Fire Insurance
I had a chance to sit with thirteen other people on Monday night as part of a new thing I’m doing during Lent. That thing is simple: sit around a fire and tell stories.
Canadian ex-pats. Transplants with property out by the county line. A Muslim student from Yemen. Ex-vangelicals. An Englishman with jokes. A Detroit Lions fan. A retired member of the clergy. Gay. Straight. Introverts. Talkers. All gathered around a fire pit in the back meadow of some church property on a cool night in North Carolina.
We had a great evening of sharing stories and getting to know each other, and it all reminded me of the “Bonfire Experience” I talk about in Controlled Burn. Here’s a reminder, excerpted from the book:
Bonfires – the corporate, communal ones we’re dealing with here – are a kind of theatre. There’s a flat, empty space we fill with objects, bodies, and light. There’s scenery of one sort or another. There’s sound, from the crackle of the wood to the chirping of crickets to the bad (or good) music blaring from someone’s stereo to the hum of humans chatting away. There are stories. There are little performances, dances from light to darkness and from warmth to cool, the spinning of marshmallows and hotdogs on sticks – these being props, of course. There are costumes of flannel and floral dresses, poofy jackets and polo shirts, overdressed and overworn. Together, these things make a place where, as in theatre, anything is possible. Performance and religious scholars, anthropologists, and others who specialize in everything from making plays to studying rituals to examining how cultures treat transitions from adolescence to adulthood call such things liminal spaces. Liminal spaces are the thresholds – the transitional, transformational places and moments – between where we’ve come from and where we’ve not yet arrived. The Bonfire is a liminal experience in time and space where expectation rules, where we are not fully shaped, and from which we will emerge in a new state, changed. We come out of the Bonfire Experience as mutants. In the theatre, we call some of the mutants at the center of the experience actors, and their charge is to mutate themselves – to present characters and stories that are not their own – so that we, the audience, may be mutated.
Certain kinds of theatre – including most of the ones I’m involved with – are built around what I’ve come to call “insurance policies.” These practices are designed to make the magic and transformation of a given production happen, even when something goes wrong or when maybe the audience just isn’t feeling it tonight or when something falls short of our expectation. In many ways, these insurance policies are really assurance practices – confidence-building guarantees for a good time at the play and true transformation as we emerge from the liminal space and time where and when the play happens. Some of these practices are innate to all theatre and Bonfire Experiences, while many emerge as peculiar, even esoteric. What I’ve found is that working with and refining these insurance policies in all kinds of settings helps channel the magic we’re looking for. They’re together an on-ramp for the transformational journey, or a set of spells, or a kind of delight engine – bellows pumping to make the burn brighter and more beautiful. Despite these coming from my experience as a theatre and event maker, I’ve tried to situate these insurance policies in the rest of the world – and in the Bonfire metaphor. Here goes:
An Open, Compelling Invitation: Everything begins with welcome – but a lot of folks will not gather just because they’re welcome. They’ll come because the invitation – whether it’s a poster design, a text invite, an email, or your decorations – compels them to come. Lots of things can do this work, but I’ve found beauty and earnestness are the best tools. This is the act of not just opening the invitation, but taking folks by the (literal or metaphorical) hand. In theatre, an invitation could be a killer poster design, but it is more likely word of mouth, an exceptional photo of other humans, or friends who bring you along. In the world, it is these things, too.
Surprise/Intrigue: Perhaps the number one thing they teach you in directing school is to stay ahead of your audience. You have to keep them leaning forward, in a near-constant state of delightful surprise. This means the experiences have to be interesting, real, authentic to you and to them, and crafted such that anything is possible. The surprises have to be good surprises. As soon as your audience is ahead of you, they’re out: making grocery lists, running through all the things they have to do this week, or balancing their checkbooks in their heads. How do you do this? Make unexpected choices. Stay weird. If you’re bored, they’re bored. Much of this work is about healthy, non-sexual seduction – almost like flirting with the world and its people so that they become and stay interested, but without the darkside of manipulation.
Shared Light: The light of a Bonfire Experience is shared light, not spotlight. We’re talking about literal light and the “energy” of an experience. While we may all take turns standing closer or farther away from the central experience, the light is shared by all. Shared light should create a sense of equity and belonging. Playing with shared light also means learning that some folks will want the attention of a close seat and some will want to linger back and observe – and that this process can be managed as we sometimes throttle back our attention-seekers and quietly join and encourage our introverted and observer friends. Outside of events, shared light is about the give and take of energy where the mantra, “It’s not about you,” rings politely in our ears.
