I was speaking to my wife today about reading plays and giving comments and criticism. "You don't like when I give you feedback, do you?" she asked. In truth, I love when my wife gives me feedback. However, when I ask for feedback, I'm often looking for something deep... I couldn't find the words to describe it.
Then, I remembered the alethiometer, better known as The Golden Compass in the His Dark Materials Trilogy by Philip Pullman. The name comes from "alètheia," Greek for "Truth." So, in essence, it's a measurer of truth. Here's a description of the device from the novel:
"It was very like a clock, or a compass, for there were hands pointing to places around the dial, but instead of the hours or the points of the compass there were several little pictures, each of them painted with extraordinary precision... There was an anchor; an hourglass surmounted by a skull; a bull, a beehive... Thirty-six altogether... There were three little knurled winding-wheels... and each of them turned one of the three shorter hands... You could arrange them to point at any of the pictures... The fourth hand was longer and more slender, and seemed to be made of a duller metal than the other three. Lyra couldn't control its movement at all; it swung where it wanted to, like a compass-needle, except that it didn't settle."
Okay, what does this have to do with reading/seeing a play? I'm getting to that. In order to get into it, I have to expand on the thought of reading the alethiometer itself. You ask the device a question, maneuvering the three knobs to point the hands to different symbols. Then, the answer comes from the fourth hand as it whips and spins to different symbols, giving the answer. Each symbol "stands for a whole series of things. Take the anchor, there. The first meaning of that is hope, because hope holds you fast like an anchor so you don't give way. The second meaning is steadfastness. The third meaning is snag, or prevention. The fourth meaning is the sea. And so on, down to ten, twelve, maybe a never-ending series of meanings..."
But it's not just the symbols that create the answer; it's also the frame of mind of the reader that helps the answer come to light. You have to be able to hold all the symbols in your mind and then see down to the depths, through all the levels of meaning behind each symbol. The books describe this as an almost trance-like state of mind.
I believe that plays are, themselves, alethiometers, each with their own "symbols" and levels of meaning to be interpreted and understood. Some are able to reach an understanding through intellectual means, research and the like. Some come to understand meaning in a more intuitive way. When I came to this realization, I was able to tell my wife that I respect her feedback, but now see that when I ask for her it, I expect her to immediately see to the very deepest level of understanding of my plays, and become impatient when she can only see the surface meanings at first. I need to cultivate patience to let her catch up.
Melanie Marnich once said that a play begins when a question is asked and ends when the question is answered. I agree, but the answer a play comes to shouldn't be simple, shouldn't be given in a happy package. The question should lead you into the murky depths of perception and understanding. The answer won't be clear. As in reading the alethiometer, you have to actively engage in it if you are to witness the flash of epiphany, the gust of comprehension that quickly and almost imperceptibly flows through your mind.
What do you think of this?
Subscribe To
Posts
Comments
1 comment:
Hey Chris!
Reading about this, I'm struck by a number of things:
I really like the idea of the alethiometer, especially how the fourth hand doesn't stop moving. The answer is always changing. And, the fact tha you have to set the first three hands to symbols, which, as you said, have all these layers of meaning. So, then, does the question itself have a whole "never-ending series of meanings" as well?
One thing that always frustrated me at the Coe Writing Center was, when I took in a piece of writing, I set my compass at certain symbols. And the consultant looked at the compass and came up with the fourth symbol, based on what they thought my compass symbols meant. But, sometimes (often?), our interpretations of the symbols were different, so they would end up giving me answers to questions I hadn't asked. I wanted to know what they thought of the validity of my argument; they told me why Dr. Burke wouldn't give me an A. Or vice versa.
Their answers, and the "confersations" were good, often great and helpful and interesting in their own right. But, I would still come away with some of my own questions, as well as more questions about how others would read the piece.
I've gotten myself a little too deep into the metaphor, but I think what I mean to say is this: maybe the compass settings/questions we ask have as many layers of meaning as the answers we get. How do we more accurately set the compass to receive the more true or more accurate answers we are looking for? For example, and not to pick on you, but it's the example in your entry: is there a way to ask your wife (I won't use her name here since you don't)for a more specific form of feedback so that you can get the type of answer you are looking for? Not to just hear what you may want to hear about it, but her real perceptions about the exact things you have questions about?
Another thing that comes to mind is that with a play (for most people, a one time performance with a multitude of variables, and no chance to go back/re-experience the moment), the answer may be different for each person who views it, at each moment they view it. How does a playwright, especially (although the question could be asked of any artist, really), make certain each person's answer is the same, or similar? If you write a play and set those hands to symbols with your own meanings, how do you ever get your specific answer to the viewer? Or, is that not the point at all? Is the whole point that you set the alethiometer and write to answer your own question, and then let go, and then each viewer picks up your alethiometer with their admission ticket, and find an answer of their own (perhaps from a question of their own -- we never know how people choose to attend a play or pick up a certain book, or open up a book of poetry to a certain page)?
Wow. That was a lot. Let me know what you think. Email or Facebook me. Or use this for your next entry.
And, hey, Chris! What's going on?
Kate
Post a Comment