What Is The Nine? Pt. 3 -- It's Experimental!

I promised to tell you what exactly that green cross is all about last time, but that would be putting the cart ahead of the horse, so I'm gonna put the final leg of The Nine tripod up first.

There's a bugaboo around the big 'E' word. Call your work experimental and something remarkable happens: the first images in everyone's mind are the exact sort of experimental work that they don't like. Like the glacial? "Experimental work" calls to mind the hyperactive and neon. A big fan of movement? Suddenly "experimental work" is purely textual and overly wordy. It's the natural human reaction to consider work that we enjoy the norm and, therefore, anything that fucks with what we enjoy is experimental, or at least falls within that umbrella that we call experimental. Problem is, there's no real substitute word that both gets the message across and avoids any of these built in connotations.

If I had to use any one word to switch out for experimental to describe the attitude and style of The Nine as a total product, it would be 'new'. I'm a huge proponent of new work, but an even bigger proponent of the idea that new work does not always equate to new words. Original work, world premieres, new and emerging playwrights, they've got their supporters -- that half of 'new work' has a pretty dedicated watchdog network. No, I'm a stickler for the other half: the idea that it is still possible to make new and exciting decisions that effectively transcend plays and other art that are otherwise engrained into us as an audience. I'm sure you will have made curious note by now that not only is Romeo & Juliet part of The Nine, but it also falls in at Part Seven, definitely on the more experimental end of the spectrum. It's one of my favorite parts to explain to others for that very reason. (Seriously, hit me up sometime, I dare you.)

Even more importantly than that, and still under that new work heading, I revel in the idea that it is possible to find thousands (thousands!) of works of theatre that have been forgotten and/or left by the wayside for whatever reason. Walk into the seventh floor of the Harold Washington library downtown and you can't throw a rock without hitting a play that hasn't been done in Chicago in a decade or more, if ever. Curious note you may not have made: as far as I have been able to gather, Part Six, Caesar Antichrist, will be a Chicago premiere. The play was written by Alfred Jarry of Ubu Roi and proto-surrealism fame... in 1896! It seems like a claim too bold to be true, and I certainly encourage anyone with information I might not have to correct me, but the idea that it is possible for a play to exist and be readily available and to still have not been performed in a major theatrical center more than a century after it has been written both horrifies and delights me. Delights because, in all of the pissing and moaning that happens about the warhorses being trotted out yearly (and believe me, I am pissing and moaning just as much as the next guy about Chicago's 2010/2011 Orgy a la Arthur Miller), the problem is not that old work is old hat. The problem is that we've forgotten how to dig for it.

I love to do exactly that sort of digging, and I'm more than happy to be the guy to resurface Adamov and Tardieu and Caesar Antichrist. And I'm more than happy to be the guy to roll out standards like subUrbia and Romeo & Juliet not because they are crowd pleasers but because they fit the reframing I have pulled for them like a glove without falling apart within. And I'm also more than happy to be the guy to bring in the new words with two world premiere full lengths and one world premiere one act. But what I'm most happy to do? The sort of thing I am not able to find other people doing in the contemporary theatre scene in Chicago. That is bottom guideline in my mind to not only experimentalism, but also to art in general: Is someone else already creating what you want to create? Then don't add to the clutter; find that someone else and work with them to do it better and with more reach. Is no one else creating what you want to create? Then it's more imperative than ever that you do.

The Nine, both as a sum and its parts, are that something that I don't see others creating. I'm taking that first step and hoping that the others that currently aren't will join me to make it better and to give it more reach.

Bries.

Because you don't exist until you're on a t-shirt.

After that whole "The Nine is temporary" post, aren't you just jonesing for a chance to assert your permanence? Itching to find a way to prove that you were around for The Nine even after The Nine is a memory? Some sort of keepsake, like, I dunno, maybe a t-shirt or a mug? Well then, let me point you in this direction: www.cafepress.com/theninechicago!

