|An Image from Exhibit B|
I do, however, have some knowledge of Brett Bailey as an artist, and of the company he leads - Third World Bunfight. I saw their production of Big Dada (dealing, comically and disturbingly, with Idi Amin), and the truly astonishing celebration of spirituality and anarchy that was iMumbo Jumbo. I have read the other plays and commentaries in Bailey's book, The Plays of Miracle and Wonder. Only last week, I saw his stunning re-imagining of Verdi's Macbeth at the Barbican - a production which uses two icons of European culture (Shakespeare and opera) to address the ongoing neo-colonial incursions into Africa, and to represent the horrific conflicts in the Democratic Republic of Congo as the direct result of imperial history and current Western rapacity. In this Macbeth, the witches are the forces of international capital, offering material rewards to the nascent dictator in return for purchase on the natural wealth of the land - above all the coltan used in phones and computers. I have spent valuable and productive time in the company of Brett Bailey, and that of Abey Xakwe (a frequent leading performer with Bunfight), discussing these productions in relation to the wider cultural and political discourse. We've talked about my own work too. We've swapped the occasional email. We don't know each other well - but I recognise a fellow traveller on the rocky road of a politically and spiritually engaged intercultural theatre when I see one. So, whatever else might be said about Exhibit B (and, as I say, I haven't seen it) - it will have been a considered and serious piece of work. It will most certainly not have been the sensationalist and self-promoting circus that its detractors have portrayed.
But the detractors suggest that the presentation of such images, even in an artistic context, is inherently racist. Their argument seems to be that representing the human zoo is equivalent to being the human zoo. And that is deeply problematic. Because if we are to equate the artistic representation of something with its actuality, then we are not able to deal with anything in art beyond flowers and teddy bears. I don't honestly think that the people who oppose Exhibit B believe this. The controversy has tended to couple their reaction to the "human zoo" with the fact that Brett Bailey is a white South African - and I suspect that this may be the more important strand. Who represents? Who has the right to represent? Who is being addressed in that representation? These seem to me to be the underlying issues. Perhaps what is genuinely discomforting about Exhibit B is that the perceived hierarchy of white director and black performers could be seen to perpetuate racial hierarchies and divisions - particularly if the audience is also predominantly white (and, at Macbeth last week, it was). After all, Twelve Years a Slave was very graphic in its representation of slavery and racial violence, but nobody called for the film to be banned. But this was the work of a black director. There's a good (and by no means uncritical) essay about this aspect of Bailey's exhibits by Nathanael M. Vlachos - click here. A key point that Vlachos makes is that the black performers look out of the tableaux at the audience with great intensity, deliberately inverting and subverting the conventional gaze. It is the white spectator who is "on view" and made the object of scrutiny in this work.
I acknowledge the problem of "the white director". Indeed, I live with it on a daily basis. I accept that the horrors of colonial history and the neo-colonial present will have a different emotional impact on those people whose ancestors were slaves from those whose ancestors were slave-owners. But that does not mean that only black people can talk about this. Indeed, I would argue that it makes it essential that everybody talks about it, and that the conversation is had between races and cultures, so as to find a way of dealing with this divisive history and jointly exploring a way to move forward. To bar any one group of artists from engaging with such subjects on the grounds of their ethnic origin seems to me far more problematic than anything they might or might not say.
While I, and the rest of the London audience, have been denied the opportunity to see this work and engage with it directly, I do know a number of people who saw it in Edinburgh. Lyn Gardner's response is worth a look... So is Amy Bonsall's. Dione Joseph, who critiques performance from a non-white perspective, was disturbed by the piece, and particularly by the element of silence. She did not like the fact that nobody spoke - either performers or audience. Not having experienced it, I'm unsure: the silence might perhaps give a sense of black performers and critical audiences being silenced - it might equally create a powerful metaphor of oppression and a space for deep personal contemplation, even for mourning. What I can say with certainty is this: that on this occasion, the voices that shout loudest have been allowed to triumph, and have silenced both artistic expression and critical response. It suggests that, in a world dominated by the media clamour, there is no space for that silence that is far more profound than noise.