There is an apocryphal story that claims that the Art of Memory originated in ancient Greece. The poet Simonides of Ceos was commissioned by a nobleman, Scopas, to compose and recite a poem praising Scopas. Simonides did so. However, he also referred to the twin gods Castor and Pollux in his recital. Incensed by this, Scopas refused to pay the poet in full, telling him to get the balance from the two gods he had also praised in his poem. Just then, Simondes got a message that two young gods were waiting for him outside the room. He stepped out to meet them but found no one. When he was outside the roof of the room collapsed, crushing to death all its occupants. Pulverised beyond recognition, the bodies of the dead, could not be identified. Nevertheless, Simonides, managed to. He had preserved an image of the arrangement of people in the banqueting hall and was able to remember the order in which they sat.
This story is one, among others that are related by the artistes performing at Constanza Macras’ The Past, which was staged in the city recently. The production, co-produced with Theatre Schaubuhne, Berlin and funded under the Doppelpass programme of The German Federal Cultural Foundation and Pro Helvetia, the Swiss Arts Council, explores this mnemonic technique of using architectonic places as a trove of memory.
It begins with a woman playing a violin, eerie notes that herald the entrance of a lanky dancer, wriggling out of a bag left on the floor. Across a multi-levelled set, scenes are played out, the gravitas of the script brought alive by bizarre movements and the haunting music of German composer Oscar Bianchi. At intermittent intervals, there are speeches by the performers as they recall the places that define their past, and how the destruction of the homes and towns they grew up in, impacts their recollections of it. The ending is dramatic; a slender dancer silhouetted against the lights , wind blowing through his hair and garments, performs an outlandish dance routine with a handbag, before abruptly letting go. And the curtains fall.
The old cliché of beauty lying in the eyes of the beholder is reinforced all through the performance. In her trademark style, there is a sense of organised chaos; the aesthetic comes from the fineness of execution, rather than the structure of the production. For an Indian sensibility, which almost always associates grace and synchrony with performance, the spectacle was often jarring, verging on grotesque. In an attempt to be relevant to a Chennai audience, there were recollections of the city as well, related by two city-based actors. There was nothing spectacularly original in these reminiscences though, gleaned earlier this year through interviews with people who had been part of the city’s landscape for a considerable period of time and had seen it evolve; it didn’t really add value to the production.
Yet the professionalism of the lighting and sets and the flawlessness of the frenzied movements made it something worth seeing. And the costumes were excellent too — perhaps Contanza’s degree in fashion had something to do with it. Yes, the show required effort; it wasn’t unfettered entertainment in the least, and demanded an audience to go beyond their comfort zone and open up their minds. But it certainly didn’t deserve the mass walkouts that occurred constantly during the performance.