Yeah, we're shilling ourselves. We've plastered our name and image on a bunch of shit and are putting it out there for you to buy. We're shameless... what can I say? But here's the thing: we know we're shameless, so we're gonna make it up to you. We know that setting up a cafepress shop takes little creativity and even less effort and you, good friends, deserve better than that. (It's the same reason you'll never see a The Nine bar fundraiser. A house party, on the other hand, is worth preparing for -- I'm serious -- but that's a motherfucking house party, amiright?) So we're taking our cafepress shop and using it as a springboard to give you the better that you deserve. Allow me to illustrate:

A) First of all, this ain't just any logo that you're pasting on your cute lil' patoot. If I do say so myself, our green cross is a pretty sweet image. Simple, sturdy, and with just the right amount of brickhouse attitude, it stands up and announces itself without saying "Hey, I'm a theatre t-shirt!" Because, as much as we love what we do, we'd rather you look good than like a billboard. Then, when you're beating off all the guys and gals with a stick, you can casually slip our name and website into the pillow talk. It's like being part of a street team, except you also get laid as part of the deal. *Please note, this is all conjecture. But you're a good bunch, I've got faith.*

B) What I will guarantee you is the best customer service you could ask for on our part. You'll see we have a couple of variations on the image -- there's the cross with text, without, a couple of slight variations in size, and that fun smaller 'you are here' image. Those things can each be put on any of the items shown. Want a shirt with a different version of the cross than we're displaying or an image on back instead of front? We'll take care of that for you! Want a cafepress product that we don't have listed? We'll look into getting it up there! (Though, I'll warn you; much as I love the cross, there's a couple items/colors it just doesn't work with.) Have questions or comments? We'll listen to them! Just drop us a line at TheNineChicago@gmail.com. The world's your oyster.

C) We'll keep taking care of you even beyond that! Wear/bring your Nine swag to the show and get a free gift! A free gift that all of those suckers who don't have your sweet threads will have to pay for! Really, though, I'm serious. Granted, it'll be smallish, but anyone with their Nine merchandise at the show will get a free goodie bag that we would charge anyone else for. Apparently, I just like to give stuff away...

D) I'm a little serious about that keepsake stuff. As I mentioned last time, anyone who comes to see subUrbia is part of a very exclusive group. Anyone who comes to the entire nine show cycle will be part of an extremely exclusive group. And when it's done, it's done for good. Have something to remember us by. I've got my own little plans for a special souvenir for each show. If you're looking to be one of the magic 180, why not do the same? Get creative! We're just the enablers here.

E) And finally, yes, it will help us financially as well. 100% of the profit we make from all sales on cafepress will go towards the next show. In this case, that's Part Two: Radio Silence (an evening of radio-esque shorts: Words And Music by Samuel Beckett, Peculiar Way by Paul Rekk, and The Eiffel Tower Wedding Party by Jean Cocteau). Because again, if you want to help, we don't want you to pay for something already done, we want your support in making something new.

There, I unleash you unto the world of commerce, go and purchase freely! Next time, I'll even tell you what the cross is all about...

What Is The Nine? Pt. 2 -- It's Temporary!

Let's start this post with a fun little tidbit: for the entire run of subUrbia, Part One of our shindig, only 360 people will be able to see the show. And this is assuming that everyone who sees the show only does so once. (For the record, I fully plan on staking out an honest to god seat for myself both opening and closing night, so we've already blown that little hypothetical all to hell.) The show has a forty seat max. capacity for a nine show run. And that's that. I don't know if an extension is in the realm of possibility or not and that really doesn't matter because that ain't happening. There will be no extensions. There will be no standing room. There will be no pulling in extra chairs (as a matter of fact, the space will have forty-four seats, but four of those will remain empty, for reasons to be divulged at a later date). And this is an important point to make for everyone now, with plenty of warning, because once one of these bad boys sells out, it's sold out. I don't care if Chris Jones or even Terry Teachout is on the waiting list. Or my mother. Or someone offering to bankroll the rest of the project if only, if only I'll pull in one extra chair for them. (So please take note of this Chris, Terry, mom, and artistic guardian angels -- make reservations now.) Granted, the show is free, and my experience is that free = plenty of no-shows, so the waiting list probably won't be the terrible purgatory I'm making it out to be here, but the point remains. 360 people. And done. Forever.

