"If Madonna can take charge in Kabbaladom, surely there must be a fiefdom for Yehuda Hyman... Hyman's one-man performance piece transports the Orthodoxy of that Hasidic tale to secular America... his transformations reveal the essence of character in simple choreographic strokes..." - The Jerusalem Post, 2010
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA (Los Angeles, CA)
Visions and Voices Series
Wednesday, September 7, 2011 at 7:00 P.M.
University Park Campus Scene Dock Theatre
Info:Click here for more information
THE MARSH BERKELEY (Berkeley, CA)
Thursday, September 15, 2011 at 8:00 P.M.
Saturday, September 17 at 8:30 P.M.
Sunday, September 18 at 2 P.M.
Info:Click here for more information
THE HARRY AND ROSE SAMSON FAMILY JEWISH COMMUNITY CENTER (Milwaukee, WI)
Saturday, September 24, 2011 at 8:30 P.M.
At Congregation Beth Israel Click here for more information
So, that began my trip. Several years later I went to Israel for the first time, and that was very, very eye-opening for me. That’s where I encountered the diversity of culture within Judaism for the first time. Because American Jews, I don’t know if you know this, but mostly we think of ourselves as Ashkenazi Jews, which is, you know, the culture at large. That’s where “oy vey” and all that, what we think of as Jewish humor, comes from. And that’s really just one part of it.
So, in Israel I was exposed to a plethora of other things: Persians, and Moroccans, and Africans, and… It was very mind-expanding for me; it was really intense and great. After I came back from Israel, in the early 90’s, I just knew in my heart that it was time to start exploring this in theater. And that’s when I started.
I’d always been intrigued by Hasidic stories. I’d read a few as a child; I always loved them. They’re humorous, they’re unexpected. I thought I would just adapt a few little stories, simple stories…and instead I stumbled on these Nachman stories, which are not simple stories at all. They’re actually very complex. And they were just kind of gifted to me, out of nowhere. That led me—has led me, is still leading me—on this experience of working with them, and trying to uncover the layers. Uncover the layers to the point where I can simply convey them to somebody else.
What drew you to this particular story, “The Seven Beggars” story?
I had an experience a long time ago, in Israel, in a town called Tsfat, which is way up in the north of Israel. A lot of kabbalists lived there in the sixteenth century. It has this aura of mysticism. And I spent one night there, in a motel, in room number seven, and I just had this idea of seven little stories. And I was speaking of this to a young rabbi, and he said, “Well, what about ‘The Seven Beggars’?”
So I heard about it, and I read it, and I was fascinated. I was drawn, I was confused, I was challenged. I loved it, and I just thought—this is material that I want to work with. And I couldn’t quite grasp it. But in some way, some deep way, it really spoke to me.
I remember particularly the story of the two birds, which is the fourth story in the play, and I’m going to do that in the Persian world. And that, I think, was the one, the clincher. So I’m excited about working on that, because that’s one I’ve worked on the least so far, in this whole process. And I know that’s the one that really has some special meaning for me.
What has the developmental process of this piece been like since you first became inspired to explore Jewish cultures and spiritual awakening through “The Seven Beggars” story?
Well, I feel like this is a fresh start, this piece. [I have explored the story in several different forms and from several different angles, but] I don’t feel like, “Oh God, I’m hauling this thing out again.” Because it actually is really new for me.
[When I first started working with this material,] I was living in San Francisco. I had given up my career as a choreographer and become a temp, and was writing, and creating performance pieces in little clubs around San Francisco.
At first I was just working ten-minute increments on nights where you could go up and try stuff out. I did that for about a year, and eventually it became a forty-five minute piece—just the first story [out of the seven]. And it seemed clear that there was something of interest to an audience. So that was the beginning.
Then at a certain point I didn’t want to be in it, because it was too big, and I felt that I needed to be outside of it, so that I could look. And that impulse eventually culminated in a play for seven actors [called The Mad Dancers]. And that is that play, and that’s a different entity. And I feel good about it.
And then what made you decide to create a new piece, a one-person performance piece, that also explored “The Seven Beggars” story?
Well, Mara [Isaacs, director of The Mad 7,] had this opportunity in Bulgaria. She had been involved fairly early in the process, when she was working at the Taper, and I was still doing a section of it as a solo performance. And you can talk to her about it, but I think she felt that in some ways it was the best marriage of the material, that it’s told through a solo performer. She wanted to explore that again, but explore me doing the entire piece, because I’d never done that. I’d only ever done the first story, that’s all—the set-up of Elliott and then the first story and that was it.
