Jackson, S. - Professoring Performance - PDF

Today’s academic discourse is filled with the word “perform.
”
Nestled amongst a variety of prefixes and suffixes (re-, post-,
-ance, -ivity?), the term functions as a vehicle for a host of
contemporary inquiries. For students, artists, and scholars of
performance and theatre, this development is intriguing and
complex. By examining the history of theatre studies and related
institutions and by comparing the very different disciplinary
interpretations and developments that led to this engagement,
Professing Performance offers ways of placing performance theory
and performance studies in context. Shannon Jackson consid-
ers the connection amongst a range of performance forms such
as oratory, theatre, dance, and performance art and explores
performance as both a humanistic and technical field of educa-
tion. Throughout, she explores the institutional history of per-
formance in the US academy in order to revise current debates
around the role of the arts and humanities in higher education.
            is Associate Professor of Rhetoric and

of Theatre, Dance, and Performance Studies at University of
California, Berkeley. Her first book, Lines of Activity: Perfor-
mance, Historiography, Hull-House Domesticity, received hon-
ourable mention for the John Hope Franklin Prize at the
American Studies Association. She has also published in a
number of journals including The Drama Review, Theatre Jour-
nal, Text and Performance Quarterly, and The Journal of Dramatic
Theory and Criticism.
Professing Performance
Theatre in the Academy from Philology to Performativity
Theatre and Performance Theory
Series Editor
Tracy C. Davis, Northwestern University
Each volume in the Theatre and Performance Theory series introduces

a key issue about theatre’s role in culture. Specially written for students
and a wide readership, each book uses case studies to guide readers
into today’s pressing debates in theatre and performance studies. Topics
include contemporary theatrical practices; historiography; interdisci-
plinary approaches to making theatre; and the choices and consequences
of how theatre is studied, among other areas of investigation.
Books in the series

Jacky Bratton, New Readings in Theatre History
Tracy C. Davis and Thomas Postlewait (eds), Theatricality
Shannon Jackson, Professing Performance: theatre in the academy from
philology to performativity
Professing Performance
Theatre in the Academy from Philology
to Performativity
Shannon Jackson
         
The Pitt Building, Trumpington Street, Cambridge, United Kingdom
  
The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge, CB2 2RU, UK
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C Cambridge University Press 2004
This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception

and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements,
no reproduction of any part may take place without
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First published 2004

Reprinted 2006
Printed in the United Kingdom at the University Press, Cambridge
Typeface Plantin 10/12 pt. System LATEX 2ε []
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication data

Jackson, Shannon, 1967–
Professing performance: theatre in the academy from philology to
performativity / Shannon Jackson.
p. cm. – (Theatre and performance theory)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0 521 65189 1 – ISBN 0 521 65605 2 (pbk)
1. Performing arts – Study and teaching (Higher) 2. Performing arts.
I. Title. II. Series. .071
PN1576.J33 2004 791 1 – dc22 2003055729
ISBN 0 521 65189 1 hardback

ISBN 0 521 65605 2 paperback
For Michael
Contents
Acknowledgments page x
1 Discipline and performance: genealogy and

discontinuity 1
2 Institutions and performance: professing
performance in the early twentieth century 40
3 Culture and performance: structures of
dramatic feeling 79
4 Practice and performance: modernist paradoxes
and literalist legacies 109
5 History and performance: blurred genres and
the particularizing of the past 146
6 Identity and performance: racial performativity
and anti-racist theatre 176
Notes 220
Select bibliography 239
Index 248
ix
Acknowledgments
The idea for this project began, appropriately enough, during my

transition from graduate student to assistant professor. As it does
for most of us, the transition involved a change of institutions. It
was during that process that I became more acutely aware of the
institutional construction of knowledge and wanted some kind of
how-to manual. What I offer in this book turns out to be less of
a how-to; after all, the variety of institutions makes the idea
of a manual impossible. This book does, however, offer a way
of thinking about institutional variety. At base, Professing Per-
formance asks colleagues, scholars, and students to allow the
recognition of difference and contingency to structure our pro-
fessional and disciplinary lives. At a time when disciplinary wars
have hit the professing of performance with a certain amount of
virulence – resulting in self-righteous declarations, oppositions,
and exclusions that push the bounds of both collegiality and rea-
sonable argument – it seems important to learn to welcome in-
stitutional variation.
A number of individuals served as necessary interlocutors
at Northwestern, Harvard, and the University of California at
Berkeley (my three sites of employment) and at the symposia,
scholarly organizations, and other speaking engagements where
I have shared this material. For critiques, citations, patience,
and perspective during many manic conversations, I particularly
want to thank Phil Auslander, Sally Banes, Larry Buell, Judith
Butler, Charlotte Canning, Anne Cheng, Dwight Conquergood,
Marianne Constable, Elin Diamond, Jill Dolan, Harry Elam,
Marjorie Garber, Mark Griffith, Bill Handley, Barbara John-
son, Caren Kaplan, Loren Kruger, Jeff Masten, José Muñoz,
Peggy Phelan, Della Pollock, Martin Puchner, Joseph Roach,
Miryam Sas, Rebecca Schneider, Kaja Silverman, Eric Smoodin,
x
Acknowledgments xi
Anne Wagner, Lynn Wardley, Linda Williams, Stacy Wolf, and

William Worthen. Tracy Davis deserves particular thanks for
her detailed readings and generous stewardship. Vicki Cooper at
Cambridge University Press has been a model editor as well. My
research assisstants – Kristina Hagstrom, Laura Levin, and es-
pecially Renu Cappelli – were diligent and insightful up until the
very end. Parts of Chapters Two and Three were previously pub-
lished in The Drama Review and Modern Drama respectively, and
I am grateful to their editors for granting permission to reprint.
This book is dedicated to Michael Korcuska, the person with
whom I learned to face the personal and geographic hazards of
institutional transition and with whom I now happily share its
personal and geographic rewards.
1 Discipline and performance: genealogy
and discontinuity
“Differentiation is one strategy that disciplines employ to protect

themselves against incursion and self-doubt. But how about the
opposite strategy: emulation, imitation, envy?” Marjorie Garber1
“It is not easy to say something new.” Michel Foucault2
Coming to terms
“Isn’t ‘performativity’ the latest thing in ‘English’ theory?”
It was one of those over-determined moments in the life of a
theatre academic. I had been asked as a faculty member in an
English department to participate on a panel responding to a
production of the American Repertory Theatre. The question
came from a dramaturg – the in-house academic of the theatre
profession – as we ate dinner before the ART’s subscriber event.
The director of the production also sat at the table, looking
slightly amused.
“Yes, it’s actually pretty trendy,” I said, picking up my fork
and being fairly certain that neither of them really wanted to
hear about the trends.
“Perform-a-tivity,” repeated the director, and then once again,
“per-form-a-tiv-ity. That’s what they call it?”
“Yeah,” said the dramaturg, “I hear it alot.”
“So maybe I should start using that,” the director was laugh-
ing, “No, I’m sorry; I’m not a director. I’m a Performativity
Coordinator.”
We all laughed. I took another bite of food, hoping that the
conversation was finished.
“So what do . . . what does . . . they mean . . . that mean?” the
two asked one on top of each other.
1
2 Professing performance
I continued chewing. I swallowed.

“Well,” I began, dreading what would follow, “the concept of
‘performativity’ within literary studies is a reworking of the ideas
of this guy, J.L. Austin . . .”
This guy, this guy . . .?
“. . . and he was, well, a kind of philosopher called a speech act
theorist. He wrote a book called How to Do Things With Words . . .”
Did they want to hear this? I found myself staring at the table
while I talked.
“. . . and there he argued that words are not purely reflective . . .
that linguistic acts don’t simply reflect a world but that speech
actually has the power to make a world.”
Reductive but brief. I looked up and was somewhat comforted
to see that the two had been listening. The director nodded
casually and picked up his fork again.
“Oh,” he said, “you mean like theatre.”
This type of exchange is fairly familiar in theatre and per-
formance studies. In what follows, I want to work from similar
moments – as well as even more bizarre and friction-ridden ones –
in order to understand the varied forces that produce such con-
versations. At dinners, in deans’ offices, in department meetings,
at academic conferences, in office hours, in rehearsals, such in-
teractions testify to an awkward and emergent period in the study
and practice of theatre and performance. I happen to believe that
it is necessary both to analyze the dispositions that produce that
awkwardness as well as to embrace awkwardness as a condition of
emergence. The conversation is familiar in part because it incar-
nates the scholar-versus-artist divide that persistently shadows a
variety of disciplines in the humanities and arts. The provisional
resolution at the end of the conversation is perhaps less famil-
iar, entrenched as scholar/artist binaries are epistemologically,
professionally, even socially in delineating amongst those of us
who have decided to make performance a lifelong preoccupation.
Certainly other academic fields face similar theory/practice co-
nundrums and navigate internal divisions within themselves –
splits between sociologists and social workers, art historians, and
studio artists, political scientists and activists, literary scholars,
and “creative writers.” One of the tasks of this book will be to
trace how the link between scholars and artists has been alter-
nately disavowed and celebrated, touted and feared, re-termed
Discipline and performance 3
and re-organized – in institutional controversies, in “new” in-

tellectual frameworks, in genre debates, in curricula, in artistic
movements, in performance history itself.
There is more percolating in this exchange than scholar/artist
or theory/practice oppositions, however. When the dramaturg
asked about the trend of the word “performativity” in “English
theory,” he presumed that he was asking about a literary con-
cept with some bearing on, or interest in, his own world of the-
atre studies. The nature, indeed existence, of either that bearing
or that interest is still uncertain. P-words of various sorts –
couched amongst various prefixes and suffixes – circulate in the
contemporary academic discourse of various disciplines in the
humanities and social sciences. The specific intellectual roots of
performativity to which I referred are located within a genealogy
of speech-act theory, a philosophical school that distinguished
the performative from the constative function of language and
explored how certain types of speech (e.g. promises) enact their
world-creating power in the moment of utterance. Such an orien-
tation has tremendous implications for the discipline of theatre
studies, though the nature and direction of those implications
have been less well-developed and occasionally received with in-
difference from both literature and theatre scholars. The direc-
tor’s delightfully assured come-back in the phrase “like theatre”
would have been roundly contested by J.L. Austin himself who
argued against an alignment between speech-act theory and the-
atre, famously characterizing theatrical language as “hollow or
void” and as “parasitic upon its normal use.”3 As I explore in a
later chapter, Austin reproduced a neo-Platonic notion of deriva-
tiveness to add a kind of “anti-theatrical performativity” to the
long list of anti-theatrical prejudices that have vexed Western in-
tellectual history. For that reason, scholars within theatre and
performance studies have been as suspicious of the language of
performativity as they are intrigued by its theoretical potential.
At this point in the differently emergent and partially over-
lapping fields of theatre and performance studies, it is worth
trying to place the vocabularies, goals, assumptions, and objects
of inquiry of various critical schools in conversation with each
other. Any rapprochement requires some excavation, however,
especially of how hybrid intellectual histories get elided by the
sledge-hammer dichotomies and false consensuses that surround
certain keywords. The fact of the matter is that speech-act theory

is only one of the many disciplinary strains that contribute to the
intellectual ferment surrounding performance, even if it is the
orientation most emphasized in literary and rhetorical studies.
Scholars drawing from anthropology, sociology, art history, folk-
lore, and media studies have developed vocabularies of perfor-
mance to understand artifacts and events ranging from parades to
television, from story-telling to religious ceremonies. The aspects
of performance that these scholars emphasize can be quite differ-
ent; the theoretical models that they derive may be incompatible,
and even the reality principles that they assume may appear to
undermine each other. Scholarship looks uninteresting to some
when there is no abstraction, ungrounded to others when there is
no description, romantic when there is no consideration of struc-
ture, incomplete without an account of production, determinist
without a theory of agency, naive when it assumes a real historical
referent, apolitical when too theoretical, apolitical when it is not
theoretical enough. Such are the opportunities and hazards of
interdisciplinarity. Comparisons amongst different types of per-
formance discourse show this complexity and, more importantly,
encourage vigilance against various kinds of synecdochic fallacies
in cross-disciplinary inquiry – moments when scholars assume
that one body of texts adequately represents an entire field.
This book asks how and why all of these kinds of judgements
are made and what kinds of enabling illuminations and disen-
abling blindspots they produce. While my argument develops
differently over the course of each chapter, there are some rele-
vant issues and themes that serve as discursive touchstones for the
project as a whole. First of all, this book takes seriously Michel
Foucault’s unsettling notion of “genealogy” in the fabrication
of intellectual history, an approach that has appeared through-
out Foucault’s work. Before his elaboration of this concept in
Language, Counter-Memory, Practice, Foucault’s early archaeol-
ogy of knowledge found that “the problem arises of knowing
whether the unity of a discourse is based not so much on the per-
manence and uniqueness of an object as on the space in which
various objects emerge and are continuously transformed.”4 The
non-unity of discourse is thus, for Foucault, a principle oper-
ating assumption. Consequently, my analysis acknowledges the
value of assuming the discrete stability of something like “per-
formance” – and related terms such as “theatre,” “speech,”
“drama,” or “dance” – while simultaneously tracking the discur-

sive dispersal and decidedly indiscreet saturation of such refer-
ences with that which they claim not to be. The effort to account
for “theatre and performance theory” – to invoke the title of this
series – is an examination of the referents in a “unity of a dis-
course” that paradoxically requires an awareness of “their non-
identity through time, the break produced in them, the internal
discontinuity that suspends their permanence.”5
My contention, however, is that an account of scholarly de-
velopment offers only a partial accounting of the space in which
knowledge is produced. Hence, I have also found it necessary
to focus on what might be called the “institutional genealo-
gies” of knowledge formation. The modern university is itself
a formidably complex and self-contradicting array of institu-
tional practices. Its modes of knowledge production are propelled
by the vagaries of institutional power, pedagogical process, and
occupational structure as much as by felt desire and intellectual
curiosity. In addition to such consideration, I also take seriously
critiques of the professional intellectual and of the role of the
arts and humanities in higher education. As it happens, such
critiques are particularly resonant for (and made more resonant
by) comparison with the discontinuous cluster of knowledges
that come under the term performance. Consider, for instance,
John Guillory’s critique of the class status of the intellectual and
the assumption of the knowledge-worker’s progressivism.
While it has always seemed necessary to define intellectuals by their in-

clination to dissident political stances, it has also been possible to ground
the analysis of intellectuals in the socioeconomic domain by positing a
constitutive distinction between intellectual and manual labor, a dis-
tinction that for good historical reasons implicates intellectual labor in
the system of economic exploitation. It is quite difficult on that basis
to demonstrate how the fact of intellectual labor becomes the condition
for the innate tendency to progressive or even leftist politics that is as-
sumed to characterize intellectuals. . . . What troubles such an account
is certainly not its “optimism of the will” to use Gramsci’s phrases, but
rather an unfounded optimism of the intellectual, an analysis of intellec-
tuals in which identity is defined by generalizations about their innately
progressive political nature or tendencies.6
The suggestion that the phenomenon of the intellectual rests

upon an opposition to manual labor reflects back on the conver-
sation that opened this introduction. As much as the opposition
between “theory” and “practice” is erroneous, as much as both

terms have a hugely complicated set of references, it would be
disingenuous to ignore the fact that this conversation took place
across different occupational positions. I will suggest that the
enmeshment of “practice” and “production” in performance-
related fields is one that blurs and hence exposes the opposition
between the intellectual and the manual on which so much
humanistic knowledge-making relies. This is just one of many
moments where an awareness of the institutional genealogies of
knowledge help to give a keener, albeit more confounding, pic-
ture of the internally discontinuous status of performance knowl-
edge in the academy.
This predicament relates to another issue that will return
throughout the book – what might be called the hyper-
contextuality of performance. The enmeshment to which I referred
above characterizes not only the occupational life of performance
but also its intensely contingent status as a research object, a rad-
ical contextuality that makes it difficult to locate as a research
object at all. The production and reproduction of knowledge is,
to some extent, a formalist operation in de-contextualization.
To the extent that the discernment and dissemination of knowl-
edge requires boundedness and containment, performance has
faired unevenly in the academy. The imprecise boundaries of the
theatrical event made it difficult to know where the research ob-
ject ended and its relevant context began. The intensely intimate,
varied, social, and inefficient character of performance pedagogy
make it less amenable to mass reproduction on the grand scales of
a modernizing university. For Foucault, of course, every knowl-
edge formation resists such structures. For me, however, perfor-
mance tends to flout the conventions of knowledgeability more
explicitly. If Foucault’s project and that of cultural materialism
more generally is to expose the contingencies of apparently pure
forms, then we have in the case of performance a form that knows
contingency all too well, indeed, was too manifestly enmeshed in
context to effect the disavowal of materialism even when it was
trendy to do so. As such, performance sometimes calls the bluff
of more recent critical turns toward material analysis as well as
more recent calls for innovative pedagogy.
In the rest of this chapter, I want to think more specifically
about the notion of disciplinarity as it affects the study and
practice of theatre and performance. In theatre, in performance

studies, and in related fields such as dance, rhetoric, visual arts,
and cultural studies, participants continually enjoy and endure
the paradoxes of interdisciplinary exchange. Sometimes these
encounters happen self-consciously. Indeed, origin narratives
behind the formation of performance studies are filled with inter-
actions between theatre directors and anthropologists, between
folklorists and psychoanalytic critics, all working to graft a con-
versation based in avowedly different modes of knowing. At other
times, these encounters happen less self-consciously, often in sit-
uations where epistemological consensus is assumed only to be
thwarted by the return of repressed difference. I want to examine
such instances of intended and unintended boundary crossing
even as I critique assumptions of where such boundaries lie. In
the current context, the term interdisciplinary serves sometimes
as a facile index of the “new,” opposing itself to a disciplinarity
retroactively construed as old. As such, these terms function as
fundamental, if not always helpful, pivots on which questions of
theatre and performance studies turn. By extension, questions
of interdisciplinarity broach the obscure operations of boundary
formation, asking what is inside and what is outside – which may
or may not line up with the question of what is “in” and what is
“out.” An analysis of interdisciplinarity asks what kinds of knowl-
edge formations are considered multiple and which are consid-
ered singular. What gets labeled generalist and what is specialist?
universal and particular? different and the same? What may seem
inter-disciplinary in one locale can be experienced as solidly intra-
disciplinary in another. Indeed, a historical, institutional, and
theoretical consciousness of disciplinary formation demonstrates
how variable and contextual the boundaries of knowledge can be.
It also reveals how very difficult it is to say something new.
After introducing the range of debates and the range of asso-
ciations attached to the term “performance,” I situate its study
historically in a changing modern university. Focusing on the is-
sue of “interdisciplinarity” in theatre and performance studies
allows a point of entry into a number of other contemporary
concerns – debates about scholars and artists, about canons and
counter-canons, about professionals and amateurs, and about
movements in feminism, multiculturalism, and “theory” of var-
ious guises. The problem of interdisciplinarity further provides
a way of analyzing the relation between disciplines and insti-

tutions, a saturation between scholarship and employment that
is not always transparent. The chapter concludes by offering a
vocabulary for analyzing the epistemological glitches that such
debates leave in their wake – a set of conceptual tools that will
reappear in the case studies of subsequent chapters.
Discontinuous performances
At this point, it is worth reflecting briefly on the framing of dis-
ciplinary debates in theatre and performance – the two terms
that title the editorial series in which this book appears. In the
United States, disciplinary change has clustered around two in-
stitutional narratives at New York University and Northwestern
University, what Jon McKenzie calls the “Eastern” and “Mid-
western” strains of performance studies.7 The more oft-repeated
origin story involves Richard Schechner and a cohort of thinkers
at NYU. The narrative focuses on Schechner’s generative in-
teractions with the anthropologist, Victor Turner, who took the
study of performance beyond the proscenium stage and into the
carnivals, festivals, protests, and other cultural rituals of an inter-
cultural world. As Peggy Phelan notes, this Performance Studies
story is an intriguing one in which “two men gave birth.”8 It is
also a heroic story of disciplinary breaking and remaking, one
framed by the language of the rebel, the renegade, and later,
incorporating new schools of critical theory, the subversive and
the resistant. Key moments in this “Eastern” institutional nar-
rative note the avant-garde experimentation of the 1960s, the
transfer of location and orientation of the Tulane Drama Review
to New York’s TDR, the hiring of an interdisciplinary faculty of
anthropologists, folklorists, musicologists, and dance theorists at
NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, the Performance Studies name
change in 1980, and the hosting of the first meeting of the even-
tually incorporated Performance Studies International at NYU
in 1995. Another notorious moment in that history occurred at
the 1992 meeting of the Association of Theatre in Higher Edu-
cation where keynote speaker Richard Schechner called for the
abolition of theatre departments, for the Kuhnian adoption of a
performance studies “paradigm” shift, and for an acknowledg-
ment that the art form of theatre had become “the string quartet”
of the new era.9 A decided irony, noted by many, was that field
practitioners continually invoked the language of rebellion and
subversion while simultaneously seeking institutional solidity and
professional security.10 Others were distressed to hear that an ar-
ticulation of epistemological transformation – something to be
expected in any field – needed to cast theatre and performance
in oppositional terms. While the scholarly rhetoric called for cul-
tural inclusion under the performance umbrella, the institutional
rhetoric sounded much more adversarial. As I hope to show, this
kind of irony is not specific to performance studies but can be
seen as symptomatic of a larger set of paradoxes in the institu-
tionalization and employment of the arts and humanities at the
end of the twentieth century.
The development of Northwestern’s department of Perfor-
mance Studies proceeds from a different direction. To some,
its narrative is less often recounted. To others, of course, it is the
only one that matters. There are occasional stories of men giving
birth – though Wallace Bacon and Robert Breen are a generation
older than Schechner – and of performers meeting anthropol-
ogists – though the figures might be Dwight Conquergood and
Mary Douglas. The institutional landscape of such stories is quite
different, however. The department of (Oral) Interpretation had
a decades’ long existence in a very different institutional milieu –
that is, inside a School of Speech, one that also housed distinct
departments of Communication Studies, Radio/TV/Film, and
Theatre. Thus, unlike the progenitors at NYU who broke from
a prior institutional identity as Theatre, Northwestern’s depart-
ment had considered itself something other than Theatre for its
entire institutional existence. Oral Interpretation was most often
positioned as an aesthetic subfield within Speech, Communica-
tion, and/or Rhetoric. Its proponents drew from a classical tra-
dition in oral poetry to argue for the role of performance in the
analysis and dissemination of cultural texts, specializing in the
adaptation of print media into an oral and embodied environ-
ment. Northwestern was unusual for devoting an entire depart-
ment to this area. Most of that faculty’s colleagues and former
graduate students would find themselves in the oral interpreta-
tion slot of a larger Communication department – in the Mid-
west, the South, the Southwest, the West, and on the East Coast.
This made for a dispersed kind of institutional network. It also
meant that the decision to shift nomination and orientation to

Performance Studies occurred within that network rather than
exclusively within a department. The division within the Na-
tional Communication Association was renamed Performance
Studies, and field practitioners around the country followed suit.
Thus, while it is large-minded of McKenzie to note regional vari-
ation in the formation of Performance Studies, the East/Midwest
focus on two departments actually obscures central figures and
deliberative societies in other parts of the United States.
If these two stories show that institutional contexts differently
constitute disciplinary identity, they also imply that the history of
a discipline changes depending upon where one decides to begin.
One way to resituate this two-pronged story of a late twentieth-
century formation is to cast Performance Studies as the integra-
tion of theatrical and oral/rhetorical traditions. This framework
necessarily invites reflection on a longer history of separation be-
tween the theatrical and the rhetorical or, as it often appears in-
stitutionally, between Theatre and Speech. There are many ways
one might take up this relationship and, after Foucault, pursue its
“non-identity through time.”11 One might note classical antago-
nisms and alliances in the history of poetics, rhetoric, and the per-
former/orator, investigating nineteenth-century discussions on
the role of elocution and argumentation in higher education, at-
tending to the cultivated antipathy between proponents of theatre
and proponents of oratory at the turn-of-the-century, attending
to the cultivated alliances between proponents of theatre and or-
atory in their shared effort to distinguish themselves from the
solidifying profession of literary studies. Such reflection might
also include the transformation of speech under the influence of
social science, the transformation of theatre within an arts and
liberal arts education, the return of rhetoric in a new form un-
der the legitimating paradigms of Theory in the late-twentieth
century, the return of performance in a new form under the le-
gitimating paradigms of Theory in the later twentieth century.
Whatever corner of the rug one decides to pick up, whatever
moment in time one decides to posit as a relevant origin, such
investigations can only be done with an awareness of the contin-
gent, slippery, and decidedly contextual nature of knowledge for-
mation. Behind a story of disciplinary docility there is no unitary
knowledge formation from which “new” epistemologies break.

This also means using Foucault to temper the Kuhnian language
of “paradigm” in order to suggest a “genealogical” awareness of
the partial and entangled relationships amongst knowledges that
are too conveniently opposed and aligned.12 The predecessors
of one’s current allies turn out to be antagonists. The predeces-
sors of one’s current antagonists were once allies. Somewhere
in this history that many of us unwittingly share, there are too
many alliances and oppositions to imagine unbroken chains of
continuity or radical breaks from the past.
What institutional critic Gerald Graff says of debates within
and around the field of literature seems appropriate to the
predicament of theatre and performance: “teach the conflicts.”13
This means not only acquainting students with various points of
view, something that is already difficult for many, but also devel-
oping a more historical and complicated sense of what those con-
flicts are. Indeed, such teaching might also mean recognizing how
conflicted the terms of opposition are, acknowledging that the
various “sides” of an argument may share less-emphasized con-
cerns and institutional genealogies. In this spirit, this book works
from the notion that performance studies and theatre (along with
adjacent and related performance forms such as oratory, perfor-
mance art, folklore, and dance) might be usefully understood
within a shared, if internally discontinuous, institutional history.
Consequently, I will use the term “performance” generally to
describe instances of performance pedagogy in the American
university since the nineteenth century, distinguishing subsidiary
forms such as theatre, dance, and oratory when necessary and
using the phrase “performance studies” to refer more specifically
to scholarship and scholars that self-consciously composed a late
twentieth-century intellectual formation. Despite my general be-
lief in the historical and epistemological connections amongst
these various terms, “conflicts” of various sorts will abound.
The vagaries of the interdisciplinary encounter are compounded

by the vagaries of the term “performance.” In a cross-disciplinary
conversation, interested parties may engage in a conversation
only to find that performance means different things to different
people. The confusion derives from the fact that performance
has been a site of epistemological anxiety in many societies for

quite some time; Western intellectual history’s centuries’ old
anti-theatrical prejudice is only one case in point. Consequently,
performance scholars who have worked to make sense of current
interdisciplinary trends in light of contemporary and historical
theoretical movements have had quite a job to do. Scholars con-
tinually find themselves rehearsing and revising various kinds
of intellectual histories, recounting trajectories from Bakhtin or
Bateson, from Turner or Goffman, from Dewey or Austin, from
Derrida or Lacan, from Butler or Sedgwick. Depending upon a
prior disciplinary affiliation, some may emphasize certain fig-
ures over others. To those who proceed from literary studies
and linguistic philosophy, J.L. Austin is a rediscovered intellec-
tual predecessor; Richard Bauman figures more prominently for
folklorists just as Kenneth Burke does for social theorists, Victor
Turner for anthropologists, Judith Butler for queer theorists, and
so on. Marvin Carlson required an entire book – Performance:
A Critical Introduction – just to describe the possible paths of
intellectual influence.14 Any attempt to be comprehensive will
inevitably exclude thinkers or craft chronologies that miss
important connections.
Rather than offer a corrective intellectual history, I hope to
provide ways of negotiating this discursive complexity and of ac-
cepting it as a condition of performance research. Joann Keali-
inohomoku’s attempt to make sense of the way “dance” has been
abstractly interpreted offers an illuminating example of a larger
problem in disciplining performance. In preparing an essay en-
titled “An Anthropologist Looks at Ballet as a Form of Ethnic
Dance,” Kealiinohomoku reread “pertinent writings by DeMille,
Haskell, Holt, the Kinneys, Kirstein, Le Meri, Martin, Sachs,
Sorell, and Terry.”15 What she says of the contradictions in dance
scholarship can be said of those found within performance more
generally:
This survey of the literature reveals an amazing divergence of opinions.

We are able to read that the origin of dance was in play and that it
was not in play, that it was for magical and religious purposes, and that
it was not for those things; that it was for courtship and that it was
not for courtship; that it was the first form of communication and that
communication did not enter into dance until it became an “art.” In
addition we can read that it was serious and purposeful and that at the
same time it was an outgrowth of exuberance, was totally spontaneous,

and originated in the spirit of fun. Moreover, we can read that it was
only a group activity for tribal solidarity and that it was strictly for the
pleasure and self-expression of the one dancing.16
The kind of malleable historicization outlined by Kealiino-

homoku generates a reciprocally malleable conceptualization.
Different approaches and contexts emphasize certain kinds of
associations while in turn the connotations of various terms in-
fluence what histories get told. Such flexibility helps to clarify
how scholarship within and without the fields of dance, theatre,
and performance work with different operating assumptions.
In order to create a compass for navigating this complexity,
consider the range of connotations that have galvanized perfor-
mance research in the past and in the present. First, an etymo-
logical angle yields one particular type of emphasis. The word
performance derives from a Greek root meaning “to furnish
forth,” “to carry forward,” “to bring into being.” In this guise,
the term foregrounds not only instances of making but also the
active and processual aspect of that making. To extend the et-
ymological tack, the word theatre derives from a root meaning
“a place for viewing,” emphasizing the spectacular qualities of
a thing beheld as well as a vision-based locus of reception and
interpretation. A second angle yields another network of conno-
tations derived from the many artistic registers at which perfor-
mance operates. This tack propels different strains of conceptual
thinking. Performance conventionally employs bodies, motion,
space, affect, image, and words; its analysis at times aligns with
theories of embodiment, at times with studies of emotion, at
times with architectural analysis, at times with studies of visual
culture, and at times with critiques of linguistic exchange. Con-
sequently, one visual analyst who speaks of sutures and gazes may
struggle to translate that perspective to another who speaks of up-
takes and perlocutions. Moreover, none of these associations are
themselves internally consistent. One “theorist of embodiment”
may derive from phenomenology, another from social theory,
and another from kinesthesiology, all of which may operate with
different notions of identity, agency, and bodily integrity. For one
scholar, concepts of space may be synonymous with an abstract
public sphere while for another it is enmeshed quite literally in
architecture’s study of material entrances, exits, thresholds, and

barriers. The many registers of performance thus have many reg-
isters of meaning. As a result, interdisciplinarity at the site of
performance can feel like an epistemological conundrum of im-
ponderable proportions.
Connotations of a third type are also attached to performance,
associations that are not based so much in etymology or in the
various media of the form. Rather they are a reflection of the
term’s location in a philosophical history as well as in a contem-
porary theoretical context. They also reflect not simply how var-
ied but also how contradictory performance’s referentiality can
be. For instance, theorists of various stripes have foregrounded
performance as a vehicle of community formation as often as
others have emphasized its function as a site of social trans-
gression. Sometimes both of these associations can appear in
the work of the same scholar, often without note of the varia-
tion. Another area of theoretical emphasis has been the question
of repetition in performance. To many scholars, performance’s
repeatability has been fundamental to its theorizing, whether
couched in Richard Schechner’s restoration of behavior, derived
from Linda Hutcheon’s theory of parody, or echoed in Judith
Butler’s adaptation of Derridean citationality. While such schol-
ars have been quick to add that repetition occasionally entails
variation and difference, their point of entry differs markedly
from that of Peggy Phelan who argues for performance as funda-
mentally non-repeatable, as a reiteration whose chief feature is
its non-reproducibility. Competing associations revolve around
other performance registers, further confounding the quest for
theoretical purity. For some philosophers, performance is an
intentional realm of purposive action; for others, it is an un-
intentional realm of spontaneous or habitual enactment. Some
theorists, spurred by recent cultural theory, link performance to
innovative realms of creation and resistance; others, reproducing
new versions of older Platonic condemnations, link performance
to derivative realms of conformity and tertiary imitation. Finally,
the occupants of many theatre departments use a language of the
actual, the real, and the authentic to distinguish their practices
of artistic production from a presumably “less real” practice of
scholarly research. Their rhetoric contrasts starkly, sometimes
obliviously, with the long-held assumptions of theatre’s fakery,
artifice, and inauthenticity that still circulate in most other wings

of the university. In sum, performance is about doing, and it is
about seeing; it is about image, embodiment, space, collectivity,
and/or orality; it makes community and it breaks community;
it repeats endlessly and it never repeats; it is intentional and
unintentional, innovative and derivative, more fake and more
real. Performance’s many connotations and its varied intellectual
kinships ensure that an interdisciplinary conversation around
this interdisciplinary site rarely will be neat and straightforward.
Perhaps it is time to stop assuming that it should.
“Old” genealogies
The notion of interdisciplinarity depends, of course, on a notion
of disciplinarity. Since a central mission of this study is to deploy
institutional history in order to resituate debates in theatre and
performance studies, I would like briefly to consider the history
of disciplinarity in the emerging American university. “Teaching
the conflicts” of theatre and performance studies is sharpened,
concretized, and complicated by a larger understanding of mod-
ern knowledge production. The concept of an academic disci-
pline is actually a fairly recent formation. It emerges in concert
with the rise of the modern university, an arc whose begin-
nings historians place in the late nineteenth-century.17 A num-
ber of social factors converged slowly and unevenly to redefine
American higher education. Earlier understood as an elite edu-
cation based in a classical tradition, university reformers sought
a more democratic institution based in a vernacular and (in the
United States) “practical” education oriented toward the profes-
sional ambitions of a rising middle class. The unevenness of this
shift was determined by a number of factors including region,
religion, university traditions, alumni influences, and the indi-
vidual preoccupations of university faculty and administrators.
The enrolment of a non-aristocratic group of young white men
challenged the self-conception of the university in some ways.
The admitting of white women and students of color to some
institutions challenged it in other ways as did the rise of all-black
colleges and the changing self-definitions of all-female institu-
tions. Ivy League universities such as Princeton, Harvard, and
Yale differed from each other in their acceptance of democratic
ideals, sometimes touting a new civic ideal for the university

toward its public, other times expressing alarmist concerns over
the lowering of university standards.
The profile of higher education underwent a significant change
as the result of the Morrill Federal Land Grant of 1862. This
act created the phenomenon of the “land-grant college” – what
would be referred to as the state university – and sought to enable
young people from a variety of backgrounds to attend college
with public support.18 The democratic ideals of the land-grant
college rested not only on demographics and on public financ-
ing but also on a “practical” emphasis. Inspired by the potential
for applying scientific innovation to “real world” concerns, land-
grant universities and changing modern universities sought to
create a curriculum that applied scientific research to the arenas
of industry and agriculture. While midwestern colleges initially
emphasized agricultural innovation, the language of practical
knowledge and of applied education permeated various wings
of the university, providing a discursive vehicle with which to
legitimate or to de-legitimate the utility of a variety of educa-
tional fields. The opposition between practical and liberal arts
curricula fueled heated conversations in all-black colleges; often
historicized as the Washington-DuBois debate, interested parties
disagreed about which kind of curriculum would further racial
advancement.19 The language of the practical made its way into
some wings of the Ivy League universities and not into others.
As the only Ivy League school that also claimed the funds and
the identity of a state institution, Cornell University particularly
sought to temper the traditions of a classical education with a use-
oriented focus on agricultural and industrial education. This em-
phasis in turn affected the genealogy by which theatre appeared
on campus; it is perhaps no coincidence that Cornell’s theatre
department first established itself in a revamped machine shop.
Other factors contributed to the changing identity of the mod-
ern university, factors that did not always dovetail with demo-
cratic or pragmatic goals. While the term “professional” could
sometimes justify a utilitarian curriculum in higher education,
the term also occupied a wider and more flexible discursive
sphere. The late nineteenth and early twentieth century saw the
rise of “professionalism,” or what Andrew Abbott calls “the sys-
tem of professions,” in a number of arenas.20 In traditional fields
such as law and medicine, in newer fields of employment such

as social work, and in changing occupations such as academia
itself, the term professionalism was also synonymous with the
concept of “expertise” and denoted an arena of rigorously trained
experts. The modern concept of “discipline” thus arose when
the discursive strain of professional expertise met the exigen-
cies of a restructuring university. This meeting sustained a social
transformation in the occupation of “the intellectual” – a figure
who increasingly required university training and affiliation – and
altered this figure’s relationship to the acquisition and dissemi-
nation of knowledge.21 Bruce Kuklick summarizes:
During the late nineteenth century the university as we understand it,

the social organization defining the modern professoriate – came into
existence. Amateur intellectuals, those without an institutional base, all
but disappeared as the university came to be the sole focus in the pro-
duction and distribution of knowledge. Various areas of study hived off
from older and vaguer ‘departments’ of inquiry, and scholarly disci-
plines were established as limited fields of knowledge in the university,
distinguished by special techniques and an accepted set of doctrines.
Academic departments grew up, and disciplinary integrity was defined
by the number of positions in a given field the university would finance.
Teachers were trained and placed in this field by an intensified app-
prenticeship leading to the doctorate and an appointment as a college
professor.22
Kuklick’s language repeats the fundamental assumptions of con-

temporary doctoral training, a model that is so common-sensical
now that its historical contingency is barely recognized. His
language also finds a progressive narrative behind this shift, at-
tributing “vagueness” to earlier “amateur” intellectual forma-
tions and the status of a “grown up” to later ones. Indeed, the
concept of the amateur switches during this period from a largely
salutary term based in the love of certain pursuits to a largely
derogatory term.23 While intellectual vagueness is retroactively
measured from the standpoint of a present context’s sense of
its own integrity, the turn into the twentieth century was nev-
ertheless distinguished by the quest for highly distinct forms
of knowledge. A nineteenth-century “humanities” curriculum
that in hindsight looked like an amalgam of philosophy, litera-
ture, rhetoric, and moral inquiry began gradually to divide itself
into separate fields with their own departments, professional
societies, hirings, curricula, standards, and self-justifications.

