Where audience becomes performance

Just check the News & Notes people tell me; it’s all there. And indeed it is. A couple weeks ago, through a series of fortunate events, an auspicious acquaintance and a couple brilliant cheerleaders, I relocated to Auroville for a while. Somewhere on the wide scale between feeling nomadic and remarkably at home, but mostly eager to meet my neighbours – naturally, I turned to the local cultural events calendar to discover the idiosyncratic essence of the town. With its interior communities linked only by esoteric knowledge of the dirt roads and a few road signs, I learned quickly that this place doesn’t invite spontaneous, ignorant exploration. News & Notes has assumed an important place in my morning ritual: a cup of tea and a quick skim for the night’s events. After the Lost and Found, general announcements and taxi shares, is a trove of invitations – a film, a concert, a theatre performance – and for all of these there is always, always an eager audience. The evolving calendar has a diverse assortment, too. In just two weeks: two festivals, a baroque concert, a rock show, art exhibitions, a multitude of events for The Mother’s birthday, a world dance event…

During my third week in Auroville I was tasked with writing about a cultural event, thinking that, surely, each performance or exhibition must be admired in conjunction with the others, I set out to discover thematic similarities among the sampling.

Often seduced by one element in particular – the audience – I found myself watching the viewers nearly as much as the performers. The receptivity and collaboration – the fluid and willing exchange that took place between those on stage and those in the audience – was almost as engaging as the show itself.

At the rock concert at the Kalabhumi Arena, three sounds competed for the night: a familiar refrain from the Grateful Dead; shouts and cheers from a receptive crowd; the intermittent roaring of motorcycles as last minute concert goers arrive to catch up with the chorus. Father and son duo, Armando and Dhani, joined by Auroville friends, begin to play iconic classic rock songs from the Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, The Police, The Beatles. A false start that could have been disheartening anywhere else – a power shortage shuts off the mike and lights – becomes a brief interlude for audience participation as a headlight is procured from the crowd for the lead singer, and flashlights become strobes that illuminate the band. The audience is clapping, and Armando, Dhani and company don’t miss a beat as the music plugs back in, the Grateful Dead are alive again, and the lights turn on.

Behind me, the steps of the amphitheater are lined with enormous diversity – multigenerational, multi-lingual and international local families, visitors, volunteers and friends. The usual crowd in Auroville, I suspect, but remarkable nonetheless. There are no language barriers here – especially not when Clapton is involved. People have arrived without agenda or expectation; instead, an enthusiastic audience offers up their undivided attention. Representatives of all ages and backgrounds form a colorful and lively crowd that even jaded New York eyes can appreciate. The man sitting behind me on the steps – I saw him playing jazz the other night – hops on stage two songs later to play the guitar. The woman next to me just a moment ago – the one who was singing along – she’s onstage now belting out Cream. The division between audience and performer grows ever more narrow – several “great Aurovilians” are invited up to play – as men and women take turns with the mike. In return, those that remain on the steps receive a show that bids the cathartic dance party, which has been itching in our spines, our feet, our hands all night. It’s getting late and the crowd has thinned – parents have left to tuck young children into bed – and the sandals come off and everyone is dancing, kicking up dust and shouting lyrics.

