtain was suddenly drawn, and we saw Maria’s living-room, all decorated. When we went up on to the stage to see it, we found placards on the walls, reading:

  (1) Inner tempo-rhythm.

  (2) Inner characterization.

  (3) Control and finish.

  (4) Inner ethics and discipline.

  (5) Dramatic charm.

  (6) Logic and coherence.

  ‘There are a number of signs around here,’ said Tortsov, ‘but, for the present, my remarks about them must be brief. There are many necessary elements in the creative process which we have not yet sorted out. My problem is: how can I talk about them without departing from my habitual method, which is first to make you feel what you are learning by vivid practical example and later come to theories? How can I discuss with you now invisible inner tempo-rhythm or invisible inner characterization? What example can I give you to illustrate my explanations in practice?

  ‘It seems to me that it would be simpler to wait until we take up external tempo-rhythm and characterization, because you can demonstrate them with physical actions and at the same time experience them inwardly.

  ‘Or again: how can I speak concretely about control when you have neither a play nor a part demanding sustained control in its presentation? By the same token, how can I talk about finish when we have nothing on which we can put a finish?

  ‘Nor is there any point now, in taking up ethics in art or discipline on the stage during creative work, when most of you have never even stood behind the footlights except at the test performance.

  ‘Finally, what can I say to you about charm when you have never felt its power over, and effect on, an audience of thousands?

  ‘All that is left on the list is logic, coherence. On that subject, it seems to me, I have already spoken often and at length. Our whole programme has been permeated by it and will continue to be.’

  ‘When have you discussed it?’ I asked with surprise.

  ‘What do you mean, when?’ exclaimed Tortsov, astonished in his turn. ‘I have talked about it on every possible occasion. I have insisted on it when w
e were studying magic ifs, given circumstances, when you were carrying out projects in physical action, and especially in establishing objects for the concentration of attention, in choosing objectives derived from units. At every step I have demanded the most stringent kind of logic in your work.

  ‘What there is still left to be said on this subject will be fitted in from time to time as our work progresses. So I shall not make any special statements now. I fear to, in fact. I am afraid of falling into philosophy and of straying from the path of practical demonstration.

  ‘That is why I have merely mentioned these various elements, in order to make the list complete. In time we shall come to them, and work on them in a practical way, and eventually we shall be able to deduce theories from that work.

  ‘This brings us temporarily to the end of our study of the internal elements necessary to the creative process in an actor. I shall add only that the elements I have listed today are just as important and necessary in bringing about the right inner spiritual state as those we worked on earlier in greater detail.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  INNER MOTIVE FORCES

  1

  ‘Now that we have examined all the “elements”, and methods of psycho-technique, we can say that our inner instrument is ready. All we need is a virtuoso to play on it. Who is that master?’

  ‘We are,’ answered several of the students.

  ‘Who are “we”? Where is that invisible thing called “we” to be found?’

  ‘It is our imagination, attention, feelings.’ We ran over the list.

  ‘Feelings! That’s the most important,’ exclaimed Vanya.

  ‘I agree with you. Feel your part and instantly all your inner chords will harmonize, your whole bodily apparatus of expression will begin to function. Therefore we have found the first, and most important master—feeling,’ said the Director. Then he added:

  ‘Unfortunately it is not tractable nor willing to take orders. Since you cannot begin your work, unless your feelings happen to function of their own accord it is necessary for you to have recourse to some other master. Who is it?’

  ‘Imagination!’ decided Vanya.

  ‘Very well. Imagine something and let me see your creative apparatus set in motion.’

  ‘What shall I imagine?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘I must have some objective, some supposition——’

  ‘Where will you get them?’

  ‘His mind will suggest them,’ put in Grisha.

  ‘Then the mind is the second master we are seeking. It initiates and directs creativeness.’

  ‘Is imagination incapable of being a master?’ I enquired.

  ‘You can see for yourself that it requires guidance.’

  ‘What about attention?’ asked Vanya.

  ‘Let us study it. What are its functions?’

  ‘It facilitates the work of the feelings, mind, imagination and will,’ contributed various students.

  ‘Attention is like a reflector,’ I added. ‘It throws its rays on some chosen object and arouses in it the interest of our thoughts, feelings and desires.’

  ‘Who points out the object?’ asked the Director.

  ‘The mind.’

  ‘Imagination.’

  ‘Given circumstances.’

  ‘Objectives.’

  ‘In that case, all of these elements choose the object and initiate the work, whereas attention must limit its action to an auxiliary role.’

  ‘If attention is not one of the masters, what is it?’ I pursued.

  Instead of giving us a direct answer Tortsov proposed that we go up on the stage and play the exercise we were so tired of, about the madman. At first the students were silent, looked around at each other and tried to make up their minds to get up. Finally, one after another we arose and went slowly towards the stage. But Tortsov checked us.