Attributions of “amateurism” and “professionalism” were thus
newly deployed to delineate and confer value upon increasingly
higher degrees of specialization. A variety of fields profession-
alized during this period – Literature, Philosophy, History, Art
History – spurred by the emphasis on specialization and by a uni-
versity structure that rewarded disciplinary distinction in both
senses of the word. While there still existed university professors
who worked as “generalists,” the recognition of that generalism
could be greeted with suspicion and, like the term “amateur,”
could connote vagueness and imprecision. Of course, the term
specialist depended upon the concept of generalist in order for
the rigor of the former or the expansiveness of the latter even to
be registered.
The movement toward disciplinary specialization was also
spurred by the influence of foreign university models. American
administrators and faculty looked with eyes both wary and fasci-
nated to the creation of the new research universities in Germany.
Opposing themselves to arenas of vocational testing and training,
German universities received substantial state funding to create
an educational structure that serviced, as much as possible, the
research careers of its professors. Teaching schedules and curric-
ular mechanisms were geared toward facilitating further faculty
specialization; when professors taught, their classrooms provided
arenas for their focused questions and a body of students who
aided their exploration. The goal of student training was coinci-
dent with the unadulterated pursuit of knowledge; such students
trained for careers inside the university itself.
University schooling was in fact little connected with professional prac-
tice or knowledge. The two level examinations reflected in part a dif-
ferentiation between education and professional training that emerged
between 1780 and 1860. These years saw the rise of the Bildung, a con-
cept variously defined as ‘cultivation,’ ‘a combination of taste, learning,
and judgement,’ . . . Bildung entailed a resolutely anti-professional ped-
agogy. Preprofessional studies were ridiculed as Brotstudium (literally,
bread studies). The professors executed their assault on professional-
ism with vigor.24
Germany’s research professors adapted a scientific discourse of
legitimacy to other arenas of inquiry in order to tout the no-
ble and rigorous pursuit of pure knowledge. The disingenuous
element of the Bildung model rested on its anti-professional dis-

course, a disavowal that still persists in faculty self-descriptions
today. Despite their own rhetoric, Germany’s faculty were of
course an intensely professionalized body, substantially influ-
enced by the conventions of rigor, expertise, hierarchy, ap-
prenticeship, and specialization that circulated throughout the
discourse of professionalism more generally.25 The professorial
disavowal would persist in future rationalizations of research and
graduate training, denying the legitimacy of a pre-professional
education unless it happened to fulfill the occupational require-
ments of a professional academic.
The first American university founded on the Germanic model
was, most famously, Johns Hopkins University. Ivy League as
well as land-grant colleges began to adopt aspects of this model.
Historians of the American university interpret this change with
differing amounts of celebration and ambivalence. Frederick
Rudolph’s study notes that “the collegiate tradition in the United
States could not find new inspiration in the spirit of the German
university without some loss to the collegiate way.”26 Rudolph
chooses to interpret the combination of influences within a na-
tionalist frame. The state universities that began developing as
research institutions, he writes, “would combine in a typically
American institution that Jeffersonian emphasis on excellence
and learning which had become the special commitment of Johns
Hopkins and the Jacksonian emphasis on numbers and on the
practical which had become the special commitment of the land-
grant colleges.”27 Here Rudolph reroutes the Germanic influ-
ence through an American presidential history, casting the re-
search emphasis as a return to a Jeffersonian tradition rather
than as an imitation of a European model. Whether or not the
international influence was acknowledged or disavowed, Amer-
ican universities integrated the research model in various ways
and appealed to its disciplinarity for intellectual legitimacy. They
thus participated in the occupational transformation that would
eventually place the concept of “Research” in the forefront of
a faculty member’s job description and professional evaluation.
For a variety of reasons and with notable exceptions, theatre
and oral performance initially tended to find more welcome in-
stitutional homes in land-grant universities such as University
of Iowa, University of Wisconsin, and Indiana University. The
newer universities responded to the modified “practical” orienta-

tion of these fields. Moreover, as such universities simultaneously
began making a play for disciplinary distinction, they found that
they could secure prestige more immediately by cultivating newer
fields.
Before returning to a more contemporary context, it might be
important to keep some of these historical qualifiers in mind.
Current debates about the academic legitimation of perfor-
mance, theatrical and otherwise, need to be situated within larger
histories of the university. Remaining cognizant of such changes
is both a reminder of how relatively recent our “old” models ac-
tually are and a warning to remain vigilant about the complex
and often contradictory ways that performance has found its way
into the academy. Turn-of-the-century American administrators
and faculty debated constantly the role of both “new” and “tra-
ditional” skills in higher education, arguing for or against them
within competing “practical” and “research” models of the new
university. On the one hand, rhetorical performance and the ac-
quired competency in verbal arts were part of an old form of
liberal education in the nineteenth century before the modern
concept of the research university fell into place. As such, perfor-
mance was and can still be framed as a hyper-traditional form of
pedagogy that underwent significant change, reassignment, de-
validation, and reinterpretation as the university’s identity and
mission changed. On the other hand, performance in its theatri-
cal guise was a new disciplinary field at the turn of the century,
one of many arguing for itself within individuating terms. It bub-
bled from within a newly professionalizing field of literature at
certain universities. At others, it grew out of an aesthetic strain
in rhetoric or in the fine and performing arts, and at others, its
design and technical elements were emphasized to rationalize its
location inside schools of industrial and practical arts. With vary-
ing degrees of intensity, the would-be discipline of theatre indis-
criminately borrowed the language of disciplinary specialization,
of practicality, of scholarly rigor, of democracy, or of civic ideals.
At some universities, the Germanic influence oriented programs
toward the methods of Theaterwissenschaft, focusing on theatre
as a research object to be analyzed with the fact-based lens of
the science-loving philologist. Meanwhile, more programs in the
United States focused on theatre as a produced event and with an
eye toward the development of the professional artist. Depending

upon region, tradition, and the temperament of a university pres-
ident, theatre’s institutionalizers drew from available legitimating
discourses, arguing for performance in expedient and occasion-
ally contradictory terms whose institutional consequences still
confuse us now.
An awareness of the various transformations of the twentieth-
century university makes the shaky academic position of theatre
and oral performance somewhat more interpretable. As fields
of inquiry that emphasized theatrical production and technical
skills in the verbal arts, performance had a “practical” side that
appealed to the Jacksonian discourse of educational utility. Nev-
ertheless, it did not immediately appear to have the scientific
character of conventionally applied knowledges, such as agri-
culture. Moreover, while rhetorical performance could be con-
strued as a training ground for professional competence in law
and business, theatre’s model of “practice” did not come with
the clear capitalist promise of economic advancement. In other
words, theatre’s version of the practical did not appear all that
pragmatic. At the same time, theatre and rhetorical performance
could also have a stake in the humanistic dimensions of the uni-
versity, the commitment to Bildung and cultural expansion that
legitimated departments of English, Art History, Philosophy, and
more. The tendency, however, to associate theatre with a debased
and feminized form of culture kept it from being a full partici-
pant in pedagogies of acculturation. Furthermore, the emphasis
on practical production – however economically impractical –
spawned a fettered and cumbersome method of knowledge mak-
ing, one that did not match the pure and ascetic conventions of
scholarly research. Similarly, and discussed further in Chapter
Two, classrooms for oratorical performance increasingly became
defined as a technical arena – akin to, and eventually replaced
by, the composition class; with such a move, performance’s tech-
nicality became opposed to the mind-expanding classrooms of a
cultural education. Of course, these larger transformations var-
ied from university to university. In pockets, alternate pedagogies
remained; some professors in the oral performance of literature
worked to sustain an arena that taught technical skills along-
side the cultivation of a Bildung-like cultural consciousness. In
the mid-twentieth century, furthermore, certain colleges around
the country formed with the express intention of developing an

arts-based pedagogy, a phenomenon that I consider in Chapter
Four.28
While admitting variation, it is important to take into con-
sideration the larger social currents that structured if not deter-
mined the development of our fields and subfields. These and
related institutional concerns of the Bildung/Brotstudium dialec-
tic give more traction to current one-dimensional discussions of
“theory” and “practice” in both theatre and performance studies.
They demonstrate the historical contingency of this opposition
as well as the skewed referentiality of the terms. They also suggest
that the associations attached to these paradigms can be neither
blithely opposed nor blithely unified. The attempt in so many
theatre and performance departments to integrate the realm of
the scholar-academic and the realm of the artist-practitioner is,
amongst other things, an attempt to reconcile historically dif-
ferent occupational structures. Consequently, the relationship
between theory and practice, between research and production,
between scholarly and “non-scholarly” skills, requires a careful
understanding of the very heavy institutional, industrial, cultural,
and professional forces weighing in on such terms, on the insti-
tutional missions that they legitimate, and on the behaviors that
they produce.
“New” genealogies
The current interdisciplinary discussions in the fields of per-
formance are also structured by another historically specific in-
fluence – the restructuring of higher education based on inter-
cultural, feminist, and non-Western critiques of its exclusions.
Variously labeled “the canon wars,” “the culture wars,” “identity
politics,” and/or “multiculturalism,” different aspects of a liberal
arts curriculum came under scrutiny during the last two decades
of the twentieth century. Attempts to expand the gender, racial,
and global representation of undergraduate texts were met with
defenses of traditional canons and academic “standards.” Con-
servative thinkers such as William Bennett, E.D. Hirsch, Harold
Bloom, Dinesh D’Souza, and Roger Kimball painted a night-
mare vision in which great works of Western intellectual history
were replaced by the lesser works of white women and writers
of color; this is what Gerald Graff parodied as the “Great Color

Purple Hoax.”29 Issues of interdisciplinarity came to the fore dur-
ing this period, often supported by critiques of the canon, often
castigated by defenses of the canon.
The emergence of Performance Studies in the United States
was enabled, albeit unsystematically, by these adjacent move-
ments in feminism, multiculturalism, theory, cultural studies, as
well as disciplinary critiques, canon wars, and a host of other
concurrent debates. While such movements spurred a variety
of curricular reforms within and outside theatre departments,
Richard Schechner’s discourse targeted the field and departmen-
tal structures of theatre itself. As such, the phrase “performance
studies” often served as a touchstone for a larger epistemological
shift that promised or threatened to transform theatre’s institu-
tional status in the US academy, one that promised or threat-
ened to transform the epistemological and political status of the
arts and humanities more generally. When performance stud-
ies scholars called for an expansion of favored objects of study
from drama to performance, the rhetoric sounded quite famil-
iar. When Schechner told the ATHE membership to consider
performance beyond “the enactment of Eurocentric drama,”
he echoed the anti-canonical arguments that were circulating in
other disciplines. Similarly, Dwight Conquergood told the read-
ers of speech communication journals that performance was key
to understanding marginal cultures and their acts of resistance.
Later, in Great Britain, Baz Kershaw’s discussion of “the radi-
cal in performance” cast theatre as limited and conservative and
performance as subversive. In all of these scenarios, performance
studies aligned itself with the canon-busters, calling for the recog-
nition of heretofore excluded people and cultural forms.
The most pained reactions against performance studies tended
to accept these alignments without accepting their value system.
In an essay entitled, “The Death of Literature and History,”
Richard Hornby castigated The Drama Review’s frame of refer-
ence and, under Schechner’s editorship, the appearance of “arti-
cles about figure skating, folk drama in Spain, and an avant-garde
performance artist in Germany” without regard for “traditional
theatre.”30 Working from an affiliation in Oral Interpretation,
Ted Wendt published a parallel lament on the de-privileging of
oral interpretation by the frame of performance studies, a process
that he argued participated in the de-valuing of literature in favor

of marginal forms of cultural expression.31 In both cases, Hornby
and Wendt echoed the language of the culture wars, casting inter-
disciplinary expansion as disenabling relativism. “The difference
between figure skating and a production of Hamlet is not triv-
ial,” wrote Hornby.32 The statement played into the humanist
conspiracy theories of the 1990s in theatrical form. As humanist
conservatives warned of the replacement of Shakespeare by Alice
Walker, so their counterparts in the performing arts worried over
the replacement of Shakespeare by Tonya Harding.
In most of these discussions of the relation between theatre and
performance studies, there is a recurrent pattern of sense-making
which elides a series of conceptual binaries. Dramatic theatre
and oral interpretation are aligned with the dominant, with the
canonical, and with disciplinary singularity while performance
studies is aligned with the marginal, with the anti-canonical, and
with disciplinary multiplicity. These moves conveniently ignore
the fact that oral interpretation and dramatic literature have had
marginal canonical status in the humanities, effectively treating
a relatively subordinate field as dominant through an argument
based on analogy rather than on institutional analysis. Given
a longer academic tendency to associate theatre with a lower,
feminized, and more primitive form of literary culture, the as-
sertion of the dominance of the Western theatrical canon rings
strangely hollow. The same goes for the field of “oral interpre-
tation.” The oral performance of literature is not one that most
literature professors recognize as part of their field – and have
not since the break between Speech and English in the early
twentieth century. In sum, dramatic literature was already out-
side the literary canon; the oral interpretation of literature was
already a marginal cultural expression. Neither “traditionalists”
nor anti-traditionalists in theatre and performance studies found
it expedient to remember that history, however; they both chose
to assume its stability – whether to call for canonical mainte-
nance or to condemn a monolithic canonical enemy. In all cases,
an appeal to “literature” served to link certain dramatic and oral
performances to “tradition” despite the historic location of both
on the periphery of the literary.
The elision of binaries such as old and new, disciplinary and
interdisciplinary, Western and non-Western, conservative and
progressive, theatre and performance, creates more obfuscations

than it clears. It threatens, for instance, to ignore the scholarly
and institutional efforts of those whose work addresses issues
of gender, race, sex, class, and globalization from within the
theatre context. An expansion of the genre of drama to the
realm of performance may permit the recognition of non-Western
cultures. However, if Western/non-Western too easily maps to
drama/performance, then the work of, say, an African playwright
is relegated to a conceptual blindspot. For some institutions, the
adoption of a performance studies perspective went hand in hand
with a feminist curricular revision. However, those masculinist
origin stories recounted above suggest that it is just as possible
to align performance studies with a macho, homophobic quest
to dissociate from the feminized realm of theatre.33 Indeed, the
gendered, racial, and sexual relations between theatre and per-
formance studies are intensely varied, contextual, and compli-
cated. No one falls neatly into any kind of good guy/bad guy
opposition. The complete elision of double binaries too neatly
bypasses a variety of circuitous connections and backgrounded
histories.
The class dimensions of theatre and performance studies de-
bates are even harder to assess. It is especially difficult since
class analysis returns us to the social role of higher educa-
tion in a democratic state, to the cultural and economic capital
upon which it relies, and to the different professional structures
occupied by humanists, artists, and their students. As debates
about canonical inclusion and exclusion raged during the “cul-
ture wars” of the late-twentieth century, several critics adopted a
different view by considering the social location of humanities ed-
ucation more generally. For John Guillory, it was no coincidence
that such “wars” took place in the domain of “culture” and that
critiques focused on the literary-humanist syllabus. The accul-
turating curriculum was responsible for exposing students to a
realm of philosophical, imaginative, and moral reflection, sepa-
rate from – and often subordinated to – the domains of knowl-
edge associated with economic advancement. Thus, the earlier
twentieth-century legitimation of and by Bildung had transmo-
grified into a liberal humanist legitimation of and by “cultural
capital.” Canon wars erupted in this sphere partly because
the economic stakes were lower. Debates could occur on a
cultural front that was both symbolically significant and socio-

economically subordinate.
The contours of those debates were complicated further by
reflection on the institutional history of higher education and on
the status of the “intellectual,” considering not only the early
twentieth-century genealogies of the “modern university” but
also the various turns taken by a professionalizing professoriate
in the middle to late-twentieth century. The GI-funded era of
the big university contributed to both the centralizing and the
marginalizing currents of liberal arts education. The promise of
acculturation attracted returning students to the large lectures
of the humanist syllabus while the political climate of the Cold
War turned to the sciences and engineering for a relevant aca-
demic curriculum. Humanities education during the increasingly
radical decade of the 1960s inherited this kind of partial and
backhanded form of legitimacy while simultaneously changing
its political terms. For many, the notion of “relevancy” was rede-
fined, changing from patriotic pre-professionalism to dissident
student activism. For some leftists, the space of acculturation
became the space of “culture work.” Though the sciences and
engineering were loudly touted as the arena for the most radical
forms of intellectualism, humanist intellectuals sought to chan-
nel their domain to serve radical ends. This gesture, however,
was internally conflicted. Was the elite history behind the con-
cept of acculturation so easily thrown off by the desire to create
an arena of culture work? Might, furthermore, such dissident in-
tellectualism be compromised by the fact that it increasingly took
place in a professionalizing university? It was precisely by ignor-
ing rather than addressing these questions that something like
a “canon” could be figured as a site of activism. The symbolic
inclusions and exclusions of cultural capital could be debated
while the class politics of culture’s pedagogical location could re-
main unremarked. The situation thus produced another version
of professionalist disavowal in a new generation of academics,
something anticipated in John and Barbara Ehrenreich’s “The
Professional-Managerial Class,” developed in Alvin Gouldner’s
study of the “New Class,” and parodied in the notion of the “liter-
ary left.” The generation of 1960s dissidents who became 1980s
academics could cast a suspicious eye on the content of canons
while remaining obliviously blind (or self-hatingly in denial) of

the professional undercurrents of humanist intellectualism.
Such class politics and histories reflect unevenly on the status
of theatre, oral interpretation, performance studies, and other
performance-related fields. As fields with a historically marginal
status vis-à-vis the literary canon, theatre and oral interpretation
had an attenuated relationship to the arena of cultural capital and
an uncertain status as humanist forms of inquiry. This made the
claim to canonical status resonant at some moments and misdi-
rected at others. At the same time, and as intellectual occupations
became further politicized, these fields taught skills in embod-
ied expression that could claim an active pedagogy, an “on your
feet” approach to education that underscored the “work” in cul-
ture work. Considering this complicated puzzle, it might be fruit-
ful to adopt a both/and approach to reconciling performance in
a classed chronicle of higher education. On the one hand, the
proponents of performance in all its disciplinary varieties were
subject to the same discursive paradoxes that shadowed other
fields of both conservative and dissident humanist inquiry. As
such, debates around the theatre and performance curriculum
had the tone, structure, and institutional position of a canon war.
On the other hand, performance exposed the class politics of lit-
erary and humanist fields. The ill-fit of its productive pedagogy
placed the conventions of acculturation into high relief. To in-
corporate theatre and performance into the space of “culture” –
whether in appreciation or as a form of activism – required not
only canonical critique but also the teaching of very different
skills.
The same both/and class argument applies, not only to dis-
cussions of curricular content, but also to occupational security.
As Pierre Bourdieu has argued in Homo Academicus, the position
of the humanities professor may be subordinated to the purvey-
ors of economic capital, but it is still dominant relative to the
conventionally less secure position of the artist.
As authorities whose position in social space depends principally on the
possession of cultural capital, a subordinate form of capital, university
professors are situated rather on the side of the subordinate pole of the
field of power and are clearly opposed in this respect to the managers
of industry and business. But, as holders of an institutionalized form
of cultural capital, which guarantees them a bureaucratic career and a

regular income, they are opposed to writers and artists: occupying a
temporarily dominant position in the field of cultural production, they
are distinguished by this fact, to differing degrees according to the facul-
ties, from the occupants of the less institutionalized and more heretical
sectors of the field.34
If professors and artists thus usually occupy different sectors,

then it becomes clear why it can be so difficult to install the
heretical arts into the institutionalized academy. In a limited field
of cultural power, professors’ dominance (and regular income)
is dependent upon the maintenance of professional distinctions.
One distinctive, if often conflictual, aspect of performance de-
partments is that they most often hire occupants of both sectors
of the cultural field. As such, they experience the tensions and
possibilities of incorporated heresy.
Of course, those possibilities more often manifest as tensions.
They occur every time a professor and an artist tussle over the
symbolic significance of a particular art work – and, with it, jockey
for the authority to make such determinations. They occur ev-
ery time a theatre director seeks academic employment in order
to secure medical insurance, and every time a theatre profes-
sor castigates this ignoble motivation. They occur every time an
artist disdains involvement with a campus production as outside
a professional career, and every time a university’s promotional
policy affirms that disdain. They occur every time a tenured
theory professor condemns the “conservatism” of a contracted
acting teacher. Indeed, class allegiance is key to understanding
many a conflict between the professional artist and the profes-
sional intellectual. In performance departments of all kinds, fur-
thermore, a varied array of occupational structures means that
attributions of professional and amateur are shifting and com-
plicated. The theatre history professor who directs a campus
production may not be a “professional” to a theatre artist. The
choreographer who reads Merleau-Ponty is not a “professional”
to the theory professor. In these departments, all of us function
as the amateur to someone else’s professional, each serving as
a foil for propping up the identity of the other. Such tensions
perhaps too painfully expose the political genealogies of our pro-
fession. Even self-nominated “progressive” performance schol-
ars are, like many other scholars, pulled by what Andrew Ross
calls the “contradictory political interests” of the New Class:

“elitist in its protection of guild privileges secured by cultural
capital, but also egalitarian in its positivist vision of social eman-
cipation for all; anti-capitalist in its technocratic challenge to the
rule of capital, but also contemptuous of the ‘conservative,’ anti-
intellectual disrespect of the popular classes.”35 These kinds of
contradictions help to situate the conflicts in performance as a
discourse and as an academic practice. Performance studies is
not the only inheritor of New Class paradoxes. The same sen-
sibility can be found in the liberal arts study of theatre where
an admirable desire to preserve the imaginative realm of cul-
tural reflection can simultaneously prompt a cultivated disdain
for the work-a-day curriculum of the professional theatre artist,
one that many scholars have conveniently called “conservative”
or “anti-intellectual.”
While tracts from the self-nominated “Right” have used sim-
ilar political paradoxes to condemn progressivism in higher ed-
ucation, others such as those by Guillory, Graff, Ross, Michael
Bérubé, and Cary Nelson have used them to encourage more
self-reflection on the part of left-leaning academics. Surely it is
possible to scrutinize relationships of class, gender, race, and oc-
cupation in presumably progressive education without assuming
an anti-progressive position. Ross’s critique of left narratives of
the intellectual might also apply to narratives of the performance
avant-garde.
[T]heories of the new class, or the professional-managerial class, have

taken their toll on those intellectuals’ traditions that rest upon the codes
of alienated dissent or social disaffiliation. Humanists and social crit-
ics, especially, have always been loath to share the term ‘intellectual’
with less bona fide word brokers, and with number workers. Increas-
ingly positioned by the contractual discourses of their institutions and
professions, they have had to forsake the high ground and recognize the
professional conditions they share, for the most part, with millions of
other knowledge workers. The loss of this high ground has been much
lamented, especially when linked to romantic left narratives about the
‘decline of the public intellectual,’ who, in the classical version, is a
heroicized white male, and who if he is like C. Wright Mills, still rides a
Harley-Davidson to his university workplace. Professional intellectuals
who are not self-loathing have come to insist that it is necessary to ex-
amine their institutional affiliations in order to transform the codes of
power that are historically specific to their disciplinary discourses.36
As an “anti-discipline” born in the 1960s and consolidated in

the 1980s, performance studies participates in that era’s brand
of professional disavowal. As such, its language of subversion
co-exists uneasily next to the language of institutionalization.
Once again, it is important to note that such a contradiction
is not peculiar to performance studies – and might just as easily
occur in a literature, philosophy, art history, or theatre depart-
ment. Thus, what Jon McKenzie identifies as the “liminal norm”
in performance discourse – the impulse to link a p-word to in-
stances of transgression, resistance, and liminality – can be seen
as symptomatic of a broader thought-structure in late-twentieth-
century disciplinary discussions.37 It replicates the paradoxes,
privileges, and conventions of resistant humanism. The intellec-
tual formation that called itself performance studies can be seen
as one amongst many for whom some kind of liminality became
a routine way of invoking a dissident status while disavowing an
increasingly professionalized one.
Discipline envy
Institutional histories are complicated; the project of interdis-
ciplinarity is thorny; the conceptual vocabulary of performance
is wide ranging. Yet all of these factors structure the terms and
practices in which we work and in which we imagine we will work
in the future. Theatre, dance, and performance scholars in the
last decades of the twentieth century spent a great deal of time
claiming to be saying something new. As Foucault’s essays on
the archaeology of knowledge remind us, however, the enuncia-
tive moment of an epistemic shift like performance studies is al-
ways dependent upon enabling enunciative conditions. Further-
more, the pronounced newness of such a shift is also disputable.
Epistemological breaks reproduce conventions of knowledge as
much as they alter them, often quietly or unself-consciously
repeating aspects of the traditions that they claim to reject.
In the absence of interdisciplinary harmony, one can become
knowledgeable about the relationships amongst these factors and
develop tools for interdisciplinary vigilance. In the remainder of
this chapter, I would like to offer a vocabulary for navigating
such institutional and interdisciplinary puzzles. First of all, if
there is anything that cross-disciplinary interaction teaches us, it
is that attributions of sameness and difference are variable, con-

textual, and highly charged. Hence, it is important to be wary
about the axes of sameness and difference that can present them-
selves as common sense or that structure interactions in unac-
knowledged ways. Sameness/difference constructs can work at a
number of levels; institutional operations can have the charac-
ter (and endure the pain) of the most intimate forms of subject
formation. As such, one’s disciplinary identity occurs, like any
identity formation, when one is in the presence of an Other.
It is in the contrast, in an encounter with difference, that one
comes to understand with more complexity (or to consolidate
with more jealousy) who one is and who one is becoming. Such
encounters produce a psychic structure that exacerbates what
Sigmund Freud called the “narcissism of minor differences.”38
One is moved to speak “as an historian” or “as an anthropologist”
at precisely those times when one is speaking to people who are
not historians or not anthropologists. Hence, these moments si-
multaneously contain the possibility for the most intense kind of
self-evaluation and the potential for the most vociferous forms of
self-delineation and disciplinary retrenchment. For some, such
encounters force people to realize that they have a distinctive ap-
proach or perspective, that what had been a normalized, unques-
tioned procedure was actually a unique and contingent method of
analysis. For others, such encounters serve simply to reconfirm
the superiority of their own perspectives or approaches. Faced
with recalcitrant Others whose perspectives and reality princi-
ples do not easily assimilate, a subject might be just as likely
to foreground and reify difference. In this increasingly para-
noid scenario, less similar terms are further opposed. Hereto-
fore unnoticed attributes of one’s own identity now become
symbolic of one’s difference, sufficiency, and uniqueness. And,
when perceived power differentials unbalance the encounter, an
“everyone is unlike me” strategy can easily augment into what
Sverre Sjølander calls an “everyone but me is an idiot” stance
toward interdisciplinary interaction.39 And, like any identity for-
mation, one’s structural position and relative institutional power
will probably influence which of these options one takes. In the
university context, the relative distribution of economic and cul-
tural capital creates the uneven power field in which such choices
emerge.
The energy behind the quest for self-differentiation can also

quite easily flip into an opposite, and equally aggressive, quest
for resemblance. A subject’s encounter with an Other can take
shape as an excessive we are all alike model of cross-disciplinary
interaction. In this alternatively narcissistic scenario, superficial
characteristics are misrecognized as indicators of similarity. The
use of the same keyword, an alliterative link between less similar
words, an easy definitional equation, all assure the subject that
disparate inquiries, methods, and objects belong under one um-
brella. This kind of orientation – what might be called a narcissism
of minor samenesses – becomes even more urgent, furthermore,
when the principle of sameness is one’s own umbrella. Unevenly
propelled by intellectual power differentials, the “we are all alike”
model quickly transmogrifies into an “everyone is just like me”
model. Here, the components of one’s own identity – one’s own
approach, one’s own objects of inquiry, one’s own reality princi-
ples, one’s own department – are held up as the unifying solution
to everyone else’s confusion. In the evangelical urge to craft a new
knowledge formation – such as performance studies – the risk of
a narcissism of minor samenesses is probably even more acute.
Varieties of p-words can be assumed to cohere, indeed must co-
here in order to establish epistemological legitimacy, renegade
and otherwise.
Issues of sameness and difference face another register of com-
plexity when such Self/Other constructs meet the multiplicity/
singularity dyads of interdisciplinary thinking. While interdisci-
plinarity is conceived as a realm of the multiple – and opposes
itself to disciplinarity’s realm of the singular – it turns out that
perceptions of multiplicity and singularity are variable and site-
specific. They rely on shared and reproducible assumptions of
what is already different and already the same. Thus, a mode
of inquiry may be comprised of various components that, over
time and through exercises of disciplinary self-instruction, come
to feel like attributes of the same field. Meanwhile, the same
attributes might be received from a different perspective to rep-
resent quite different fields of inquiry. For instance, a theatre de-
partment’s conventional mid-century division of academic labor
often included historians, dramatic literature scholars, and di-
rector/artists. While these orientations occupied the same field
within theatre, each mirrored a different network of methods,
skills, and reality principles, networks that appeared separately in

