I went to see a couple of Samuel Beckett plays last night: Not I and Krapp’s Last Tape, with Janice Jackson and Timothy Leary. The production was very good, well acted, fascinating. I used to go to as many Beckett plays as I could when I lived in New York and I’ve read a few of his novels. I’m attracted to his stark, challenging, unsettling writings. So it was exciting for me to see Becket being performed in Halifax. Word had gotten out and the theatre was full.
I loved the experience of sitting in the dark theatre watching the disembodied mouth talking talking talking about—what felt like her indefinite, disembodied experience. I was mesmerized by the mouth’s movements, spent the first five minutes, at least, trying to figure out how it was done and not listening to the words at all. When the lights went on it was shocking—to be back in a room, a place. You can see a portion of the play with Billie Whitelaw playing The Voice on YouTube.
The plays question how to integrate various parts of our lives, our selves and what is our self. It is often uncomfortable for anyone to hear our voice on a recording, to hear our own voice talking, especially in the past, to hear the choices we made, what “might” have been, to recognize our regrets being voiced about the past.
Krapp saw a conflict between love and art. He gave up love for his writing yet was a failure there too. I remember a time when I could only “do” one activity at a time. I could concentrate on my painting only at the sacrifice of other aspects of my life. Fortunately that time has past and my artwork is very naturally part of my day. There is a lot to be said in favor of seasoning, growing older,