The Storm We Made
At a performance full of humans doing eye-popping things with their bodies, the most memorable moment was a man with an umbrella standing on a box.
The preceding acts included humans bending their bodies in inconceivable ways, holding other people aloft while they balanced on parts far too small. They threw hats, juggled pins, and hurled boomerangs aloft without apparent effort.
So maybe the man standing on the box stood out because because it was the only skit where we were an integral part of what was happening onstage; beyond the normal bits of gasping, clapping, and watching. What he did was this.
He mimed to us that we were to clap when he held his hand high, and to snap when he held his hand to the side, and to slap our thighs when he held his hand down. He taught us this using gestures and expressions but no words. I think that’s why it worked, because without sound as our guide, we had to pay closer attention. Also, the lack of words made our noises – the clapping, snapping, slapping – all the more resonant.
After we had learned all the signals, he stepped onto the box and flourished a conductor’s wand. We tittered and giggled, the kind of noises made when you’re expected to do something but you’re uncertain of the upcoming demand. He signaled us again, going through each in a simple combination. Then, he directed us applaud for ourselves, which we did with growing confidence.
“The lack of words made our noises – the clapping, snapping, slapping – all the more resonant. ”
Then, he reached behind the box, unfurled an umbrella, held it over his head. He signaled us to slap our hands on our knees, then snap, then clap. His reactions allowed us to slowly realize that we were the rain. Our three patterns of movement sounded exactly like the phases of a thunderstorm. This understanding was helped by the way he held the umbrella tighter and mimed a downpour as we were clapping, and then put it away as we slapped our thighs. I didn’t even have to close my eyes to feel like I was walking down a street as the storm died away. I expected to reach up and feel wet hair on my head. I expected to change my socks when I got home.
After ramping us up and down, as storms do also, he motioned for us to stop as conductors do. Although I am not a musician and I imagine most of the audience wasn’t either, it was a gesture universally understood. He bowed to us, and we clapped heartily for ourselves. We created a storm of appreciation for the collective art we had just made. He stepped off the box and walked jauntily offstage.
It was the simple act of making a two minute piece of music and setting a scene with no instruments, talent, or anything other than our own hands, legs and bodies that was the most affecting. We were the percussion that transformed into a rainstorm with nothing more than our hands and our imaginations. We were the music and we were the scene. We made an auditorium into a rainy street.
We had made our work of art, him and the hundreds of other people in the theater. And we had done it without uttering a single solitary word.