History, English, and Art departments. The question of whether
such clusterings constitute divisions of labor within the Same
or are interdisciplinary indicators of Difference is far from
clear. In a more recent context, attributions of multiplicity and
singularity were further confused. While one might assume a
trans-historical equivalence between generalism and interdis-
ciplinarity, certain kinds of interdisciplinarity appeared quite
specialist to certain eyes. Similarly, while a multicultural move-
ment sought to value multiplicity, it received the specialist ap-
pellation (often “special interest”) from conservative thinkers
for whom Western intellectual history was paradoxically more
general. Rather than approaching this puzzle with the hope
of absolutely assimilating or absolutely differentiating selves,
others, and their internal attributes, it is perhaps more use-
ful to operate knowing that heterogeneity and homogeneity are
never absolute but shift with altered perspective – and political
interest.
An analytic knowledge of academic institutional structures and
of the history of academic institutions facilitates such destabi-
lizing, and hence illuminating, alterations in perspective. It is
probably no surprise to most critical theorists to hear that nar-
cissism and paranoia – in both their productive and paralyzing
forms – go hand in hand with interdisciplinary interaction. In
addition to the multiplicity/singularity construct, the psychically
complicated conundrums of sameness/difference also interact
with other terms of alliance and opposition, dyads such as “old
and new” or “inside and outside.” Significantly, such terms
and psychic mechanisms emerge and maintain their potency by
acting in concert with institutional structures and histories. They
become most forceful in naturalizing the organization of knowl-
edge, especially when such structures and histories are dis-
avowed. Recognizing their influence thus assists in defamiliar-
izing normalized categories of knowledge, even categories that
neither self-proclaimed progressive nor conservative scholars are
always interested in interrogating. Historical knowledge ques-
tions the ease with which delineations of old and new are mapped.
Sometimes movements cast as traditional turn out to be relatively
recent and once transgressive formations. Other times, move-
ments cast as new turn out to reproduce many of the conventions
and structures that they claim to transcend. Institutional struc-

tures further affect what we perceive to be inside and outside our
own lines of inquiry, tacitly dividing our understanding of what is
internal to our field and what is external. Comparative and his-
torical analyses of different universities reveal the contingency
of such constructs. Since each university found its own way of
responding to the utilitarian, disciplinary, and demographic pres-
sures of the twentieth-century university, each positioned theatre
and performance somewhat differently as well.
Institutional structures also entail differences of institutional
power, an unevenness that affects who borrows from whom in an
interdisciplinary encounter, whose histories are foregrounded,
and who takes credit for interdisciplinary innovation. These fac-
tors can take shape in a number of ways. First, all parties may
be subject to the vagaries of the synecdochic fallacy, the ten-
dency to assume that one approach or movement or piece of
scholarship can represent an entire discipline. In this scenario, a
single famous author stands in for many. A body of texts serves
as shorthand for much larger traditions of scholarship. Subfields
are misrecognized as entire fields. One variant of the synecdochic
fallacy occurs in the selective appropriation of a borrowed dis-
cipline in order to stage a break with one’s own. The result is a
selective “it’s new to you” attitude toward a method or an argu-
ment that does not remember that such methods or arguments
are old to someone else. The fallout of these synecdochic falla-
cies and these “it’s new to you” trajectories will be different based
on the relative power of borrowed and borrowing fields. Mem-
bers of a field whose reputation and cultural capital is solidly
rooted in the university may feel more able to experiment with-
out threatening their institutional position. Such scholars’ forays
into adjacent fields may spice up their own work, give it a new an-
gle or a new object, without seeming to require an investigation
of the borrowed discipline’s wider discussions and legacies. In
this scenario, one scholar’s tradition is transformed into another
scholar’s innovative experiment. Members of a less established
field may be just as subject to synecdochic misrecognition; how-
ever, as a wide range of cultural theory makes clear, subordinate
subjects usually do a better job of learning the ways and wiles of
the dominant. Nevertheless, the “borrowing up” performed by
scholars in less powerful fields – whether done for experiment or,
more often, for intellectual legitimacy – can also remain ignorant

of larger inter-locutionary contexts.
These and related topics will be expanded and re-positioned
in the various chapters that follow. Each addresses a particu-
lar network of epistemological dilemmas and opportunities via a
selected theme and a range of case studies. Together they offer
different ways of conceiving and interpreting genealogical conti-
nuities and discontinuities in the disciplining of performance.
I have selected moments on a loose chronological plane, ex-
amining key intellectual developments in philology, new criti-
cism, cultural studies, deconstruction, new historicism, and post-
structuralist theory throughout the twentieth century in order to
locate “the space” in which performance’s epistemological ob-
jects emerge. Chapter Two focuses most explicitly on the nature
of “institutionalization” as it impinged upon the early forma-
tion of theatre studies at the beginning of the twentieth century,
using the figure of George Pierce Baker as a springboard. By
looking more specifically at how the conventions of profession-
alization and curricular legitimation affected the development
of theatre, rhetoric, and performance, I interrogate terminolo-
gies and expose paradoxes that still affect and afflict the status
of performance in today’s university. Chapter Three considers
the intellectual genealogies of the 1940s and 1950s in order to
resituate performance’s relationship to “cultural studies.” While
the latter interdisciplinary field is conventionally invoked as a
recent and “trendy” intellectual formation, an examination of
its earlier history in Great Britain reveals early alignments be-
tween the study of drama and the study of “culture,” shaky al-
legiances that nevertheless challenge assumptions of what is old
and new, traditional and “cutting edge,” in theatre and perfor-
mance studies scholarship. The association of performance with
a kind of anti-intellectual “literalism” and pre-professional “prac-
tice” provides the foundation for Chapter Four, using it to spec-
ulate more generally on the legacies of philosophical and artistic
experimentation of the 1960s and 1970s. This chapter continues
Chapter Two’s excavation of the role of art production in per-
formance curricula while simultaneously examining discourses
in the visual arts and in deconstructive philosophy that compli-
cated the conceptual status of performance in several disciplines.
In Chapter Five, I consider the connections and disconnections
between performance and the writing of “history,” particularly

focusing on the epistemic impact of cultural anthropology and
new historicism in the 1980s. Situating the so-called “cultural
turn” next to debated practices in theatre historiography and
alongside the institutional story of performance studies, this
chapter foregrounds less-remembered intellectual genealogies in
literature, performance, theatre, and anthropology while consid-
ering the gender politics of their disavowal. Finally, Chapter Six
takes a sustained look at theatre and performance next to the
provocative and multifaceted paradigms of performativity as the
twentieth century gave over to the twenty-first. While offering a
fuller account and revision of the terms that opened this chapter,
I also interrogate the conflicted and contradictory effects of the
“culture wars” and “identity politics” on performance practices
and performance theorizing.
I have found the case study approach to be selective but es-
sential to tracking the internal discontinuities of theoretical, dis-
ciplinary, and institutional processes. While this kind of speci-
ficity is necessary to understand epistemological contingency, I
do try to abstract key concepts and invite application and revi-
sion through other examples. Nevertheless, there are obviously
many issues and sites that I do not address in this book. I focus
most explicitly on higher education in the United States, noting
international influence and variation only selectively. Many of
the institutional and disciplinary dilemmas are thus distinctive
to or exacerbated by an “American” location; surely the utili-
tarian celebration and humanist skepticism of a term such as
“practice” becomes particularly virulent in its capitalist context.
Additionally, though I consider the history of a range of per-
formance forms in higher education, this book emphasizes the
institutional histories of theatre, speech, and performance stud-
ies in the context of literature, cultural studies, and the general
humanities. My ardent hope is that other scholars contribute
to the larger story of performance’s genealogy in the academy,
importing and resituating the arguments that I offer here by an-
alyzing parallel movements in greater North America, Europe,
Asia, Africa, South America, and Australia and by mapping more
specific institutional histories of dance, visual art, folklore, and
of key wings in the social sciences.
Performance and performance-inflected vocabularies have an

overwhelming number of meanings, connotations, and intellec-
tual legacies. This kind of discursive flexibility interacts with a
larger field power – namely the forces of gender, race, sexual-
ity, and class – in diffuse and exponentially complicated ways.
Each of my analyses considers such factors while being acutely
aware of their variation. In order to characterize some structures
within this discursive plenitude, I have found it helpful to focus
on what might be termed the “flexible essentialism” of perfor-
mance, that is, its tendency to inhabit the essentialist as well
as anti-essentialist side of any conceptual binary. Terms such as
performance or theatre are often used as metaphors for represen-
tation and, in other contexts, are invoked to ground the “real.”
While a history of Western thought associates performance with
the figural, the allegorical, and the copy, a host of critical theo-
rists in the late twentieth century used performance examples to
characterize the literal, the stable, or the naı̈vely authentic. These
divided tendencies are only exacerbated in a university context,
where performance has been the site of some of the most in-
tensely anti-essentialist theoretical speculation and where, con-
versely, its artistic practitioners often invoke the term to stall
theoretical musing. As a result, the disciplinary genealogies of
performance tend not to have one feminist reading nor one im-
plication for an anti-racist politics. Attributions of masculinity
and femininity in the study of theatre can cut both ways and
change with definitional relation. Sometimes, theatre’s associa-
tion with artifice and deception reproduce classical stereotypes
of the feminine. Sometimes theatre’s practices of collectivity and
publicity align it with a masculine performance of democratic cit-
izenship. Sometimes theatre is equated with high-brow elitism;
other times, its proponents and its detractors emphasize theatre’s
infrastructural and technical dimensions to create a classed por-
trait of industrial labor. White women and people of color may
find themselves equivocally positioned by theatre’s theoretical
flexibility, for a performance frame can simultaneously open the
door to non-dominant forms of cultural production while at the
same time submitting those forms and those cultures to the most
insidious modes of stereotyping. Theatre and performance fur-
ther change their gendered, race, sexed, and classed associations
depending upon the disciplinary, interdisciplinary, regional, and

university context. Attributions of femininity vary if theatre is
opposed to film or to literature, to technology or to folklore.
Its class allegiances change depending whether it is located in
a liberal arts college, a technical school, or a research univer-
sity. In the disciplining of performance, there are no clear good
guys or bad guys, no single silver bullet with which to receive
and resolve a critical, political, and occupational puzzle. As the
referent for theatre changes, furthermore, the nature of the anti-
theatrical prejudice changes with it. Indeed, “the anti-theatrical
prejudice” is not a singular thought-structure but itself, multiple,
opportunistic, and a constantly moving target. For that reason,
a case study approach offers the most responsible way to test an-
alytic approaches, to de-mystify our field’s defense mechanisms,
and to imagine our field’s future.
An awareness of variation and contingency adds more di-
mension to the interdisciplinary puzzle. It serves as a warning
against assuming the normalcy and naturalness of one’s own
present-day institutional context, forcing a heightened aware-
ness of epistemological complacency. It suggests that an insti-
tution’s common-sense unions and divisions conceal histories of
disavowed difference and disavowed connection. There is a great
deal of heterogeneity within sameness and a great deal of sim-
ilarity within difference. There are also many older legacies re-
peated within new movements, and a great deal of change within
apparent reproductions of tradition. As hard as it is to say some-
thing new, it is perhaps (pace Foucault) equally impossible not
to. Our understanding of disciplinary and interdisciplinary op-
erations should shift with historical perspective and institutional
location, a slipperiness that might in turn unsettle easy alliances
and convenient oppositions in our current ways of talking about
ourselves. The challenge is to make the harder alliances and to
devise new types of self-description. Whether falling across axes
of multiplicity and singularity, traditional and non-traditional,
inside and outside, our conventional assertions of disciplinary
sameness and difference can be disrupted by a consciousness of
institutional history. That consciousness confronts some of the
occupational hazards of inhabiting an emergent field by guarding
against its reinvention of the wheel and by loosening the selec-
tive vocabularies that threaten to inhibit the breadth and depth of
that emergence. Finally, it provides a variety of templates for the

kind of arguments that theatre and performance scholars need to
make, preparing us for those vexed and confusing conversations
(remember the department meetings, the office hours, the con-
ferences, the rehearsals) where invoking an historical allusion or
noting an unacknowledged connection will make the difference
in getting some pedagogical work done.
2 Institutions and performance:
professing performance in the early
twentieth century
“Our professional protocols of value [are] being squeezed by a

system whose ideal image of itself promotes theoretically sophis-
ticated, interdisciplinary work in extraliterary studies but whose
material base is shrinking . . . it was roughly twenty years ago
that Richard Ohmann pointed out, in English in America, that
the profession of English studies thought of itself as doing criti-
cism and theory but was in actuality devoting half of its courses
to introductory composition.” Michael Bérubé1
“What a deal: by honoring our own history we get to lead the

hottest trends.” Joseph Roach2
To profess performance
In 1905, Professor George Lyman Kittredge, Chairman of the
English department at Harvard University, dropped a note to his
colleague Professor George Pierce Baker. The latter had been
concerned that one of Kittredge’s new hires might have designs
on the teaching of “the drama” and thus designs on Baker’s own
curricular territory. Kittredge sought to mollify Baker’s anxiety.
“You may feel quite secure,” he wrote, “as to any cutting into your
special field.”3 The sentence reproduced the content and form
of an all-too familiar interaction between empowered chairman
and paranoid colleague. And, as is often true of such interactions,
it also revealed a hint of intellectual condescension within its
gesture of institutional assurance, one that left flexible whether
the word “special” had the connotation of the extraordinary, the
narrow, or the peripheral.
Similar kinds of anxieties can be found in the archives of other
key figures in the early institutionalization of performance in
the American academy. As such, they anticipate the kinds of
40
Institutions and performance 41
defensive anxieties that contemporary proponents of perfor-

mance find themselves enduring. George Pierce Baker and
other white academic American men – Brander Matthews at
Columbia, Thomas Dickinson at Wisconsin, Frederick Koch
at North Carolina, Thomas Wood Stevens at Carnegie Tech –
figure prominently in what Joseph Roach calls the “myths of ori-
gin” of theatre studies. “What is striking at first glance is how
very different these pioneers’ objects of study were,” says Joseph
Roach, “Different, yes, but they are all in some way focused
on performance.”4 Roach uses their unified eclecticism in part
to make an argument for “performance” as a conceptual and
methodological turn with which theatre might “lead the hottest”
trends in a current academic climate. Roach’s invocation of these
names is strategic; they are the figures who are heroically and
sometimes melodramatically chronicled in the struggling, per-
petually marginalized field of theatre studies. Written for an
audience of theatre history scholars, Roach’s polemic brings
comfort to those who are dubious about “trendiness,” suggest-
ing that theatre studies has been doing performance studies all
along. The hottest trend, according to this argument, is really
traditional; the new is old after all. At the same time, Roach’s
recognition that each of these disciplinary pioneers was quite
“different” is potentially somewhat less comforting, for the im-
puted sameness of “theatre” across objects and histories under-
wrote the formation of the discipline in the first place.
In this chapter, my first goal is to investigate these genealogies
of disciplinary difference and the relationship of that difference
to performance. While I focus on one of Roach’s figures, George
Pierce Baker, I will also suggest that there are even more “myths
of origin” and much more “difference” with which to contend.
The discipline of American theatre studies offers one discontinu-
ous genealogy of performance, but, as Paul Edwards has shown,
a rhetorical genealogy in Speech and Oratory plots another route;
a dance orientation might suggest a different set of moves, ac-
cording to Alexandra Carter.5 Each of these performance fields
has a different notion of what history needs to be honored, and
the behaviors to which each refers – whether performed in a
classroom, in a theatre, or in a gymnasium – endure different
types of curricular and extra-curricular legitimation. While in-
corporating these strains of performance study, I also investigate
their fundamental connections to other fields, such as English,

Architecture, and Art Practice, that are reputedly not about per-
formance at all. If a current performance paradigm sees sameness
in disciplines that were once-different, an historical genealogy of
performance must also emphasize how now-different fields were
once-the-same. Rather than defending or rejecting terms such
as “drama” or “art” or “speech” or “literature,” I am most in-
terested in thinking about how such concepts become discursive
touchstones for attributing and withdrawing value at different
moments in the academy. Often this is about re-casting what we
already know about disciplinary history into a differently aimed
kind of argument. As it turns out (and as Roach knows well)
“honoring our own history” turns out to be a messy business. It
is unclear whether “honoring” is exactly the right verb; it is less
clear who is included in the “we” behind the possessive “our,”
and multiple claims of possession make the assumption of own-
ership next to impossible. In such a context, instances of anxiety
and defensiveness proliferate.
As I argued in the previous chapter, paranoid and/or narcis-
sistic delineations of sameness and difference are exacerbated by
fields of institutional power. Hence, my second goal in this chap-
ter is to track some of the institutional processes that both reflect
and reproduce these power fields. What kind of work must pro-
ponents do to install an academic field? What particularly does it
mean to advocate the study of performance in American higher
education? Investigating issues of performance’s institutionaliza-
tion is lamentably not always the same as investigating develop-
ments in performance scholarship. It can be somewhat jarring to
realize that there is a difference. This is the kind of realization
that one begins to have in graduate school. Here, and depending
upon the type of program, students learn not only about the-
ory or history, not only about image or embodiment, but also
about conference participation, about audition processes, about
job interviews, about portfolios, head-shots, and curricula vitae.
The realization is advanced further with an academic appoint-
ment where one contends with departmental divisions, school
divisions, job placement, graduation requirements, building in-
frastructure, curricular breakdowns, and departmental divisions
of labor. Usually such questions are compartmentalized some-
where else in the mind of an academic. They are categorized as
“my service,” as “my committee work,” and as opposed to “my

research” (or, more insidiously, “my own work”).
This chapter takes a closer look at a more defined network
of histories and processes. My hope is to consider the early
twentieth-century institutionalization of performance in order to
illuminate some contemporary concerns about what it means to
profess performance in the early twenty-first century. Along the
way, I seek to de-familiarize, if not exactly to dislodge, the occu-
pational processes that we sometimes vilify, sometimes celebrate,
and sometimes decide to ignore. Occasionally, this is also about
re-familiarization, about seeing our behaviors and everyday pro-
cesses as both structured by and structuring larger questions of
value and authority. The first sections use George Pierce Baker’s
early career to examine the emergence of academic careerism
as well as to trace rhetorical and literary philological trends that
antedated, and in some ways anticipated, Baker’s turn to theatri-
cal performance. The final sections examine the institutional,
gendered, and classed contingencies of that turn. Throughout,
I connect this multifarious history to contemporaneous figures
in higher education and to current debates. At the same time, I
also consider what I earlier referred to as the “ill-fit” of perfor-
mance within certain kinds of legitimating discourses in order
to highlight, and perhaps to challenge, the conventions of legiti-
mation itself. The educational practice of performance can dis-
rupt historical and critical accounts of educational practice more
generally. Sometimes performance counters understandings of
ideological trends in higher education; other times it troubles
conventional interpretive frameworks and modes of categoriza-
tion. Tracking this kind of ill-fit – and performance’s attempts to
fit – thus adds another dimension to a larger body of scholarship
on the idea of the university as well as on the employment of the
arts and humanities.
In many ways, the early story of theatre’s institutionalization is
also a story of racial and gender privilege. This is not to say that
white female educators and intellectuals of color did not take an
avid interest in theatrical performance. Prominent black intel-
lectuals such as W.E.B. DuBois and Alain Locke experimented
with performance at Fiske and Howard Universities.6 Spelman’s
status as a premiere black women’s college allowed the incorpo-
ration of theatre as a means of racial uplift.7 Young dramatists
such as Josephina Niggli found ways of using Frederick Koch’s

folklore-based program at the University of North Carolina to
stage Mexican-American experience.8 Meanwhile, female teach-
ers of various races promoted theatre education in child and
community development. However, the institutional voice for
academic performance largely belonged to professors who were
white and male. Discussions of departmentalization, curriculum,
professionalization, and academic legitimation took place in an
administrative arena dominated by white men. It was also sub-
ject to the blindspots, value judgments, and projected anxieties
of such a sphere. As it happens, the phenomena of theatre and
performance provide a means of exposing those anxieties and
showing their effects in the institutional process of disciplinary
formation.
Mr. Baker’s profession

In my opening anecdote of 1905, Chairman Kittredge and Pro-
fessor Baker inhabited an English department that was in the
midst of a transformation in the field of literary studies and in the
organization of higher education. As such, they were also nego-
tiating the interpersonal conflicts and inter-office paranoias that
drive and derive from occupational changes. Baker’s background
was similar to many of his contemporary pro-performance col-
leagues at other universities. Though twenty years later Baker
would become the founder of the oft-renowned Yale School of
Drama, at the turn-of-the-century, he was a teacher of Rhetoric
in an English department. He was a professor who began with
dual interests in literary research and in oral pedagogy. His in-
terests transmogrified from a focus on argumentation to a curi-
ous fixation on the oral performance of the drama, proceeding
apace down a slippery slope that went from the oral performance
of Shakespeare, to the oral performance of “drama exclusive of
Shakespeare,” to the promotion of campus play production, to
the writing of new plays by the students themselves. The same
year as his exchange with Kittredge, Baker had published “The
Mind of the Undergraduate,” a document that condemned the
apathetic indolence of the typical Harvard student who had no
“original ideas” and displayed “absolute imperviousness to the
ideas for which he is supposed to be taking the course.”9 Baker
would later characterize his involvement with academic drama
as facilitating the needs of students who were “stirred to expres-

sion,” suggesting that he found in theatre a means of solving the
problem of student apathy and of tapping an otherwise dormant
student desire.10
To consider performance in this era of higher education is
useful for a number of reasons. US colleges and universities
grappled with their relationship to a changing American soci-
ety. They argued over access to higher education for women,
for newer immigrants, for African-Americans, and for the chil-
dren of both the industrial bourgeoisie and working classes.
For numerous historians of higher education, this was a pivotal
period. It solidified a nineteenth-century shift in the content of
academic knowledge from a classical to a vernacular curriculum,
backgrounding the study of Greek and Latin in favor of an ever-
expanding list of fields in cultural and scientific study. It also
ushered in the era of “professionalism,” an economic and dis-
cursive formation that differently but pervasively inflected both
professors’ sense of their students’ educational goals as well as
their own sense of their positions as “career academics.” With
increased enrolments and a booming US economy, it was also a
time when the economic capital and architectural image of the
university expanded. Harvard University president Charles Eliot
is the administrative figure to whom higher education historians
continually refer to illustrate these changes. In 1869, Eliot de-
vised a curricular program in what he termed “liberal culture,”
ostensibly to promote the widest range of vernacular learning
in a context that also attended to the ethical development of a
new generation of American citizens. Along the way, he changed
the delivery and dissemination of his college’s courses, installing
the “elective system” in order to match a democratizing cur-
riculum with a democratic structure of selection.11 Next to his
active role in redefining the instruction of higher education, he
was also extensively involved in the business of higher education.
As such, his situation anticipated the network of interests – and
conflicts of interest – that contemporary critics now call the cor-
poratization of the university. Eliot attracted funders, oversaw
infrastructural expansion, instituted standards for faculty eval-
uation, balanced budgets, counted enrolments, and remained
accountable to a board of trustees and economic authorities that
called itself – in a once-classical, now fiscal, turn of phrase – The
Corporation.
Professionalization meant that the always conflicted position

of the academic came to inhabit another type of conflicted situa-
tion with which we are now quite familiar though not necessarily
reconciled. To give this transformation more dimension, con-
sider Barbara and John Ehrenreich’s Marxist critique of what
they famously called the “professional-managerial class.” The
Ehrenreichs include “college professors” in what they identify as
an emerging PMC, one broadly “consisting of salaried mental
workers who do not own the means of production and whose
major function in the social division of labor may be described
broadly as the reproduction of capitalist culture and capitalist
relations.”12 As salaried mental workers, college professors are
aligned with engineers, journalists, social service providers, cler-
ical workers, medical workers, and others who gained their iden-
tity by accessing specialized knowledge and by claiming their
authority as “experts.” The Ehrenreichs identify a paradox in
that, despite their role in the reproduction of capitalist relations,
PMC members often invoke an “anti-capitalist” rhetoric. Take
the college example. As the demographics of the US university
changed, new students increasingly saw a college education as
an opportunity for class mobility and economic advancement.
While this shift was “progressive” from one perspective, from
another it also over-determined the social role of higher educa-
tion. Many academics, meanwhile, worked to maintain a sep-
arate professional position outside relations of capitalism and
commerce, sometimes by adopting explicitly socialist language,
other times by calling for the safe preservation of moral and cul-
tural inquiry. Humanities professors in particular tried to create
a separate sphere of cultural capital while simultaneously
legitimating themselves curricularly and institutionally within
professionalizing terms. This made for a messy, complex, and oc-
casionally self-contradicting context for humanist self-definition.
As PMC members, humanities professors would argue for oc-
cupational “autonomy” – e.g. “academic freedom” – while re-
maining enmeshed in a university’s relations of production and
while teaching students who would enter capitalist occupations.
As “professionals” outside of the capitalist industries that they
simultaneously reproduced, the idea of “technical knowledge”
would be variously defined. Sometimes this discourse supported
a salaried humanist’s own claims to rigor, advanced training, and
expertise. Other times it characterized a pedagogical ground,

whether “manual” or “pre-professional,” whose character and
goals were opposed to a humanistic project. The PMC critique
adds more complexity to a chronicle of higher education. The
opposition between “research” and “practice” may designate a
difference in the curricular orientation of a college course, but
it does not necessarily designate a difference in the social role of
any particular kind of college professor.
“Now about your personal prospects,” President Charles Eliot
wrote an advisory letter to his faculty member, George Pierce
Baker. Baker also happened to be Eliot’s nephew by marriage. “I
believe that you are in a fair way to get promotion at Cambridge
in time. If your publishers can tell you just where your books have
been introduced, I should like to know the facts. They might be
useful with the Corporation.”13 Eliot wrote in 1895, ten years
before Kittredge’s discussion of that “special field” and before
Baker’s interest in the theatre had taken hold. Eliot obviously had
a personal interest in Baker’s personal prospects. Nonetheless,
his note illustrates the enmeshment of both men in the profes-
sionalizing class of higher education. As a salaried mental worker,
Baker would need to characterize and quantify his contribution
to knowledge. This early example of Baker’s participation in the
modern organization of knowledge anticipated the characteristic
structures of the PMC as the Ehrenreichs defined them, specifi-
cally:
a) the existence of a specialized body of knowledge, accessible only by

lengthy training
b) the existence of ethical standards which include a commitment to
public service and
c) a measure of autonomy from outside interference in the practice of
the profession (e.g. only members of the profession can judge the
value of a fellow professional’s work).14
Baker’s evaluation for promotion in 1895 reflected the

beginnings of this process of professional structuration. Beyond
notifying the Corporation of “where [his] books have been in-
troduced,” colleagues at various universities throughout the na-
tion were asked to submit a written assessment of Baker’s work.
While brief and perfunctory by contemporary standards, this
was an early version of a process that confirmed the existence of
specialized knowledge by requiring specialists to evaluate it. As

a member of what might be called the “professorial-managerial
class,” Baker thus endured the anxiety of the “peer review” on
which professionalism depends and enjoyed the relative intellec-
tual autonomy that such peer reviews ensure.
That this kind of evaluation happened within the context of an
English department was also noteworthy, especially because the
professional status of the English professor was somewhat uncer-
tain as the century changed. At most research universities, the
field of “English” would become the most powerful field in the in-
creasingly unempowered domain of the humanities. As the field
from which so many performance professors reportedly broke
free, it is useful to examine the marginally dominant status of
this domain in order to better understand the counter-identity
project of performance in the same period. Literature was in
danger of not faring very well within professionalist modes of
legitimation. As Lawrence Vesey, John Guillory, Gerald Graff,
and others have argued, these fields thus had manifestly to make
themselves “rigorous,” to become knowledges based in evidence.
Emerging literature professors worked to define their object of
knowledge with clear rules to replace nebulous belletrism and
to fend off their association with the feminine. German philol-
ogy entered and/or was imported precisely to lend the study of
literature this necessary positivism, a specialist training in his-
torical research, etymology, and the accumulation of facts that
pushed to develop a science of the literary and thus to assure all
involved that literature professors had an object of study. Such
manifest rigor warded off feminizing discourses of delegitima-
tion that derived from the university’s changing demographics
of class, ethnicity, and gender. Philology kept literature from ap-
pearing to be a sentimental field that appealed only to the co-eds.
To give this some contemporary institutional significance, Graff
and Guillory both situate current training in “Theory” on a his-
torical plane with philology (with New Criticism in between). Of
course, philology and most critical theory are very different in the
content of their intellectual assumptions and in their espoused
gender politics; nevertheless, they occupy a similar structural po-
sition from the perspective of professional history. They both
serve a similar function in the mechanics of professionalization
and scholarly “training” within the arts and humanities. It is this
kind of coincidence that exposes the interdependence between

the production of ideas and the production of professionalism.
How did these transformations manifest themselves? Richard
Moulton, Professor of Literature at University of Chicago from
1892 to 1919, provides a statement on the kinds of rationales that
lay behind the move to scientific literary criticism. “In the treat-
ment of literature the proposition which seems to stand most
in need of assertion is, that there is an inductive science of liter-
ary criticism. As botany deals inductively with the phenomena of
vegetable life and traces the laws underlying them; as economy
reviews and systematizes on inductive principles of commerce,
so there is a criticism not less inductive in character which has for
its subject-matter literature.”15 Moulton felt compelled to assert
defensively that “there is” an object of study and used the scien-
tific analogy to do it. (It is perhaps no coincidence that this pas-
sage also anticipates the specialist tendency to make nouns – e.g.
“system” – into verbs.) Differentiating between judicial criticism
and his own inductions, Moulton used the example of Ben Jon-
son. “Judicial criticism can see how the poet was led astray: the
best of his disposition induced him to sacrifice dramatic propriety
to his satiric purpose.” Inductive criticism by contrast did away
with judgments and sought to track only the facts of influence
and transformation, pictured by Moulton as a literary approxi-
mation of the biological laboratory. “Induction has another way
of putting the matter: that the poet has utilized dramatic form for
satiric purpose; thus by the cross-fertilization of two existing lit-
erary species has added to literature a third including features of
both.”16 Contemporary critics might have different responses to
this discursive legacy, identifying and disidentifying at once. Aca-
demic humanists today often still need to confirm to our science
colleagues that we have a subject at all – and, moreover, that it
requires skill, training, and discipline to do it. Many might also
side with Moulton against evaluative, hierarchical, taste-based
judgments of cultural forms. At the same time, many might not
respond to the language of science (of species and fertilization)
nor to the quest for objectivity in a critical project.
By 1905, Chairman George Lyman Kittredge emerged as one
of the foremost practitioners of literary philology in the United
States. At the same time, the rise of his reputation as a researcher
coincided with a shift in the administrative organization of the
American university, one that dispersed power into discrete de-

partments, one that granted the “department chair” a relatively
large amount of institutional control.17 As such, the moment
when Kittredge dropped his chairman’s note was also a moment
when the promoter of a then “trendy” intellectual movement –
philology – was simultaneously in the midst of exercising a posi-
tion of intellectual and organizational power. Kittredge is now an
oft-chronicled figure in the disciplinary history of literary studies
and hence its “myths of origin.” His reputation for introducing
dispassion and objectivity into the field of literature is legendary.
In graduate school conversations, students who dared to ques-
tion the appropriateness of the literature professor’s interest in
“mere facts” famously endured his disdain. “‘I am interested,’
was the withering response, ‘in nothing but facts.’”18 Kittredge’s
orientation was castigated by some even as it secured his na-
tional fame. As with contemporary anti-theoretical backlashes
now, many worried that philology’s success in establishing the
profession of literary studies de-centralized the appreciation of
literature itself. As one skeptic wrote, “We are inclined to doubt
whether he considers it any part of his function to import to
his students a love of literature.”19 Nevertheless, the accumula-
tion of historical knowledge clarified a researcher’s contribution,
making President Eliot’s process of faculty evaluation that much
easier.
Interestingly, this same detractor who questioned Kittredge’s
love of literature also imagined another kind of dire future. “And
it is when you see the newly fledged philologist at work, teaching
composition (and which he has never practiced) . . . it is then
that you begin to recognize that something is out of joint in the
state of Denmark.”20 This writer unwittingly revealed compet-
ing assumptions about the role of the English department. While
at some moments, its role was to extend a love of literature, at
others it was to teach the much more mundane basic skills of
composition. Presumably someone who “loved literature” and
someone who had philological aspirations would be equally as
frustrated by the task of teaching composition. The statement’s
blindspot illustrates a much bigger disavowal. As John Guillory
has argued, the teaching of basic writing testifies to the social role
of the English department in the production of a skilled man-
agerial labor force, a function that remains the impensé of the
literary professoriate.21 Here is one of many moments when all
involved – both theoretically rigorous researchers and morally

righteous literature lovers – elected not to notice the participa-
tion of English in the reproduction of capitalist relations.
What does this discussion about love, about literature, about
professionalism, and composition have to do with performance?
Dramatic literature, especially drama “exclusive of Shake-
speare,” risked associations with the feminine, the primitive, and
the commercial in a way that threatened the profession of liter-
ature’s redefined story about itself as a masculine, hard science.
Whether theatre could transcend these associations was still de-
batable in the early twentieth century. Hence, the condescending
assurance and hedged institutional protection of a trendy philolo-
gist like George Lyman Kittredge vis à vis a professor like George
Pierce Baker. As Michael Quinn and Marvin Carlson have noted,
philology’s relationship to drama was relatively problematic for
many a German professor.22 Both Quinn and Carlson emphasize
the significance of Theatrewissenschaft as a research paradigm in
Europe, one whose processes set the terms and conventions of
what would become theatre historiography. Back in the United
States, the adoption of philological methods was more scattered,
sometimes done begrudgingly, other times mimicked in spite of
a scholar’s own anti-philological pronouncements.
Baker’s writing career illustrated the ambivalence. In 1895, he
had two books to offer for “peer review,” one on techniques of
argumentation derived from his rhetoric teaching, the other an
annotated edition of John Lyly’s Endymion. The latter reflected
the impact of philological trendiness on his own thinking, or at
least, on his own perceptions of what he should be thinking.
Kittredge, then at the beginning of his relationship with Baker,
was exceedingly complimentary, writing as one who imagined a
future for his young colleague.
Dear Baker, I have put off thanking you for your Lyly until I should
find time to read the introduction with something of the care which it
evidently deserved. . . . I hasten to offer my warmest congratulations on
so thorough and scholarly a piece of work . . . Of course there are details
in which I’m not convinced, but, throughout, your reasoning seems to
me, with very few exceptions, quite cogent, and nobody can say that
you haven’t made clear the distinction between facts and hypotheses.
In a word, I have only one regret – that the book, with its masterly
introduction, isn’t in my series instead of in Holt’s. Your command of
the details of your subject is amazing.23
Kittredge’s invocation of “thoroughness,” his discourse on