Granted, the 360 people won't be a constant in The Nine. Each part will only run for nine performances with a very strict seating capacity, but that capacity will change. Forty to sixty seats is probably a good estimation of the average, but for some of the shows (i.e. Caesar Antichrist), I'd love to get a much bigger crowd. On the flip side, a show like BlueGrass is going to be much more intimate -- probably around 20 seats, meaning a total run capacity of 180 people. 180 people! Most actors I know, myself included, have performed to more than that in one show, much less an entire run!

Why? I want to break out talk about community, but that's talk that's always felt false to me. Though maybe there's something to it here. I also want to talk theatre vs. film, a conversation which has also felt false. So let's try to combine them and make something make sense.

There's always plenty of talk about how theatre should stop trying so hard to be like film. About how film will always do what it can do better, so we should embrace what film can't accomplish. I don't always necessarily agree, but that's neither here nor there, because one of areas of that argument I agree with most is the temporality, the ethereality of theatre. The fact that when you are sitting at a play you can be absolutely certain that there aren't others watching this production at the same time in theaters around the nation is pretty damn cool. And on an even smaller level, the fact that you are within spitting distance of every last person that will see this specific performance with its specific intricacies is really damn cool. Theatre is a limited engagement affair, by necessity yes, but why not also by choice? Why not embrace this idea of the once in a lifetime chance with the desire for the 'real thing'? A combination of the reason next year's Pavement reunion show in Central Park sold out in two minutes with the reason people travel to the Louvre instead of trading postcards of the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo.

Actually, you know what? Let's do one better and point to an artist who has been doing this exact thing for decades: Christo. I've never seen a Christo installation; I was too young to know about most of them and wasn't able to make it to NYC until about two months after The Gates came down. I won't miss another; seeing the next one is in my top five life goals. I only hope both Christo and I are around long enough to make that happen. (Especially considering the recent loss of Jeanne-Claude. Rest in peace, dear lady.) There's something about having to travel far and wide at a very specific time to witness this marvel of human creativity and ingenuity because, dammit, this is the ONLY place and the ONLY time you will ever be able to witness it. And if you miss it, you will never be able to know what it felt like to bask in this creation. Maybe it's because I've always been a fan of the hard to find corners of the world, of the rare and limited experiences that we can only have if we choose to find them, but I love Christo's work, and I wish more theatre would try to find a way to embrace that aspect that is so naturally built into it.

It's also where the community aspect comes into play. It's a tricky word that community, because it's so rarely defined. We as humans want to speak to/with and feel a part of a community, but we also so often want our communities to be universal or at least as all-inclusive as possible. And yes, sometimes that's good. And sometimes, sometimes communities benefit from being small. From the fact that for the millions and billions of people who did not see The Gates, there are thousands who did. That for the millions and billions of people who do not see subUrbia, 360 can. And those 360 will have an experience that they can share that the other millions and billions can not (a community that I'm already brainstorming on further ways to promote through the run). And that, too, my friends, is something special. Something special that is an essential part of theatre and not of film, or of television, or of so many other forms. Frankly, I think we need to flaunt that from time to time.

And while I'm here, let's end this post with a different fun tidbit, this one about communities within communities: Let's just say that the max capacity for BlueGrass does end up being exactly 20 people, for a 180 person run capacity. While that won't be happening until Part Five, keep in mind that 360 people may be able to see subUrbia, but only 180 will be able to see The Nine as a whole project. Each show will be able to stand alone, so there's no worries there. But in the best of all possible worlds, only 180 people will take the full journey with us. You want to be one of them.

