THE WRITER

 

 

An inquiry of self becomes an inquiry of space. The sun shines fiercely in the morning. Without many tall buildings and hardly any variation in elevation the Netherlands is a wash of light that penetrates any window, including the one in my bedroom, which on the ground floor faces only small gardens and more houses. This light coming through my window reminds me of snow, I can almost smell the cold.

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I moved countries for the first time when I was two years old. Now at the age of 27, I have lived in four on rotation. Finland, England, the United States, England, the United States, The Netherlands. For me, home is not a place, but my sensorial memories of places make up a large part of my identity. Home is not Finland, it is the smell of firewood. Home is not Oregon, it is my father gesturing for me step outside and inhale. It doesn’t come as a surprise either that what I fixate on, the thing that exists without borders or language, are these sensory experiences. I can tell you that Oregon has the cleanest air you will ever smell, its wind in march is warm, and I have never seen more gold in the golden hour. I can tell you that Finland is a land of extremes; the darkest dark and the lightest light. And, for some reason, part of England is having a warm meal, sore muscles, and wet chlorine hair. These are the shortest moments that have affected me the most. Moments that can never accurately be documented. They thrive as a memory, a taste, fleeting . . . "Fading even as they were generated. No basis on which to inch out across your life, and yet all you have” - Jerry Koh.


Our sensorial experiences are a massive part of how we understand the environment around us, they connect to memory, mood, and overall our connection with what is around us. Think of your home or your childhood bedroom, or your secret place to escape to read and watch the clouds. They are environments that linger so clearly with us but can never be done justice to by simply describing them to someone else. When something can’t be said it becomes art; photography, painting, fiction, film, dance, are all descriptions of something. This research starts with the question, how do I use scenography to describe an environment? How do I share my perspective on what I experience and how I experience it? Atmospheres are phenomenological, related to individual experience. Atmosphere, in a theatrical study, can attempt to interpret these both vague and powerful emotions "Seen in this way, atmospheres have something irrational about them, in a literal sense: something inexpressible. Atmospheres are something entirely subjective: to say what they are or, better, to define their character, one must expose oneself to them, one must experience them in terms of one’s emotional state. Without the sentient subject, they are nothing. And yet: the subject experiences them as something “out there”, something which can come over us, into which we are drawn, which takes possession of us like an alien power"(2). As Böhme has so accurately described, is the emotional tinge of a space, they bathe everything in a certain light, unify a diversity of impressions in a single emotive state. In a theatrical context, atmosphere is how to compose light and space to influence the mood of the spectator. In traditional theatre, atmosphere is a supportive element for the performer/script. I find scenography so interesting because it is a design-led approach where spatial functions and elements of space, light, sound, and objects inspire audience engagement - to paraphrase Richard Shearing. It is Theatre designed first from the construction of atmosphere to create a mood. In essence, atmosphere is broadly understood as an environment, or perhaps the character of the environment. the quality of the light, the texture of the sound, the way objects in the space relate to each other. It is through designing the qualities of an environment that a theatre-maker constructs an atmosphere. "The matter looks different if approached from the side of production aesthetics, which makes it possible to gain rational access to this “intangible” entity. It is the art of the stage set which rids atmospheres of the odour of the irrational: here, it is a question of producing atmospheres. This whole undertaking would be meaningless if atmospheres were something purely subjective. For the stage set artists must relate them to a wider audience, which can experience the atmosphere generated on the stage in, by and large, the same way. It is, after all, the purpose of the stage set to provide the atmospheric background to the action, to attune the spectators to the theatrical performance and to provide the actors with a sounding board for what they present. The art of the stage set, therefore, demonstrates from the side of praxis that atmospheres are something quasi- objective. What does that mean. Atmospheres, to be sure, are not things. They do not exist as entities which remain identical over time"(Böhme, 3). The rational side of production aesthetics is the paradox of atmospheres. Creating something indescribable, this is the mood that designers and artists concoct. Atmospheres have no rational description however they feel so real and so identifiably something. Some favourite descriptors include Peter Zumthor comparing his building to the feeling of the back of a spoon, James Turrel with wordless thought that comes from looking at fire, Agnes Martin painting the happiness we feel without reason. Designers and Artists attempt to make concrete materials forms for these elusive feelings. They try to share those experiences that are so non-vicarious.


As seen in the writing, Atmospheres bite their own tail. They are subjecttive, they are not subjective. They are clear they are muddled. Exactly why my theory lies in the collaging and collecting of materials to create shareable atmospheres. 

 

 

THE WRITER