“details,” and his riding assumption of the importance of a
fact/hypothesis distinction testify to the effects of scientific mod-
els on “masterly” humanist knowledge formations. That “no one
could say” that Baker did not tow the line in this domain sug-
gests that Kittredge had wondered whether Baker could do it.
Reflecting an emergent circle of literary professionals, Richard
Moulton himself was called upon to respond to the book and
did so: “Baker has rendered a distinct service to literary study by
editing this work, a type of a class of literature not generally acces-
sible. I appreciate further the research that has gone to produce
that life of the author.”24 Moulton and others in his peer review
agreed with Kittredge, confirming Baker’s promising status as a
would-be expert.
The reaction of another colleague to the same book illustrates
that scholastic debates about the fashion and future of liter-
ary studies were being waged in Harvard’s English department.
Barrett Wendell, Baker’s early mentor and eventual author of
an eclectic body of scholarship in rhetoric, composition, Shake-
speare, and literary history, was the first professor to introduce
a course in “drama exclusive of Shakespeare” at Harvard and
hence was cautiously sympathetic to Baker’s emerging interests.
In 1895, however, he gave an unenthusiastic response to “the
Lyly.”
In its way, the Lyly seems to be admirable. Its way, too, is that from
which, as a professional scholar!, you should expect distinction . . . While
I heartily admire it, though, I cannot honestly say that it gives me plea-
sure as a reader. . . . I am overwhelmed with facts; and have no imag-
inative impulse to make me feel how these facts differ from those of
antiquity and of our own time . . . You know me well enough to un-
derstand how coyly I try for such a type of scholarship as shall not only
possess the minute accuracy which is now the fashion, but also vivify its
facts with bold constructive imagination which shall not fear to state its
faith . . . Imagination you had in the old days. You have been right, per-
haps, in checking it. Professionally you are certainly right . . . I heartily
hope, though, that you will not end with work like this.25
Wendell’s references to the lack of pleasure, to the lack of vivifi-

cation, to minute accuracy, to the necessity to check an imagina-
tion, exemplified anti-philological reaction. They also anticipate
the terms in which the “new” trends of “Theory” would be
criticized one hundred years later. Wendell’s use of the term “pro-
fessional” and “distinction” testified to the change in institutional
practice, one that could be defensively characterized as part of a
“fashion.” All of the terms together in a paragraph that digressed
into what “I try for” in scholarship exemplify the narcissistic and
paranoid structures of an intellectual climate buffeted by a field
of institutional power.
Baker submitted another type of writing for peer review in
1895, namely his book on the practice of argumentation. The
coincidence provides an opportunity to incorporate another per-
formance genealogy in literary studies, one that returns us to the
“composition” class about which few wanted to think. Being a
book that derived from Baker’s background in rhetoric, the co-
incidence also highlights a less well-remembered and decidedly
discontinuous rhetorical genealogy in the study of performance,
one that in turn plots a different route to alternate “myths of ori-
gin.” First, I want to back up by recalling the placement of oral
performance as a kind of pre-origin in the field of literature, in
the practice of theatre, and in the less modern nineteenth-century
university. In their introduction to The Origins of Literary Studies
in America, editors Michael Warner and Gerald Graff describe
the emergence of literary studies as a discrete field by painting
a picture of its earlier, less discrete, practitioners. In nineteenth-
century universities, rhetoric-and-oratory professors were most
often responsible for “introducing boys to the golden passages in
Shakespeare and the poets.” “To be a rhetoric-and-oratory pro-
fessor,” say Warner and Graff, “one had only to know the classics,
have a pretty way of talking, and what some at the time referred
to as ‘a general society-knowledge of literature.’”26 The rhetoric-
and-oratory professor seems, retroactively, quite amateur in the
disparaging sense of the term. As such, he shadows the rest of
their book, serving as a marker for disciplinary transformations
such as a shift from a classical to vernacular curriculum as well as
the consolidation of the fuzzy generalist who increasingly served
as foil to the literary specialist. Interestingly, to “have a pretty
way of talking” is also an index of his generalized amateurism.
Elsewhere, the rhetoric-and-oratory professor appears as a
“spell-binder,” as a mystifying “belletrist,” or as a “rearguard”
spiritualist. With less and more self-consciousness, the pretty
talker is framed historically and in the present as the opposite of
everything that the humanist academic would become – the

opposite, that is, of professional, rigorous, scholarly, rational, the-
oretical, disciplinary, modern. Indeed, in some institutions, the
denigration or excision of “speech” was fundamental to the intel-
lectual redefinition and professional rise of the literary. Neither
Warner nor Graff have much interest in unsettling the feminiz-
ing and primitivist associations attached to this spellbinder who
“only” talked prettily to boys. Instead, the rhetoric-and-oratory
professor functions as a source of amusement in the otherwise
disputed “origin” narratives of literary studies.
It might be the Warner of Letters of the Republic (rather than the
Warner who edited Fear of a Queer Planet) who decided not to see
any radicality in this homosocial talking scene. And while I am
not exactly committed to its celebration either, I am interested
in the historical occlusions and institutional effects of personi-
fying “belletrism” in the image of the performing professor. For
one thing, this mystifying figure homogenizes a great deal of het-
erogeneity in the “talking” genealogies behind literature, theatre,
and what would continue as the field of speech communication.
Paul Edwards’s and Margaret Robb’s studies of early elocution
demonstrate a range of philosophies and practices in the work
of expression figures such as Samuel Curry, Charles Wesley
Emerson, and Elizabeth Stebbins.27 All of them attempted to
make a claim for the academic professionalism of performance at
a moment when performance had become a signal of a maligned
anti-professionalism within literary-humanism. That equation
persists today. The spectre of a belletrist’s amateurish display
deflates the professionalist hopes of professorial performance.
The gender politics of these equations occupy other dimen-
sions, for the image of the female elocution teacher partici-
pated in the feminization of the belletrist literature professor.
While emerging disciplines in the humanities increasingly de-
fined and homogenized all of the talking fields as rearguard in
one or more pejorative ways, proponents of the talking fields
scattered, divided internally, split off, and re-grouped, some-
times deploying those same pejoratives to differentiate amongst
themselves. As with so many fields in the arts and humanities,
there was a gendered dimension to this process of scattering and
re-grouping. Paul Edwards describes the scrambling moves for
self-differentiation as speech teachers tried to construct their
professional identities after being marginalized within profes-

sional literary societies.
The National Association of Elocution . . . In late November 1914,
seventeen conventioneers decide to remain in a Chicago hotel un-
til they could come up with a better idea. They emerged as charter
members of the National Association of Academic Teachers of Public
Speaking . . . The “Academic” in the Association’s first name . . . was
thrown in to scare off those elocutionists ‘who were not educationally
oriented.’ . . . It [left] out as well as a lot of private studio teachers,
of the sort who occupied the borderland between theater and elocu-
tion . . . Academic public speaking would not be English, let alone Oral
English – and it would not be elocution.28
Like many young college students and faculty, Baker’s first en-
counters with oral performance had been with an elocution
teacher. He and his biographer credit Harriette Miller with the
development of Baker’s vocal technique, training rendered super-
fluous by its equation with “pretty talking.”29 As speech teach-
ers scrambled to shore up a professional identity, the Harriette
Millers of their world increasingly served as an internal foil.
To be an “elocutionist” was to be the opposite of professional
for an emergent group of speech professors. As Elizabeth Bell
writes, this defensively revised equation further marginalized
female teachers, for the “growing respectability of speech” was
simultanously a move “away from private, women-centered un-
accredited academies.”30 Thus, gender hierarchies were not so
much tied to one particular form but served as a flexible dis-
course of legitimacy and delegitimacy. Just as oral performance
had served as the feminine to literature’s masculine, so elocution
served as the feminine to public speaking’s masculine.
If elocution was the feminized figure of performance training
from which many sought to break free, then Baker’s newer adop-
tion of “argumentation” was a more manly type of talking train-
ing. Baker titled his book Specimens of Argumentation, echoing
philological language in order to cast applied argumentation as a
rigorous research field. In his 1962 analysis of Baker’s pedagogy
in argumentation, Harry Kerr (a professional descendant of the
National Association of the Teachers of Public Speaking) wrote a
recovery article that heralds Baker’s “effect on the teaching of ar-
gument which is in some ways comparable to his more widely rec-
ognized contributions to the theater.”31 Kerr found marginalia
scrawled on a copybook in which Baker noted the important “dif-

ference between mere ornament and more persuasive graces.”32
Most of Baker’s rhetoric students were preparing themselves for
entrance in the fields of law and business. As such, Baker’s pro-
visional move away from ornament to persuasion demonstrates
his pivotal position in a structure that advanced the rise of the
professional managerial class and what the Ehrenreich’s would
recognize as “capitalist relations.” It was thus no coincidence that
the “persuasive grace” that Baker developed was the seemingly
ungraceful notion of the “brief.” “Baker decided that the key to
avoiding stylistic excesses and achieving cogency and clarity lay
in pressing his students to focus first on a carefully prepared plan
for their arguments . . . a summary of the facts of the case with
reference to points of law supposed to be applicable to them.”
The brief was “a term which . . . had never before been used
in connection with instruction in writing and speaking,” writes
Kerr, celebrating Baker’s professional genius in identifying this
mechanism for the dissemination of professional knowledge.33
Baker’s contemporaries were similarly enthusiastic about this el-
ement in his research and teaching profile. In reviewing his book,
colleagues from various universities promised to incorporate it
into their syllabi.34 In 1895, it looked as if applied argumentation
might become Baker’s special contribution to the Harvard cur-
riculum. President Eliot was excited by the prospect. Respond-
ing to Baker’s request that argumentation classes be enlarged on
campus, Eliot was cautious but enthused. “Whether it is going to
be practicable to enlarge the instruction in argumentation, I can-
not tell until I see the Corporation and learn what the prospects
are as to the College income. This I know now, that there is no
branch of instruction which the Corporation would more gladly
enlarge.”35 That the Corporation would “gladly enlarge” such
courses also testifies to the more general recognition of the eco-
nomic link between basic skills and post-graduate employment.
While this kind of technical teaching addressed the perceived
professional needs of a changing university, it did not necessarily
prove to be a professional success for the professor who provided
it. Barrett Wendell began to be concerned that Baker’s align-
ment with skills teaching ultimately would jeopardize his young
colleague’s professional status. As the writer of a book called
English Composition, Wendell was in charge of undergraduate
courses in college writing, one of the few courses still required

in Eliot’s otherwise non-restrictive “elective system.” To be a
teacher of required courses in basic skills turned out to be an
infrastructural nightmare. William Lyons Phelps’s admiring
memory of Wendell also remembers a less than admirable work
environment.
For many years, he carried the all but intolerable burden of reading
and correcting themes, day after day. His room was filled with these
compositions; they were all over the table and on the chairs, and when
he lay down on the sofa, to get a little rest, he used a bunch of themes
for a pillow.36
Phelps’s own thoughts about the proper allotment of this kind of

work is telling. “It seemed to me that this work was not University
work at all, and that any primary schoolma’am would probably
have been more efficient in the correcting job.”37 Phelps’s ideal
division of labor is now familiar, testifying to what James Berlin
critiques in the tendency of college professors to define “writing
instruction” as something other than their own responsibility.38
Faced with the overwhelming predicament of basic writing, the
professorial managerial class would rather ask someone else –
whether primary or secondary school teachers, whether lecturers
or graduate students – to sleep on a pillow of freshman essays.
It was no doubt as a result of fitful sleep that Wendell reacted
to Baker’s book on applied argumentation. Though Wendell had
earlier adopted a saucy stance toward the fashion of literary stud-
ies, by 1899, he started to change his tune. Trying to discourage
Baker’s involvement in prescribed argumentation, Wendell used
the opportunity to reflect on his own career and to warn Baker
about the future of his.
As the writer of English Composition, I believe myself to be commonly
grouped rather with elocutionists than with scholars. Kittredge’s re-
views, and Monty’s Specimens, meanwhile – to say nothing of Child’s
Ballads – have forced respectful recognition not only for them but for
their subjects from scholars of the widest rarity and range. You see my
conclusion. I honestly believe that in maintaining prescribed argumen-
tation you are unwittingly crucifying yourself. Martyrdom is normally
admirable; but is the faith in this case worth martyrdom?39
The martyrdom of the basic skills teacher exposes a conundrum

at the heart of academic humanism as well as a hypocrisy in the
professionalist appeals of the modern university. That this form

of teaching could be so central to the university’s educational
mission and so deleterious to the career of a university profes-
sor is still an unresolved contradiction. Attempts to legitimate
rhetoric pedagogy took different forms. The pretty talker stopped
talking prettily – and became argumentation – or stopped talk-
ing altogether – and became composition. However, the infras-
tructural nightmare and professional martyrdom of basic skills
remained. Such repudiations were embedded not only in the
gendered metaphors of the “primary school ma’am” but also in
classed ones. Consider James Morgan Hart’s turn-of-the-century
polemic at a key moment in disciplinary formation.
To me rhetoric is purely formal drill, having no more connection with

the literature of English than it has with the literature of Greece,
Rome . . . rhetoric always savors to me of the school bench . . . It is
little more than verbal jugglery . . . Rhetoric exercises are, of course,
useful. So are the parallel bars and dumb-bells of a gymnasium. Need I
push the comparison farther?40
Aligning the school bench with the press bench, the drills and
dumbbells of Hart’s metaphor equated rhetoric with the voca-
tional, the technical, and even with the manual. By invoking the
gymnastic metaphor, Hart also echoed and anticipated another
ubiquitous argument against the institutionalization of perfor-
mance in higher education, one that equated its practices with
the extra-curricular domain of exercise and athletics. Rhetoric,
in both its compositional and argumentational forms, was not a
subject for a professional scholar. From the angle of the Presi-
dent, however, both were useful, too useful in fact to an American
university that was beholden to a practical pedagogy as much
as a research model of the university. Here was the hypocrisy.
Rhetoric was valuable for a student’s professional future but of
little value to the professional future of the rhetoric professor.
Class, gender, and academic theatre

In the end, Baker decided not to crucify himself on the cross
of argumentation. Nor, however, did he construct the research
agenda that Kittredge had in mind for Baker’s post-Lyly career.
Instead, Baker turned to theatre as a source of scholarship and
as an artistic practice; eventually, he ended up deciding to make

a geographic move to Yale. Wisner Payne Kinne’s biography of
Baker includes descriptions of an early boyhood that anticipates
this turn. Kinne chose to quote friends who remember that there
was “a certain distinctive quality about his bearing even as a child.
There was something grand about George, something superior
in his very precise enunciation . . . He was never robust, and
things were arranged in the home so that he could be and was
an indoor boy.”41 That superior, fragile figure had a particular
way of managing his life as “an indoor boy,” one that included a
luxurious toy theatre. “‘I remember George’s theatre very well.
There was a large closet with a door which opened into the up-
stairs bedroom where the audience was seated. George kept his
theatre things in the closet and had the toy theatre arranged on a
stand in front of the closet doorway. He stood inside the closet,
behind the stage, very much like a Punch and Judy operator. He
spoke the lines and did everything.’”42 The image of this deli-
cate boy standing inside his closet performing all the parts of his
imagined play is useful for conceiving the gendered conventions
and gendered threat of becoming a professor of performance.
Rather than chronicling all of the trials and tribulations, the
hopes, deferrals, and disappointments that structured this pro-
cess, I want to consider a few touchpoints in that shift. While the
stories of particular persons and institutions vary enormously,
George Pierce Baker’s location paralleled that of a number of his
pro-performance colleagues and serves as an index of a larger
epistemological and institutional fallout around the professing
of performance. Less incorporated, however, are the principles
under which that disciplinary break happened and, more to the
point, how that history resituates disciplinary re-unions that the-
atre and performance studies are attempting to effect now. Argu-
ing for drama and performance against and so within the already
conflicted field of English, of the humanities, and of the modern
university produced multiple ambivalences. They affected the
professional legacies of philology in performance research, the
gendered positioning of the performing professor, and the classed
positioning of the performing professor. All of these concerns re-
late to each other and have several dimensions, illustrating the
disavowals, elisions, confusions, and site-specific structurations
of knowledge production.
Writing in 1903 as the first professor of Dramatic Literature

in the United States, Brander Matthews of Columbia University
published treatises such as The Development of Drama that ex-
emplified performance’s epistemological predicament and that
laid the foundations for the anti-traditional break that would
eventually become the tradition of theatre studies methodology.
Like Richard Moulton, Matthews addressed dubious interlocu-
tors, attempting to assure them that theatre existed as a research
object at all. Hence, he and fellow theatre scholars reproduced
turn-of-the-century conventions of historical singularity and pro-
gressive continuity, mapping new principles of similarity and dif-
ference on which the autonomy of theatre could rest securely.
The evolutionary and philologically historicist claims about con-
vention, species, and progression made their way into the for-
mation of period-tracking courses on the drama, attempting to
give the same kind of spine, unity, categorization, and evolu-
tion to drama that their departmental colleagues were doing in
literature. Showing drama to be scientific and systematic was
fundamental to the new scholarship, and a key reason behind
the note of defensiveness that would (and still does) accompany
such a move. Matthews sought to “bring out the essential unity
of the history of the drama and to make plain the permanence
of the principles underlying the art of the stage . . . Its princi-
ples, like the principles of every other art, are eternal and un-
changing, whatever strange aspects the art may assume . . . If
we could only behold all the links we should be able to trace
an unbroken chain from the crudest mythological pantomime of
primitive man down to the severest problem play of the stern
Scandinavian.”43 Exercising a Moultonian enthusiasm, it was in
such a professionalizing university climate that the evolutionary
paradigm of “from ritual to theatre” became invoked and later
routinized. Thus the primitivism that many in theatre and perfor-
mance studies now seek to rectify should be remembered for the
role that such “progressions” once played in the creation of the
object of knowledge. The “from ritual” “to drama” progression is
part of an inherited curricular structure. As performance studies
scholars seek to undo the ideological, national, and global con-
sequences of such a construct, it is probably equally important
to remember its institutional expediency; knowledge was made
more teachable, useful, and justifiable to a professionalizing
university when it took shape in the clear categories and pro-

gressive arcs of a delineated “survey.”
While Brander Matthews and like-minded souls occasionally
pitted themselves against philological trendiness, they most often
borrowed and adapted its methods. In addition to adopting the
(non-Foucauldian) genealogical models of genre development,
theatre scholars also employed other methodological preoccupa-
tions with “facts” and “details.” Theatre scholars took philology’s
emphasis on historical research and on the conventions of liter-
ary transmission to rationalize the investigation of such “extra-
literary” realms as street lay-outs, building configurations, set
designs, managerial structures, actors, and audiences. Indeed,
to a philological method acutely preoccupied with the accumula-
tion of “facts,” the circumstances of the performed event offered
an endless supply of discoverable data. In many ways, theatre’s
excessive contextuality called literary philology’s bluff, for its vo-
luminous data were not always the kind of facts that most literary
philologists were interested in or skilled in discovering. Baker’s
own work made use of the philological impulse. In his next book
of scholarship, he approached Shakespeare as a Dramatist, choos-
ing inductive over judicial criticism and its language of species
and genus as well as its attempt to displace a narrative of genius.
Yet the feeling of the critical untrained public that there should be certain
final and permanent standards by which values may be apportioned to
plays of different sorts and different periods has an element of truth in
it: namely, that throughout all periods plays show common properties
which distinguish them as a species of composition from tales, essays,
or poems, – the differential which makes them the species play, in the
genus fiction.44
Baker took a Moultonian line on induction and Shakespeare but

gave it a specific theatrical cast, locating the relation of genus
and species more discretely within the dramatic arts. Intrigu-
ingly, Baker, Matthews, and other American scholars of the the-
atre did like to acknowledge the influence of philology despite
its saturation inside their own language and methods. Neverthe-
less, the philological impulse could become entrenched in the
disciplinary practice of theatre history, a “literary” influence on
the field that “anti-literary” theatre scholars would continue to
disavow.
The philological genealogy has other contemporary reso-

nances. Like recent conversations in which theoretical influences
are disavowed by reductive characterizations of Theory (and de-
spite a detractor’s own theoretical deployments), philology was
something that exerted its influence and enforced conceptions of
rigor on individuals who were not entirely willing to admit the
claim. It was also criticized in much the same set of confused,
non-coincident terms. It was accused of being too scientific, of
being over-specialized, of being jargon-ridden and of compro-
mising the experience of literature. Both theory and philology
have many referents and enter discursively to delineate bound-
aries of all kinds – American versus European, traditional versus
contemporary, systematic versus chaotic, rigor versus unrigor,
professional versus amateur, scholar versus journalist, fact ver-
sus emotion, male versus female. In theatre, references to philol-
ogy could include all of the above as well as discipline-specific
oppositions such as text versus performance, academic versus
professional, and scholar versus artist. Occasionally, its Amer-
ican critics appealed to nationalist allegiances by accusing its
followers of slavishly imitating the Europeans, more specifically
the Germans. As such, it anticipated many subsequent “The-
ory” movements accused of being specialist, jargon-ridden, and
ruinous to the humanities – or for being French. There are dif-
ferent, somewhat conflicting, lessons that we can learn from a
defamiliarization of theory and its associations of specialism and
“jargon.” On the one hand, new thoughts need new language.
Indeed, as Joseph Roach recalls in his first encounter with the
conventions of theatre history, “traditional” disciplines are filled
with unconventional vocabulary.
What a bewildering vocabulary of arcane terms the young student en-
countered in that first course in theatre history: thronoi, choregoi, peraktoi,
proscenium doors, loci, foci, carros, wings and grooves, chariot and poles,
lazzi, “heavens,” free plantation, denouement, magic if, through-line,
Eidophusikon . . . I can remember my classmates asking (before any-
one had learned to describe terms they didn’t care to understand by
resorting to the j-word): ‘Why can’t theatre historians just write plain
English?’ The answer then, as it remains today, that the history of the
theatre is too rich in ideas to be comprehended by the lexicon of one
language.45
On the other hand, institutional and disciplinary genealogies re-

veal a constant rotation as new thoughts and new language cycle
in to everyday parlance. One era’s “specialization” becomes the

next era’s “generalism”; ground-breaking theoretical movements
look like dunder-headed empiricism to subsequent generations.
The attempt to delineate theatre as a research object was coin-
cident with an attempt to delineate theatre as a curricular object.
This meant devising courses that filled out the vast array of dra-
matic performance that was “exclusive of Shakespeare.” In 1902,
Baker proposed a larger series of courses that introduced students
to the post-Renaissance theatre, even including the more recent
experimentation of the stern Scandinavian, Ibsen. While the pro-
posal could rely for discursive support on an appeal to “special-
ization” and on the genealogical paradigm in the notion of a
“series,” the chairman initially ignored Baker’s idea. At such a
moment, when intellectual change met institutional practice, the
rhetoric-and-oratory-and-now-drama professor worried. When
Baker tried again with Kittredge, the chairman was cordial and
contrite. “I thought about your letter weekly. I wrote not at all.
Here again, however, there was no real damage done; except to
my reputation as a correspondent . . . and I also discovered that I
had no suggestions to make that were not too obvious to be worth
troubling you with . . . Seriously, though, I am ashamed of being
so inconsiderate.”46 Of course, laziness in inter-office correspon-
dences could also mask large-scale epistemological battles.
Ultimately, laxity abated on both sides when issues of field
definition and field legitimation came to the fore. Baker’s efforts
to move the dramatic “page” to the dramatic “stage” challenged
emergent literary definitions. By 1905, Baker submitted a pro-
posal to add playwriting to his Dramatic Series, the course in
Dramatic Technique that would become the renowned 47 Work-
shop. The course, which already existed under the auspices of
Radcliffe College, involved acting and technical production in
its development of new plays. Kittredge objected to the idea in a
department meeting, inducing a flurry of angry letters to which
he responded with the measured calm of the powerful.
Dear Baker, Thank you very much for writing to me so fully about your
course. The information you give in your letter will be of great value to
me in advising graduate students at the end of this year and the beginning
of next. Pray don’t think I have any doubt that your proposed course
will be of exceptional utility, as well as uncommonly interesting . . . My
purpose in asking to consider the matter further was not to “prejudicate
the business” but simply to make sure that all possible contingencies
had been weighed. . . . It occurs to me, however, to ask you to have an

eye to possible misconceptions as to the scope and method of the new
course.47
Baker’s “scope” included contemporary drama, and his

“method” would include theatrical production. Neither incar-
nated Kittredge’s hopes for Baker’s professional career or for the
knowledge domain of the English department. In the end, the
47 course went on the books, but Kittredge and Baker’s corre-
spondence became more guarded and less collegial.
The significance as well as contingency of George Pierce
Baker’s location – as well as that of Brander Matthews – is made
explicit by comparing it to another institution. The comparison
illustrates that the constitution of knowledge, like performance,
is site-specific. While Baker struggled for the next decade to
integrate not only dramatic literature but also dramatic produc-
tion into the Harvard curriculum, at Carnegie Tech the obsta-
cles were reversed. With it being the site of the first US theatre
department in 1914, Thomas Wood Stevens found it easier to
incorporate dramatic production at Carnegie Tech and harder
to incorporate dramatic literature. Stevens was recruited from
the University of Wisconsin where he engaged in other brands
of theatrical innovation in the “applied” and agricultural orien-
tation of The Wisconsin Experiment. Wisconsin would go on
to house a highly-rated theatre department as well as the first
curricular, rather than extra-curricular, program in dance. Like
other mid-western universities, such as Iowa (the site of the first
doctoral program in theatre), the applied orientation of the land-
grant college provided a seed bed for more than just agriculture.
Carnegie Tech made use economically and discursively of the ap-
peal to the practical in the American pragmatic model of higher
education. Instead of an agricultural focus, the “technical” in
Carnegie Tech referred to a diverse array of industrial fields.
The internal divisions of this university thus set up quite different
epistemological divisions from those of Harvard; with them, the
relations of sameness and difference amongst and between fields
were different as well. In a university that specialized in “science”
and “industries,” theatre found itself in the school of “applied
design” (later the fine arts) and in a building that, as Thomas
Wood Stevens remembered somewhat ecstatically, had the words
“Architecture, Painting, Sculpture, Music, Drama” engraved in

its façade.48 Thus, while Baker struggled to have “drama” appear
on a course schedule, Stevens enjoyed and endured the privilege
of seeing his domain written in stone.
This epistemological location also had epistemological conse-
quences for how “the drama” was conceived as a cultural form. In
English departments, drama was classified with poetry and prose
as one in a species system of “genres,” a system that assumed the
literary medium as a unifying principle of sameness. At Carnegie
Tech, likeness and unlikeness were drawn in relation to other
artistic forms; a relation to architecture, painting, and music that
emphasized drama’s graphic, material, temporal, sonic, and spa-
tial elements. These two types of institutional location thus con-
ceived the fundamental elements of the drama differently. While
drama was a “genre” at some universities, it was a “medium”
at others. The difference in institutional location also brought
with it a difference in humanistic status. Carnegie Tech’s admin-
istrators saw the drama not only as one amongst other graphic
media but also as a way to usher in the humanities. Drama en-
abled the integration of what Stevens called “cultural study” into
the domain of industrial study. For Stevens, this part of the en-
deavor was harder to do. “The technical side was fairly simple,”
he wrote more casually than George Pierce Baker would have
thought possible. “The students were to learn the entire work of
the theatre by doing the entire work of the theatre . . . the larger
problem [was] the combination of the technical training with re-
lated work in the humanities.”49 Thus, while drama’s technical
elements lowered its humanistic status at Harvard; at Carnegie
Tech, drama’s humanistic status was elevated. The difference of-
fers another demonstration of discontinuities in a performance
genealogy. Attributions of technicality and humanity, of genre
and medium, were institutionally produced and relationally con-
ceived. To track performance’s terms, references, and legitimacy
is once again about tracking a “non-identity through time.”
Baker’s turn to the drama exacerbated a number of gendered
anxieties that were already lurking in his institutional context.
To consider this exacerbation is to return to the originary site
of playwriting outside of the English department, outside of
the Yard, and in the women’s school of Radcliffe College. It
also returns us to a different originary site, the one where a
rhetoric-and-oratory-now-drama professor could be found talk-

ing prettily to boys. As an historically feminized cultural form,
theatre threatened to restore the foppish belletrist, the retroac-
tively feminized figure who served as foil to the project of literary
studies. Reports suggest that this figure and his “pretty voice”
made regular appearances in Baker’s pedagogical repertoire, in-
carnating the gendered threat of a colleague who was not only
a professor of performance but himself a performing professor.
One student remembered a class lecture on The Man of Mode:
Professor Baker’s blue-gray eyes would deepen behind his pince-nez, his
face would beam with pleasure, his portly body rock with mirth . . . he
would begin to assume the airs and graces of a Restoration fop. His
voice would change and take on the mincing tones of Etherege’s hero.
His hands which he always used swiftly, would begin to race in elaborate
circles. Artificial gallantries would be slightly indicated, in a way which
seemed so courtly and was so deliciously right that one could have sworn
his sleeves were fringed with lace.50
By portraying Baker forgetting “all about facts and tendencies,”

the student reinforced a sense that the performed study of theatre
was the opposite of the rigorous study in the humanities. It might
well have been that Baker’s English colleagues agreed. Baker’s in-
terest in presenting, not only the drama, but the performance of
drama heightened the feminizing potential of the theatre. Addi-
tionally, it scratched at a perpetually deferred history that lurked
within the attempt to construct the new field of literary studies.
The image of a performing professor recalled and reproduced the
feminized and amateur display associated with the unprofessional
belletrist. This was the queering, the rendering inappropriate, of
what we know in theatre as a professor’s “dog and pony show.”
Throughout, the student characterized Baker’s performances as
“possession” by a “far more entertaining melodrama” than any-
thing that came from his “yellowing notes.” Such enthusiastic
student reaction only reinforced the sense that Baker was becom-
ing a repudiated “spellbinder.” Furthermore, the same student
recalls that the workshopping of student scripts involved content
that “pinkened his cheek” and “love scenes that must have dis-
turbed everything New England in him.”51 Theatre thus risked
distracting students from the new rigor while, at the same time,
exposing the latently unrigorous in literature’s new quest for le-
gitimacy. To perform the drama was, as most any theatre person
would contend, a way of incarnating the production. At this mo-

ment in the origin of literary studies, however, such professorial
performance was an index of unprofessionalism.
As the reference to “pinkened cheeks” suggests, the gendered
and sexed dimensions of performance as an academic field were
varied, making clear that the “feminization” of knowledge can
mean more than one thing. Feminization happened not only
when a professor talked to boys but also when he talked (prettily
and otherwise) to girls. As Baker’s interest in the theatre grew, he
initially found a much more hospitable home for his experimen-
tation through sponsorship at Radcliffe College. More and more
Harvard faculty participated in the Radcliffe curriculum, a re-
flection of a larger national current in the expansion of women’s
higher education. While the move augmented the women’s cur-
riculum, it could reciprocally reduce the offerings in the male
curriculum both numerically and symbolically. The gendered
anxieties of higher education were symptomatic of larger ones as
turn-of-the-century women more actively participated in pub-
lic life and as men scrambled to retain or rediscover the means
of maintaining a masculine identity. To the extent that Harvard
theatre began at Radcliffe College, the possibility of its intrusion
inside the Yard exacerbated already felt concerns about the mas-
culinity of a literature professor. Theatre’s historically feminine
status was literalized by its institutionally feminine status at Har-
vard. The threat of the theatre lay not only in its association with
display or sentiment, however, but also in its appropriateness.
The gendered anxieties around the theatre could thus become ex-
plicitly sexual anxieties. Barrett Wendell’s tisk-tisking reaction to
the possible introduction of playwright John Fletcher in a “girls”
classroom demonstrated how theatre’s “pinkened cheek” peda-
gogy could be perceived to cross the line of sexual appropriate-
ness.
Both as a matter of turn, then, and as a matter of business, I find myself

unwilling to put my name on the title page of any popular book . . . ad-
dressed to women which should contain such sick stuff as I find in any
comedy of Fletchers . . . In the matter of study, [Barrett wrote again a
day later] I think myself consistent. I was never willing to teach on the
old drama – apart from Shakespeare – when I taught at Radcliffe. And
one of my objections to the higher education of women by men anyway
is that, so far as I can see, it cannot be at once veracious and decent.52
The scholarly quest for veracity could actually compromise

decency, a potential that was apparently permissible in the
homosocial arena of all-male “study” but that was made too ex-
plicit by a mixed-sex pedagogical arena. Once again, theatre and
co-education reciprocally exacerbated the anxieties surrounding
each other.
There was another set of gendered concerns that affected the
image of theatre as a form of study. In addition to the spectre
of feminized ornamentation and amateurism, in addition to the
spectre of sexual inappropriateness, theatre practice could also
be associated with a kind of nurturing and unaccredited ma-
ternalism. That is, the affiliation of the “primary school ma’am”
also compromised theatre’s status as a legitimated curricular and
research object in higher education. A letter from Elizabeth Hunt
to former Professor Baker illustrates:
Having received no reply to a letter which I sent to you some time since,
I am going to trouble you once more, feeling certain that it never reached
you. I am, you may possibly recall, one of the favored ten who you so
kindly invited to take your first 47 Workshop group work on the drama.
The work of that year and the previous year’s study with you have been
the inspiration of my work since with boys and girls. So anxious am I
to have my pupils in the Beacon School enjoy the privilege of hearing
your lectures that I am going to see if I can get another school or club
in Brookline to join with us in undertaking the expense. . . . Awaiting
your earliest convenience, and trusting that you will be able to find time
to give this to us, I am yours sincerely . . .53
Like many male institutionalizers of performance (and there will

be more of them as the book continues), Baker had an equivocal
relationship with the feminized association and the female bod-
ies that constituted his largest demographic and support system.
As women found roles for themselves outside of higher educa-
tion in schools, reform arenas, and in formations such as the
little theatre movement, their work foregrounded the use of the-
atre as a tool in service, education, and community formation.
As Elizabeth Bell argued of women elocutionists, however, the
professionalization of academic humanism contributed to a dele-
gitimation of these realms. The new imagined communities of
scholarship emphasized professional credentialization and geo-
graphical dispersion, eclipsing the local proximities of learning
that became the feminized domain of the “little” movements of

women, of students, of children, of amateurs. Ms. Hunt’s work
with “boys and girls” exemplified theatre’s status as the domain
of the primary school ma’am, a connection that may explain
Baker’s own “laxity in correspondence.” All of these illustrations
show that what it means to gender an academic field is itself
various. Between belletristic, erotic, and maternal associations,
the possibilities for devaluing professorial performance in gen-
dered terms are myriad, wide-ranging, and inconsistent with
themselves. In many ways, such inconsistencies and contradic-
tions give “the anti-theatrical prejudice” its discursive force,
spawning and diffusing prejudices of all kinds, turning the discur-
sive tables with each counter-argument, eliciting a defensiveness
that confuses that which it seeks to clarify.
The potential for self-contradicting diffusion multiplies after
incorporating the gendered positioning of the performing profes-
sor with a classed understanding of that position as well. Baker’s
first course in playwriting appeared in the Harvard curriculum
in the “Composition” sector of the English curriculum with the
title “Technique of Drama.” In adopting the classed language
of “applied” technique, he quite possibly knew that he was in-
volving himself in a familiarly relentless pedagogical cycle, one
that required endless amounts of student contact, one that ex-
changed “themes” and “briefs” for an equally overwhelming pile
of student-written plays. Indeed, despite his own enthusiasm,
Baker’s move from applied rhetoric to applied theatre had no
less potential for self-crucifixion.
The nightmare of a “technical” class was further expanded and
literalized in the infrastructure of the theatre. As Baker proceeded
down his slippery slope from student playwriting to student
production, this English professor found himself confronting
the technical and infrastructural demands of the theatre event.
English 47, which would eventually adopt the engineering-like
label of “workshop,” took place in a larger space within Harvard’s
Massachusetts Hall. Combining playwriting and production into
all hours of the night, it exceeded both the spatial and temporal
limits of the conventionally scheduled course. It also involved a
much wider engagement in “the technical” than any composition
course ever had. One description sets up a delighted picture of
classed inappropriateness.
Outside, Massachusetts Hall was (and still is) one of the truest archi-
tectural joys of the Harvard landscape. . . . Inside it was, at least in the
days when Mr. Baker and his designers worked in it, a fascinating night-
mare. Its hollow shell, cluttered with flats and drops which stretched
to the ceiling, and smelling strongly of paint and glue, was a defiant
contradiction of its chaste exterior.54
In the last decade and a half of Baker’s Harvard career, this world
of “flats and drops” predominated. In many ways, this was an
entirely new education for Baker, a set of experiences for which
childhood play in a toy theatre hardly prepared him. His route to
the theatre had been through acting and literature; the world of
design and technical theatre was new to someone who, as one of
his students noted, “had little visual imagination.”55 Such con-
tingencies would also weigh on his Harvard colleagues. Indeed,
it is hard to decide what unnerved Chairman Kittredge more, the
mincing tones of a feminized fop wafting between classroom walls
or the hammering sounds of a student carpenter building new
walls of his own. The demands of theatrical infrastructure placed
Baker in a new kind of correspondence with his employer. A sig-
nificant part of his exchanges with Eliot’s successor, President
Lawrence Lowell, revolved around architectural issues. Baker’s
attempts to solicit approval for a new theatre building and the
latest artistic technology were turned down by the Corporation.
Furthermore, even the “fascinating nightmare” of Massachusetts
Hall did not securely belong to the workshop.
Dear Mr. Baker, There has been, as you know, some feeling that our
oldest building Massachusetts, ought not to be more exposed than is ab-
solutely necessary to the danger of fire, and that such a danger cannot
be wholly avoided while it contains so much scenery as it does now. It
has been suggested that Gannett House – which is no longer to be used
as a dormitory – if gutted and rearranged, would give the 47 Workshop
as large a space as, and one better adapted for its purposes than, Mas-
sachusetts. Moreover, there is a growing desire to restore Massachusetts,
making it into either rooms for living or for instruction; and as the space
is very badly needed, I suppose that sometimes this demand will acquire
irresistible force.56
Shocked to receive this note from President Lowell in 1923, after

two decades of theatrical instruction, Baker argued that Gannett
House was thoroughly inappropriate. Nevertheless, the univer-
sity’s architectural plans exerted themselves with the agentless
strength of an irresistible force. “Dear Mr. Lowell, Rather dis-

quieting rumors have been coming to me this past month that
work on changing Massachusetts Hall for other uses is to begin
immediately after Commencement. From time to time, people
have dropped in here to make mysterious measurements. . . . if so,
where else [are we] expected to go?”57 The year was 1924 when
Lowell offered an unsympathetic reply: “At present I know of no
place where the Workshop can be housed except Gannett House,
which was offered to you before, and which you thought inade-
quate. Do you see any other place where you could go?”58 Yes,
Baker found himself replying, I can go to Yale.
Indeed, the coincidence of a job offer from Yale in the middle
of this architectural snub proved too tempting to ignore. With
an endowment from Edward Harkness, Yale would build a the-
atre that radically altered Baker’s work environment. In many
ways, the decision to move to Yale had everything to do with
the promise of infrastructural relief. Nearly all of Baker’s formal
writing on the role of academic theatre during this decade fo-
cused on “the building” and on the necessity of having one. His
inaugural article as a new “Professor of the Literature and Prac-
tice of Drama” (an endowed chair whose long title Harvard’s
Corporation had earlier edited) framed the general topic of the
“Theatre and the University” most emphatically in terms of in-
frastructural desires. Asking rhetorically and righteously, “What
does the university owe the student to whom it has offered a
course in the writing of plays?” Invoking the needy student who
(ventriloquized as being “stirred to expression”) was “owed” a
debt, Baker heralded the building as a solution, as a right, and
as a fulfillment of an educational social contract. “More than
anything else it owes him a place where plays may be seen under
fitting conditions – in other words, a theatre.”59 Baker’s quest for
fitting conditions had weighed too long on his mind and body;
in moving to Yale, the prospect of getting the building seems to
have provided the utmost incentive.
Even as years passed, a significant portion of Baker’s represen-
tation of his new Yale life included references to infrastructure.
To Phillip Barry, he celebrated even “temporary quarters, which
are really attractive, and what gorgeous expanse we have on York
Street where the excavating is going on.”60 He sent his article
on the proposed edifice to Harley Granville-Barker “because it
shows the exterior of our building rather well. At present we