Keep that in mind when you make your reservations... early.

Bries.

And who exactly is in this thing?

A whole buncha rockstars, that's who. As promised, the official cast list!

Tim: Austin Oie

Buff: Greg Wenz

Jeff: Alex Hugh Brown

Norman: Glenn Stanton

Pakeesa: Amrita Dhaliwal [Feb. 19th - Feb. 26th]

Bee-Bee: Meghan Reardon

Sooze: Emily Shain

Pony: Sam Quinn

Erica: Saren Nofs-Snyder

Two actors will be sharing duties in the role of Pakeesa -- details are still being finalized on who will be performing the role from Feb. 27th - Mar. 6th, but that will be announced as soon as it's confirmed.

You'll get to be well-acquainted with these folk in the coming weeks, but first I'm gonna let the sheer awesome in that list marinate your brain for a bit.

Simmer, simmer, simmer...

Bries.

The origin of the species. (Plus, a Nine of your own!)

Here's a question -- where the hell did The Nine come from?

In addition to the other two cornerstones of the project (temporary and experimental, 'member?), I'm gonna be tossing out quick breakdowns of each part of The Nine, both the play and the conceptions we are approaching them with. (I'm also officially announcing the cast early next week, so stop back for that!) But first, how did this whole idea come about?

Back in 2007, I was one of the founders of a short-lived company called Per Diem. During an early company meeting, as we were getting into the nitty gritty of mission statements and what we wanted to do and why we wanted to do it, we decided to engage in a little exercise. The three of us agreed to each slate our ideal first three seasons. If we had complete artistic freedom and were to program three three-show seasons, what would they look like? We would go our separate ways and come back to the next meeting, three seasons in hand and ready for discussion.

I remember spending a happy hour at Monk's Pub the next week with my best friend and a few sheets of paper, scribbling and talking and drinking. I was tossing around names of obscure shows that I had fallen in love with and weren't being done anywhere, random concepts that may or may not have potential but that had me curious and weren't being done anywhere, and a certain degree of taking the piss, of the sorts of things that just aren't supposed to be done anywhere. You'll note that there was (is?) a running theme of things that I wasn't finding done anywhere else. We sat there going over this list for at least a couple of hours. When we emerged, I had what you might call the fetus of The Nine in my hands. I had separated the difficult concepts from the stupid ones, honed the obscure shows into a good cross-section of work, and come up with what was probably a good 75% of The Nine you see today.

Per Diem didn't last much longer; I had to pull the first show (which was Radio Silence, now Part Two of The Nine) and eventually drop out of the company, largely for personal issues on my end. The rest of the company transformed into Tip Your Waiter Productions and I held onto the scraps of paper with my three seasons. There was so much in that plan that I was excited about, so much that seemed like it needed to be done, so many ideas that I was not seeing offered in a city with soooo much theatre that I couldn't bear to toss it aside as a pipe dream. Another couple of happy hours as well as a number of late night conversations and this three season plot started to become more and more solidified and more and more a single project. I remember at one point talking about where this was all going and saying, "If I could put up these nine shows, I don't really know where I'd go next. This is a whole cycle right here." Somewhere along the line I started talking about actually putting all nine of these up myself and somewhere along the line that turned into an actual decision to do so.

After that decision I did some rearranging of shows to fit the greek cross motif that I had applied (yes, there's rhyme and reason behind that, but that's a whole 'nother blog post) and a couple of substitutions -- for example, Ping-Pong was at one point Peter Handke's Kaspar. But, for better or worse, The Nine was in place. And now that this snowball is a-rolling, who knows where it stops?

So now I'm curious -- if you had to make your own Nine, what would it be? What nine plays/concepts would you limit yourself to? No limits, no holds barred. What's your nine?

