The Phrenological Journal & Haunted Typebox Blog

The picture within the theatre within the plan.

One of the many areas of study most interesting to the M.U.E. is the study of theatrical scenes presented in architectural plans of theatre buildings. Though seen as trivial by students of architecture, these theatrical ’scenes’ are as worthy of study as the plans themselves. After all, the architecture of a theatrical building is dependent upon quotidian matters such as space considerations, as well as requirements of use. The theatrical scene, while seemingly arbitrary, is not. This freedom grants it the position of cypher. To view a plan of Halle’s Stadttheatre, for instance, we are shown its passageways, its exits, its basement—I see I’ve lost you already!

Shift your view. Zoom in on proscenium. The curtains are parted. There are no actors (so is it really a theatre?) but rather a second frame. Is this a tableau vivant? No, this is a ‘real’ picture, a picture inside a proscenium, inside the set of a plan for a theatre. We think of Hamlet’s Mousetrap. And what does this picture—this inner picture—show us? A trio of figures presides above a faint cityscape, obscured as if by the smoke of battle. A building beset with columns is at (stage) left, something like a minaret is at (stage) right. Below we see figures with raised swords. The moment feels arrested in time. Are we seeing an annunciation, the halting of some terrible conflict? Do the figures on the ground raise their weapons in vain at attackers from above? Are these avenging valkyries, or angels granting salvation?

The theatre will not tell us, but maybe history (oh, theatre of theatres!) may give us the clue. Would this latter supposition not be played out some fifty years later in the allied bombing of Germany, an event that would alter this very theatre? Are not all our futures inscribed in the dramas we create today?

I was three different people to three completely different people, all within about three and a half hours. Each case of mistaken identity was in a slightly different and rather distinct mode, from the most banal (a wrong number) to the most fantastic (a woman asking, in all earnestness, if I was the scientist she was supposed to be meeting). The other one also bears mention, a man remarking how much I’d changed, only to find out that I wasn’t the changed man he thought I was. Maybe this one is my favorite—from a truly existential perspective. It’s true that I’m not the man I used to be; so he was really right, even if he was wrong about who I was.

Much like when my online bank suggests that I am not Kent, these cases suggest a possibility of bifurcating realities. Or at least simulate that moment we know from certain fictions (by Graham Greene, Rod Serling, and others). And it’s exciting and it’s an open question: why I am not these people (which recalls the opening lines from ‘Wings of Desire).

A brave man might pretend to be those other people. I love a good charade as much as the next person, but I can’t really go that far. I fear the moment of discovery. But I love the moment where I get to imagine that I am that pretender. This is another identity, not mine, not the mistaken one, but the one who can assume these identities. That’s the brave one. Still, who has the knowledge to do that? If I could fein the scientific knowledge, wouldn’t I be the scientist?

I’m talking myself down a messy spiral. I simply want to end on this question: What if we could be those people that other people sometimes mistake us to be? It’s a beautiful and terrifying thought.

I am still watching American Idol, I’m just not really talking about it much. But here’s the lesson that I’m learning from AI: self-concept is key. The Idol contestants who are succeeding have a sense of themselves, of how people perceive them, of how they can maintain and expand their identities. It’s a good lesson for everyone—know yourself, or at least be aware what your product is. Then sell it. Being a good—or quirky—singer isn’t enough.

And now, how about those books?

Sometimes it’s a cycloptic picnic table.

Consider this a lost and terrifying telegram.

One of the main tenants of the Museum of Unexceptional Ephemera is that we discover who we are through the examination of crowds. This photo, long thought lost from our collection, provides the perfect illustration. Much like the Coprus Christi postcard of 1907, the photograph of the US Army Entering Vladivostok shows us what can be gained from close examination of the spectator—even as the photo’s supposed subject commands importance.

We ignore the soldiers marching down the thoroughfare (heroes that they are!), and the flanking column of Navy on the left, and civilians on the right. No, our subject is a group of individuals standing between the foot soldiers and the sailors. We may be inclined to think that the straw boater worn by the gentleman on the right is what should demand our attention, this vacationer amongst the liberators. We might also be inclined to draw an association with the aforementioned Corpus Christi postcard. 

Another man wears a fedora and a white coat. He wears a kind of shoulder strap. Comander? Politician? It’s doubtful. He does not have the military posture. No, he is more likely a journalist, the observer. We imagine a camera on his chest. As if he is capturing the moment, just as he is being captured, just as Vladivostok is being captured.

Whether they journalists or pleasure seekers, we are reminded of the visibility of the observer, that even when we watch, we too our watched. And even you, observer of this photo, is there not someone observing you?

Poor Ophelia, that she should go mad for Hamlet’s actions. If he’s not mad, but she goes mad for his choices, it’s a sorry outcome.

That Hamlet should see the sacrifice of many, for a poor trifle of land, as justification for his own murderous actions, well that makes more sense.

That I should be acquiring two-dollar copies of Hamlets at used bookstores, stuffing them up in my closet—there’s a tragedy!

Until now, I’ve never read Hamlet. Not entirely, not specifically. I am 32 years old, close to the age of Jesus when crucified (supposedly 33). He never read Hamlet either. But he had an excuse. If he exists, we can assume he’s read it now. He’s had enough time. By that measure, I’m not doing so bad.

If I’d taken those advance placement English classes, I would have read it. But at some point I made the foolish decision that to be writer, you should take writing classes. That I made it through high school and college without reading of the Danish Price, is evidence of a failure. But most probably with me. That I took four semesters of drama (five if you count junior college) without reading Hamlet, that’s something else: drama classes are based on scenes and monologues.

To say it plainly: I never read ‘Hamlet’. Never. After a while you just pretend, since the play is so much a part of us. It’s like saying that you have no DNA. So I make schoolboy errors in my reading today. And yet, missing ‘Hamlet’ is not the greatest of my youthful regrets. Yet, if I’d read the play, it probably would have given me an idea of how much my indecision would haunt me (Holden Caulfield was then my god).

Just today, the King has learned that his step-son was captured by pirates. I could rush the end, but I savour my endings. Plays unfold either in your head or on the stage. Even if all my observations are obvious—or even worse, wrong—they are honest. Plus, I have other ideas.