are busy with the foundations of the structure . . . Our archi-
tect has been delaying us in a maddening fashion these last six
weeks.”61 Of course, the erection of infrastructural relief would
never put an end to infrastructural anxiety, as any theatre depart-
ment chairman knows. Both Barry and Granville-Barker would
receive later correspondence on the new problems that continu-
ally presented themselves. In 1932, the indoor boy wrote more
plaintively to Barry, undone by the contingencies of “the plant.”
“I am sorry to have been so particularly dull the other night; but
I had just been through a most devastating dress rehearsal, and I
was meditating a letter of resignation of my job unless I could be
guaranteed better conditions. Utterly worn out and in a state of
high mental tension, I haven’t the remotest idea what I said.”62
At the same time, there was a certain masochistic pleasure in
technical enmeshment. And, while “technical” was a denigrated
metaphor within the humanities, it could also be a legitimating
one in other parts of higher education. The appeal to pragma-
tism and to the how-to solidified engineering environments in
the industrial and agricultural wings of the academy. Theatre
proponents could reverse the terms of approbation by borrow-
ing technicality’s associations of authenticity. Indeed, the history
of theatre’s institutionalization suggest that “the arts” have as
much to do with engineering as they do with the humanities di-
visions of the campus. One student celebrated Baker’s academic
theatre in language that foregrounded its status as a technical
field.
[Baker’s] instruction in playwriting has been provocative not because of

any infallible theories he held as to what the well written play is or ought
to be, but because he made his course a laboratory, where a playwright
learned to criticize his own efforts by seeing his play performed in a
“workshop.” . . . No artist has ever served the theatre who did not
possess the unaffected humility of a workman. The theatre remains alive
by remaining a workshop. The way to learn to do anything is by attempt
to do it, and by keeping up the attempt steadily.63
In Baker’s case, the technical and engineering demands of the

theatre, the ill-fit inside the humanities, were nostalgically classed
as a way for an “indoor boy” to access an alternatively hearty
masculinity.
Exactly what it meant to run this lab, however, was still a ques-
tion. The ill-fit of theatre intellectually within the humanities also
meant another kind of ill-fit in terms of the organization of its la-
bor pool. While a specialist language had earlier enabled Baker to
develop his “special field,” by 1925 Baker would see the need to
flip terminological alignments. Baker’s language by 1925 became
anti-specialist because his new institutional context required it;
he needed a willing generalism on the part of students and fac-
ulty in order to keep the plant functioning. In this context, more
and more prescription happened as theatre professors realized
that the democratic nature of “the elective system” would not
always support the technical, design, and verbal elements of the
theatrical event. For this democratic art form to follow through
on its potential, the anti-democratic use of the “requirement”
and the “pre-requisite” had to be instituted. Baker’s description
of this anti-specialist necessity also borrowed the workman-like
language of the plant, the engineering language of the lab, and
the military language of the corps in order to describe an es-
sentially collective endeavor inside an arts and humanities field
whose professional endeavors were becoming increasingly indi-
viduated. “Perhaps it is characteristic of artists in general . . . to
wish to be specialists . . . They do not like to know intimately
what goes on behind the curtain if it means shifting scenery or
helping the chief electrician. . . . Yet as soon as a dramatist un-
derstands what all these branches may contribute to that curi-
ously complicated result – a produced play – his writing gains
in producibility. He prepares intelligently for each complemen-
tary worker to do his part.”64 Baker even used the language of
youthful malingering and unhealthful balance to characterize the
specialist who was not game for theatrical generalism. He wrote
as if the apathetic “mind of the undergraduate” was in danger of
returning unless the student became willing to engage as a mem-
ber of the corps. “The arts of the theatre, if studied separately,
are likely to have the importance of each so over-emphasized
that when a student thus trained must share in a difficult
production there is wastage, confusion, and temperament!”65
The notion of technique – as widely used to discuss classi-
cal argumentation, philological expertise, and playwriting it-
self – sounded a more engineering-like tone in the technical
theatre.
George Pierce Baker’s trajectory has elements that are famil-

iar to current departmental structures. At the same time, dif-
ferent institutional sites brought variation and, with them, alter-
nate opportunities and problems. As an institutional predecessor,
the department of architecture – rather than the department of
English – provided Thomas Wood Stevens with a curricular
model for theatre. Stevens’s early curriculum at Carnegie Tech
began with basic skills in diction, dancing, and drawing, only
later integrating a lecture course on the history of the theatre
and as well as other courses on the history of “painting, sculp-
ture, architecture, furniture, and decoration.” Within “drawing,”
the curriculum offered finer gradations such as “sketching” and
“tracing.”66 “For thoroughness in preparing the curriculum,”
Stevens wrote, “we based many things on the parallel problems of
the school of architecture.”67 Thus, the history of design served
as the baseline of the Carnegie Tech curriculum, and it was that
barometer, rather than the history of poetic forms, to which the-
atre measured and compared itself. An architectural imagination
was thus part and parcel of the “origin” of theatre studies in
this strain of institutional history. The relationship between ar-
chitectural and performance pedagogy looked different than the
relationship between literary and performance pedagogy. While
students at Harvard raised their heads from the horizontal plane
of a dramatic script to consider theatrical production, students at
Carnegie Tech entered the visual world of production while sit-
ting before the angled slant of a drafting board. The architectural
genealogy of performance thus foregrounded visuality and spa-
tiality more substantially than George Pierce Baker, whose lack of
“visual imagination” made the incorporation of design into the-
atre education a cumbersome, if awe-filled, after-thought. The
difference suggests that the “page to stage” description of the-
atrical process is also site-specific; it is less applicable to a per-
formance curriculum that does not begin with “the page” in the
first place.
These examples demonstrate that the invocation of the techni-
cal or the practical had multiple referents and provoked different
types of anxiety and celebration. That variation was also depen-
dent upon another kind of association – the technical link to the
economic, to “business,” and the so-called “commercial.” The
prospect of using performance skills to make money legitimated
them in some contexts and provoked suspicion in others. Thomas
Wood Stevens remembered the pre-professional discourse that

surrounded the industrial arts curriculum when he arrived. “Af-
ter four years, a student could count on hearing one of the fol-
lowing: ‘Now you’re artists – go ahead and exhibit.’ To a few
more, ‘You’re a craftsmen – go ahead and do labels for tomato
cans.’ And to the rest, ‘You have no talent’ . . . The failures pay
for the development of the successes.” Carnegie Tech’s Presi-
dent Hamerschlag invited drama onto campus because “he was
sure there might be another way,” that is, a way of adjusting a
careerist determinism with a liberal arts orientation.68 Neverthe-
less, this constrained set of options structured and still structures
an equivalent legitimating discourse for a theatre curriculum. A
few are told that they have the talent of a theatrical artist. More
are told that they have no talent at all. And the rest find some
place in between, counting themselves lucky if they are allowed
to hold the tomato can in a TV commercial for Campbell’s soup.
While Carnegie Tech’s attitude toward the business of art was
somewhat enthusiastic or, at least, humorously tolerant, the en-
croachment of a commercial consciousness was decidedly unwel-
come in the world of the humanities. The anxiety brings us back
to the paradoxes and disavowals surrounding the professorial-
managerial class and, in particular, the professional humanist.
In an early university context unsure about the significance of
a rising middle class, the language of economics and business
challenged the autonomy of the professorial profession and of
the humanities as such. As a cultural form with a partial affil-
iation in the domain of literature and partial affiliation in the
domain of the industrial arts, theatre threatened to intensify the
challenge. If proponents of liberal culture tried to install a divi-
sion between their pursuits and the domain business, then “the-
atre” threatened to undo that shaky border. Indeed, theatrical
pedagogy exposed the fervently unremembered link between the
function of the professorial-managerial class and the reproduc-
tion of capitalist relations, making the paradoxes and disavowals
of the career humanist discomfortingly explicit.
The employment of performance

As George Pierce Baker began to set his sights on the do-
main of drama – away from Kittredge-approved philology, away
from Eliot-approved argumentation – he turned to his fellow
drama-lover, Barrett Wendell, for support. One of his many

hopes was to create a little drama reading group that included
Harvard faculty, lay intellectuals, and local theatre-makers.
Wendell was surprisingly, and tellingly, aghast.
I hesitate without further knowledge of this scheme, to authorize the use

of my name . . . I do not wish to find myself one of two or three sane
folks in a crowd of long-haired crumbs. . . . [F]rankly, if any one asks
me about this matter, I shall not be disposed to speak of it with more
than doubtful cordiality . . . The truth is again borne in on me that . . . I
want to have nothing whatever to do with theatre people. They always
manage more or less innocently to rub me the wrong way.69
Despite his own interest as a teacher of the drama, and despite

his own unorthodox proclivities within the profession of liter-
ary studies, Wendell was somewhat hostile to the idea of sharing
space with the makers of the drama. His reference to such “long-
haired crumbs” paints a picture of a denigrated Bohemianism,
adding another term to a long list of anti-theatrical associations.
For Wendell to display such virulence, however, was also to admit
the discomfort in his own identity project. To say that “they rub
me the wrong way” is to mark an anxiety in the “me” as much as
a problem with the “they.” Indeed, such anxiety may have had
as much to do with theatre people’s contagious sameness as with
their long-haired difference. For someone who worried about the
effects of co-education, theatre heightened the sexual dangers of
pedagogical inappropriateness. For someone who worried about
his alignment with the “elocutionists,” proximity to performers
may have exacerbated the pejorative image of Wendell’s femi-
nized anti-professionalism. For someone who felt crucified by
technical pedagogies, theatrical performance may have rational-
ized Wendell’s relegation to the dumbbells and parallel bars of
the gymnasium.
Anyone interested in the disciplining of performance in the
twenty-first century might want to think about the fate of the
pretty talker, the extra-curricular gymnast, the technical crafts-
man, the long-haired Bohemian and any of the other compromis-
ing figures with which performance is associated in the academy.
Without calling for full-scale endorsement or unproblematic re-
trieval, we have an interest in considering how attributions of
anti-professionalism or anti-theoreticism are made and how their
persistence extends into our current disciplinary and institutional

predicaments now. The charge of “rigorlessness” embodied in
the performing professor still haunts our efforts to profess perfor-
mance now. Rather than allowing such figures to remain an amus-
ing foil to our current self-construction as professional, rigorous,
scholarly, theoretical (inter) disciplinary, and post-modern, I
think that it is worth contending with their historical occlusions
and institutional effects. Doing so helps us to frame performance,
not only as a heterogeneous field capable of responding to schol-
arly developments in the humanities (which I believe it is), but
also as a form that exposes the contradictions, the impensés, and
the untapped potentials of academic humanism itself.
Does honoring our own history allow us to lead the hottest
trends? Well, yes and no, especially when our understanding of
the past is productively disrupted by the puzzle of genealogy.
Disciplinary genealogy is neither a celebratory search for origins
nor a self-satisfied rejection of the stodgy. It is, after Foucault,
a means of approaching the past to unsettle the heretofore sta-
ble. Writing such a genealogy often means revisiting categories
that performance studies itself resists or de-centers – words such
as “drama,” “theatre,” “speech,” or “literature.” If we think of
such labels – and others such as “theory,” “practice,” “inter-
disciplinary” – less as securely referential terms than as discur-
sive sites on which a number of agendas, alliances, and anxieties
collect, then I think that the institutionalization of performance
studies and the institutionalization of something like “theatre”
or “speech” or “literature” turn out to have more to do with
each other than current conversations let on. Such terms func-
tion inconsistently at different times and different places; they
are invoked out of convenience at moments when knowledges
need re-organization or when vague institutional developments
require some discursive support. As such, they also sustain a
network of disavowed connection and disavowed difference, an
array of blindspots, synecdochic fallacies, and reinvented wheels.
In such a complicated space, one scholar’s experiment turns
out to be another’s tradition; one scholar’s core comes back as
another’s periphery. One field finds it too expedient to cast a
dominant form as marginal in order to prop up its own cen-
trality; another finds it too expedient to cast a marginal form as
dominant in order to better stage its own rebellion. Rather than
wholly succumbing to the language of the new, it seems to me

at least as interesting theoretically and secure institutionally for
performance studies to expose the historical entanglements of
the already-was and thus still-still-kind-of-is. It seems important
to show how disciplinary breaks were saturated with the terms of
the field that they were fleeing and to suggest that contemporary
innovations sometimes derive from arenas that once de-valued
that which they now celebrate. Institutional history also suggests
that assumptions of the “special” status of performance studies,
enticing as they are, could do with a genealogical jolt.
3 Culture and performance: structures of
dramatic feeling
The lack of communication with other disciplines gives the

drama a peculiar insularity. Robert Brustein1
I learned something from analyzing drama which seemed to me

effective not only as a way of seeing certain aspects of society
but as a way of getting through to some of the fundamental
conventions which we group as society itself. These, in their
turn, make some of the problems of drama quite newly active.
Raymond Williams2
Performing cultural studies

My first epigraph is taken from an essay entitled, “Why American
Plays Are Not Literature,” in which Robert Brustein chastised
“the drama” for not being interdisciplinary. As the title suggests,
Brustein made it clear that something called “literature” was the
discipline with which drama most needed contact. Not only was
it, in Brustein’s view, the only discipline with which the drama
needed contact, but its models of value were those to which
all drama should aspire. Condemning the fact that American
dramatists almost never sought representation in “the literary
periodicals,” his 1959 use of the term interdisciplinary was thus
a way of rationalizing a formula for the cultural legitimation of the
drama, American and otherwise. My second epigraph is from a
drama scholar who was Brustein’s contemporary if also, at some
level, his antithesis. Before and between renowned texts such
as Culture and Society and Keywords, Williams published a se-
ries of books in the field of drama – Drama from Ibsen to Eliot,
Drama in Use, Modern Tragedy, and a revised Drama from Ibsen to
Brecht – a “set” that he considered a formative “critical study”
of the dramatic form.3
79
Robert Brustein and Raymond Williams published some of

their most widely read studies of drama in the 1950s and 1960s
in two different countries and in intellectual environments that
bore a vexed if interdependent connection to each other. Both
began their intellectual lives as drama scholars, and both would
go on to become “cultural critics” of sorts. However, while both
would take up the question of whether or not “plays” were
“culture,” their answers differed significantly – a difference that
depended on varying notions of the term “culture.” For Brustein,
the cultural denoted a realm of artistic preserve and artistic excel-
lence, free from what he would later call the “sociologizing of aes-
thetics.” Williams’s name and thought, on the other hand, would
become synonymous with another cultural project – the project
of “cultural studies.” As someone who figures prominently and
repeatedly in the origin narratives of this movement, Williams
thus helped to advance the theories, politics, and methodolo-
gies whose “sociology” Brustein would later condemn.4 How
“the drama” could serve as point of entry to two very differ-
ent relations to the “cultural” is one of the concerns of this
chapter.
It seems useful to ask such a question in light of a num-
ber of other debates currently at issue in the field(s) of drama,
theatre, and performance studies. There is an efficiently satisfy-
ing way of plotting these three terms as indexes of ever widen-
ing levels of cultural analysis. The plot begins with “drama”
as a discrete literary text, posits “theatre” as a larger produc-
tion event, and defines “performance” as an even larger event
of culture. Richard Schechner’s proposed “new paradigm” for
performance studies positions theatre as “a very small slice of
the performance pie,” one amongst many instances that could
also include “rock concerts, discos, electioneering, wrestling, con
games, and demonstrations, and a panoply of religious rituals.”5
Such a model aligns drama with traditional concepts of culture
and performance’s “restored behaviors” with newer perspectives
on cultural critique. In many circles, scholars of performance
studies and self-labeled progressive theatre studies claim a partic-
ular kinship with cultural studies. This means promoting an ap-
proach to performance that unsettles divisions between high and
low, that advocates a radically contextual and socially grounded
Culture and performance 81
analysis, that takes seriously feminist, anti-racist, and intercul-

tural critiques of identity and globalization, that deploys cutting
edge interdisciplinary methodologies, and that links scholarship
to modes of praxis outside of the academy. To claim a kinship
with cultural studies and thus to assert one’s “newness” in turn
tends to re-cast other orientations as “old” and as antithetical to
a cultural studies project. Such identifications can have the ef-
fect, for instance, of retroactively construing the scholarly project
of “drama” as traditional and as metonymically aligned with all
that cultural studies is not. To study drama in this caricatured
light is thus to perpetuate a narrow, elite, and Eurocentric line of
inquiry, one that reproduces cultural divisions between high and
low, one that disavows both theatrical and materialist relations
of production, and one whose “literary” mode of analysis pre-
sumes and reifies the artistic autonomy of the isolated dramatic
text. Such characterizations are often peppered with supporting
quotations from contemporary cultural theorists such as Stuart
Hall, Paul Gilroy, Lawrence Grossberg, Angela McRobbie, as
well as the luminaries from whom so many of them claim to
have descended – including Raymond Williams himself. As ped-
agogically satisfying as these moves can be, they can severely
reduce conversation about the future of and inter-relations be-
tween various components of our field. I hope to explore in
this chapter a complicated and under-theorized history between
drama and cultural studies, one whose disavowal paradoxically
deploys the intellectual genealogy of a drama-cum-cultural the-
orist such as Williams to serve as ammunition for a critique of
drama scholarship. Rather than conceiving of cultural studies
solely as a contemporary means of revising traditional drama
scholarship, I suggest that we also recognize the ways that the
epistemologically-fraught “life of the drama” has propelled the
development of cultural theory itself.6 To do so is also to move
from Chapter Two’s analysis of the early twentieth century into
a study of mid-century transformations.
As a way to focus questions about the vexed genealogies of
drama, theatre, performance, and cultural studies, the argument
of this chapter will also return to the concept of literature –
the unproblematically valued term in Brustein’s world, the
ambivalently devalued term in some cultural studies arenas.
Paul Gilroy’s framing of “black music” in The Black Atlantic

is emblematic of how a scholarly turn to progressive cultural
analysis often involves a repudiation of the literary. “This
orientation to the specific dynamics of performance has a wider
significance . . . Its strengths are evident when it is contrasted
with approaches to black culture that have been premised exclu-
sively on textuality and narrative rather than dramaturgy, enun-
ciation, and gesture – the pre- and anti-discursive constituents
of black metacommunication.”7 Recent debates in cultural the-
ory, theatre, and humanities scholarship often revolve around
the role of so-called “literary” approaches in cultural critique –
as well as around adjacent notions of “textual,” “discursive,”
or “linguistic” analyses. Indeed, arguments of legitimation and
de-legitimation often pivot and twist around conflicted uses of
such terms. Some performance studies scholars might associate a
“literary” method with an elite, textualist, anti-materialist study
of modern drama. However, when some of the same performance
studies scholars engage in de-contextualized analyses of the
tropes of avant-garde performance art, it is not entirely clear who
is being less materialist, which analyses are more text-based, or
what performance forms are actually less “high.” Furthermore –
Gilroy’s tantalizing assertions notwithstanding – there is no ab-
solute correspondence between an anti-textualist method and a
liberatory criticism; nor is it clear that the brilliance of Gilroy’s
own arguments are more indebted to the rigorous study of
“enunciation” and “gesture” than they are to the conventions of
textualist critique. Consequently, it seems important to remind
ourselves of the extraordinarily large number of associations at-
tached to the literary. As I continue, I hope that such remindings
will help to expose some blindspots in current oppositional de-
bates amongst and within our fields and subfields.8 To investi-
gate such a genealogy is, after Foucault, to challenge assumptions
of disciplinary singularity, even when such assumptions may be
expedient for both self-labeled “traditionalist” defenses and self-
labeled “counter-traditionalist” appeals. The genealogical con-
sciousness makes it less easy to uphold divisions between “old”
and “new” approaches, sometimes reversing convenient notions
of who is borrowing from whom and with them the categories of
intellectual precedence and descent. The conflicted referential-
ity of the literary is just one important arena where such binary
delineations get made in drama, theatre, performance, and cul-

tural studies; hence the investigation of literature’s conflicts is
also one way of de-stabilizing those delineations.
The concept of literature is also important from an institu-
tional perspective. The profession of literature has served as the
primary vehicle for establishing the cultural capital of modern
English-speaking universities and hence also has served as the
barometer for gauging the legitimacy of other humanistic fields.
Additionally, as the professionalizing field that reluctantly housed
the study of drama in the early twentieth century, as the profes-
sionalized field from which theatre’s academic promoters broke
free throughout the rest of the twentieth century, literary studies
has long served as foil, shadow, and sometimes foundation to
the emerging disciplinary identities of drama, theatre, and per-
formance studies. Along the way, Literature and English depart-
ments have produced some of the most significant and widely
circulated critical paradigms in the humanities, models and
frameworks that many drama, theatre, and performance studies
have adopted despite their own anti-literary rhetoric and institu-
tional location. Furthermore, literary studies is thoroughly en-
meshed in the development of cultural studies. Perhaps the most
formative cultural studies critiques of literature have emerged
from within the field of literature itself. The movement “from
literary to cultural studies,” to use Anthony Easthope’s phrase,
was initiated most often by professors of English who sought
to enlarge literature’s objects of study to include a variety of
print and non-print forms as well as to expand the range of (of-
ten Marxist) questions asked of traditional literary documents.9
Such a movement has been neither harmonious in its execution
nor complete in its transformation. This chapter is thus also an
attempt to install the concept of modern drama next to such
disharmonies and partialities. Since it is a cultural form that has
always inhabited a reluctant position inside and outside the field
of literary studies, an exploration of the blindspot around drama
clarifies the conflicts that inhere in the transformation from lit-
erary to cultural studies. Drama’s ill-fit in both “older” literary
studies and “newer” cultural studies suggests that there might be
more continuity between the past and the present than contem-
porary paradigms admit. Finally, I hope to make connections
amongst terms and sub-fields that are often too conveniently
opposed as well as to defamiliarize the defensive postures and

persistent ambivalences that seem to keep those oppositions in
place.
Drama and literature

The term “culture” has different associations and is located in a
variety of institutional contexts in which humanistic knowledges
emerge, circulate, and accumulate value. The same can be said of
the term “drama” in the academy. These associations vary widely
and, testifying to the frustratingly flexible essentialism of perfor-
mance more generally, are often not reconcilable. Drama can be
both low and high, contextual or de-contextualized, commercial
or avant-garde, feminized or masculinized, literary or unliterary,
cultured or cultural, a text or an event, practical or impracti-
cal, more fake or more real, depending upon the legitimating
or delegitimating context. Within literary studies, drama’s asso-
ciations have been plotted along such contradictory axes, and
it is along these axes that Robert Brustein’s essay also turns.
The essay is perhaps most useful as an index of the kind of
available metaphors and unprocessed tropes characteristic of
such exegeses. He accused dramatists of being “too anxious to
please,” of going for “climactic emotional effects,” of developing
an “unsavory . . . alliance with the market place,” and of hav-
ing a “tainted imagination.”10 In a characteristically contradic-
tory relationship to European legacies, he managed to accuse
American dramatists of being less distinguished than European
playwrights while at the same time catering to cosmopolitan in-
fluences. Brustein perhaps made a correct assessment in recog-
nizing that detachment from the realm of literary production
and its world of “literary periodicals” would threaten the sta-
tus of drama as a legitimated cultural form. As John Guillory
writes in his study of cultural capital in the university humani-
ties curriculum, “an individual’s judgment that a work is great
does nothing in itself to preserve that work, unless that judgment
is made in a certain institutional context, a setting in which it is
possible to insure the reproduction of the work, its continual rein-
troduction to generations of readers.”11 When Brustein worried
about whether drama was or was not literature, he was effec-
tively worrying about whether drama was or was not “Culture”
of a particular credible form. In so doing, he reiterated concerns

about drama’s illegitimate status in a process of acculturation,
an illegitimacy measured by its associations with feminine arti-
fice and commercial corruption.
Such arguments had shadowed the curricular position of
drama in the academy for more than a half century. Early aca-
demic institutionalizers were both sympathetic to and embar-
rassed by theatre’s association with the popular, a link that was
the opposite of the literary. Said George Pierce Baker, “what es-
pecially marks people who pride themselves on their knowledge
of the drama as literature – not on their knowledge of the the-
atre – is a certain haughtiness toward the mass of the public, a
belief that whatever is popular, whatever the crowd likes, must
be cheap, inartistic, undesirable.”12 Brander Matthews both cel-
ebrated the democratic sensibility of the ideal playwright who
“must needs have an understanding of his fellow-man; he must
have toleration and, above all, sympathy” while simultaneously
allowing his language to erode linguistically into condescension:
“he must try to find the greatest common denominator of the
throng.”13 In a cultural context unsure about the significance of
a rising middle class and the language of economics and business
that began to enter the academy, the threat of “commercialism”
easily elided with the impulse to cater to the throng. Similarly,
in Robert Brustein’s writing, to be pro-literature was to be anti-
commercial; the equation did not need an argument. If propo-
nents of literature tried to install a division between their pursuits
and business, then “theatre” threatened to undo that shaky bor-
der as well. That possibility continues both to humiliate and to
excite theatre’s advocates.
As discussed in Chapter Two, the concept of “literature” con-
solidated as a curricular and professional category around the
turn of the century. Literary credibility was determined by the
degree to which a pedagogic text fulfilled the sometimes nebu-
lous but persistent standards of a humanist liberal culture, one
that sought to secure a position within a US university sys-
tem increasingly preoccupied with utility, with technical knowl-
edge, and with the paradigms of scientific inquiry. As Laurence
Veysey has argued in The Emergence of the American University,
the latter borrowed a revised version of a Germanic model in
which lines of inquiry were made more rigorous by installing
them within the conventions of scientific research. Some early

literary scholars worked to adapt philological methods to make
literature into a science and to promote an ethic of literary re-
search whose constructed sense of “rigor” we live with in dif-
ferent forms today. More pernicious for the status of literature,
however, were the effects of industrialization, a rising business
class, and a no-nonsense distrust of intellectualism; this mi-
lieu produced a concern for practicality and “real world” sen-
sibilities in higher education, one that dangerously positioned
literature within the realm of non-utility. Reacting within and
against both “the German method” and a hyper-practical em-
phasis that threatened to divest higher education of a “spiritual”
dimension, scholars of literature joined promoters of “liberal cul-
ture” to argue for the preservation of a higher “human character,
shaped ‘by the deliberate choices of whatever is noble and help-
ful.’ . . . An aesthetic, a moral and tacit social code were all to be
found intermingled in the conception of culture as it existed in
American academic circles in the late nineteenth century.”14
Brustein’s later 1950s articulation was thus embedded in this
concept of culture, chastizing the vulgar sensibility of American
drama for not aspiring to Arnoldian goals. By criticizing drama-
tists for pandering to crowds or for sullying the theatre with the
forces of economic rather than cultural capital, he resuscitated
the anti-utility arguments of early cultural dissidents, condemn-
ing the effects of the “real world” ethos of American business on
the products of culture.
In reserving his condemnation only for American drama, this
particular Brustein essay did not incorporate the fact that drama’s
real worldness and manifest enmeshment in economic relations
had made its academic status as “literature” (ie. as “Culture”)
shaky for quite some time. Indeed, the significant aspect of
“drama exclusive of Shakespeare” was its equivocal status as lit-
erature that was not quite literature, a humanist form that, by
virtue of its saturation with “the practical,” made it not quite
humanist after all. In the middle of the twentieth century, aca-
demic promoters of theatre responded to this liminality in varied
and often contradictory ways. While some, such as Eric Bentley,
created compensatory arguments for drama within accepted lit-
erary categories, others reversed the terms of value to charac-
terize drama as a rugged, masculine pursuit that countered the
fastidious preoccupations of the literary reading room. Indeed,

Brustein’s corpus can be seen as a constant ride over a disavowed
ambivalence. While his 1959 essay on American plays aspired to
make the cultural position of a man of the theatre equivalent to
that of the man of letters, other essays and speeches would find it
more expedient to emphasize the numerous ways that a manly
theatre differed from the womanly conventions of lettered trans-
mission and literary pedagogy. This vacillation is symptomatic
of pervasive classed and gendered patterns in quests for cultural
legitimacy. Sometimes theatre’s practicality is “tainted” and
“pandering”; sometimes theatre’s practicality is hardy and mas-
culine. Sometimes literature’s canon is sweetness and light;
sometimes literature’s canon is elite and effete. While certain
circumstances prompt legitimators to invoke classed cultural hi-
erarchies unproblematically, other contexts prompt some of the
same proponents to condemn such standards as feminized and/or
commercial, as judgments derived from the prescriptive and
peripheral tastes of a compromised imagination.
New critical ambivalences

In the 1950s, gentlemanly notions of liberal culture only vaguely
represented the field of literary studies as it was being practiced
and legitimated in the university at the time. By mid-twentieth
century, the English methods of “practical criticism” and the
American practices of “new criticism” had penetrated most
English departments on both sides of the Atlantic, working to
replace nebulous, belletristic notions of cultured literature with
a method of rigorous “close reading” and decontextualized ex-
plication. New criticism argued for literature less as the social
vehicle of liberal culture than as an object whose understand-
ing required a formalized method of expert reading, one whose
feats of interpretation matched the rigor, difficulty, and degree
of specialization found in scientific research. Terry Eagleton’s
Literary Theory isolates “the brisk, bloodless” prose of I.A.
Richards as the most extreme of new critical originators; “far
from questioning the alienated view of science as a purely instru-
mental, neutrally ‘referential’ affair, Richards subscribes to this
positivist fantasy.”15 New criticism thus served as a mid-century
response to the consolidation of a so-called Germanic research
university, fending off accusations of literary fuzziness by for-

malizing its study. While new critical practitioners such as John
Crowe Ransom, Cleanth Brooks, R.P. Blackmur, and William
Empson varied in tone and perspective, they generally conceived
literature – most ideally embodied in poetry – as a “self-enclosed
entity” to be deciphered by “the toughest, most hard-headed
techniques of critical dissection.”16 Meanwhile, as movements
for coeducation and democratic legislation such as the British
Education Act and the American G. I. Bill opened the doors
of English and North American universities to a varied student
population, humanities professors had to devise wider methods
of cultural dissemination. In such a context, the text-focused,
genius-tracking methods of new criticism made for easy syllabifi-
cation and efficient lecturing, allowing the professing of literature
to fit more comfortably within a managed university concerned
that its curriculum “scale” meet the demands of an increasingly
large, and presumably unlettered, clientele.17 The trajectory of
this “critical technocracy” advanced another level with the struc-
turalist development of “genre criticism,” most famously and for-
matively embodied in the work of Northrop Frye.18 His Anatomy
of Criticism incorporated a circumscribed notion of literary his-
tory into new critical formalism, developing an elaborate system
of categories in which to place each instance of literary produc-
tion. Frye’s taxonomies thus were a mid-century equivalent of the
genus/species laboratories of literary philology. It differed, how-
ever, in that this system expelled “any history other than literary
history: Literary works were made out of other literary works,
not out of any material external to the literary system itself.”19
Frye’s genre criticism – and the genre criticism that would fol-
low – thus had the satisfying character of scientific and historical
paradigms while, at the same time, severely limiting the content
and character of the history it brought to bear.
Some mid-century critics – such as Cleanth Brooks and,
to some extent, Eric Bentley – worked to situate the drama
within the legitimating structures of new critical frameworks. Of
the formative new critics, Brooks’s scholarship and textbooks
perhaps best exemplify new critical analyses of “the drama”
and “the dramatic.” A comparison of textbooks such as Un-
derstanding Poetry, An Approach to Literature, and Understanding
Drama demonstrates this constrained critical sphere, one that
located drama in a relational field that measured its distance

from poetry. Understanding Drama divides its table of contents
into “Problems of the Drama,” “Simpler Types,” “More Mature
Types,” “Special Studies” whereas Understanding Poetry was not
represented as a “problem” and divided chapters under far
more secure categories such as “Narrative Poems,” “Descriptive
Poems,” “Metrics,” “Tone,” and “Imagery.”20 Meanwhile,
“Problems of Drama” also included extended essays that com-
pared drama to “other literary forms” in order to recount the
“vast amount of materials accessible to fiction and poetry [that]
are not accessible to drama.”21 At the same time, Understanding
Poetry included no such comparative essays and seemed not to
need references to other genres to serve as illuminating coun-
terpoint. Within such frames, the fundamentals of drama such
as “place,” “exposition,” “tempo” and “overt action” were con-
ceived as dilemmas – as “lacking” and “awkward” rather than
as “accessible materials” on a par with the poetic materials of
metrics, tone, and imagery. In its pedagogical presentation of
several genres, An Approach to Literature also reproduced similar
hierarchical comparisons.22
Meanwhile, Eric Bentley’s widely-circulated essays and books
offer a related illlustration of a mid-century dramatic discourse,
one that in many ways mixed the language of cultural capital with
the language of new criticism for self-legitimation. In The Play-
wright as Thinker, for example, Bentley deployed the disparaging
tones of Arnoldian cultural analysis, lamenting that “drama as
a high art has appeared only sporadically” and quoting Bernard
Shaw’s statement that “the theater is always at a low ebb.”23
Echoing and anticipating Robert Brustein and others, he con-
demned the debased contextuality of the theatre – its commer-
cialism, its audience relations – as well as the particularly low
ebb of its American forms. At the same time, Bentley could be
found justifying his approach to drama by invoking new critical
language. He opposed himself to those “who hold that a good
play is not a thing that can be profitably examined in detail and
that criticism of great drama is therefore fruitless or impossible.
My own conviction is that any good thing is a very good thing
and that any work of art can bear the closest scrutiny. The better,
the closer.”24 Bentley’s references to “detail” and to the “closest”
“scrutiny” are not coincidental. They echoed the professionalist
quest for minute detail in the “close reading” of new and prac-
tical criticism, even echoing the journal, Scrutiny, founded in
England to extend the mission. Bentley’s rhetorical efforts sug-
gest how fully a formalist appeal could legitimate a mid-century
critical endeavor.
Other academic promoters of drama addressed the fundamen-
tal ways that new critical methods altered the object of literature
as well as the concept of cultural capital. Writing in 1952, the-
atre scholar John Gassner’s peremptorily titled essay “There is
No American Drama” exemplifies a much more suspicious if
anxious response to new criticism. I will focus on it at length
as a symptomatic text in an alternate genealogy between drama
and cultural studies.25 Like Brustein, Gassner used American
drama’s equivocal status as the basis for a lengthier medita-
tion on cultural hierarchy. However, by exploring the discon-
nect between new critical models and the examples of American
drama, the thrust of his argument took a very different direc-
tion. He cited, for instance, the political commitment of drama
in the 1920s and 1930s, an avowed contextuality that resisted
the decontextualized strategies of new critical interpretations.
He continued by reciting all of the associations that clung to the
drama ever since the project of literary legitimation had begun
in the academy. His ardor suggested his own internalization of
the dilemma, an ambivalence that would continue throughout
his essay. “We were deficient in taste and intellect. We were de-
based by Broadway vulgarity. We were banal, blatant, and shame-
lessly sentimental. When we evinced sympathy with the common
man, we descended to bathos. When we left plain realism, we
gave ourselves up to vapid abstractions and to puerile, under-
graduate metaphysics.”26 Within this provisional acceptance of
a debased condition, Gassner nevertheless worked to develop a
reverse snobbery as a kind of defense. He replicated contem-
poraneous attacks on the new criticism by invoking the threat
of its “European orientation,” reproducing a 1950s critique of
Europeanization in much the same way that earlier scholars in-
voked the threat of Germanification in the study of literature.
Despite the fact that new criticism was enthusiastically developed
by American scholars, T.S. Eliot and other “European” critics
figured prominently in Gassner’s rendition. “It is a European
cum Eliot-sponsored aristocratic traditionalism cum erstwhile
aristocratic southern agrarianism transposed into the key of so-