Bries.

What Is The Nine? Pt. 1 -- It's Free!

How to kickstart a blog about the project that has the potential to take up a fair amount of the next decade of my life? What it's all about might be a good starting point.

The Nine is a whole lotta things and even more ideas all rolled into one epic tapestry, but when I really boil it down, there are three big components that anchor both the sum and the parts, the means and the end, the forest and the trees:

A) It's experimental.

B) It's temporary.

C) It's free.

The order of importance is negotiable, so let's start with the one that has the most people concerned for my mental well-being: that whole free thing.

Simple answer: The Nine is free. Period. It's as easy as that.

Detailed answer: No really, The Nine is free. There's no catch to this. There is no suggested donation, I'm not asking you to pay what you can or what you want. We are sharing this work with you, and sharing is free.

Why would I do such a thing? Well, first of all, theatre pricing is not doing us (collectively) any favors. I'm not talking about ridiculous Broadway prices or even the big Equity houses here in Chicago. I'm talking all the way down the line. Let's work off the assumption that the average storefront ticket price in Chicago is $20. You can find cheaper, but $20 seems to be about normal. Transfer that to any other art form, and it goes from normal to somewhere between overpriced and exorbitant. You might find exceptions in opera, visual arts (if we're talking collecting, but for this example, I'd argue that museum fees are a better guideline), and perhaps dance. Notice that in addition to that, these are largely the temporary arts -- that we are charging more with no promise of replay value. And we're the little guys! We're the ones that are supposed to be trying to get new butts in the seats! And we charge people $10-15 an hour to come out and watch what we're doing? Sure, it's accepted, but it's also silly.

In an age where film and music and television are dealing with technological advances and production and distribution costs lowering to the point of negligibility, we're going about our merry way. Even if the Internet hasn't had made a major dent in our assumptions about distribution yet, we should be learning from the dents it has been making in other spheres. Art is becoming more and more omnipresent and thus cheaper and cheaper. Theatre is a form that has the dis/advantage of not being as widely affected by the 21st century D.I.Y. tsunami, but in order to use that to our benefit, we need to market the exclusivity of that fact (this will play into the temporary aspect of The Nine as well), not overcharge for it and become collectibles and eventually relics. Free theatre needs to exist in the world of the $20 average every bit as much as the $100 Broadway ticket does. When your bargain basement price for theatre ($10, I'd say; it's hard to find cheaper than that outside a very small handful of companies) is still average to high for a movie or CD, we're doing it wrong. And Non-Eq companies charging more than $20 for a ticket, you're pissing industry theatregoers off. For God's sake, stop it. Or at least start getting more generous with your industry offers (if I were king, every night would be industry night everywhere). If none of the above matters to you at all, at least start taking care of your own, ya jerks.

So that' s a big part of it, but the real bottom line even beyond the market approach is that I've got some, let's say... unique ideas about art. Namely, I think it should all be free. Always. It's lofty, it's idealistic, it might be a bit pretentious, but to me, art in all of its forms seems beyond, more important than cash value. Of course, it takes money to create art, but to my mind, money given to an artist should not be an exchange for goods and services received, it should be an investment to ensure the continued supply of those goods and services. And that sort of investment shouldn't be made until you know that a continued supply of those goods and services is something you actually want. There's no sense in paying for art you don't enjoy.

Don't give me money for something I've already made. If you really want to pitch in; help me make more.

Bries.

We are go!

Welcome to the massive web launch of The Nine!

We have a website (thanks, Mike!). We have a Facebook page. We have a Twitter feed. And we have this here blog. We will be working hard to avoid excessive content overlap and repetition between the four, so familiarize yourself with each one now. It's the best way to keep up on our process, inspiration, goals, questions, hurdles, breakthroughs, and all that other fun stuff from now until you are partying down with us on Feb. 19th.

Rock and roll. And how.

Bries.