Diary of a Bridge: part 3. LAB in France

You have to get lost before you can be found.

We arrive in St. Sorlin de Morestel on April 6th with expectations and questions. Most of

them center around: What will our show look like?

This sounds like a simple question with a simple answer. It is not. It is a nonlinear,

labyrinthine process that takes us from a point to another point, and perhaps back two steps,

and then forward again, in order to arrive at a theatrical product that we will (hopefully) all be

happy and confident with.

Whether we plan to or not, we jump into this labyrinth and begin to negotiate its twists and

turns.

Twice during our stay I realize I am having a completely circular conversation with someone

in which we are both repeating the same thing over and over without making any progress.

The English language is not helping us but instead creating an infinite loop that traps us in

noncommunication. I read a Guardian article on my way home where an English man talks

about the adventures he’s had traveling the world and how he spent an entire day on a train

with a group of Russian men, drinking vodka and partying without either party understanding

a word the other was saying. Sometimes speaking the same language gives us the illusion

of communicating, where perhaps we are not on the same page at all.

I am grateful for these moments of confusion, grateful for this being lost that reminds me that

we are all superheroes with secret identities that are in fact our other languages and

cultures. I love hearing Peter, Vid and Juš speak Slovenian amongst themselves, love

hearing Brigi and Lucka speak Hungarian, both languages that I have no knowledge of; just

to relish in the unfamiliar sounds, to let them wash over me and be spared the responsibility

of having to decipher them.

One day before dinner we take a walk into what I think was once la Forêt de la Dame, a

steep patch of forest between fields of farmed land (fiercely yellow-flowered fields of canola

seem to abound here) where I also find an old lavandou, or laundry by a stream.

I tell the others I can show them a nice path, then of course I get all of us lost by not

following my app correctly. Of course, we are soon found again thanks to our phones, but

they get their shoes muddy and I end up in the middle of the woods, tearing through thorns

and brambles to try to get back to the path, which I can see on my app but not with my eyes.

When I do get back, I have no time for the run that I was intending, but the experience of

being temporarily lost in the woods is good enough. You look closer at things when you are

lost. Your senses are heightened and you are hyper aware, looking out for signals that will

get you back.

This same sort of careful awareness accompanies our work. We are mostly unfamiliar with

each other, careful about the territory, perhaps anxious about the product. And so being lost

for a few days gets us found again. We spend the last day trying out different show

structures, defining the different blocks, telling each other what we like and don’t like in a

way that feels both respectful and democratic. It seems like the group is become more cohesive, that everyone is feeling closer and also more free to express themselves as a

result of our discussions and practical work.

This is definitely farm country: we see cows walk from their stables to pasture in the morning

and back in the evening. Our host at the Domaine learns I am Italian and love cinema, a few

minutes later, puts on Il Gattopardo, an Italian cinema classic, for me in the small private

cinema on the ground floor. How lovely, to be able to communicate through these images,

these lines, this music, that I have seen so many times before at home. It makes me feel

welcome.

We learn an additional language, soundpainting, that is highly confusing for Ophélie due to

her familiarity with French sign language and also very challenging for the rest of us. We

decide on a few signs that might be useful. We laugh together with Cedric at the fact that

English and French words are sometimes so close to each other but also pronounced so

differently (“How do you say défaut in English? Intention? Action?”)

Every time Cédric or Morgane apologize for the imperfection of their English, I think that we

should never fixate on the limits of our language technique, but rather celebrate the fact that

we have secret superhero identities: we are already branching out, trying to expand our

arsenal of communication techniques. Most of all, we are exposing ourselves to new

languages and new experiences, encouraging our brain to grow new grooves.

On the final night I spend an hour or so outdoors, getting very cold and damp as I download

a new app to figure out what stars I am seeing in the clear patch of sky above the terrace

where we have dinner and are treated to wondrously colorful sunsets. I find out that I am

looking at Gemini (Castor and Pollux) and Auriga (the charioteer), which I have never seen

in the sky, probably because it is most visible in our hemisphere in February and March (not

the best months for being outdoors at night). These stars turn from a source of confusion to

a new point of reference. I am freezing but I also feel I have somehow invested in the future,

gained something that will serve me further on.

Getting lost and then getting found again means gaining a new familiarity with the terrain, a

new map for the next time you are away from home.♦

-- Ollie Rasini

Lost

by David Wagoner

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you

Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,

And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,

Must ask permission to know it and be known.

The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,

I have made this place around you.

If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.

No two trees are the same to Raven.

No two branches are the same to Wren.

If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,

You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows

Where you are. You must let it find you.