called New Criticism.”27
Gassner, however, was more than simply dismissive of new
criticism, but rightly anticipated a paradigmatic shift in liter-
ary studies that would not bode well for American drama. “The
charges they make directly and by implication are serious and
should be received seriously. They are important too because
the attitude they reveal may well pervade the educated members
of an entire generation upon which the fate of any signficant the-
atre we may have in the 1950’s will largely depend.”28 Gassner, in
fact, agreed with new critical objections even as he tried to argue
from a different position. “The new criticism,” he continued, “is
often so accurate that it must be respected, but so sweeping in
its condemnation of American drama that it must be refuted.”29
Gassner made the choice to refute, not by arguing for American
drama within new critical paradigms, but by arguing that such
paradigms could not track the significant interrelations of the
American theatrical event. Indeed, he went so far as to suggest
that adherence to new critical principles would compromise its
Americanism. To subscribe to this dominant paradigm, an adher-
ence embodied in the figure of Eric Bentley who Gassner called
“the most Europeanized of the critics,” would be to “reject ev-
erything that has been distinctly American in our playwriting.”30
Imagining over-cultivated playwrights composing “with the fas-
tidiousness, the mental discipline, the refined or sharpened taste”
of a new critical sensibility, he issued dire warnings for the future
of American playwriting.
Let them make full use of the various devices of ‘irony,’ the various
types of ‘ambiguity’ discussed by William Empson, the multiple levels
of meaning so adeptly ferreted out in recent literary studies. . . . My
suspicion, as already stated, is that the result will be rather ineffec-
tive. . . . One important reason is that an ultra-intellectual or ultra-
refined kind of drama will lack any substantial basis in American man-
ners and attitudes . . . There is no widely held tradition in America that
is not democratic, and this tradition possesses no particular subtleties,
cautiousness and restraint.”31
Theatre and America were both in his view, for better and for
worse, spaces of “spontaneity” of “sympathy” and of “convic-
tions” – all of which have “a way of getting out of hand.”32
Obviously there are many difficulties with this argument. At

the starkest level, Gassner invoked a nationalist and masculinist
allegiance in the service of an anti-theoretical, anti-interpretive
position. The threat of Europeanization also reified a threat of
feminization, couched in language that castigated subtlety, fasti-
tidiousness, and refinement in order to bolster a drama that was
“masculine, buoyant, hard-driving, and uninhibited.”33 These
problems notwithstanding, Gassner’s defensive treatise identi-
fied different elements of drama than the “problems” iterated by
Cleanth Brooks. What Gassner limitedly referred to as “Ameri-
can” in American drama was also a site with which to speculate
on dramatic performance’s relationship to the social – perhaps
even to “sociology” – and to material histories other than those
emphasized in contemporaneous genre criticism. As such, he
promoted the analysis of drama as cultural. It was a different
type of “culture” than either the Arnoldian or new critical asso-
ciations, one that approached the kind of relation that Raymond
Williams might have had in mind when he suggested that drama
offered a key into the “fundamental conventions which we group
as society itself.” Gassner spoke of the dramatist’s ability to re-
produce “an idiom or tone of contemporary life in America,” but
that catching this idiom meant not “fastidiously avoiding contact
with an often coarse-grained reality,” something that happened
when “we treat playwriting as divorced from social reality and
practiced in a vacuum.”34 Gassner was aware of a theoretical turn
toward a different conception of culture in the English context
via T.S. Eliot’s notion of the “medieval synthesis” between per-
sons and the cultural context they mutually produced. Gassner
used the reference to speculate on its limits, suggesting that ap-
peals to the communal would remain circumscribed by elitist
hesitancies.
I do not by any means ignore the fact that there has been indeed, much
writing about the need for a communal or cultural context by T.S. Eliot
and his associates in the field of criticism. But specifically, the ‘context’
to which they generally refer is non-existent in the modern world; and
strictly speaking it has been non-existent since the Middle Ages. . . . I do
not believe the “medieval synthesis” is actually desired for themselves
even by the gentlemen who point toward it. There have been too few
Thomas Mertons among them to act upon their beliefs.35
For Gassner, American theatre called the bluff of the literary es-
tablishment’s tentative quest for communalism. To act on an al-
ternative conception of culture, one that could not be confined to
the literary object, was to risk letting things “get out of hand” and
hence a hypocritical limit point in Eliot’s writings. “Meanwhile,”
Gassner wrote, “there is a cultural context – a rough, bouncing
and democratic one – in which to function, precariously perhaps,
but vigorously.”36 The messier elements of a theatrical “contex-
tual” aligned with the messier elements of a theatrical “commu-
nal”; both resisted the epistemological boundaries of the literary
object in ways that anticipated, with intriguing if perhaps unwit-
ting foresight, a critical redefinition of the “cultural.”
Of course, saying that theatre required a democratically-
inflected analysis did not necessarily mean that American theatre
was democratic. And it is at this point that Gassner’s enthusiasms
start to ring more hollowly. Gassner was one amongst a num-
ber of American theatre historians in the 1950s who implicitly
and explicitly debated just how “out of hand” they wanted their
American theatre history to be. In his rough American theatre,
Gassner did not actively welcome all displays of vigor and kept
his analysis focused on those of white, male playwrights. Mean-
while, a handful of contemporaneous historians such as A.M.
Drummond and Richard Moody wrote to open a place for the
“native american rituals” and “theatres of life” in their chroni-
cles of the American performance idiom.37 Richard Moody pub-
lished scholarship that argued for minstrelsy as a foundational
and foundationally complicated American performance form. A
decade earlier, Edith Isaacs had written a history of The Negro
in the Theatre, and argued for the racially hybrid and essentially
“borrowed” nature of so-called American theatre. “And that is
the reason why, in music and dance, in rhythm and comedy and
pantomime, we borrow so freely from the Negro Theatre.”38
Gassner’s silence on such internal national hybridity appeared
as formal repudiation in the work of Bernard Hewitt and Walter
Meserve whose scholarship reproduced the anti-textualist ap-
peals of American theatre history but without revising the racist
exclusions of the “American” category.39 I will return to these
blindspots in the final section of this chapter. Without accepting
the gendered, nationalist, and polarizing terms in which Gassner
articulated his enthusiasms, however, it is still important to fore-

ground the social phenomena and affective structures he was try-
ing to emphasize. The study of drama thereby enabled the study
of culture in a different key. The relation between that cultural
and the racial, however, is another story.
Dramatic genealogies
Drama both challenged prevailing conceptions of culture and
provided an all-too literal illustration of them. Hence, drama’s
promoters could be found defending and critiquing the same
targets, expediently taking up positions in one context, expedi-
ently dropping the same positions in another. John Gassner’s
alternative cultural argument was still hampered by its defen-
sive posture toward new criticism, one that homogenized the
movement, equated all its thinkers, and refused to read carefully
between the lines of a text like William Empson’s Seven Types
of Ambiguity for the open readings and savvy awareness of so-
cial context that others would find. Gassner’s argument was also
hampered by its defensive posture toward Europeanization and
so-called “slavish Anglophilism.” Indeed, not only was new crit-
icism American-bred, but T.S. Eliot’s “southern agrarianism”
derived from an American South that was, despite Gassner’s
disavowals, still part of “America.” Such reductions – in which
available terms of de-legitimation are invoked ahistorically and
without restraint – appear frequently in polemical encounters
where something is at stake. The disavowals perpetuated by such
rhetorical, conceptual, and nationalist moves are unfortunate for
a number of reasons. Most significantly for this chapter, they
would keep American academic promoters of drama in a state
of constant misrecognition vis-à-vis Great Britain. The intellec-
tual developments of literary studies characterized as English
or European were neither simple nor homogeneous but actively
debated and revised. Indeed, had these debates been imported
sooner or differently, they might have positioned drama as a
lynchpin in the transformation from the study of literature to
the innovations of cultural studies. To re-read the insights, de-
fenses, illuminations, and confusions of mid-century drama crit-
icism is to discern the stops and starts of a drama-to-culture
genealogy.
Francis Fergusson, for instance – perhaps one of the more in-

sightful and widely-read drama critics of the period – engaged
contemporaneous models of literature and culture. Fergusson
adopted a more cautious and considered argument on the
relation between drama and New Criticism in his widely printed
The Idea of the Theater. He praised Ransom, Blackmur, and Emp-
son who “have done much to make the art of letters understand-
able,” seeing connections between “the dramatic situation” and
Blackmur’s “language of gesture” and Empson’s studies of ambi-
guity and the pastoral.40 At the same time, he forthrightly stated
that, since drama was “not primarily a composition in the ver-
bal medium,” other approaches were equally necessary. Hence
he decided to integrate Cambridge Anthropology into his study
of the drama in order to analyze the “ritual” function of a form
whose “own essence is at once more primitive, more subtle, and
more direct than either word or concept,” an aspect best con-
ceived by “writers who are students of culture rather than liter-
ary critics.”41 In contrast to other drama critics, Fergusson fore-
grounded an anthropological notion of culture throughout his
text. Positioning anthropological analysis as fundamental to his
approach to the drama, he thus installed an early connection be-
tween drama and anthropology. While his approach reproduced
the primitivist and structuralist reductions of such earlier anthro-
pological models, it is still noteworthy that the contingencies of
the dramatic event served as a bridge between New Criticism
and classical anthropology. As such, his drama scholarship can
be located on a discontinuous genealogy in literary and cultural
studies, indirectly anticipating the mutual enthusiasms between
literature and anthropology that would underpin the “blurred
genres” and “new historicisms” of a later generation.42 Fergusson
is also obviously a figure in a discontinuous genealogy between
drama and performance studies. It is thus worth remembering
that “drama” could and did provide an earlier occasion for think-
ing about the socio-cultural dimensions of the textual artifact and
for thinking about the nature of “restored behavior,” something
that does not always appear in the counter-traditionalist appeals.
The project of “culture” was also more complicated for many
of the figures whom Gassner critiqued. While F.R. Leavis’s
“practical criticism” incarnated the professionalist demands of
a new literary criticism, it also managed to address a number
of contradictory post-war hopes and ambivalences. Eagleton

elaborates:
In the face of whimsical ‘taste,’ they stressed the centrality of rigorous

critical analysis, a disciplined attention to ‘words on the page.’ They
urged this not simply for technical or aesthetic reasons, but because it
had the closest relevance to the spiritual crisis of modern civilization.
Literature was important not only in itself, but because it encapsulated
creative energies which were everywhere on the defensive in modern
“commercial” society.43
F.R. Leavis, Q.D. Leavis, and a host of colleagues and disciples

saw in literature and literary reading the possibility for reacquain-
tance with the most vital, energetic, and authentic elements of
English life. They celebrated not simply conventional texts in a
high literature canon but also those that connected readers to a
world of rich and authentic experience, one that would be found
in the “organic societies” of pre-industrial pastures more often
than in the trappings of modern “civilization” (a word that they
used disparagingly). For practical critics, literary language did
its best work when it evoked this world of concrete feeling. “In
really ‘English’ writing, language ‘concretely enacted’ such felt
experience: true English literature was verbally rich, complex,
sensuous and particular, . . . one which read aloud was rather
like chewing an apple. The ‘health’ and ‘vitality’ of such lan-
guage . . . embodied a creative wholeness.”44 For Q.D. Leavis in
Fiction and the Reading Public and for F.R. Leavis in texts such
as The Great Tradition, the pursuit of culture was the pursuit
of Englishness, located within the literary text and in the con-
stitutive relation with an English reader. Whatever the political
persuasion of the critics and political effects of the criticism, this
language of vitality, health, wholeness, and concrete enactment
set the terms for later discourses on culture. T.S. Eliot expanded,
furthermore, this pursuit of a “whole life” from the domain of the
strictly textual. Stimulated by his fixation on rituals of the agrar-
ian American South, a fixation on the “communal” parodied by
Gassner but that had discursive support from Leavis’s concept
of the organic society, Eliot developed a comparable picture for
a “whole way of English life.” His description of culture encom-
passed the self-making events of a “whole society,” including “all
the characteristic activities and interests of a people: Derby Day,
Henley Regatta, Cowes, the twelfth of August, a Cup Final, the

pin table, the dart board, Wensleydale cheese, boiled cabbage
cut into sections . . .”45 This list, appearing in Notes Towards
the Definition of Culture, thus moved beyond practical criticism’s
equation between literature and culture.46
With this genealogy in mind, I would like now to return to
that other 1950s drama theorist, Raymond Williams, especially
since the Leavisian language of the vital concrete would saturate
this critic’s theories of both drama and culture. As recounted
in a number of histories of cultural studies, Williams is one of
the declared fathers of the Birmingham School of cultural stud-
ies, a site where, along with Richard Hoggart and succeeded by
Stuart Hall, literary scholars rethought their objects and meth-
ods of study in light of progressive, socialist, and Marxist ideals.
These scholars would push Eliot’s declared interest in the “whole
society” to include not only the pastoral signifiers of wholeness
but a wider range of elements within the whole of the nation.
Many of them did so based upon their own histories in working-
class families. Richard Hoggart expanded Q.D. Leavis’s focus
on the reading public to include working-class readers of pop-
ular literature. His Uses of Literacy, published in 1957, placed
them within a personalized account that detailed the emotions
and daily lives of laboring families who did not have the option of
disparaging industrialization with Leavisian disdain.47 In Culture
and Society, Williams added to T.S. Eliot’s “pleasant miscellany”
other characteristic activities of the English (male) working class,
“steelmaking, touring in motor-cars, mixed farming, the Stock
Exchange, coalmining and London transport.”48 The creation of
such lists would become a convention in the disciplinary state-
ments of cultural studies. Indeed, Richard Schechner’s list of
expanded performance forms (“rock concerts, discos, election-
eering . . .”) can be placed in a genealogy of disciplinary gestures,
expanding relevant intellectual “miscellany” in a way that some
find more pleasant than others.
To position Raymond Williams as a drama theorist, how-
ever, is to emphasize aspects of his legacy that are often ig-
nored or unknown, particularly in the US context. Connections
between the principles behind cultural and theatre studies are
brought to light when one remembers that Williams preceded
and interspersed his foundational scholarship in cultural studies
with his less famous series in dramatic criticism between 1952

and 1968. As suggested earlier, I have found it more than in-
triguing to think about these early writings in light of Williams’s
developing models of culture. From this angle, the transition
from literary to cultural studies can be seen to take place through
the vehicle of “drama.” For instance, Williams’s Drama in Use
attempted to place dramatic literature in a production context
by borrowing the language of utility, language that de-stabilized
the literary status of his project and thus deployed drama as a
springboard toward a materialist cultural analysis. Moreover, it
is perhaps no coincidence that a theatre-oriented scholar coined
the term “structure of feeling.” Indeed, as John Higgins notes,
the development of the term “structure of feeling” coincided with
Williams’s writings on drama.49 Meanwhile, later works, notably
Culture (or what in the United States would be titled The Sociology
of Culture) made considerable use of theatre as a case study for
theorizing the institutional, organizational, political, and social
dimensions of aesthetic forms.50 To emphasize this disciplinary
genealogy is thus to position drama, not only as something that
might make an alliance with cultural studies (as Jill Dolan and
others have argued), but more profoundly as a site that helped
to propel the cultural studies project.51
Developed through the re-writing of his drama books and into
the publication of The Long Revolution, the concept of “struc-
ture of feeling” was meant to give some formal ballast to his
concept of culture. As Fred Inglis writes, “‘Structure of feel-
ing’ was a concept designed to catch the point of intersection
between art and historical experience as individually, and there-
fore as socially lived. Williams’s project . . . had been to grasp
a cultural history as experience; that is to say, to interpret the
movement of change caught and held in the peculiar lenses of
art.”52 It was thus less a model of how art reflected society than
a method by which to catch emergent moments in “the active
processes of learning, imagination, creation, performance.”53
In Drama from Ibsen to Brecht, Williams’s definition of struc-
ture of feeling used drama to articulate realms of affective ex-
perience that matched but exceeded the conventions of literary
critique. “It is as firm and definite as ‘structure’ suggests, yet
it is based in the deepest and often least tangible elements of
our experience . . . Its means, its elements, are not propositions
or techniques; they are embodied, related feelings. . . . we can

look at dramatic methods yet know, in detail, that what is being
defined is more than technique: is indeed the practical way of
describing those changes in experiences – the responses and their
communication; the ‘subjects’ and the ‘forms’ – which make the
drama in itself and as a history important.”54 While Williams
often found such active, recursive processes in novelists such as
Dickens, Hardy, and Lawrence whom he felt had listened to the
voices of English culture and developed artistic conventions both
to match and to advance them, he often conceived drama as the
form that allowed him to “look both ways” between the aesthetic
and the social. In his inaugural lecture as Professor of Drama at
Cambridge University, he used dramatic form to speculate on
his wider hopes for a theory and practice of a social culture. He
elaborated, for instance, on the significance of Anton Chekhov’s
dramaturgy.
It is a way of speaking and of listening to a specific rhythm of a partic-
ular consciousness; in the end a form of unfinished, transient, anxious
relationship, which is there on the stage or in the text but which is
also, pervasively, a structure of feeling of a precise and contemporary
world . . . I don’t think I could have understood these dramatic pro-
cedures as methods – that is to say, as significant general modes – if
I had not been looking both ways. I could have seen them perhaps as
techniques . . . [but] it is where technique and method have either an
identity, or as, now commonly, a significant fracture, that all the hard
questions of this difficult discipline begin.55
Williams’s discussion of structures of feeling in Chekhovian dra-

matic dialogue echoed the language he used to analyze Dickens’s
dialogic power. Not coincidentally, Williams isolated the kind of
realm that John Gassner invoked in his account of an American
dramatic idiom, reinforcing the sense that Gassner’s Americanist
label was serving as a stand-in for an account of cultural process
in general.
Hard questions about the fracture between technique and
method, between consciousness and language, between feeling
and world appeared throughout Williams’s drama scholarship.
In Modern Tragedy, Williams used such impulses to engage and
critique a legacy of dramatic criticism. Though specifically reply-
ing to George Steiner’s philosophy of tragedy, he argued against
a general critical strain that too easily married the systemics
of structural anthropology with the systemics of literary genre

criticism.56 Such a union resulted too simply in a model of tragic
form that transcended social and historical particularity. For
Williams, this universalizing tendency bypassed what was most
intriguing about the drama – its dynamism, its mutability, and
its embedded social structures. “If, however, we think of it as a
theory about a single and permanent kind of fact, we can end
only with the metaphysical conclusions that are built into any
such assumption . . . the assumption of a permanent, univer-
sal and essentially unchanging human nature.”57 Condemning
theorists who presumed an ahistorical equation between Greek,
Renaissance, and modern tragic forms, Williams went on to re-
define the significance of tragedy in terms that resonated with his
paradigms in cultural theory.
Tragedy is not a single and permanent kind of fact, but a series of expe-
riences and conventions and institutions. It is not a case of interpreting
this by reference to a permanent and unchanging human nature. Rather,
the varieties of tragic experience are to be interpreted by reference to
the changing conventions and institutions. . . . It is in any case neces-
sary to break the theory if we are to value the art . . . [instead] to see
its controlling structure of feeling, the variations within this and their
connections with actual dramatic structures, and to be able to respond
to them critically, in the full sense.58
Foregrounding the inter-relations amongst experience, conven-
tion, and institution, Williams focused on technical and social
shifts in the theatrical event – upon the choral structures of
Greek tragedy, upon the later secularist impulses that replotted
tragic action, upon the modernizing forces that generated and
isolated the psychic conventions of the tragic hero in the twenti-
eth century. Seeking the variations within and between dramatic
structure and “structures of feeling,” Williams’s investigation in
Modern Tragedy thus provided the lens and the language for the-
orizing cultural process, anticipating and echoing the analytic
paradigms of “dominant,” “residual,” and “emergent” for which
his cultural theory would become known.59
Re-performing cultural studies

The “hard questions of this difficult discipline,” whether that
discipline be modern drama or culture in general, may have
had a beginning for Raymond Williams in such structures of
feeling, but the endings of such questions are still uncertain. I

have endeavored thus far to link Williams’s intellectual geneal-
ogy to the study of drama and thereby to position it as a signif-
icant precursor to the study of culture. At the same time, dra-
matic performance is also interesting in a Williams genealogy as
a metaphor for expressing ambivalences in progressive literary
studies, misrecognitions that persist in literature’s transmutation
into cultural studies. Checkered throughout Fred Inglis’s biog-
raphy are constant references to the parallel ambivalences with
which Williams greeted both participation in “actual” theatri-
cal events and participation in “actual” social relations. In fact,
Inglis tells his readers, Williams offered his inaugural speech as
Professor of Drama, despite “hardly [having] been to a theatre in
years.”60 Without recounting all of these references or overly psy-
chologizing Williams, I think that this reluctance is an intriguing
symptom, not simply of hypocrisy, but of the basic conundrums
built into our “difficult discipline.” Drama seems to function
both as a springboard for extra-literary cultural engagement and
as a limit point past which literary-derived cultural analysis seems
unwilling to go. This kind of ambivalence and Eliot-like slippage
persists even in Fred Inglis’s own way of treating drama as a cul-
tural event, that is, as a form that is made analyzable and useful
in the moment it is turned back into a trope. “Drama matters
so much for Williams because, more than any other form ex-
cept opera . . . it is a communal form of art. Among dramatists,
Ibsen was the first key subject, because Ibsen dramatized hero-
ism as hopefulness, even when – most of all when – the hero
or heroine was pulled down to death by desire. Ibsen prefig-
ured the essential tension between Williams’s pervasive feelings
of inheritance and his unusually strong drive to break away and
keep away, keeping other people away at the same time.”61 It
is noteworthy that Inglis follows the first sentence about the-
atre’s ensemble form with a thematic discussion of the content
of Ibsen’s plays, as if one were an extension of the other. The
“communal” alliances and frictions of theatre-making of course
embody the simultaneous urges of collective inheritance and of
breaking free; however, Inglis reorients that shaky communalism
from the interactive realm of actors, writers, and designers to the
internal dynamics of the play text. That kind of move is repro-
duced again and again in studies of culture, drama, theatre, and
even performance, demonstrating the persistence of new critical
methods even in attempts to break free from new critical ob-

jects. Such tendencies seem to perpetuate a formalist quest for
communalism, even when its “vitality” is the declared goal.
Williams’s Leavisian legacies may have produced different
kinds of exclusions as well, particularly in his perpetuation of
a nationalist communal. Williams’s expansion of the culturally
relevant still kept the pursuit of Englishness as its implicit and
sometimes explicit drive. In his measured reflections on Ray-
mond Williams’s contribution, Stuart Hall emphasizes this in-
ertia. While recognizing the epistemological significance of his
pursuit of “structures of feeling” and of “lived communities,”
Hall contends that Williams pursued a mythic wholeness.62 The
vital, concrete enactments that Williams tried to locate were de-
rived from a nationalist “feeling” that could not always address
differential “structures” of race and ethnicity. In other words,
Williams’s “whole way of life” had a number of unacknowledged
holes. Rather than filling them, Hall’s critique asks for the recog-
nition of difference and hybridity as fundamental to a concept
of culture rather than as aberrations to be resolved. Similarly,
Paul Gilroy’s There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack exposes the
white, working-class, English male who operates as Williams’s
primary locus of authenticity. Even in Williams’ explicit attempts
to address race, this figure is the one who has formed his “lived
identity” over “long experience.” As such, Williams writes, a
critic must understand if not endorse how this “English working
man . . . protests at the arrival or presence of ‘foreigners.’ ” This
paradigm leaves very little room for persons of color also to have
a “lived identity” or a whole way of life. As Gilroy asks, “how long
is long enough to become a genuine Brit? . . . Under what condi-
tions is national identity able to displace or dominate the equally
‘lived and formed’ identities which are based on age, gender,
region, neighborhood or ethnicity?”63 This kind of critique also
reflects back on the status of both drama and performance in the
analysis of culture. In many ways, the language of the concrete, of
feeling, and of lived experience resonates strongly with historic
arguments on the potential of drama as well as with contem-
porary arguments on the theorizing of performance. However
important this emphasis in the study of performance cultures
is, it is also an intensely local affect, one whose appeal and felt
authenticity obscures the systems that make it appealing and
that mystifies the structures that produce the feeling. In the case
of both John Gassner (and fellow drama critics) and Raymond
Williams (and fellow cultural critics), the quest for “culture” was
also a reification of “nation,” however “rough” and “bouncing”
it may be. The elements that Gassner delineated as “American”
were also the elements that Williams delineated as “English.”
In neither case did the cultural move beyond the “literary”
or the “textual” actually question the racialized sphere of the
national.
Different kinds of comforting reifications occur in other dis-
ciplinary debates on performance and culture, however – not
only in “older” drama studies, not only in “older” cultural stud-
ies. Both contemporary performance studies and contemporary
cultural studies offer illustrations of how scholars’ “long experi-
ence” in certain disciplinary homes structure their assumptions
of where newness and difference lie. In the middle of introduc-
ing cutting edge approaches to scholarship on black cultural ex-
pression, Paul Gilroy includes a chastening quote from Edouard
Glissant. “It is nothing new to declare for us music, gesture,
dance are forms of communication, just as important as the gift
of speech. This is how we first managed to emerge from the
plantation: aesthetic form in our cultures must be shaped from
these oral structures.”64 Glissant’s comment exposes the racial-
ized hazards of disciplinary innovation. Here, a new intellectual
experiment turns out to be an African diasporic tradition. What
Edouard Glissant said of the “discovery” of performance culture
might well have been addressed to a larger performance studies
discourse that claimed to have a “new paradigm.” Indeed, per-
formance’s fundamental relation to social life is a theme, not only
in the realm of black folklore, but also in the explicitly philosoph-
ical texts of a black intellectual tradition. Performance studies is,
from this angle, “nothing new” to those who already had read
W.E.B. Du Bois and Alain Locke.
Similar kinds of reinvented traditions appear in the work of
more recent cultural theorists, however. Lest I reproduce the ap-
proach that I plotted in the introduction to this chapter – one
where new cultural theorists such as Hall and Gilroy are invoked
to define the study of drama and theatre as “old” – let me also
consider how a longer genealogy of drama and theatre schol-
arship can resituate perceptions of newness in cultural studies.
Consider Paul Gilroy’s enthusiastic positioning of the analytic

potential of “black music” in tracking the movements of the
“Black Atlantic” and in understanding the nature of moder-
nity itself. To many performance scholars, Gilroy’s suggestion
that such a study would require an analytic other than an “all-
encompassing textuality” and a “need to make sense of musical
performances where identity is fleetingly experienced in the most
intensive ways” sounded quite amenable.65 Such language has
appeared in various attempts to articulate performance’s excep-
tionalism. Perhaps less familiar, however, was Gilroy’s relentless,
many-paged need to position and re-position this recovery, one
that would retrieve “neglected modes of signifying practice like
mimesis, gesture, kinesis, and costume.”66 “At the risk of appear-
ing rather esoteric,” Gilroy wrote in 1993, “I want to suggest that
the history and practice of black music points to other possibili-
ties and generates other plausible models. This neglected history
is worth reconstructing, whether or not it supplies pointers to
other more general cultural processes.”67 While it is significant
that a scholar of Paul Gilroy’s stature recognized this need, for
whom are such practices “neglected” and by whom are their
analyses considered “esoteric?” A longer effort in American-
American theatre and performance scholarship – one located
in a related but apparently backgrounded disciplinary geneal-
ogy from that of Gilroy – had already made considerable head-
way in theorizing such forms. Gilroy’s anti-essentialist but nev-
ertheless adamant recognition of the “antimodernity of these
forms . . . the (dis)guise of a premodernity that is both actively
reimagined in the present” had been similarly framed in James
Hatch’s 1976 study of “neo-Africanisms.”68 When Gilroy’s po-
sitioning alighted upon “call and response” and “antiphony” as
the formal devices that structured diasporic feeling, he schemat-
ically invoked formal techniques that had received more specific
analysis in the work of Eleanor Traylor and Eileen Southern.69
And when Gilroy positioned such black performance as for-
mally and philosophically necessary to the invention of dom-
inant forms of (white) cultural production, he echoed similar
arguments made by Hatch, Traylor, Southern, Errol Hill, and
many more. Even Edith Isaacs’ conflicted 1947 study of The
Negro in the Theatre still noticed how “freely” white Americans
“borrow . . . from the Negro Theatre” to invent an “American”
theatre for themselves.70 Despite this scholarly tradition, “long

experience” and “lived and formed identities” in other disci-
plinary homes had given Gilroy a different picture of what was
esoteric and hence “new.” Gilroy’s cultural studies, however, is
“nothing new” (or, at least, not as new) to those who had already
spent a lifetime teaching African-American performance.
The persistence of these disciplinary blindspots, inertias, and
rediscovered “experiments” reflects back on drama’s continued
shaky relation to culture, an instability that appeared in Cul-
ture’s early formations as a gentlemanly moral form, continued
in its later formations as a rigorously studied new critical mode
of cultural capital, and now reappears in culture’s most recent
anthropological transformations in cultural studies. That this ill-
fit should continue within the socially-oriented, praxis-friendly,
materially contextualized project of cultural studies seems cu-
rious. It seems curious that such cultural revisions of a literary
studies project have not repositioned drama, a form whose lit-
erary status was circumspect due to its occasional vulgarity, its
embedded practicality, its extra-literary aesthetics, and its hyper-
contextual and relentlessly non-autonomous status as an episte-
mological object. Rather than lamenting this oversight, however,
it might be beneficial to use its persistence to reflect back on de-
bates about the status of “text,” “language,” and “the literary”
in cultural studies. If the relationship between literature and so-
ciety has turned into a cultural studies fascination between text
and social process, then the liminal life of drama in the academy
resituates and is resituated by such methodological questions.
When Meagan Morris asks would-be cultural theorists to move
beyond “a literary reading of the shopping mall that does not se-
riously engage with questions that arise in history, sociology, and
economics,” her argument alights on similar inertias that have
produced epistemological dilemmas around drama.71 Drama’s
hyper-contextuality needed “history”; its sociality invited “soci-
ology”; and its commercialism made it difficult to avoid issues of
“economics.” Indeed, methodological questions about the role of
“text-based” criticism in cultural studies rest upon concerns that
have plagued the study of drama within and without literary stud-
ies since the turn of the century, even before Francis Fergusson’s
literary wariness prompted him to contact those “students of
culture” in Cambridge anthropology.
The ambivalent status of drama might well be continuous

with what Dorothy Hale calls a lingering “social formalism” in
progressive literary and cultural studies. Hale investigates the
“slippery materialism that creates a bridge between Marxist lit-
erary theory and Anglo-American literary formalism.”72 Find-
ing this slipperiness next to contemporary scholarship in cul-
tural studies, she cites examples of literary scholars such as Eve
Kosofsky Sedgwick, Barbara Johnson, and Henry Louis Gates
who use novels as the basis for wider cultural theory. Hale main-
tains that such work is ultimately formalist, derived from tra-
ditional new critical literary paradigms and an undertheorized
belief in a tropic connection between literature and the social.
Thus, the lure of new criticism’s textual self-sufficiency lingers
despite a rhetoric that seeks to de-stabilize the status of literature
and to reach toward a progressive politics in gender, race, and
queer studies. “If the novel in Sedgwick criticism is no longer a
formalist world apart, it nonetheless retains much of the rep-
resentational autonomy it enjoyed under the old new critical
regime that Sedgwick has helped to supplant: the cultural critic
who has dedicated herself to deprivileging the novel on aesthetic
grounds finds herself reinstating the novel’s formal privilege on
the grounds of its social representativeness.”73 Intriguingly, Hale
along with Catherine Gallagher traces that slippage back to schol-
ars such as Raymond Williams, figures whose quest for materi-
alist analysis ultimately remained mystified about how material
production “dissolved” into the literary artefact.74
When such solid, material objects as shoes and potatoes are themselves
‘read’ as signifiers within complex signifying systems, the distinction
between material and symbolic products breaks down. The physical ob-
ject becomes a signifier, and the physical properties of conventionally
recognized signifiers (eg. the aural and visual qualities of spoken and
written words) are emphasized. Everything can then appear equally au-
tonomous and dependent, determined and determining, referential and
self-referential, symbolic and real.75
Writing from within the institutionalization of cultural studies,

Lawrence Grossberg agrees about the inertias built into certain
strains of literary-derived cultural studies scholarship. Despite
Williams’s assertions about the need to break down conceptual
divisions between “culture” and “society,” despite arguing that
“cultural studies had to reinsert culture into the practical every-

day life of people,” “Williams was never able actually to escape
this separation – both in his privileging of certain forms of culture
(literature) and in his desire to equate culture with some sort of
totality and/or ethical standard.”76 While Hale and Gallagher re-
main unconvinced by Williams and his descendents’ attempts to
foreground the materiality and embodiments of the literary text,
drama’s materialism and its bodies beckon for critical recogni-
tion. Nevertheless, drama’s decidedly embodied bodies (not to
mention its shoes and potatoes) constitute a blindspot in criti-
cal theory, inconveniencing both cultural studies principles and
social formalist analysis by incarnating and exceeding them at
once.
Finally, I think that this genealogy is chastening to those of
us who have an announced affiliation with performance studies.
As a varied intellectual and artistic movement galvanized by a
cultural studies milieu, performance studies bears no singular
or unfettered relationship to disciplinary traditions in literature,
culture, and drama. I do not mean to suggest that we unthink-
ingly embrace Raymond Williams as an intellectual predecessor
nor entirely accept all critiques of formalist or “literary” cultural
studies. Nevertheless, it seems important for performance stud-
ies scholars and affiliates to situate our subfields, our methods,
our textualist impulses, our mystified materialisms, and our most
cherished insights within a complicated institutional genealogy.
I consider one of the major efforts of performance studies to be
something akin to the analysis of structures of feeling in aesthetic,
collective, and everyday spaces – moments when convention and
emotion, technique and force, a gestural movement and a so-
cial movement, collide with, rework, undo, and advance each
other. Many of us imagine this project to be independent of the
project of modern drama. It can be useful and humbling to rec-
ognize a different genealogy, albeit a discontinuous one, amongst
categories such as drama, literature, culture, and performance.
Before comprehensively endorsing the connection between the
disciplines of performance studies and cultural studies, it is
important to step back from this equation – historically, in-
stitutionally, curricularly, and methodologically. An awareness
of a longer, complicated disciplinary genealogy makes opposi-
tions between old literary studies and new cultural studies and
between old theatre studies and new performance studies less

easy to maintain or to elide. Thinking genealogically about lit-
erature’s relationship to theatre before cultural studies, about
Williams’s theatrical relationship to literature, about cultural
studies’ reproduction of supposedly supplanted literary meth-
ods, and about the different types of methodological traditions
perpetuated and refracted in performance and cultural studies
reveals more unexpected discontinuities and disavowed connec-
tions. These various disciplinary beginnings have not always pro-
duced analytically helpful endings, but perhaps their future has
yet to be imagined.
4 Practice and performance: modernist
paradoxes and literalist legacies
“Getting a show up is so gross. What feels like boredom is really

panic. Everyone is exhausted, nauseous, perfectly happy.”
Deb Margolin1
“Artists of the world, drop out! You have nothing to lose but
your professions.” Allan Kaprow2
Practice versus theory