Surrounded Space: A Bonfire Experience is a circle; a Controlled Burn radiates outward. It is not like most theatres or places of worship or classrooms or workshops, where the “special” or “important” stuff – often led by specially-designated leaders – happens and others passively watch. In the theatre, we call such orientations “thrust” or “arena” staging, and the very act of these shifts makes it easier to see other people’s faces and bodies and to have our own faces and bodies seen alongside whatever the central thing is – a fire, a story, a play, a conversation. As we look for Bonfire Experiences, we need a radial space of radical welcome that everyone can engage on their own terms, where hierarchies are weakened (if not broken altogether), and where we can all join the circle.
Simple Staging: A lot of us party planning types drift into wanting big scenery, flashy lights, a killer sound system, fancy props, and cool special effects. A lot of humans just want things to look or feel “special.” We think we have to travel to have special experiences. We have to make a big event. We have to decorate. A lot of the impulse behind these things is just insecurity, an anxiety to perform – to be seen as worthy. I’m here to tell you that a lot of these complexities get in the way. Bonfire Experiences are about simple human connection, story making, and the stripping away of the “extra” rather than the layering on of it.
Doubling: In theatre, doubling is the idea that one actor plays more than one part. The joy of this is that we get to see them pretend in multiple ways – to literally see them in different roles. Powerful things happen when we see others outside of their usual roles, undone, hair down, relaxed, unbusinesslike – or whatever alternate or even contradictory role might emerge. “I didn’t know you played guitar,” I might say to Bryan, my accountant acquaintance who tends to strike me as pretty buttoned-up. Doubling is about seeing the multiplicity of each other’s identities at play – and to see the whole human in a different light.
A Backstage, Backyard View: Bonfires are best when they allow us into the places we might not otherwise see. In the backyard, this is the space that is less guarded and manicured and staged than the front yard. In the theatre, this is the wing space or dressing rooms where we see the real, unvarnished things before they become the theatrical, showy, or “on” versions of themselves in front of an audience. This is where we see the person, not the personality – the human being, not the character. A backstage/backyard feel is different, deeper – like being inside the cosmic joke, fully welcomed, aware of play and not-play.
Multiple Stakeholders: Shakespeare’s theatre company and peer companies of the region were run by a group of “Sharers” – literal shareholders in the company who put their money, labor, and expertise into a common enterprise. Everyone had skin in the game. There are a lot of theatre companies, nonprofit organizations, studios, classrooms, families, and other settings that do this kind of multilateral “Sharing” work today. At the same time, this is not the way most companies or businesses work, and therefore not something many of us are familiar with. Having multiple stakeholders – true partners in the conversation, event, enterprise, play, meeting, relationship, Bonfire, and so on – is an act of radical welcome and a protest against the top-down nature of most of the rest of our lives. Sharing enables everyone to be a leader and a follower simultaneously. The common effort and equality of belonging makes us members of the organization, the organism that is humanity, and the Body of work we make together.
Comfort, Nostalgia, and Old Favorites: Delight is, in part, about engaging the familiar – the rituals, memories, and habits where we take comfort. A Bonfire is powerful because so many things are familiar – the people, the sensory experience, the openness, the fire itself. Even the parts of the Bonfire experience are familiar – lighting the fire, the sky fading from twilight to darkness, the kinds of fireside fare we eat and drink, and so on. Storytelling, too, is an opportunity for us to recall the delights and pains of the past. When I work in theatre, I’m pursuing this insurance policy by selecting plays and songs and ways of making that call upon people’s collective memory (say of childhood, a national or cultural or communal past, or a great playlist selection that folks might hear and know). Doing Shakespeare itself means playing with the nostalgia of that writer in our culture, high school classrooms, and memory. For me, a lot of my work in theatre is about recreating for others the best ten nights of my life, all of which have some things in common: warm cafe lights, soft, well-kept grass, a picnic blanket, a charcuterie board or Ploughman’s Lunch, a pitcher of Pimm’s Cup, live music, a charming play, and friends (including past girlfriends!), and family. Calling forth my own nostalgia like this and making it for others is a way of making new comforts, and new memories that become old favorites, like the families that come back to our performances again and again as they form their own traditions. Outside the world of theatre, this work is about regenerating the delights of our past, however those might manifest themselves, and working to ensure comfort for others – making a home.
New Work: Delight is also about experiencing new adventures, departing from the expected, and deviating from the ritual. Creating new work (especially together with others) forges fresh ideas and plays with possibility and unpredictability as it hearkens back to the idea of surprise mentioned earlier. New work empowers those involved to do the rich, rewarding effort of making something from nothing. New work should be balanced against and in tension with the comfortable, nostalgic, and familiar – we need both old and new to play in concert with each other. In Bonfires, we need old friends and emerging ones and perfect strangers, the tried-and-true recipes alongside the recent ones we just read about, a favorite beer and a seasonal selection. New work is about finding the “now-ness,” being alert to the potential of the present, and dealing with what is before us without too much longing for what isn’t here any longer.
