But what does any of that mean in terms of an aesthetic...
For me, I think it means things happen gradually; things build and suddenly overwhelm. We ask ourselves: have the lights gotten unnaturally bright? Is that color the same as it's been, or has it changed? Were those stars there all along, or have they only just now appeared?
We discussed this briefly--I think I mentioned my inclination towards changes in light or color or space that sneak up on an audience, and suddenly make them wonder if something's actually changed or they're just imagining it. My friend today was describing a production she saw in London, during which she started to notice that a table that had appeared normal had started to seem as if it was tilted at an odd angle. And in fact it was, ever so slightly, angling up and up until suddenly a book on its surface slid to the floor. This seems like a physical, visual manifestation of the over-full silence.
I wonder about angled surfaces, that mean two characters may start off on the same level, but in moving away end up on different planes.
Taibi mentioned that perhaps Luis and Fran are within physical reach of each other. I quite like this. Does the light hitting one inevitably hit the other? Do we wonder whether we're supposed to be able to see Luis or not? Are there windows? How do we create a wall through which it is possible to pass in many ways?
Are their spaces actually interwoven?
What about the distinctiveness of light at different times of day?
How do we create the feel of the magic door? And how is it different from the other little door through which Enrique passes? Can we make all our doors out of light? It seems important that there are not just many places from which to enter and to exit but that each mode of entry exit is distinct (ie, the rope ladder, the staircase, the little door, the window, the airshaft, etc). How do we maintain the feeling of this?
Gray seems important, but not an ugly gray--a pearl gray, or gray stockings. Red seems important.
For me, I think it means things happen gradually; things build and suddenly overwhelm. We ask ourselves: have the lights gotten unnaturally bright? Is that color the same as it's been, or has it changed? Were those stars there all along, or have they only just now appeared?
We discussed this briefly--I think I mentioned my inclination towards changes in light or color or space that sneak up on an audience, and suddenly make them wonder if something's actually changed or they're just imagining it. My friend today was describing a production she saw in London, during which she started to notice that a table that had appeared normal had started to seem as if it was tilted at an odd angle. And in fact it was, ever so slightly, angling up and up until suddenly a book on its surface slid to the floor. This seems like a physical, visual manifestation of the over-full silence.
I wonder about angled surfaces, that mean two characters may start off on the same level, but in moving away end up on different planes.
Taibi mentioned that perhaps Luis and Fran are within physical reach of each other. I quite like this. Does the light hitting one inevitably hit the other? Do we wonder whether we're supposed to be able to see Luis or not? Are there windows? How do we create a wall through which it is possible to pass in many ways?
Are their spaces actually interwoven?
What about the distinctiveness of light at different times of day?
How do we create the feel of the magic door? And how is it different from the other little door through which Enrique passes? Can we make all our doors out of light? It seems important that there are not just many places from which to enter and to exit but that each mode of entry exit is distinct (ie, the rope ladder, the staircase, the little door, the window, the airshaft, etc). How do we maintain the feeling of this?
Gray seems important, but not an ugly gray--a pearl gray, or gray stockings. Red seems important.
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