This chapter takes the issue of practice as a central organizing
concept. I begin with an epigraph from performance artist Deb
Margolin in order to remind myself and my reader that the gross,
boring, panicky, and exhausting process of “getting a show up”
is often what people mean when they refer – generously or dis-
paragingly – to the practical nature of performance. For some,
this grossness is redemptive in its cumbersomeness. For others,
it is . . . just gross. Accounts of production often use a literal
language. While for some theorists and scholars, this literal mode
is philosophically uninteresting, for other performance practi-
tioners and artists, the invocation of the literal is a celebration of
the concrete. Terms such as practice and the practical can also
be aligned with the professional, something valued in certain
contexts and repudiated – including in the declarations of Allan
Kaprow. When considering the assumptions behind these and
other practices, I try to remember that, following Deb Margolin,
various debates about different ways of seeing, doing, and inter-
preting performance, practice, or anything else are often about
a kind of “happiness,” attempts by various persons to argue for
the value of what they are good at doing and to see legitimated
109
that which obsesses them, i.e. that which makes them nauseous
and perfectly happy.
To launch my discussion of the linguistic dilemmas that fet-
ter conversations amongst scholars and artists, theorists and
practitioners, let me recall a notorious interview with Elizabeth
LeCompte. LeCompte, as most students of theatre and per-
formance know, is the central director of the Wooster Group,
a New York-based performance troupe whose work has be-
come synonymous with an American post-modern avant-garde.
In productions from Sakonnet Point through Nayatt School,
Route 1 and 9, Brace-Up!, and To you, the Birdie, LeCompte’s
theatre is renowned for its parodic re-using, dismantling, and re-
combining of classic texts, traditions, and other “found” perfor-
mance idioms. By inheriting the directorship of what started as
the Performing Garage, she is also the inheritor and re-worker of
an avant-garde legacy that began in the 1960s, a post-War period
of cross-disciplinary innovation whose history includes figures
such as John Cage, Merce Cunningham, Richard Schechner,
Allan Kaprow, Yvonne Rainer, Robert Morris, Michael Kirby,
and Carolee Schneeman. This period has been retroactively the-
orized as the beginnings of a transformation from modernism
to post-modernism. This period of New York experimentation
has also been retroactively posited as the disciplinary origin of
East Coast performance studies. Hence, intellectual genealogies
of the 1960s and 1970s will be the subject of this chapter.
Given LeCompte’s aesthetic and her historical position, Nick
Kaye, a scholar of “postmodernism and performance,” was in
an ideal position to interview her about Brace-Up!, a production
that integrated elements of Noh Theatre with elements of Anton
Chekhov’s Three Sisters. When asked to expound upon the signif-
icance of combining Noh with Russian naturalism, LeCompte
was reluctant to respond with felicitous sentences about East-
ern and Western encounters, parodies, and challenges to con-
vention. “I didn’t read too much about what Noh was or what
it’s supposed to be,” she says, “. . . I think I was probably
drawn to that structure, that physical architectonic structure.
How they moved, how they dealt with entrances and exits.”
Despite LeCompte’s response, Kaye proceeds with his line of
questioning, one that would seem quite logical to any theorist
of post-modernism who was trying to analyze a post-modern
Practice and performance 111
performance. “Performances seem to comment on previous pro-

ductions,” he says, “images are re-used, rehearsal procedures are
remember or re-presented. Were you interested in Noh’s concern
with its own history?” She responds, “I don’t have any academic
interest in Japanese theatre.” Kaye tries again: “I’m just inter-
ested in what these appropriations might have to offer . . . what
the juxtaposition might be doing.” LeCompte responds, dead-
pan: “I thought we were getting to that when I said ‘entrances
and exits.’”3
Le Compte and Kaye’s respective locations in this conversa-
tion are over-determined. The effort to make an artist’s process
available for reflection in fact produces division; the format of the
interview reproduces the divisions of labor between scholar and
practitioner. Where Kaye sees self-reflexive “re-use” and parodic
“appropriation” of familiar elements, LeCompte characterizes
her work simply as “allow[ing] them to be in the space together,
without this demand for meaning.” “Do you mean that I am de-
manding meaning of you?” asks Kaye, sounding like a startled
therapist, “it may be that we don’t have a language to talk with.”
LeCompte agrees: “I think it’s probably very instructive . . . to
be honest, just my inability to grapple with whatever it is you’re
telling me. It has something to do with why the work is like it is.”4
This kind of conversational stall is ubiquitous. Those who have
participated in comparable interviews, in post-show discussions,
and in panel presentations endure these moments, conversational
misfires where the ever-sought hope for artist-scholar exchange
is ever-deferred. Whether intended or not, Kaye found him-
self installed in the position of He-Who-Is-Preoccupied-With-
Meaning. As such, he faced a moment when his interpretation
was rejected, not necessarily because it was wrong, but because
meaning was declared irrelevant to She-Who-Is-Preoccupied-
With-Making. It is “in the piece itself,” said LeCompte, “I’m
not going to now make meaning separately from that piece for
you.”
In my department life and that of many of my colleagues in
theatre and performance studies, the non-practice/practice di-
chotomy emerges most often to distinguish those who do not par-
ticipate in the gross work of “getting a show up” from those who
do, those who make meaning of a theatrical figure from those who
worry about how she will exit the stage. The old, obfuscating,
unhelpfully ubiquitous opposition between production and re-

search typically defines how one’s speech is heard and whether it
will be deemed “practical” or “academic.” Typically, that asso-
ciation in turn decides whether one will foreground the literality
of performance or whether one will go through a variety of the-
oretical maneuvers to illustrate that performance is hardly literal
at all. As we have seen, this structure is familiar in the institu-
tional history of performance. However, with the advent of post-
modern thought, the exchange came to have a different character.
Many trained in “theory” would claim to know exactly how to
respond to the misguided paradigms of the maker. To foreground
performance practice without attention to its historical chain of
signification is to remain enmeshed in an old metaphysics of pres-
ence. To focus on “exits and entrances” without “reading too
much about Noh” is to disavow one’s location in an appropria-
tive series of citations. That kind of critique underwrote many of
the late-twentieth century arguments that appeared in the service
of pro-language, pro-discourse, pro-theory, pro-representation
positions that effectively cast a Derridean rain on the realm of
performance, making the literal, pro-presence, pro-itselfness lan-
guage of performance almost unhearable to anyone who listened
with deconstructionist ears. What seems so strange about the
stall in the LeCompte/Kaye interview is that, of all performance
experiments, Elizabeth LeCompte’s work seems so tailor-made
for deconstructionist eyes.
I think that there is a great deal that can be understood about
the particular conventions and slips of this exchange between
postmodern theorist and postmodern artist by going back a lit-
tle earlier. To consider the historical moment of the 1960s and
early 1970s is to recall the relationship between performance
and something called modernism. Though the kinship between
the artist and the intellectual was excavated and reconfigured
throughout the twentieth century, the question of their partner-
ship became more acute and paradoxical during this time. While
it varied from place to person, the nature of the relationship was
something to be discussed, contended with, and sometimes insti-
tutionalized. As Howard Singerman argues, this was one of the
legacies of abstract expressionism, the modernist movement in
art that lay behind the formation of residencies, art schools, and
the phenomenon of the “visiting artist” on college campuses.5
As Sally Banes has argued, colleges and universities also became

the site and implicit patron of much “avant-garde experimen-
tation” after the mid-twentieth century.6 In theatre, a number
of doctoral programs formed with the explicit intention of inte-
grating the scholar and the artist. And throughout the country,
the number of art graduate programs (doctoral and MFA) more
than doubled, making and sometimes forcing the world of the
arts and the world of the university to contend with each other.
When, by 1970, the MFA was declared the “terminal degree”
in the professionalization of both the visual and the performing
artist, the move also announced the functional role of the uni-
versity in constituting the artist as a professional. These shifts
were not received with either complete harmony or complete
avowal. Often the versus in “the artist versus intellectual” shi-
boleth was reasserted more vehemently as these figures entered
into institutional partnership. However, the decision of whether
or not “to go to graduate school” became exactly that at this
time, a self-conscious decision, a routinized choice amongst pos-
sible life paths. It is in such a context that the word “academic”
could come to have specific association for someone like Eliza-
beth LeCompte. Whether or not artists went to graduate school,
became “visitors,” or founded a performance studies depart-
ment, the university was something to be considered, claimed,
villainized, or repudiated by this and subsequent generations of
artists.
The stalls in the Kaye/LeCompte conversation can also be
traced to a number of other discontinuous genealogies in mod-
ernism and performance, legacies that remain somewhat con-
fused in current postmodern theories of performance. While her
theatre has become a synonym for postmodernity, Le Compte
is an avant-garde theatre practitioner who does not embrace the
discourse’s terms. For a theatre director who calls her pieces
“constructions,” attention to the deconstruction of meaning still
focuses too much on meaning, something that she opposes to
making. “The most important thing in all of this is that – when I
go downstairs I don’t have any thematic ideas – I don’t even have
a theme. I don’t have anything except literal objects – some flow-
ers, some images, some television sets, a chair, some costumes I
like.”7 A postmodern perspective would now trouble the assump-
tion of a “literal object” existing outside significatory operations.
And yet Le Compte places her literal object at the productive

center of postmodern performance. How can this be? By looking
at the critical and philosophical debates of the late 1960s and
early 1970s, I think that we can gain a better sense of why confu-
sion and misrecognition persist – and not only around the work
of the Wooster Group. This means addressing the disciplines
of visual art and art criticism whose self-definitions contended,
not only with the professional artist, but also with the nature
of the theatrical. This period is one in which the disciplines of
painting, sculpture, literature, dance, performance, and theatre
were working within and against each other, most often cross-
ing in the arena of art practice and most often individuating in
the arena of art scholarship. As a period of interdisciplinary artis-
tic experimentation, it produced episodes of critical euphoria but
also episodes of critical anxiety as the scholarly representatives of
various fields tried to come to terms with their own professional
training and this anti-professional experimentation – or, put an-
other way, to set the terms for valuing the kind of art that they
liked and the kind of criticism that they were good at doing. This
was also a moment when definitions of modernism were retroac-
tively theorized, especially in the field of art history and criticism.
Consequently, a variety of artists and intellectuals found them-
selves at odds, and, interestingly, terms such as “performance”
and “theatricality” were often deployed to celebrate or condemn
the transgression of disciplinary boundaries as well as to delineate
between modernist and anti-modernist imaginations. Indeed, at
this point, a fixation on the literal object was aligned with rather
than opposed to theatricality. This set the terms for a very differ-
ent kind of anti-theatrical prejudice, one that resisted the anti-
representational drives of performance a great deal more than its
classically representational ones. As such, an investigation of the
vexed relationship between art-making and art-theorizing at this
moment in time provides a set of tools for understanding the par-
allels and discontinuities between more recent critical theorizing
and more recent performance experiments. I will argue that the
legacy of such anti-anti-representational theories – bearing their
disavowed but always formative connection to modernist art and
theory – now supports literalist accusation, something particu-
larly apparent when post-modern critics and post-modern per-
formers find themselves in conversation.
A genealogical consciousness also includes the philosophical

context of the period, particularly the intellectual history of “de-
construction” whose modernist inclinations and post-modern
derivations have confused the critical status of performance. De-
construction was a “revival of rhetoric” that sidelined rather
than affirmed the phenomenon of oral performance on which
rhetoric had been defined. In violation of conventional align-
ments, I am going to argue that deconstruction’s treatment of
oral/performance supported rather than subverted modernist art
criticism’s suspicious treatment of the theatrical. In the next
sections, I excavate these intellectual legacies. I then consider
the experiments of a number of contemporaneous artists, those
whose work can be seen in a genealogy with Le Compte’s flow-
ers, chairs, entrances, and exits. Finally, I conclude by reflecting
on the blindspots, misrecognitions, and disavowals in this artistic
and intellectual ferment, suggesting that there is a professional
politics to attributions of literality and hence an opportunity to
defamiliarize the postmodern theorist’s modernist occupational
position.
Performance and presence

As I have already discussed, one of the difficulties of articulating
the significance of performance has to do with the multiple and
often contradictory associations attached to the term. Such is
the opportunity and hazard of performance’s “flexible essential-
ism.” The criticism of the “early late-twentieth century” exacer-
bated one particular pair of contradictory usages – the assumed
opposition between the figural and the literal, terms that para-
doxically are each as likely as the other to be attached to the
theatrical. Classically, of course, the theatrical is associated with
the figural. As a realm where images, actors, or pieces of dialogue
stand in for things, persons, or statements, the theatrical struc-
ture is a figurative structure and, in many cases, even serves as
an adjective for the condition of surrogation or allegorical signi-
fication that is meant by the notion of “figure” more generally.
Though there is nothing necessarily positive or negative about
being a space where one thing stands in for another, positive
or negative valuations are attached to this condition depending
upon the legitimating or de-legitimating context. Once again,
classically, this condition receives a negative valuation. To stand

in for something is to lie, to dissemble, to deceive. The debased
condition of artifice receives its most damning and insidious in-
carnation in the theatre, laying the basis for Western intellectual
history’s long-standing anti-theatrical prejudice. As familiar as
this association is, however, the opposite kind of attribution is
also possible, and became increasingly likely in the twentieth-
century context of arts and humanities criticism. Rather than
philology, rather than new criticism, “Theory” began to emerge
in the humanities as its own cross-disciplinary speciality. The
shape of its conversations had particular consequences for the
discursive place of performance and brought with it new kinds
of contradictions. Theatrical conditions of embodiment, pres-
ence, duration, materiality, and audience relation were used to
critique regressive metaphysics, pragmatics, vocational training,
and to critique movements that destroyed good art. At the same
time, and as I will show, particular kinds of literalizing moves
in philosophy and art used a performance-based vocabulary in
order to criticize them. Hence, while most of Western intellec-
tual history used performance’s figurality as the basis for its anti-
theatrical prejudice, late-twentieth-century theory’s valorization
of the figural posited performance’s literality as the basis for its
anti-theatrical prejudice. The terms of de-legitimation changed
but the de-legitimated object remained the same.
To defend this generalized intellectual history, I want to con-
sider selected works of four major scholars of the period: Clement
Greenberg, Michael Fried, Jacques Derrida, and Paul de Man.
These individuals proceed from disciplinary homes that directly
and indirectly affect the theorization of theatrical performance,
despite the fact that the first two seem to have reality princi-
ples that differ enormously from the second two. Greenberg and
Fried were major figures in the early late-twentieth century con-
text of art criticism; Derrida and de Man are two of the most
significant figures in the early development of “theory,” the par-
ticular mixture of literary, rhetorical, and philosophical studies
whose deconstructions would inspire and irk humanities depart-
ments for decades to follow. Fried and Derrida both wrote trea-
tises in 1967 that would be ubiquitously translated and repub-
lished and that – however debated and revised – would alter the
critical context for understanding artistic and linguistic signifi-

cation. Fried’s essay “Art and Objecthood” and Derrida’s De
la Grammatologie both would have an impact on how perfor-
mance was studied or whether it was studied at all. Along the
way, the works of Clement Greenberg and Paul de Man antici-
pated and reinforced a similar critical genealogy. To see these art
and philosophy figures in partnership rather than in counterpoint
is somewhat unorthodox. However, they share an epistemic im-
pact on the study of performance, at the very least structuring
the kind of from-the-hip responses that performance academics
could expect to hear about their chosen specialization in cross-
disciplinary conversations. Investigating this genealogy helps us
to unsettle attributions of the literal even as it also helps us to un-
derstand why cross-disciplinary conversations on performance
continue to break down. Hopes for inter-disciplinary harmony
need to have a better account of intra-disciplinary history.
Perhaps most significant for the theorizing of performance –
indeed the theorizing of anything – were the discursive effects
of deconstruction. Indeed, the anti-paradigmatic paradigms of
deconstruction would circulate quite forcefully in several strains
of critical theory. Derrida’s critique of metaphysics begins with
the assertion that Western intellectual thought is governed by a
series of binaries that present themselves as given rather than
constructed. In 1967, he was particularly concerned with the
binary between “speech and writing” in which the former is as-
sumed to have ontological primacy. Citing Rousseau’s Confessions
as a case study, Derrida used the concept of orality to charac-
terize a metaphysical search for a realm of pre-discursive being
and immediate, unmediated encounter.8 Barbara Johnson offers
a précis. “Derrida’s critique of Western metaphysics focuses on
the privileging of the spoken word over the written word. The
spoken word is given a higher value because the speaker and lis-
tener are both present to the utterance simultaneously. There is
no temporal or spatial distance between the speaker, speech, and
listener, since the speaker hears himself speak at the same mo-
ment the listener does. The immediacy seems to guarantee the
notion that in the spoken word we know what we mean . . .”9
Writing, by virtue of its distance between speaker and receiver, is
assumed to produce a less authentic kind of encounter. Derrida
argues against this kind of premise. He asserts that the assump-

tion of authenticity in a non-written exchange is produced by
the phenomenon of writing itself. Written representation pro-
duces the assumption of its opposite and, with it, a longing for
a mode of being outside of writing, one where representational
gaps between signifier and signified would be closed. As such,
“presence” always bears the trace of the differential representa-
tion it would seek to transcend.
A similar thought-structure propelled Derrida’s critique of
Antonin Artaud, another in a list of performance-based examples
that, along with orality, would be used as a foil in the development
of Theory. Derrida analyzed the irreconcilable hopes embedded
in Artaud’s articulations for the Theatre of Cruelty. Artaud’s
sense of cruelty’s power derived from its embodiment. Artaud’s
articulation asserted that the corporeality of performance pro-
duced a sense of determining necessity that, like the phenomenon
of oral speech, could somehow bypass all mechanisms of repre-
sentation. “Theatricality must traverse and restore ‘existence’
and ‘flesh’ in each of their aspects.”10 Derrida thus paraphrased
Artaud’s quest in language that foregrounded the latter’s meta-
physical yearnings. “The theater of cruelty is not representation. It
is life itself, in the extent to which life is unrepresentable. Life is
the nonrepresentable origin of a representation . . . Theatrical art
should be the primordial and privileged site of this destruction of
imitation.”11 Thus, Derrida read Artaud as advocating a theatre
that closed down representational systems between signifier and
signified into a state of primordial being. Rather than celebrating
the figural play between signifier and signified, Derrida’s Artaud
emphasized an essentialist and literalist theatrical ideal. Addi-
tionally, this aspect of Derrida’s critique also revolved around a
temporal conundrum. While Artaud gave the Theater of Cruelty
a “primal” and “implacable” characterization, he simultaneously
claimed that it had “not yet begun to exist.” Derrida noted the
paradox: “Now a necessary affirmation can be born only by be-
ing reborn to itself.” Somehow Artaud sought a mode of be-
ing that was originary despite its state of deferral. Throughout,
Derrida would focus on the avowed and often disavowed impli-
cations of this improbable temporality. The Theatre of Cruelty
would be “the closure of the classical representation, but also the
reconstitution of a closed space of original representation, the
archi-manifestation of force or of life.”12 Furthermore, Artaud

sought a theatre that was no longer governed by speech in the
discursive sense, seeking instead a metaphysical brand of speak-
ing. “Speech and its writing will be erased on the stage of cruelty
only in the text to which they were allegedly dictation: at once
citations or recitations and orders.”13 Artaud argued that conven-
tional theatrical speech was “dictated” by prior representational
forms and should ideally seek an outside to this circuit – return-
ing to a before that was before the prior, affirming the possibility
of finding, through representation, a speech that preceded rep-
resentation.
It is significant that Derrida chose to turn to a theatrical fig-
ure at this period in philosophy, reviving Antonin Artaud long
enough to unsettle the Artaudian quest for revivification. In fact,
the deployment of such partial and opportunistic resuscitations
structured many of the classic arguments of deconstruction. In
“Epistemology of Metaphor,” Paul de Man would revisit John
Locke’s Essay Concerning Human Understanding, in particular
the earlier philosopher’s desire to evacuate figurative language
from philosophical discourse. Locke speculated (and symptom-
ically attempted to suspend speculation) on the relationship be-
tween language and knowledge. According to de Man, Locke
was fascinated and troubled by the intimate connection, struck
by the idea that our awareness of the world depends “so much
by the intervention of words that they seemed scarce separa-
ble from our general knowledge.”14 This scarce separation led
Locke to worry whether words might “interpose” themselves be-
tween human and world and whether “their obscurity and dis-
order does not seldom cast a mist before our eyes and impose
upon our understandings.”15 De Man traced how Locke’s con-
cern amplified into a mistrust of figurative language and “the
art of rhetoric,” an art that, quoting Locke, ultimately is “for
nothing else but to insinuate wrong ideas, move passions, and
thereby mislead the judgement.”16 Locke thus participated in the
anti-rhetorical prejudice that associated figuration with decep-
tion. The equation in turn propelled a longing for its opposite –
that is, the possibility of truthful, literal, and “proper” speech.
De Man critiqued Locke’s articulated impulse to “speak of things
as they are,” particularly when Locke imagined language to be
a “conduit” that may “‘corrupt the foundations of knowledge
which are in things themselves’” and even worse “‘break or stop

the pipes whereby it is distributed to public use.’” Locke’s lit-
eralizing figures for the work of figuration were too much for
de Man. “This language, not of poetic ‘pipes and timbrels’ but
of a plumber’s handyman, raises, by its all too graphic concrete-
ness, questions of propriety.”17 The literalized imagination of the
“handyman” also structured Locke’s quest for “simple ideas,” a
place where he attempted to distinguish the cause of “motion”
and the cause of “light” from the idea of light and motion and
thereby to isolate these irreducible concepts. For de Man, how-
ever, there could never be such absolute simplicity: ultimately,
“the discourse of simple ideas is figural discourse or translation,
and as such, creates the fallacious illusion of definition.”18 As
the essay continued to track Locke’s revisions through Condillac
and Kant, de Man would continually find that “the distinction
between a priori and symbolic judgements can only be stated by
means of metaphors that are themselves symbolic.”19 Finally, de
Man’s Locke occupied a position that was similar in its impos-
sibility to that of Derrida’s Rousseau and to that of Derrida’s
Artaud. As Derrida’s critique of presence argued that the un-
mediated oral does not precede textuality but is an ever-deferred
epiphenomenon of textuality itself, so de Man’s critique of lit-
erality argued that simple and irreducible knowledge does not
precede figuration but is an imagined state produced by the work
of figurative language.
This kind of anti-anti-representational thought-structure is
now familiar to almost any critical theorist working in the twenty-
first century. Even in venues that do not explicitly call themselves
“deconstructionist,” many of us work with the assumption that
no thing, person, or experience could ever have the full irre-
ducibility of pure presence or the self-coincidence of a simple
idea. In our working world, life is never just life; motion is never
just motion; exits are never just exits. And – in a move that be-
speaks the class privilege of Theory – many of us are quick to roll
our eyes at all the other “handymen” who don’t get it.
Theatricality and literality

While in no way equivalent to deconstruction, art historian
Michael Fried can be seen participating in a brand of criticism
that incorporated and perpetuated similar critical effects. To

place his work next to deconstruction is to suggest more con-
tinuity between the post-modernism Derrida inaugurated and
the modernism that Fried defended. It is also to realize that Jean
Jacques Rousseau and Michael Fried have very different kinds of
anti-theatrical prejudices much as it may be expedient for the-
atre’s defenders to conflate them. In his classic essay, “Art and
Objecthood,” Fried distinguished a strain of Minimalist art –
what he called “literalist” art – from the Modernist artwork that
he most valued. Minimalism was itself a complicated aesthetic
category that included a number of disparate experiments; never-
theless, it was often associated with visual works that emphasized
the material, sculptural, and often environmental dimensions of
the art object and its receiving context. Modifying and carry-
ing forward aesthetic paradigms and dispositions developed by
Clement Greenberg, Fried focused particularly on the articula-
tions of Donald Judd, Robert Morris, and Tony Smith. Many of
Fried’s sentences were packed with quotations from these sources
in an amalgamated and only sporadically footnoted series of cita-
tions. He cited Donald Judd’s celebration of artwork that had “a
definite whole and maybe no parts,” and noted how Judd criti-
cized artwork that confined itself to the “rectangle” of a painting
and to the “limit(ed) arrangements possible within it.”20 Saying
that “painting is here seen as an art on the verge of exhaustion,”
Fried characterized as literalist Judd’s notion that “actual space
is intrinsically more powerful and specific than paint on the flat
surface.” Such a statement set off a number of warning signals
for Fried. It set up a dichotomy between wholeness and “part-
edness” that was neither philosophically nor aesthetically sound.
It also assumed that a work could and ideally should approach
the condition of “actuality” and that, moreover, an “intrinsically
more powerful” condition came about by extending beyond the
medium of painting. Fried’s critique of the desire for actuality
resonated with Derrida’s critique of an Artaudian quest for “life
itself ”; in their view, both desires naively assumed the possibility
and desirability of transcending painterly (and writerly) repre-
sentation. The effort was to bypass the work’s status as Art in
favor of its status as an Object. On the one hand, Fried preferred
the “modernist painting [that] has come to find it imperative that
it defeat its own objecthood . . . that it must be pictorial, not,
or not merely, literal.” So-called literalist art, on the other hand,

“aspires not to defeat or suspend its own objecthood, but on the
contrary to discover and project objecthood as such.”21 Fried’s
preferences for pictoriality built upon those articulated by his
sometime mentor, Clement Greenberg. In an essay that elabo-
rated on the “logical contradictions” of what he labeled “home-
less representation,”22 Greenberg critiqued a parallel tendency:
“the literal three dimensionality of piled-on paint . . . [that] could
be called ‘furtive bas-relief.’”23 These paintings “rely on the non-
painterly use of line, and at the same time on monochromatic
effects that do not need the coherence achieved through tangi-
ble representation, because they have the coherence that belongs
automatically to literally three-dimensional space.”24 For both
Greenberg and Fried, the emphasis on the material of the art
object was an inartistic way of creating impact. Their literalist
label derived from their sense that such artists were cheating
by tapping the “coherence that belongs automatically” to three
dimensionality rather than achieving a coherence that emerges
aesthetically in pictoriality.
Interestingly and famously, Fried went on to characterize this
preoccupation with objecthood as “theatrical.” Without accept-
ing his attributions of literality, or accepting the equivalence be-
tween literalism and theatricality, it is intriguing to try to under-
stand what the associations are and why they were made. For
a start, such work actively integrated the audience. “Literalist
sensibility is theatrical because, to begin with, it is concerned
with the actual circumstances in which the beholder encounters
literalist work.”25 Fried quoted Robert Morris’s statements that
“The better new work takes relationships out of the work and
makes them a function of space, light, and the viewer’s field of
vision . . . It is in some way more reflexive because one’s awareness
of oneself existing in the same space as the work is stronger than
in previous work.”26 To Fried, however, such a goal was unaes-
thetically cumbersome, and sometimes, quite inconvenient. He
wrote, “Things that are literal works of art must somehow con-
front the beholder – they must, one might almost say, be placed
not just in his space but in his way.”27 Fried was particularly
unnerved by the way that the art object and its receiving context
blurred, so that “the entire situation” was integrated into the
event. It was this condition that, Fried noted, “modernism finds
intolerable.” “Everything counts – not as part of the object, but

as part of the situation in which its objecthood is established on
which that objecthood at least partly depends . . . including, it
seems, the beholder’s body.”28 Fried’s impulse to call this kind
of saturation between art and the receptive situation “theatrical”
thus came from a recognition of the hypercontextuality of the-
atre, a radical sense of situation that included embodiment and
that, in his view, contributed to its compromised status as art.29
In addition to the intolerable incorporation of the audience,
Fried’s impulse to align theatricality with literalist art derived also
from the way that both seemed to break down divisions amongst
the arts – what, in a more generous context, would be called
their “interdisciplinarity.” Here, theatre’s status as an integrated
and reputedly democratic artistic mixture would be repudiated
as “the negation” of art.
Theater is the common denominator that binds together a large and

seemingly disparate variety of activities, and that distinguishes those
activities from the radically different enterprises of the modernist
arts . . . the real distinctions – between music and theater . . . and between
painting and theater . . . are displaced by the illusion that the barriers
between the arts in the process of crumbling . . . and the arts themselves
are at last sliding towards some kind of final, implosive, highly desirable
synthesis.30
For Fried, Greenberg, and other modernist art critics, the pur-
suit of aesthetic singularity was a condition of modernism itself.
“Each art,” wrote Greenberg, “had to determine, through the
operations peculiar to itself, the effects peculiar and exclusive to
itself.” In order to achieve modernist self-consciousness, there-
fore, modernist art should seek the essence of individual art forms
and “eliminate from the effects of each art any and every effect
that might conceivably be borrowed from or be the medium of
any other art.”31 Hence, to blur distinctions amongst the arts
was to be anti-modernist. Additionally, disciplinary singularity
helped to maintain, in Greenberg and Fried’s view, evaluative
standards. “Concepts of quality and value . . . are meaningful,
or wholly meaningful, only within the individual arts. What lies
between is theater.”32 The condition of theater was itself an in-
dex of anti-disciplinarity – a stand-in and label for a kind of
mixture that certain proponents of other arts resolutely stood
against. The university context of the period – one propelled

by a boom economy that supported field specialization and the
infrastructural autonomy of fields and departments – provided
institutional support for the concept of disciplinary singularity.
While the course of art experimentation would become increas-
ingly interdisciplinary (and anticipate the university’s interdisci-
plinary calls in leaner economic times), modernist art criticism’s
language of specialization dovetailed with higher education’s in-
stitutional practices of the period.
The connections amongst modernist art criticism, decon-
struction, and the status of theatre and performance are most
clearly seen in comparing discourses of objecthood and pres-
ence. Throughout the statements of contemporaneous Minimal-
ist artists, there was a focus on the material of the signifier and,
with it, the collapse of the signified into the signifier. Robert
Morris was quoted out of context as saying that the “multipart,
inflected” art should be surpassed by “wholeness, singleness, and
indivisibility; as much as possible, a work should be ‘one thing,
a single ‘Specific Object.’”33 Donald Judd further elaborated on
the quest for an unelaborated art. “Materials vary greatly and are
simply materials – formica, aluminum, cold-rolled steel, plexi-
glass, red and common brass, and so forth. They are specific.
If they are used directly, they are more specific . . . There is an
objectivity to the obdurate identity of a material.”34 In Fried’s
reading, Morris and Judd’s emphasis neutralized any sense of
aesthetic composition internal to the work of art, ultimately giv-
ing the art critic very little to say about it. Fried aligned such
a state of objecthood with “the condition of non-art,” suggest-
ing that for such experimenters “it is as though objecthood alone
can, in the present circumstances, secure something’s identity.”35
Like Derrida’s suspicions of “necessary affirmation,” Fried ob-
jected to the notion that such a representational collapse was
a condition of authenticity. Like de Man’s suspicion of the pu-
rity of “simple ideas,” Fried objected to Morris’s invocation of
“simple forms” and to Judd’s assertion that materials could be
“simply materials.” Said Fried, “the materials do not represent,
signify, or allude to anything; they are what they are and nothing
more . . . The ‘obdurate identity’ of a specific material, like the
wholeness of the shape is simply stated or given or established at
the very outset, if not before the outset.”36 Akin to the Artaudian
desire for the “destruction of imitation,” such artists proceeded

on a course that was conceptually misguided. Furthermore, such
experiments faced a similar kind of improbable temporality,
attempting to land upon a mode of being that derived from
“before the outset” of representation. Once again, the “end of
representation” was also paradoxically conceived as “original
representation.” Finally, Derrida, de Man, Greenberg, and Fried
(and the schools of deconstruction and modernist art criticism
with which they were allied) were suspicious of language that
included “wholeness” or “indivisibility.” While each advanced
different reality principles, these critics shared a legitimating lan-
guage that valued multi-partedness, division, and difference – at
least in certain forms.
Such critiques perhaps sound familiar to contemporary crit-
ics. These thinkers objected to almost all of the assumptions to
which a critical theorist would object now, a context where the
impulse to essentialize experience and to assume indivisible iden-
tities is neither philosophically nor politically savvy. The reaction
to Locke’s misguided elaboration of “simple ideas” parallels the
reaction many might have to Minimalism’s elaboration of “spe-
cific objects.” By extension, Derrida’s anti-appeals to presence
and Fried’s discomfort with art materials that “are what they
are and nothing more” parallels Kaye’s startled reaction to Le
Compte’s literal language. For feminists, this suspicion is further
compounded. Reading of Tony Smith’s supposedly transforma-
tive late-night drive along a “New Jersey turnpike” – where he
revels in the “reality” of an unframed environment “punctuated
by stacks, towers, fumes, and colored lights” and finds himself
drawn to similar “abandoned environments” such as “airstrips”
and “drillgrounds” – brings to mind the trademark conventions
of a decidedly masculinist quest for untrammeled authenticity.
When he says, “you just have to experience it,” many feminists
might respond with Fried’s incredulous paraphrasing. “‘You just
have to experience it’ – as it happens as it merely is. There is no
suggestion that this is problematic in any way.”37
To review the intellectual history of this epistemic moment is
not to defend the Minimalist artists or Antonin Artaud against
literality per se. Rather it is to examine the discursive conditions
and, more importantly, the discursive effects of coining and ap-
plying terms such as “literal.” The extra move and extra effect
of these thinkers was to associate such a naı̈ve, unsuspicious

consciousness with theatrical performance. Emphasizing one
side of theatre’s flexibly essentialist status, these works did not
link theatricality to the realm of pictoriality, multiplicity, and dis-
simulation but emphasized instead its other assumed qualities –
its condition of immediacy and temporal and spatial presentness.
Fried critiqued Minimalism’s brazen literality in much the same
way that Derrida invoked Artaud’s invitation to “implacable in-
tention and decision.”38 Unlike Artaud, Judd, Smith, and Morris
were not initially, nor primarily, artists of the theatre. However,
the coincidence of an anti-metaphysical critique of a theatrical
artist in terms that similarly critiqued the supposedly theatrical
impulses of other artists produced a critical theory that made
theatrical performance suspicious to modernist and modernist-
derived theoreticians. During this period of theoretical develop-
ment, the theatrical became literal at the same time that critical
theory legitimated the figural. When being representational had
been a bad thing in Western intellectual thought, it was theatri-
cal. When being representational became a good thing, it was
pictorial and textual – anything but theatrical. The critical effect
on performance has been to produce a kind of template of meta-
physical critique, one in which an appeal to performance can be
routinely inserted and thereby dismissed as an anti-theoretical
appeal to presence and to dunder-headed objecthood.
Speaking literally
It is important to acknowledge that this is an epistemic confla-
tion to which contemporaneous artists and performers also con-
tributed. If objecthood could “secure identity,” it is interesting
that “securing identity” was desirable for artists at this moment
in history and, moreover, that experimental performance offered
the medium of security. As Fried, Greenberg, Derrida, and de
Man questioned notions of authenticity and fended off literalist
appeals to presence, they were also directly and indirectly reckon-
ing with the socio-political context of what became retroactively
known as “the sixties.” Derrida’s 1967 De La Grammatologie pre-
ceded by one year the notorious student uprisings of 1968, events
whose discourse would appeal to a kind of unfettered quest for
presence in the effort to overthrow the highly fettered arena of
educational and state politics. While Derrida tried to remain

politicized despite his critique of the assumptions of activist dis-
course, Fried’s work remained positioned against the kind of
political sensibility that, in his view, eroded the quality and cat-
egory of art. Additionally, a particular theatrical performance
context preceded and coincided with deconstruction and with
Fried’s notorious essay. In 1968, Jerzy Grotowski’s Towards a Poor
Theatre appeared in English, and Joseph Chaiken’s title for his
1972 book – The Presence of the Actor – participated in the essen-
tializing of performance. The discursive and practical tendencies
that reinforced the assumed literalism of theatrical performance
characterized much of the artistic experimentation that would
call itself avant-garde in the 1960s. This is the era of assem-
blages, constructions, environments, and happenings, the time
that followed Black Mountain and the Reuben Gallery, the time
of the Living Theatre, of the San Francisco Actors Workshop, of
the Performing Garage, and most especially, of the Judson Dance
Theater. The innovations of the 1960s were about theatre people
deciding to turn the theatrical dilemma of art/process’s saturation
into a virtue and about artists in other forms using the theatrical
dilemma to reflect on the status of their own art.
Jerzy Grotowski is a key figure in what might be conceived as
the essentializing tendencies of early late-twentieth century ex-
perimental performance. To the extent that his methods have
been honored and circulated in many models of actor training,
the echo of his language resounds in many an actor’s descriptions
of their process and goal. The assumed equation between Artaud
and Grotowski sets the stage for a relation between the latter and
an unfettered quest for presence. While Grotowski would contest
this equation, the language he used to discuss the phenomenon of
the actor echoed the kind of determinist tones that Derrida heard
in Artaud. Consider Grotowski’s elaboration of the acting ideal
as a “total act.” While Grotowski critiqued Artaud for never actu-
alizing his writings, he felt that he was right about certain things.
Artaud understood, in Grotowski’s view, “the very crux of the
actor’s art: that what the actor achieves should be (let’s not be
afraid of the name) a total act, that he does whatever he does with
his entire being . . . The actor should not use his organism to illus-
trate a ‘movement of the soul,’ he should accomplish this move-
ment with this organism.”39 Grotowski thus seemed to endorse
Artaud’s attempt to “close representation” via the presence of

the actor, advocating a performance that lived rather than “illus-
trated,” that was itself rather than a stand-in for something other
than itself. His language would take on the quality that, depend-
ing upon one’s perspective, sounded inspirational or mystifying,
wise or ridiculous. “When this act accomplished through theatre
is total, then even if it doesn’t protect us from the dark powers,
at least it enables us to respond totally, that is, begin to exist.”40
Elsewhere, Grotowski described a viva negativa that, to some
ears, would sound like the assumption of inner essence. “Neither
that which touches the interior sphere, nor the profound strip-
ping bare of the self should be regarded as evil so long as in the
process of preparation or in the completed work they produce an
actor creation.”41 “It is the act of laying oneself bare, of tearing
off the mask of daily life, of exteriorizing oneself.”42 The actor
must “give himself, sanctify his real ‘incarnate’ self.”43 Further-
more, Grotowski’s quest for theatre in the literal sense sought
to transcend theatricality in the figural sense. “We abandoned
make-up, fake noses, pillow-stuffed bellies – everything that the
actor puts on in the dressing room before performance . . . the
mask prepared by a make-up artist is only a trick.”44
While the figure of Grotowski in the late 1960s easily con-
firmed Derrida’s links between theatre and naı̈ve metaphysics,
the artistic scene of New York’s Greenwich Village lay behind
Fried and Greenberg’s associations of the theatrical with the lit-
eral. Sally Banes sums up the social and intellectual ferment of
the period.
The country’s postwar mood of pragmatism was reflected in the various
arts, from the Happenings that made use of environments at hand to the
New Realism, or Pop Art depictions of figures and object and making
reference to industrial subjects and styles. The economy was expanding,
and the new Kennedy administration stressed youth, art, and culture.
There were few grants to individual dancers, but there was a spirit of
willing participation and an interest in using inexpensive materials; one
could live cheaply and make art cheaply. . . . The philosophical fascina-
tions with Zen Buddhism, existentialism, and phenomenology fit well
with certain aspects of American art in the late 1950s and early 1960s.
The concreteness of existence, the interest in the everyday actions people
practice, the questions of identity, both individual and collective, that
were topics of these philosophical systems – at least in their popular ver-
sions – were appropriate questions for modernist artists after the middle
of the twentieth century. The phenomenological exhortation “Zu den