Difference/Weirdness/Idiosyncrasies: Bonfires and Controlled Burns are different from everyday life. They change the landscape – literally. They have their own internal rules that don’t clearly fit with the rest of the world. A Controlled Burn is about burning something to give something else life. This is weird, counterintuitive, even seductive. To be a fully realized human being, part of the work is in differentiating ourselves and our experiences. As an artist, I want to avoid being derivative – of leaning on (or stealing) other people’s work rather than developing my own voice. Are we here to talk about the weather? The news? Real Housewives? Or are we here to embrace the wonderful strangeness of each other and our world? Bonfire Experiences are made by cultivating the unusual.
Casting – Earnest v. Polished Participants: We keep returning to the idea of “peeling away” or revealing our authentic selves. This insurance policy suggests that our work is strongest when people aren’t performing, polished, presentational, or uptight. Bonfires invite engagement with each other as human beings who have shed the little lies of making things sound better than they are, or having a clear punchline or moral at the end of our story. We’re talking about the metaphorical difference between handmade and store-bought – crafted versus off-the-rack.
No Cell Phones: No. Cell. Phones. So much of the currency of Controlled Burning and Bonfire experiences is simply in what we pay attention to: here, now.
Clear Cues: If Bonfire Experiences and Controlled Burns are fundamentally about transformation, it helps if we signal this up front. We can cue transformation in people by showing other simple things that have been transformed. In the theatre I create, I look for simple, elemental design and environmental elements that we can transform like we want ourselves to be transformed. A swath of fabric can become an ocean, a projector screen, or a pool of blood. Wood can become a doorway, a plank, a staff, or a spear. A lantern can become a guidepost or a little magic trick for an on-stage wizard or witch. In the Bonfire metaphor, these cues are built into the fuel being burned, the marshmallows toasting, and so on. These cues tell us that transformation is possible – that play is possible. These cues prompt us to use our imaginations, which is where a lot of the bigger transformations have to take place first.
Enlivened Visuals: Bonfires work because they’re a spectacle. They’re light contrasted against darkness. People on a stage or near a campfire are lit differently than they are by daylight, fluorescent work lights, or the incandescent lamps of home. The light moves and flickers. The costumes, too, are different. The scenery is elevated. In some theatre design work, the whole place becomes an immersive environment. In outdoor theatre, all of nature is the scenery (same for a lot of literal fires). We must have cool things to look at that activate our senses to see new worlds and ecosystems that help to change our perspectives and inspire us.
Pleasant, Unusual Smells: Here’s another sensory insurance policy. Think burning wood, caramelizing sugars, the smell of Spring on the breeze. Think incense and bakeries. Think unfamiliar city streets and sweeping countryside. These smells rewire our brains, activate our bodies, and prompt everything from nostalgia to curiosity. Whether putting on a play or envisioning a Bonfire Experience, playing with smell is a quick path to getting the actual person – the human animal – to show up as themselves.
Sounds & Music: Sensing a theme here (pun absolutely intended)? Whether chirping birds or crickets, crackling logs, a funky playlist, or clinking glasses, sound has the potential to transport us, change our moods, or even cue our emotions into new and different states. Being intentional with sound allows us to hear things differently – and this is the starting point for the Deep Work of listening.
Food & Drink: Food and drink are more sensory insurance policies – but, for me, work on an even deeper level than some of the others mentioned. Unlike some of the other sensory practices, food and drink are also human needs – fundamental, foundational ones. I’m a big believer that no one can pay attention (let alone want to) if their basic needs are not met. Stomachs need to be fully and bodies hydrated. Food and drink are also the basis of a lot of understood human rituals of belonging, like meals, Communion, and so on. Food and drink literally provide energy for the experience, greasing the pathways for attention to be paid.
Excellent Craft: In the theatre, there is no insurance policy that beats being really, really good at what you’re doing. We want to see humans operating at the highest level – at the limits of their potential. Craft is the combination of personhood, time, talent, technique, and work – a way of preparing for encounters with other people that will elevate your time together with them.
Chemistry: Chemistry is the insurance policy that emerges from some of the others, the art and science of getting things just right, the energy created when things are burning well.
The thing about these insurance policies is that they work best when we stack them – when one of them insures another that ensures another and so on. “If I don’t like the play,” I might say, “then at least I’ll be buzzed from the good beer.” And if the beer is bad, I might like the music. And if the music is bad, I might like the company. And if the company is bad, I might like the story. And if the story isn’t to my taste, I might like seeing it being made. And if that doesn’t work, maybe there’s at least something beautiful to look at. And so on. The chances of anyone making it through all the insurance policies and having a thoroughly miserable experience is small – not impossible, just small. Some folks are jerks. Sometimes our approach to any or all of these things is off. The point is that they make it more likely for people to discover and uncover who they are in each other’s presence.
How can you engage in bonfire work this week?