Oran Bumroongchart, for those of you not acquainted, is a stoic, dispassionate, pragmatist of color, texture, shape and design. So how does his work provoke a description that suggest
"psychological"? A psychological designer?
Three years ago, walking through the back lot of U.C.L.A.'s theater and film department as a first year graduate student, I had my first glimpse of the Collaboration class in session through an opened gate to one of the labs where I found some colleagues in the midst of a presentation. Designed by the heads of the acting and directing program, the aim of the course seemed clear: it was meant to broaden the scope of communication among theater artists by divesting each student of his/her usual title and allowing him/her to contribute in the creation of a theatrical piece, each adopting different roles; so a director is given the opportunity to design, an actor to write, a designer to act, etc., etc.. With such an assortment of students from various concentration each participant was no longer bound by his or her discipline; instead one must learn to contribute equally and become responsible for conceiving and building the project, understanding the beast in its totality. It demands that everyone be willing and able to plug in ideas whenever needed, even if it means undertaking a role typically not within his or her expertise. This approach undercuts the notion of compartmentalizing work and limiting the understanding of an artistic venture through a singular perspective. Proponents of the course explained that only by contributing to every element and by being part of every discussion can a member be fully knowledgeable and empowered as a co-creator. The educational value of such role-swapping, democratic process seemed obvious, not to mention that such interdisciplinary approach would familiarize each member with another's vocabulary, making it easier to communicate concepts and ideas. This, indeed, sounds like utopia: a pluralistic process that strengthens a unified vision. Then, why did the class fold before I had the chance to play in this Elyssian field? By my second year, when it was my turn to swap shoes with my colleagues, the course had dissolved.
I was not present during the bickering, but that was how one student in the class described the experience. Apparently, with the exception of one team, the debates proved to be utter chaos. Far be it for me to judge if it was a question of poor chemistry, in terms of personalities and egos, or if the process was simply unfeasible. But, I did observe frustration among members of the class as they spoke of their experience; and even among friends, a rupture in communication began to happen when their projects teetered on becoming less than promising. According to those who 'suffered' through the experience, the whole venture became absurd, as very few were able to surrender their previous knowledge of their supposed field and submit to someone else's attempt in filling roles traditionally not within his/her concentration. In short, for the majority of those who participated, they felt like charlatans or simple amateurs who performed apologetically.
On the other hand, those who found much success seemed to have explored, admiting the limits of their own methodology and willing to expand theatrical vocabulary by examining the plausibility and merit of most ideas. Needless to say that seemed more like the goal of the experiment.
Now, Oran is not part of that environment. He is not a designer born out of U.C.L.A.; rather, he is a design student in NYU who suffers a friendship with me, an actor. Our education into each other's method and philosophy come out of late night phone sessions, bemoaning the pressures of our respective work. Once, during my penultimate project as a graduate student, I spoke to Oran about problems I was having with my costume, as the design seemed to undercut the character that my director and I had cultivated in the length of time we spent discussing and rehearsing the play. I explained to Oran how the designer and I had never spoken in person to explore each other's ideas about the character. At first I thought that this was common enough, as the director, for the most part, typically acts as the visionary go-between who approves or vetoes sketches, as well as acting choices in support of an interpretation. But in this case, there was an enormous chasm between the conceptual design and my character's development. I spoke to the director and he agreed; however, the costume choices were not coming any closer to reconciling with the psychological and thematic reality of the play. I asked what the proper protocol is in dealing with such a dilemma for I often hear of 'DIVAS' who refuse to cooperate with designers, choosing their own costumes in the interest of vanity rather than that of artistic integrity. But in this case, I did understand the designer's need to exercise her artistic power, the importance of stamping one's signature into the project; but how am I to respect her process while communicating what appears to be her misconception without going out of bounds? I was not the director and clearly, it was not my job to police her artistic choices. And yet her seeming misconception was compromising my ability to become credible as the character onstage; looks, after all, do influence believability.
In the midst of such dispute, I spoke in length and in depth with Oran to gain another perspective on the matter of design. As I relayed my ideas, he in turn spoke of character psychology in terms of clothes, detailing the metaphor of texture; we were speaking of psychological dissonance and duality in terms of color--white suit versus black suit. What does it mean? For this project, this was Oran's prescription: Put your character, Electra, in a man's white tuxedo suit. This will highlight her blood-stained hands as she stands to justify the murder of her mother, an act she feels righteously vindicated by the Oracle of Delphi. See what that image does for you at the top of the play. Don't wear a shirt or a bra underneath, but have pearls line your neck, slick your hair back and light your cigarette as you speak to the interrogators. Do not wear a leather jacket and a mini skirt because, although you are sexual, you are not a two-bit prostitute...You are royalty!
Thank you. That is what I thought.
Inversely, on my off-days, Oran talks to me of his grand architectural constructions; fjords and concentric circles. My response to these feats of architectural acrobatics is: "Where's the heart of that bullshit?" or "It's pretty so put it in a museum because no actor can walk on that."
Sometimes he laughs; other times the phone goes dead.
What can I say? There goes the price of democracy: there's no true collaboration without respect for genuine confrontation. Being heard, that's where the money's at, ultimately. Isn't it?