  ‘I am glad that you mastered yourselves, but although you gave evidence of will power in your actions that is not sufficient for my purpose. I must arouse something more lively in you, more enthusiastic, a kind of artistic wish—I want to see you eager to go on the stage, full of excitement and animation.’

  ‘You will never get that from us with that old exercise,’ burst out Grisha.

  ‘Nevertheless, I shall try,’ said Tortsov with decision.

  ‘Are you aware that while you were expecting the escaped lunatic to break in by the front door he has actually sneaked up the back stairs and is pounding at the back door? It is a flimsy affair. Once it gives way . . . What will you do in these new circumstances, decide!’

  The students were thoughtful, their attention all concentrated, while they considered their problem and its solution, the erection of a second barricade.

  Then we rushed to the stage and things began to hum. It was all very like the early days in our course when we first played this same exercise.

  Tortsov summed up as follows:

  ‘When I suggested that you play this exercise you tried to make yourselves do it, against your desires, but you could not force yourselves to become excited over it.

  ‘Then I introduced a fresh supposition. On the basis of that you created for yourselves a new objective. This new wish, or wishes, was “artistic” in character and put enthusiasm into the work. Now tell me, who was the master to play on the instrument of creation?’

  ‘You were,’ was the decision of the students.

  ‘To be more exact, it was my mind,’ corrected Tortsov. ‘But your mind can do the same thing and be a motive power, in your psychic life, for your creative process.

  ‘Therefore we have proved that the second master is the mind, or intellect,’ concluded Tortsov. ‘Is there a third?

  ‘Could it be the sense of truth and our belief in it? If so, it would suffice to believe in something and all of our creative faculties would spring into action.’

  ‘Believe in what?’ was asked.

  ‘How should I know? That is your affair.’

  ‘First we must create the life of a human spirit and then we can believe in that,’ remarked Paul.

  ‘Therefore our sense of truth is not the master we are seeking. Can we find it in communion or adaptation?’ asked the Director.

  ‘If we are to have communication with one another we must have thoughts and feelings to exchange.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘It’s units and objectives!’ was Vanya’s contribution.

  ‘That is not an element. It represents merely a technical method of arousing inner, living desires and aspirations,’ explained Tortsov. ‘If those longings could put your creative apparatus to work and direct it spiritually then . . .’

  ‘Of course they can,’ we chorused.

  ‘In that case we have found our third master—will. Consequently we have three impelling movers in our psychic life, three masters who play on the instrument of our souls.’

  As usual Grisha had a protest to make. He claimed that up to the present no stress had been laid on the part that the mind and the will play in creative work, whereas we had heard a great deal about feeling.

  ‘You mean that I should have gone over the same details with respect to each one of these three motive forces?’ asked the Director.

  ‘No, of course not. Why do you say the same details?’ retorted Grisha.

  ‘How could it be otherwise? Since these three forces form a triumvirate, inextricably bound up together, what you say of the one necessarily concerns the other two. Would you have been willing to listen to such repetition? Suppose I were discussing creative objectives with you, how to divide, choose and name them. Don’t feelings participate in this work?’

  ‘Of course they do,’ agreed the student.

  ‘Is will absent?’ asked Tortsov.

  ‘No, it has a direct relation to the problem,’ we said.

  ‘Then I would have had to say practically the same thing twice over. And now what about the mind?’

  ‘It takes part both in t
he division of the objectives and in naming them,’ we replied.

  ‘Then I should have repeated the same thing a third time!

  ‘You ought to be grateful to me for having preserved your patience and saved your time. However, there is a grain of justification for Grisha’s reproach.

  ‘I do admit that I incline toward the emotional side of creativeness and I do this purposely because we are too prone to leave out feeling.

  ‘We have altogether too many calculating actors and scenic productions of intellectual origin. We see too rarely true, living, emotional creativeness.’

  2

  ‘The power of these motive forces is enhanced by their interaction. They support and incite one another with the result that they always act at the same time and in close relationship. When we call our mind into action by the same token we stir our will and feelings. It is only when these forces are co-operating harmoniously that we can create freely.

  ‘When a real artist is speaking the soliloquy “to be or not to be”, is he merely putting before us the thoughts of the author and executing the business indicated by his director? No, he puts into the lines much of his own conception of life.

  ‘Such an artist is not speaking in the person of an imaginary Hamlet. He speaks in his own right as one placed in the circumstances created by the play. The thoughts, feelings, conceptions, reasoning of the author are transformed into his own. And it is not his sole purpose to render the lines so that they shall be understood. For him it is necessary that the spectators feel his inner relationship to what he is saying. They must follow his own creative will and desires. Here the motive forces of his psychic life are united in action and interdependent. This combined power is of utmost importance to us actors and we should be gravely mistaken not to use it for our practical ends. Hence, we need to evolve an appropriate psycho-technique. Its basis is to take advantage of the reciprocal interaction of the members of this triumvirate in order not only to arouse them by natural means, but also to use them to stir other creative elements.