And I was a little scared, but Mara said, “We’re going to be in Bulgaria, no one will see us. We can just play and experiment. And I’m really excited about it.” I mean, I’ll just quote her, she said, “When I think of all the plays I’ve worked on, the one I’m most excited about is this.” So I couldn’t say no.
The process of making it a one-man show, what does that do to the story, or to your experience, or to the audience’s experience of it? How does that change things?
Well, it’s very different. Because the play The Mad Dancers was actually the story of two people—it was Elliott and the Rabbi character in the play. And there was a whole drama about Rabbi Nachman, nineteenth century, and Elliott, who is this contemporary man. That doesn’t exist in this piece at all, now—this is really Elliott’s story. Elliott is telling the story, and it’s all through his eyes, and through his body. So, that’s one thing.
I think, also, it’s just better, because it is storytelling, that it’s one person telling the story. And the audience watching that person go through transformations, rather than having different actors play different parts. It’s certainly more in the spirit of Hasidic storytelling—or any kind of storytelling, really.
And also, I come in a certain body, in a certain package, and I’m just using everything I’ve got. I’m using everything I have as a dancer, and an actor, and a singer, and everything. I bring all my history, and all my anxiety and fears and emotions and feelings and love. I’m bringing all my questions about Judaism, about religion, about belief in God, about culture, about everything. I bring the whole package to the stage.
I bring myself as a performer, as someone who wants to entertain people, someone who wants to take them through an experience. I’m a great believer in theater as an interactive process, so I’m bringing all of that. I bring my life to it. I’m really putting, in a way, my life on the stage—that’s what’s also very scary about it.
Are there any specific artistic influences that you’ve had, from other dancers or writers…?
In this particular piece?
Mm-hm.
God, there’s so many. From a very early age the person that most excited me about theater was Peter Brook. I remember I saw a piece of his in Germany, in an armory. It was an African folktale called The Bone, with a multi-national troupe. They did the piece in French mostly, which I’m not fluent in, and some German, a little bit of English—so basically I couldn’t understand what was being said. They did it on a bare stage; I think it was six actors and a percussionist. And it was—I’ll never forget it—it was one of the most enjoyable, funny, powerful pieces I’ve ever seen.
And it was very much integrated with the audience. So that idea of that, and the simplicity of a folktale—because that piece was about hunger, it was about a village that was hungry. So it just tapped something, in all of us. All of us can relate to that. So his work was really, really an influence to me.
I also remember, on my first trip to Israel, there was an international theater festival. I don’t know who this woman was, I wish I did, but she was from India, and she was on this tiny postage stamp stage, and it was just her, and she told stories and danced them. And I thought—this is it, this is the whole experience. She was so highly skilled. She really brought everything to life, and she did it with her body and her voice, and so… Whoever that woman is, I don’t know, but… It’s the kind of thing I’m attempting.
Some of my favorite writers, even as a child: Edward Albee, because it’s… bigger. It’s not realism, so it’s bigger. And it’s a combination of humor and something dark going on, underneath. Thornton Wilder was a big influence on me, even as a child. His, I guess, spirituality, as a writer, finding the different levels in the universe, and doing it with humor and compassion. And speaking in plain language.
I think music is a huge influence. I listen to music all the time when I’m writing and moving around. For this piece I’m listening to all kinds of music. Diverse rhythms, and… Dancers, of course. The dancers influence. In the next month and a half I’m going to be studying more dance, and learning more dances.
And then, you know, with this piece, things just happen. Little weird things happen, and I meet people, and they help me to tell the story. They become part of the story, and they help me to understand the story. Last week I was doing storytelling at a camp for inner-city kids at risk. And I told them, not something from “The Seven Beggars,” but I told them a very simple parable from Rabbi Nachman. It was really interesting because most of these kids are African-American, or Latino, but they got it, they really responded to it, because it’s about their lives.
I mean, if you understand the time that Rabbi Nachman was telling the stories, it was in 1810, in Eastern Europe, in the Jewish ghetto. They were in a very violent situation, that community. So he was teaching them ways to preserve their identity, give them courage, find their joy in life. He was saying, “Look, we know it’s very bleak out there, but on the inside, there’s more than what’s out there. There are other worlds, and inside you have this, inside you, and it’s your life force.” And I think there’s value in that, if you can tell that story. I mean, I’ve found value in it. I wouldn’t be able to work on these [stories] as long as I have… But they’re constantly inspiring me.
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