AGAINST THE WRITER’S PERFORMANCE (AN INTERIOR REALISM)
For writers, the ability to read their own work well in front of an audience has become, more than ever, an essential part of their practice. Today, writers are expected not only to write but also to perform their texts meaningfully. They must step into the public eye. It is no surprise, then, that this “performance” has become a highly visible—one might even say emblematic—art form in contemporary culture: a culture increasingly self-conscious, reflexive, and preoccupied with simulation and theatricalization in every aspect of social life.
The act of reading in public often forces the writer to wrestle with his own nature, transforming himself into an artist of a different kind: a performer, even an actor. For most writers, this moment is fraught with difficulty. The stage can torment and overwhelm them, yet this leap into exposure is often unavoidable. Needless to say, the transformation is nerve-wracking, bringing with it anxiety and unease, and more often than not, it produces “dubious” performances.
I find the notion of the writer as performer puzzling, to say the least. In recent years I have attended numerous readings and witnessed writers take the stage, adopting an attitude and putting on a confident front in order to appear in control and capable of “performing.” Yet the impression I am left with is that many are so concerned with their act that the result feels over-calculated. Their performances often include hammy gestures, over-rehearsed pauses, artificial accents, exaggerated postures, and strained facial expressions. In short, they try too hard to please. Such efforts tend to backfire, and the result is often awkward, even cringeworthy.
Writing and performing, let us be clear, are two entirely different skill sets, reflecting distinct attitudes toward life. The writer typically constructs imaginary worlds in solitude, working alone at a desk. Writing is an intensely personal act, often a way of articulating what cannot be spoken aloud. The performer, by contrast, seeks visibility. He feels at ease at the center of attention, thrives on the spotlight, engages with an audience, and draws energy from that exchange. It is only natural, then, that writers are not always equipped to master the craft of performance.
Of course, exceptions exist. Some individuals can both write and perform with equal brilliance, but such figures are rare.
What is often forgotten—by both audiences and writers attempting performance—is the value of vulnerability. Weaknesses, far from being liabilities, can be captivating, genuine, and deeply human. People, after all, are more inclined to connect with vulnerability than to reject it. A natural reading of a text—by which I mean a dignified, unembellished delivery—has the potential to illuminate and move. Its uncertainty does not detract from it; on the contrary, it enhances its authenticity.
The British theatre critic Charles Morgan (1894–1958) once observed: “The greatest impact of a performance is neither a persuasion of the intellect nor a beguiling of the senses... it is the enveloping movement of the whole drama of the soul of a human being. We surrender and we are changed” (Morality and Power in a Chinese Village, p. 9).
The Polish theatre director Jerzy Grotowski (1933–1999) similarly believed that performance should function as a “scalpel,” opening up the person. For him, the stage was not about impersonation but revelation (An Acrobat of the Heart, p. 121). To this end, he often asked his actors to unlearn their training, stripping away techniques until only the true self remained visible on stage.
The Australian actor F. M. Alexander (1869–1955) reached a comparable conclusion while overcoming his vocal difficulties. He insisted that genuine learning requires first the willingness to unlearn: “As soon as people come with the idea of unlearning instead of learning, you have them in the frame of mind you want” (Articles and Lectures, p. 198).
These may seem extreme methods for the hesitant writer preparing to read in public. Yet the principle remains relevant: it is only by paring performance back to its barest essentials that a writer can relieve himself of emotional strain. To attempt to recreate or project the emotions of a poem or story is misguided. What matters instead is adopting a certain detachment from the text, while at the same time releasing the anxiety that there is one “right” way to perform.
Every creative act involves a leap into the void. This leap is never prescribed, and its outcome is never certain. Often it brings with it acute embarrassment. Yet embarrassment is not an enemy of creativity; it is its companion, even its collaborator. Indeed, if a work does not embarrass its author at some level, it is unlikely to touch others.
Though we commonly associate embarrassment with awkwardness or shame, the word has richer connotations. Derived from the French embarrasser, it suggests entanglement, obstruction, or difficulty. This unease, rather than being avoided, keeps the creative line taut. To sidestep embarrassment is to remain in safe territory, where nothing truly happens. But when embraced, embarrassment generates presence, intensity, and transformation. As Gertrude Stein once remarked of Oakland, California: “There is no there there.” Without risk, without exposure, art remains hollow.
The central challenge, then, is to give the writer a sense of working “in safety.” Public reading exposes the writer to observation, judgment, even ridicule. The task is to construct an inner environment where he feels free to attempt anything—where nothing can be mocked and everything can be understood. Only then can the writer truly reveal himself.
The Japanese director Tadashi Suzuki once remarked: “There is no such thing as good or bad performing, only degrees of profundity of the performer’s reason for being on stage” (Seven Essays on Art and Theatre, p. 119). This reason must be embodied, physically and energetically. To perform, one must first have a reason; then, to communicate it, one must summon courage. The quality of any moment on stage derives not from technical polish but from the vulnerability and modesty with which the performer approaches that courageous act.
The efficacy of performance should therefore be understood not as the mastery of acquired techniques, but as the willingness to set them aside. It is a mode of activity in which we allow ourselves to go off balance, to suspend and challenge social norms, to experiment, and perhaps to transform.
Ultimately, the meaning and essence of a writer’s work reside in the book, not on the stage. The act of reading is, after all, the reason the work was created in the first place. But if we ask how an unconfident writer might approach public performance, the answer may be simple: through the act of “laying bare.” This is the beginning of any new learning process—one that demands self-observation, patience, and above all, generosity toward oneself.
References:
1. Morality and Power in a Chinese Village, (1984)
2.The University of California Press: Los Angeles Alexander F.M.
3.(1995) (J. Fischer editor). Articles and lectures, Mouritz:UK Grotowski,
4.J. and Barba, E. (2002, originally published in 1968)
5.Towards a poor theatre Routledge: New York Wangh, S. (2000)
6.An acrobat of the heart: a physical approach to acting inspired by the work of Jerzy Grotowski, Vintage Books: New York Wangh, S. (2013)
7.The heart of teaching: Empowering students in the performing arts, Routledge: London Bogart Anne, (2001) Seven Essays on Art and Theatre. Routledge London and New York