theatre space

Today I participated in a mid-term review for a studio architecture class. I know very little about architecture. I am aware that I prefer some spaces to others. I suppose I think about acoustic quality and sight lines when I'm in a space. I care about cleanliness, or at least some vague efforts made in that direction. And I'm probably still pretty good at coming up with inventive ways to storm a building. 

But I'm largely clueless. I was asked to attend the mid-term review because of my dual backgrounds in theater and the military. The students in the class seek to design a 'space for veterans,' that includes a few studios and theaters for artistic expression. 

A few weeks ago, the same class asked me to describe a few of my favorite spaces. I told them that I expected to loathe the museum-minded efforts to rebuild the playhouses of Tudor and Stuart England, but that the performances that I experienced at the London's Globe and Staunton's Blackfriars checked my instincts. Instead, I found these playhouses remarkably alive. The audience-actor connections forced players on both sides of the stage to actively participate in bringing about the theatrical event. The effect, in fact, was even more pronounced in these spaces than in any other situation of universal lighting. Why?

Photo of Shakespeare's Globe in London taken with a wide-angle lens, probably from the stage right second-floor box.

I think part of the answer comes from the beautiful use of space. It feels special to walk into the Globe. It resembles walking into a modern sporting arena, rather than a stodgy bourgeois playhouse on the West End or Broadway. If you've entered with friends, they suddenly become strangers because you've never seen them quite in this context--engulfed in carved timber and overwhelmed with spectacle. Once the play begins, the life on stage calms the senses, and the narrative restores a bit of order to the mind. But then the words take on their own life, and the journey begins again.

The American Shakespeare Center actors perform William Shakespeare's 'The Tempest.' John Keegan as Prospero, surrounded by ASC actors, audience, and the Blackfriar Playhouse in Staunton, Virginia. I'm not sure where this photo came from.

The shape of the theatre space also makes a difference. Below, I've inserted an image of the Owen Theatre, a part of the Goodman Theatre in Chicago. Notice that it's shape resembles the wooden-U of the Blackfriar Playhouse. 

The Goodman's seating chart of their Owen Theatre space. It resembles Blackfriars in shape, but the stage can be moved into the center of the room depending upon the needs of the production.

In all three of these spaces (the Globe, Blackfriars, and the Owen) the audience members can see one another just as easily as they can see the performance. Sometimes, it's even easier to see the other audience members--and this is part of the power of space. Unlike a movie theater or a darkened playhouse, I am forced to confront other members of the public, and measure our relative responses to the performance. Did we laugh at the same jokes? Do we cry? Do we stare blankly? Do we even bother to blink? Look at each other? Flirt, or scowl? These are not distractions, but rare moments of connection.

And so when surveying the student projects, I looked for theater spaces that challenged the audience in the first instance, even before the start of a performance. I looked for spaces that I would want to wander through, even if no performances are going on. Meditative spaces. Spaces that wait for words, but that are not afraid to speak back. Spaces that are not a black box, but a box built for play within a wider and unalterable world.

Should a theatre space honor veterans? Perhaps. More importantly, it should honor our shared humanity. If theatre does something good for veterans, it rekindles a sense of play, a sense of imagination. It wakes a dormant fearlessness of making friends and companions, and building a new sense of community and public sharing.