Two nights later at the Lively Up Your Earth Festival at Solitude Farm, a woman performs a sound check at the Secret Garden stage. A moment ago she was standing a few feet away from the stage, strumming her ukulele and joking with friends. Her puns begin to pick up speed, turning into song, and the decibel level of her voice climbs. I see her glance over at a friend and I talking – so far, her only audience – mischievously. “I don’t mean to be rude,” she sings at us, “but this is an interlude.” Thus begins her tangential monologue as she meanders onto the stage with her ukulele. “This instrument is just a prop!” she announces. She’s hilarious. “Sound check, sound check. Hello! I’d like to introduce myself: my name is Anushka. Traveling from Bangalore, at the airport I said, ‘nothing to declare! Just my crazy hair.’” A stream of conscious comedic rhyme follows, and I watch her audience expand behind us. A few friends hurry to the stage as back up singers and a synthesizer player. I’ve forgotten that this wasn’t meant to be an act; just a sound check. People in the audience are laughing and Anushka is urged to carry on until the sound crew kicks her off stage – her jokes feeding off our energy. She stumbles; she tells us she’s never performed before. She carries on. What’s remarkable in this moment? No one has expected this show, especially not Anushka. The atmosphere encourages and nurtures such experimentation. I can’t imagine a stage allowing such antics back home, not even in my small town – too much could go wrong. And comedy is decidedly the hardest act to pull off successfully, the fastest way to turn off a crowd. I ran into Anushka later in the day and asked what she thought of her own performance: “I couldn’t have done this anywhere else in the world. My first time on stage!”

Last weekend’s Hibiscus Festival: a man and woman were playing a Serbian folk song when I sat down. The sun is still high in the sky; the familiar sound of popcorn popping starts up. It’s early, so we sit back in our chairs as people begin to trickle in. Not long now until we’ll be on our feet. We’re tucked in the trees with hibiscus and lights strung over our heads. I hear French, English, Tamil, Spanish, Russian…As the sun makes its descent, the performers swap out in merry progression. Each act is in a new language; new instruments are introduced. I watch as sticks and logs are thrown in a great heap to the side – preparation for a bonfire – also waiting for night to come. Children, little exhibitionists and always the first to dance, are on their feet stomping, clapping and twirling between the informal stage and the seated audience in a prelude to the night. We watch a hybrid-Odissi dance, and later hear French folk songs during which a man with a flute from stage jumps right in. Then there is chanting and the crowd grows tighter and closer. The smell of crepes cooking behind us, and the darkening sky above us, is intimate and familiar. “Om namah shivaya…” we chant. The beat picks up again, someone pulls out a guitar, chairs are pushed aside, and the dancing starts. There’s no time to be self-conscious or timid as the mass of bodies stomp and shimmy to the beat. Conversation has all but stopped now that the outliers have jumped in. Next, the jam session. Who’s watching? There is no longer an audience and a performer – we are one.

The week of festivals culminates with a dance exhibition at the Unity Pavilion showcasing dancers from all around the globe performing Odissi, Bollywood, Tribal Fusion Belly Dance and Flamenco, to name a few. The audience – seated on pillows and chairs, leaning against walls – watches as nearly the entire world dances across the stage. After tea, for those of us still remaining, a dance class in Odissi and Bollywood begins. We learn the mudras of the Odissi dance and how to shake our hips Bollywood style. I step back from my dance class to survey the scene: as the audience becomes more confident in their arm movements and facial expressions (a crucial element of Bollywood dance) it becomes clear that there is more than just an eagerness from the viewers to participate and share their support, but that a sense of trust has been established between the teacher (once the performer) and the dancer (once the audience). What was witnessed on stage is now deconstructed, and the viewer has finally stepped across the very distinct boundary from audience to performance altogether.

Perhaps the performers aren’t always perfect – they hit a flat note, they forget the lyrics – but far more importantly, tolerance, warmth and honest interest and support from the audience never waivers. Collaboration is held to a high standard here since in Auroville it seems that the quality of the performance is gauged not on the flawlessness of the performer and an effusive write-up from a critic, but rather the response from the audience.

Back at the Armando and Dhani rock concert: “Play Led Zeppelin!” someone shouts. “Yeah! Play some Zeppelin!” repeats an echo. And we dance. The performers look tired, ready to end the night, but the audience is only getting started. We coax more songs out of them; the energy picks up speed, a friend is called back to the stage from the audience before, finally, the dénouement. The night closes with The Beatles. We yell goodbye, then scooters and motorcycles kick to a roar and the audience disperses into the pitch-black night. There is silence at Kalabhumi once more; but we’ll be back.