Interfusions. Revitalizing through Embodiment. The creative process in theatre inspired by space / a mobile object

As part of the appendix to my diploma project, I reflect on the relationship between cooking and creating. Particularly important to me is the question of edibility and the sensuality of words.

One of the questions I pose in the project is: how can one create an apron for different women writers, taking into account not the subject matter, but the manner of writing (rhythm, structure, etc.)? An important impulse was the discovery and juxtaposition of two images—a woman cooking and a woman painting.

I consider whether, if different people were to describe an apron for cooking words, it would be possible to “dress” the writing process; whether writing itself can take on the character of cooking; whether it is a process that is bodily, sensual, and movement-based.

I am particularly interested in the relationship between researcher/translator and writer/poet, in which we are in fact dealing with two aprons (research work is also a creative act, which likewise requires putting on an apron for cooking/preparing words).

As part of the project, I collect descriptions of aprons from researchers, translators, and people engaged with literature, and present them in the form of an anthology, while also searching for a visual framework (visual essay / video essay / performance).

Nine researchers/translators have been invited to the project, including Małgorzata Łukasiewicz, Lucyna Marzec, and Joanna Lisek.

The invited participants responded, among others, to the following questions. In describing an apron for a specific writer, I am interested in several aspects:

The visuality of the apron, together with the reasoning behind its form (e.g. it has pockets in which commas are hidden; its texture is rough; it wipes off unnecessary adjectives, etc.).
Example questions:
Is it long/short/voluminous/narrow/loose/tight/tapered, etc.?
Does it have sleeves? If so, are they long/loose/puffed/with cuffs, etc.?
Does it have pockets—what kind/how many/where are they placed?
Is it tied, slipped on, or inscribed?
Color, texture, structure.

Movement — the process of preparing words.
Example questions:
With what kind of movements are words taken out/prepared (quick/precise/clumsy/disordered, etc.)?
Are tools or vessels used? What are these vessels?
How are the words prepared (cut/washed/peeled/stretched/rolled, etc.)?
Are the words tasted during preparation?
Are spices used—and what are they?

The process of serving words.
Example questions:
How are the words arranged once prepared?
What do they taste like?
What is her relationship to the words after preparation?
Does she take off the apron after cooking?

These questions do not need to be followed directly—they serve rather to illustrate a way of thinking that interests me.

Edyta Stachewicz on Annie Ernaux

Her apron is short and narrow, without sleeves or any unnecessary embellishments, with a smooth texture—just like her writing style, characterized by economy, a pursuit of simplicity, and universalization. Yet her prose is only seemingly devoid of emotion—these are hidden in deep pockets, waiting to be taken out and inserted between the lines, where they await attentive readers.

The apron’s color is very intense—a deep, saturated red that draws attention and does not allow the gaze to drift away. The artist is uncompromising in her work and communicates directly what is important to her.

Ernaux pulls out words with a decisive gesture, then examines them carefully against the light, turning them over, considering whether they are appropriate. She washes them under a warm stream of water, cleansing them of what is unnecessary—what might blur the image or render the message imprecise. She peels them, revealing successive layers of meaning, and then cuts them. She does this slowly and precisely, consistently continuing the process until she is certain they have the exact shape she intended. Some words she rolls out, so that they expand in scope—so that they can describe more. Throughout the process, she continually controls the result by tasting and smelling the prepared words.

Finally, she places the finished words directly onto plates, in small portions. They taste distinct, even though they are only lightly seasoned—as if she draws out their inherent potential. She does not remove her apron, as she sees being a cook of words as an ongoing vocation—the process of cooking never truly ends. Words must be gathered from everyday life, caught from more or less accidental utterances and conversations, and one must remain open to the surrounding world so that new words may be born within her.

Sandra Piełot on Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson puts on an apron. She wraps herself in a floral fabric of words, stained with the colorful crayons of the meter of children’s verses. The apron has no sleeves; its cut is relatively simple—cut from the same pattern as her poetry. In its large pockets, she hides a handful of unprecedented and surprising punctuation, mixed with a collection of capital letters that she so likes to place in unexpected positions.

The apron is short, like her stanzas. Its edges are unfinished, as if cut with the sharp blade of a sarcastic punchline. Dashes scatter across the floor. Dickinson begins to cook.