Sachen!” (“To the Things!”) was echoed in the manifestoes of artists
in every field. Poetry, music, theater, and dance stressed performance
more than the literary aspect of their forms, aspiring to more immediacy,
more ‘presentness,’ more concrete experience.45
It is hard to imagine a more eloquent description of an artis-
tic milieu whose fundamental principles were more opposite to
the principles I have described in the work of Greenberg, Fried,
Derrida, and de Man. While “Things!” meant something dif-
ferent to each of these thinkers, their celebration was certainly
circumspect to art critics who reviled “piled-on paint” and the
“condition of objecthood” as well as to thinkers who critiqued
phenomenology’s metaphysical assumptions and for whom a
fixation on “pipes” and “conduits” was all-too “graphically
concrete.”
Words such as “concrete,” “thing,” “everyday,” “real,” and
“actual” would infuse the language used in these artistic circles –
circles that often experimented in the bodied realm of action, du-
ration, and movement. Furthermore, this context of experimen-
tation included figures such as Richard Schechner and Michael
Kirby (amongst many others) for whom such explorations would
prompt a shift in a theatrical paradigm toward the formation of
something called “performance studies” as a disciplinary iden-
tity. What Greenberg and Fried designated “literalist” was what
Michael Kirby called “non-matrixed,” a mode of presentation
which tried to resist the sense that the performer “is someone
other than himself or in some place other than the actual place of
performance.”46 Elaborating on the possibilities of non-matrixed
perfomance, Kirby listed the actions of a series of examples whose
distinctive characteristics were presumably their irreducibility
and self-coincidence. “The orchestra conductor walks on stage,
bows to the audience, raises his baton, and the curtain falls.”47
As one of the era’s most prolific chroniclers and categorizers of
“The New Theatre” (and one of the first self-labeled “perfor-
mance theorists”), Kirby’s example was also a citation of an his-
torical genealogy for such kinds of experimentation, specifically
recalling John Cage’s and Merce Cunningham’s explorations and
dismantlings of dance and musical presentation. From this ex-
cavation, Kirby developed a vocabulary to distinguish amongst
different types of reductive performance. One of his labels – the
“Event” – echoed Cage’s “Untitled Event” – the presentation at

Black Mountain College that would be posited retroactively as
the new beginning of avant-garde performance. Another label –
the “Happening” – cited Allan Kaprow’s “first” experiment in 18
Happenings in 6 Parts.48 Additionally, Kirby went farther back,
recognizing Surrealism and Dadaism as well as Jackson Pollock’s
“action painting” as key inspirations.
The Abstract Expressionist mentality which pervaded the New York art
world in the late 1950’s was one of the contributing factors in bringing
painters into the performing arts. The act of painting rather than the
completed composition had become the creative focus.49
While Greenberg and Fried would be quick to claim Jackson

Pollock as an exemplary modernist artist, they would be critical
of experimentation that took the notion of “action” quite this far.
As I will suggest, it is one of many ways that the “New Theatre”
can be seen, not so much as violating modernist attributes and
principles, but as augmenting and extending them in a way that
finally called their bluff.
Michael Kirby’s theories of matrixed and non-matrixed per-
forming are intriguing to place next to modernist art character-
izations of “literalist art”; they are similar kinds of recognition
derived from parallel critical universes. The fact that one would
celebrate and the other condemn the impulse toward “object-
hood” points up a key moment when a disciplinary genealogy in
art criticism and a disciplinary genealogy in performance stud-
ies diverged. The historic divergence still affects the attempt to
create “interdisciplinary” exchange between visual and perfor-
mance studies now. Non-matrixed performance emphasized the
performative – if not exactly theatrical – qualities of all levels
of activity, releasing the technical arenas of performance from
their backstage location in order to place the “entire situation”
on view.
If a circus were a work of art, it would be an excellent example of a

Happening. Except for the clowns (and perhaps the man with lions
who pretends that they are vicious), the performances are non-matrixed.
The acrobats, jugglers, and animal trainers are ‘merely’ carrying out
their activities. The grips or stagehands become performers, too, as they
dismantle and rig the equipment – demonstrating that non-matrixed
performing exists at all levels of difficulty.50
Kirby’s elaboration (“if a circus were a work of Art”) begged

the question, celebrating a crisis of category in the arts while at
the same time reinstantiating the art category itself. Neverthe-
less, his examples reflect the kind of pragmatic, task-based, and
manual mode of performance that served as a “stand-in” for the
literal. Unlike Fried’s use of the term, the “merely” above was
a virtuous adverb for such activities. Unlike de Man’s elabora-
tion, this was an art practice that reveled in the presumed actu-
ality of the handyman. Kirby detailed the non-matrixed literality
of Claes Oldenburg’s Washes which took place in a swimming
pool. “Four men dove into the pool and pushed sections of sil-
ver flue pipe back and forth along a red clothes line. There was
no practical purpose in showing and twisting the pipes, but it
was real activity . . . The men did not pretend to be anyone
other than themselves, nor did they pretend that the water they
were in was anything other than what it actually was.”51 The vo-
cabulary that Kirby and others developed to characterize such
forms – Situation, Environment, Activity, as well as Event and
Happening – tried to evoke linguistically the sense of absolute
reduction sought in such art works. Even the titles of such pieces
are significant in their attempts to avoid signification – Allan
Kaprow’s 18 Happenings in 6 Parts was followed by Emmett
William’s Ten Arrangements for Five Performers and Yvonne
Rainer’s Dance for 3 People and 6 Arms. Resuscitating John Locke’s
paradoxical maneuvers around “simple ideas,” such titles at-
tempted to isolate and to neutralize the limit point of representa-
tion. Such performances were about knowing that a broom was a
broom and that a flue pipe was a flue pipe. It was about exposing
rather than hiding the activity of making, placing backstage ele-
ments on view. It was about celebrating art that occurred only at
a specific moment, augmenting theatre’s “you had to be there”
temporality and using the language of “presence” to describe it.
As numerous commentators have noted, such performances
often reified a number of gendered, racist, and classed conven-
tions in order to stage absolute reduction. The attempt to lay
bare the essentials of performance often led toward a display of
the primal with familiar sexual and racial codings. The number
of “naked girls” who appear in the documentation and descrip-
tions of the happenings of Allan Kaprow, Al Hansen, Richard
Schechner, and others is somewhat overwhelming. Meanwhile,
the spectacle of mostly white participants performing all-too

familiar “rituals” of circling, drumming, and sacrificing testi-
fies to the primitivist fascinations that propelled the search for
the real. Such reifications did not go unnoticed at the time.
Dance critic Jill Johnston breathed a sigh of relief when Yvonne
Rainer’s work appeared in Greenwich Village, thankful to see
someone who was not doing a “fertility rite.” Meanwhile, as
Rebecca Schneider notes, Carolee Schneemann’s explicit body
art of the period can be read as a feminist literalization of these
masculine performances of the literal.52 And farther north in
Harlem, Robert MacBeth’s New Lafayette Theatre politicized
the African-American practice of ritual, whether or not any of the
Greenwich ritualists noticed at the time. NLT’s titles, including
the 1969 Ritual To Bind Together and Strengthen Black People So
That They Can Survive the Long Struggle That Is To Come, made no
effort to avoid signification even as the theatre experimented in
all of the happenings’ registers of space, time, and collectivity.53
The classed sensibility of avant-garde experimentation is perhaps
most complicated to critique, especially since it can exist at so
many registers. On the one hand, Allan Kaprow and others ex-
perimented in performance in order to resist capitalist commod-
ification. On the other hand, contemporaneous artists relied on
the boom economy of the period, and the happenings were even-
tually subject to capitalist incorporation. A similar paradox held
for the focus on the literality of the object. When participants
in Oldenburg’s Washes exchanged a flue pipe in the water, they
cited a classed symbol of pragmatic authenticity. At the same
time, this version of the pragmatic had “no practical purpose.”
Such gestures repeated Tony Smith’s cross-class fascination with
the towers and smoke stacks on the New Jersey turnpike, incor-
porating the symbols of the handyman’s literal without knowing
how to make them work and without enduring the environmen-
tal contaminations of such found “Environments.” All of these
examples expose the disavowed complexity in the space of the
“simple,” the gendered, raced, and classed work of figuration in
the presumably literal. It is because of this unacknowledged ap-
propriation that so many postmodern theorists remain suspicious
of the language of reduction, of presence, and of the self-evidently
literal. As such, postmodern theorists remain suspicious of a sig-
nificant genealogy in postmodern performance.
A professional challenge
While I myself am similarly dubious, I think that there is also
reason to be suspicious of that doubt, for postmodern theory’s
critiques can have their own conventionality. They also can have
their own blindspots, especially when we factor in both profes-
sional and philosophical stories of disavowal and misrecognition.
First, in re-assessing the legacies of modernist art criticism and
minimalist art practice, it is important to consider how much the
latter presented a professional challenge to the former. The ex-
perimentation of the 1960s questioned the division between the
arts as well as the category of Art as such. In so doing, it also un-
settled the epistemological categories on which the professional-
ism of the art critic stood. It challenged the kind of distinctions –
between aesthetic and the utilitarian, between product and
process, between the art and apparatus – that, since Panofsky,
were used by the artist and the critic to distinguish themselves
from other forms of labor and occupation. Furthermore, the es-
sentialist goals of reductive art confounded the historicist and
comparative practices of art criticism. The art critic’s status as ex-
pert derived from an ability to set a given work in relation to other
ones. Modernist art critics liked modernist art because it enabled
them to exercise such skills. The significance and formal inno-
vations of the works were not apparent “in the work themselves”
but “reside[d] outside it.” Thus, as Rosalind Krauss elaborated,
“access to [the past and the problem] can only be achieved by a
long chain of explanation that characteristically takes the form of
narrative.”54 Art that received the minimalist or literalist label,
on the other hand, was art that bristled against such “chains of
explanation,” for meaning was not to be located outside of the
piece itself. To argue for the in-itself-ness of the work was thus not
simply philosophically naı̈ve but counter to professionalist prac-
tice. As Howard Singerman argues, this move flew in the face
of the institutional practices consolidated in the phenomenon of
“graduate school.”
For graduate school depends on making visible, and making verbal, its
determinations; its maker must know and insist on its contingency and
its position, must always re-explain and paint over the top of the relation
between past and present. In the student critique or the visiting artist’s
lecture, the work is always presented in the narrative that Krauss notes.
In the slide carousel, no image can be given because every image is

framed and positioned by – is a position on – what is not there and on
what it is not: the slide next to it on the screen, before it or behind it
in the tray. Each work is linked to a past made narrative and presented
to the student as part of a discourse within which they must situate
themselves.55
Many of the interdisciplinary arts experiments of the 1960s

adopted a non-contingent language that flouted the conventions
of the art critic’s slide projector, the this-preceded-that, that-
reworked-this epistemology of art’s professional historicity. If
Krauss and Singerman are correct in assessing this fundamen-
tal element of university arts training and modernist arts criti-
cism, then it is a question whether “postmodernism” has changed
this occupational convention. Indeed, postmodern criticism may
have replaced a “chain of explanation” with a “chain of citations,”
but the practice of contextualization and imagistic juxtaposition
remains. Both modernist and postmodernist art criticisms are
thus similarly resistant to declarations of the “given”; moreover,
in both cases, that resistance has a professional, not simply philo-
sophical, undercurrent. To the extent that postmodern perfor-
mance theory has focused on intertextual, parodic, and appro-
priative re-workings, its paradigmatic analyses thus repeat rather
than reject the professional habits of modernist art criticism. This
partly explains why the thought-structures of Fried and Green-
berg often coincide with those of Derrida and de Man, showing
more continuity between the modern and the postmodern inau-
gurated with deconstruction. It also explains why the statements
of postmodern theorists often do not coincide with those of post-
modern performance artists, exposing less continuity between the
professional practices of each.
This occupational undercurrent further complicates the class
analysis brought to bear on the critical legacies of the 1960s.
The theoretical elaborations and repudiations of particular art
works were, amongst many other things, a struggle over author-
ity and the solidification of expertise. As such, they were also
an admittedly localized instance of class struggle about the pro-
fessional standing of the intellectual and the professional stand-
ing of the artist.56 In the “Education of the Un-Artist,” Kaprow
declared that “critics would be as irrelevant as the artists,” an
unsettling, if improbable, prognosis indeed.57 Lest I give the
impression that minimalist “un-artists” and performers did not

have professional aspirations, consider also the paradoxes of their
articulations. Allan Kaprow was also professor of art history at
Rutgers University. Kaprow was one of many persons in higher
education who institutionalized avant-garde art practice, despite
the avant-garde’s own anti-institutional rhetoric. Kaprow’s state-
ments can be read as attempts to reconcile his presence inside
university art departments, where professional art critics such
as Michael Fried also had to reconcile with him. Like so many
radical articulations of the period (and in anticipation of the
“liminal norm” that Jon McKenzie identifies in performance
studies), Kaprow’s language of resistance coexisted surprisingly
easily next to the language of incorporation.58 This position il-
lustrates an artistic version of the “new class” paradox identified
by Alvin Gouldner and Andrew Ross where individuals coun-
tered the conventions of expertise while still claiming to be “in
the know” themselves.59 In the somewhat contradictory essay
where Kaprow told artists to “drop out” and predicted their ir-
relevance, he actually anticipated a new occupational division of
labor for artists and critics. “But some critics may be willing to
un-art themselves along with their artist colleagues . . . Practi-
tioners and commentators – the two occupations will probably
merge, one person performing inter-changeably – will need an
updated language to refer to what is going on.”60 Kaprow thus
advocated not the absence of commentary but a different kind of
commentary – one that would come from the artist’s mouth. In
fact, in an earlier 1964 essay, Kaprow had already heralded the
new artist as a “man of the world” who would take up this occu-
pational position. “Traditionally such responsibility has belonged
to critics . . . today’s artists are sharing this job . . . Such artists
no longer merely represent authority-as-creator; they are going to
be urged more and more to become creator-as-authority.”61 The
presence of the artist alongside, and sometimes inside, the art-
work was thus both a conceptual choice and a professional chal-
lenge, one that reversed the conventions of critical authority. In
1973, Lucy Lippard would identify the “traveling artist” as a new
phenomenon in which artists accompanied their work and stim-
ulated interest in it.62 In 1977, the phenomenon would receive
theoretical elaboration in Rosalind Krauss’s concept of the in-
dex, characterizing the apparent excess of the artist’s objects and
experiences as referential rather than actual, as doubled rather

than pure and singular.63 Krauss chose to give a figural and alle-
gorical reading to something that Michael Fried might have con-
sidered literal. Despite Krauss’ postmodern recuperation, there
is still an occupational subtext to this artistic reorientation, one to
which Michael Fried’s “Art and Objecthood” was implicitly ob-
jecting. Most of his examples criticized the words and “commen-
taries” that literal artists used to describe their efforts rather than
the works themselves. As such, Fried can be seen critiquing not
only the content of their declarations but also the artists’ assump-
tion of the position of “creator-as-authority” in the first place. It
was not only the art that “confronted” the critic; from a profes-
sional standpoint, the artist was also in the critic’s space . . . and
very much in his way. These artists took on the “entire situation,”
one that included, not only the viewing environment, but also the
entire vocational context of art’s enactment.
This kind of recognition in turn supports another set of ques-
tions, specifically about what it means to characterize something
as literal. Is it that the artwork is literal? Or is it that an artist’s
ways of talking about it sound literal? Furthermore, does the de-
ployment of literality testify to a literalist imagination? Can the
technique of literality be distinguished from its effects? I ask these
questions because the attribution of literalism creates a good deal
of misrecognition between artists and scholars – as well as be-
tween earlier and “postmodern” generations of theatre and per-
formance studies scholars. For one thing, the literalist dismissal
bypasses the formal innovations and formal challenges that were
at the heart of minimalist, “theatrical” experiments of the 1960s
and 1970s. What is the effect of a literalist piece such as Activity
performer George Brecht’s Recipe? The piece consisted entirely
of a list of “ingredients” . . . “cloth, paper, match, string, knife,
glass, egg” – that gradually began to include activities – “Level
cloth. Place paper on cloth. Light match. Extinguish. Mark pa-
per with burning match. . . .”64 Nouns and verbs were thus posi-
tioned on the same register, using the objecthood of the former
to objectify the execution of the latter. The concept of “ingredi-
ents” foregrounded the material stuff of the art, a list that might
include “ink,” “canvas,” or “steel” in the museum didactic of
another artwork. At the same time, the linguistic representation
of the ingredients doubled the presumably literal.
Ambiguous about whether the art lay in the “recipe” or in

its execution, the word “cloth” could be a figural stand-in for
the cloth or the reverse, the cloth a figure for the literal term.
The objectified verbs also formalized – and revealed the formal
consciousness in – the Activity of making an art object. The pro-
cesses of leveling and marking (and occasionally burning) de-
scribed the practice of making many kinds of art, even those that
Greenberg and Fried would not have called literalist. Indeed,
the daily reality of art-making is all about such verbs, activities
that, depending upon the medium, involved stirring, stretching,
dipping, pushing, and gliding brushes, bodies, paper, and cloth.
The challenge of works such as Brecht’s was that such activities
were not located outside the artistic frame, a relocation of artis-
tic production that unsettled the boundaries of the artistic frame
itself, exposing the dependence of the frame upon the obscuring
of art-making’s verbs. These hypercontextual experiments gave
rise to a literalized language that would permeate the experi-
mental spaces of the performance avant-garde, even when they
described complex formal and representational experiments in
time and space. Whether categorized as Activity, Event, or Hap-
pening, the characteristic consciousness of this New Theatre
lay in revealing the “itselfness” of objects and persons. How-
ever, the effect of that revelation was not necessarily literal, since
fundamental assumptions about the art object were challenged.
Certainly such experiments are inaccurately conceived as anti-
formalist, since formal questions drive them. It was perhaps not
so much that the artwork was literal as that its critical effects
were “intolerable.” They were thus not so much anti-modernist
as ultra-modernist, extending rather than rejecting modernism’s
formal preoccupations.
That formal consciousness remains in play in postmodern per-
formance now. The effort to unsettle conventional assumptions
of where the art object began and ended now makes the phe-
nomenon of the “entrance” and the “exit” worthy of considerable
attention. Similarly, a context that focused on the concreteness
of a pipe, a match, and an egg would inspire related practices,
making the fact of a TV, a flower, or a chair artistically genera-
tive for someone like Elizabeth Le Compte. If such experiments
do not immediately enable a “chain of explanations” (or self-
consciously speak their “chains of citations”), then it is worth
considering the epistemological effects of that reluctance. That

reluctance speaks to the formal pragmatisms that are at the heart
of art-making, where a focus on meaning does not immediately
enable the creation of artistic structure (or un-structure). Some-
thing about the trajectory of postmodern theory keeps it from
tracking this formal innovation, positioning it philosophically, oc-
cupationally, and conversationally as literality instead. Consider
again the thought-structures of deconstruction that, for the pur-
poses of this chapter, sit in a genealogical relation with those of
postmodernism. Before his disquisition on John Locke, Paul de
Man had already framed the function of deconstructive reading
around the uncertain relation between the literal and the figural.
In Allegories of Reading, de Man famously offered a discussion of
this differential relation through the example of Archie Bunker
in conversation with his wife, Edith, characters on the television
sit-com All in the Family.
Asked by his wife whether he wants to have his bowling shoes laced over
or laced under, Archie Bunker answers with a question: “What’s the
difference?” Being a reader of sublime simplicity, his wife replies by pa-
tiently explaining the difference between lacing over and lacing under,
whatever this may be, but it provokes only ire. “What’s the difference?”
did not ask for difference . . . The same grammatical pattern engen-
ders two meanings that are mutually exclusive: the literal meaning asks
for the concept (difference) whose existence is denied by the figurative
meaning. . . . Archie Bunker . . . muddles along in a world where lit-
eral and figurative meanings get in each other’s way, though not without
discomforts.65
I imagine this scenario as analogous to the artist-scholar

encounters that I have described throughout this chapter. A
philosopher or critic might ask a question about signification, ef-
fectively a “what’s the difference” kind of question such as: What
is the significance of Noh? Of the flue pipe? Of the shoe laces? In
place of a desired answer, the critic receives a literalized response
that mocks the assumption of difference in the first place: well,
you pull the laces under the holes or you pull them over the holes.
This kind of stalled, seemingly inert non-dynamic characterizes
the experience of the modernist-derived art critic in confronta-
tion with art and artists. De Man’s version of this encounter does
not use the word “mock” to describe Edith Bunker’s gesture vis
à vis the Archie/critic figure; instead, he makes her as static as the

effects of her speech. Calling her a reader of “sublime simplic-
ity,” he equates her characterologically with the stall she creates
discursively. However, as Barbara Johnson has suggested, a more
radical and feminist relationship to deconstruction might require
the much harder task of “undertaking the effort of reinflection
or translation required to . . . listen with retrained ears to Edith
Bunker’s patient elaboration of an answer to the question.”66 One
kind of retraining might focus less on the seemingly tautological
content of Edith’s answer than on the “ire” that tautology pro-
vokes in Archie, akin possibly to the exasperation and dread that
certain statements provoked in Derrida and Fried, that certain
conversations provoke in me, Nick Kaye, and other performance
scholars. As Rebecca Schneider argues via Walter Benjamin, the
“insistence on literal translation contains a ‘direct threat to com-
prehensibility’” because it discomfortingly challenges neat divi-
sions between the literal and figural. What happens instead if
we let this literality stand and find something instructive in the
conversational stall that it creates? There might be a “threat to
comprehensibility” that actually can be made useful, forcing us
to reckon with the conventions by which art forms (e.g. painting),
movements (e.g. modernism), and occupations (e.g. the critical
theorist) are made comprehensible.
The assumption of Edith’s simplicity is akin, I think, to the
assumption of the handyman’s “all-too graphic concreteness,”
one that is paired here with a kind of feminized obliviousness.
Together they testify to a classed rhetoric as well as another kind
of gendered rhetoric that remained unexamined in deconstruc-
tion. The reifications in that thought-structure make practition-
ers in the arts of the graphic into humorous figures of theoretical
naiveté, a philosophical inertia that has its effect on the classed
encounter between the postmodern theorist and the postmod-
ern artist. While there is no question that “theorists” can be
associated with the effetely feminine, it also is the case that the-
oretical rigor can function to ward off the feminized simplic-
ity of pragmatic embodiment. Consider the words of another
postmodern performer, Trisha Brown, a figure who has inher-
ited and expanded upon the pragmatic formalism of a 1960s
avant-garde. “Pure movement is a movement that has no other
connotations,” she begins, adopting a term (“pure”) and a prin-

ciple (“no other connotations”) that counters the fundamental
tenets of a deconstructionist for whom purity is a fiction and
for whom the connotative trumps the denotative every time. She
continues.
Mechanical body actions like bending, straightening or rotating would

qualify as pure movement providing the context was neutral. I use pure
movements as a kind of breakdown of the body’s capabilities . . . I may
perform an everyday gesture so that the audience doesn’t know whether
I have stopped dancing or not . . . I turn phrases upside down, reverse
them or suggest an action and then not complete it, or else I overstate
it altogether. I make radical changes in a mundane way. I use weight,
balance, momentum and physical actions like falling, pushing, etc. I say
things to my company like, “Toss your knees over there,” or “Start the
phrase and then on the second count start it again,” or “Do it and get
off it.” . . . If I am beginning to sound like a bricklayer with a sense of
humor, you are beginning to understand my work.67
Embedded in a statement that assumes that a context can be

“neutral” is a formal awareness of what such an approach can
yield, “a breakdown in the body’s capabilities” or an uncertainty
about “whether I have stopped dancing or not.” The statement
suggests the ways that an investment in the literal undoes the
conventional, whether it be conventions of bodily motion or the
boundaries (the beginning and ending, the entrance and exit)
of the art object. The momentum of Trisha Brown’s statement,
however, comes from the series of verb phrases that she piles,
one after another, like a bricklayer-cum-comedian who does not
quite give us the “what’s the difference” punch-line. “I turn . . .
reverse . . . overstate . . . make . . . falling . . . pushing.” “Toss
your knees over there.” “Start the phrase . . . start it again.”
Much of art-making and performance-making gives rise to sen-
tences like this: “enter now” “exit from there” “enter here, but
cross then.” All of this so-called pragmatic work is a conscious
attention to form, albeit one that does not place “meaning,” “sig-
nification,” or “citation” at the creative forefront. Rather than
assuming the theoretical naiveté of this domain – an assumption
that also tacitly reproduces the slurs of modernist art criticism –
it is more sound professionally and interesting philosophically
to retrain our eyes and our ears. “You lace the shoes over,”
says Elizabeth Le Compte. “I thought we were getting to that
with ‘entrances and exits,’” says Edith Bunker. Each theatrical

minimalist recalls the practices of the handyman, telling us to
beware of the simplicity of their “constructions,” foregrounding
the classed anxieties that circulate when a bricklayer decides to
speak.
Re-practicing theory
There are a number of things that we can learn about the “disci-
plining of performance” from this network of genealogies. The
relationship between the phenomenon of “performance” and a
movement called “modernism” is severely tangled, largely be-
cause of the enormous number of connotations attached to each
of these terms. Much of the art that visual art critics implicitly
and explicitly criticized could be viewed as “modernist” depend-
ing upon which characteristic of modernism one emphasized.
Jerzy Grotowski’s high essentialist language of the theatre very
much reproduced the value of disciplinary singularity touted by
Greenberg and Fried. “We are seeking to define what is distinc-
tively theatre, what separates this activity from other categories
of performance and spectacle.”68 Grotowski’s argument “that
theatre has certain objective laws and that fulfillment is possible
only within them”69 sounded very much like Greenberg’s call
for the elimination “from the effects of each art any and every ef-
fect that might conceivably be borrowed from or be the medium
of any other art.”70 The link between modernism and theatre
broke down, however, as soon as Grotowski named the objec-
tive law of the theatrical medium: “our productions are detailed
investigations of the actor-audience relationship.”71 This exter-
nalized sense of an actor’s “deepest calling” was of course “in-
tolerable” to Fried and Greenberg. A modernist focus on artistic
essentials was undone if one of those essentials was the audi-
ence relation. Theatricality’s pure nature was thus itself an im-
pure essence, corrupted by its fundamental status as a relational
encounter.
A reconsideration of these critical alignments shows the
retroactive process of disciplinary formation at work. As other
critics have noted, the same sense of partial fit and internal con-
tradiction applies to modernism’s relationship to sculpture, and
even to Specific Objects. The “simple, self-sufficient, geometrical
shapes” of sculpture, the reduction of dance to pure movement,

and the objective focus on theatrical essence would seem to
embody the modernist quest for self-sufficient aesthetic forms.
Additionally, as I argued earlier, the focus of such forms on the
“action” of making a particular artistic object was in some ways
a hyper-formalist, rather than anti-formalist, move. The fact that
such works induced an environmental imagination that could be
called “self-conscious” might also have aligned them with mod-
ernism. Furthermore, these arts and performers were interested
in “difference,” however they located it “differently,” that is, in
the relation between art and the “entire situation” of its receiving
context – a relocation and expansion of what types of multiplic-
ity and difference were relevant. That the modernist possibil-
ities of such experiments were discredited suggests something
about the instability of modernism itself. In fact, such so-called
“theatrical” responses exposed the limits of modernist critical
sensibilities by, in a sense, literalizing them. It was upon see-
ing the effects of Greenberg’s program taken to such an extreme
degree that Fried’s “Art and Objecthood” appeared as a kind
of back-formation, extolling modernist principles as if they had
been articulated in foresight rather than hindsight. The critical
response to such a threat resulted in a variety of backhanded
gestures of theoretical entrenchment and retrenchment, decla-
ration and qualification. Art should pursue artistic essence, but
not when that essence lies in the audience relation. Art should
be singular and pure but not concrete or material. Art should
be self-critical but not critical of boundaries between its “self”
and the “other” arts. Art should have an internal relationality but
never externalized relations. Art should be multi-parted but not
multi-disciplinary, autonomous but not minimalist. Art should
be self-sufficient but still rely on the art critic to illuminate its
self-reliance. By unsettling all of these literalist attributions, we
see more clearly the compensatory effort in such unstable critical
maneuvers.
I have argued that the “New Theatre” context of avant-garde
performance lay behind Michael Fried’s equations between the-
atricality and literality. This brand of theatre – one that in-
cluded audience participation, one that tried to achieve a “non-
matrixed” condition – often did aspire to “close” representational
structures in favor of a longed-for actuality. At the same time
that we acknowledge the connection, it is important to note its

partiality and contingency. Such equations made only selective
use of theatricality’s flexible essentialism and expose the partial-
ity of a visual studies stance on performance. Most fourth wall
theatre preceding (and following) this era could be said to deny
rather than to incorporate the audience. And most fourth wall
theatre preceding (and following) this era operated with stable
assumptions of where it began and ended. The “New Theatre”
focus troubled those conventions to associate audience aware-
ness and temporal ambiguity with theatricality itself, thus skew-
ing (albeit interestingly) contemporaneous art critics’ notions of
what theatre was in the first place. Theatricality came in to stand
for the literal side of an artistic binary in which art objects ap-
parently aspired to be, as Greenberg said, “nothing more than
they really are.”72 Thus, for art criticism at this moment, a spe-
cific kind of historically-located artistic innovation came to stand
in synecdochically for the theatricality in toto. It was as if one
style of painting could stand in for pictoriality; as if one style
of writing could stand in for textuality. Exemplifying the pit-
falls of an interdisciplinary encounter, a unique and historically-
specific genre of experimentation became an index of an entire
condition.
Furthermore, the New Theatre experiments would receive the
retroactive label “performance studies” and oppose themselves
to theatre, an intra-disciplinary move that would confuse further
what Fried meant by “theatricality” in the first place. For theo-
rists such as Josette Féral and, later Richard Schechner, theatre
came to stand for tradition and convention while “performance”
was the term that did the troubling. Philip Auslander notes the
different discipline-specific uses of the same terminology.
That the term ‘theatre’ can function as a figure for an emerging post-
modernism for Fried and as a figure for a dessicated modernism for Féral
is symptomatic of the medium-specificity of both arguments. In the con-
text of the visual arts, Fried’s theatricality is a postmodernism threat-
ening to an established modernism; in the context of performance, the-
atricality is the modernism against which an emergent postmodernism
defines itself.73
This apparent contradiction is only resolvable when we real-

ize that Fried’s “theatricality” and Féral’s “performance” are
referring to the same scene of postmodern experiment; the

former condemns and the second celebrates it. Another way to
say this is that postmodern anti-theatricality is the opposite of
Friedian anti-theatricality.
From yet another angle, Fried’s prejudices remind us of the
type of “theatricality” that was explored in early genealogies of
performance studies. The prejudice against a literal theatrical was
a different kind of prejudice than the one that theatre has clas-
sically endured. More often, the figural theatrical has been the
basis for Western intellectual history’s anti-theatrical prejudice.
Recognizing how often the same terms refer to such different
qualities might neutralize a great deal of theoretical confusion.
Furthermore, we might want to ask what we can learn about the
fact that theatrical performance so often ends up on the negative
side of a critical paradigm, serving as the most prominent figure
of a debased figural, on the one hand, and as the most promi-
nent figure of a debased literal, on the other. For those who
appeal to anti-theatrical prejudices – whether to reinforce them
or to resist them – it might be helpful for all of us to be clearer
about which prejudice we mean. A cautious attitude toward crit-
ical theory’s stance on theatre and performance is particularly
important for scholars and students in the twenty-first century,
since its precepts now shadow almost any critical gathering in
the humanities and structure the terms of discussion. The rejec-
tion of experience, of unmediated access, of a just-thereness of
an object is exactly the sensibility that would undergird a host of
subsequent critical and social paradigms. This is simultaneously
a time in which the theatrical is made into a figure of literality,
a strawman against which such accusations of naı̈veté, essential-
ism, and literality can be wielded. As such, this kind of theoret-
ical genealogy creates a discursive situation in which any appeal
to what sounds like a presential term can be easily denounced
as an anti-intellectual, anti-interpretive, and naı̈ve reification of
metaphysics. I do not mean to suggest that we argue against this
critical vocabulary directly – indeed, as a 1990s graduate student,
I became too steeped in deconstruction’s paradigms ever to re-
ject them totally – but to ask for more care and caution before
knee-jerkedly going on deconstructionist autopilot. I would also
suggest that we be critical of the occupational and professional
structures that such vocabularies support. Howard Singerman
makes a similar suggestion in his analysis of the professional con-

text of postmodern theorizing.
But the university’s demand for the production of knowledge – indeed,
its takeover of the training of artists, its fashioning of art as research
and art criticism as science – belongs to the specialization, administra-
tive rationalization, and ‘professionalized treatment of the cultural tradi-
tion’ that is not so much postmodern as characteristically and familiarly
modern.74
Ultimately, I suspect that contending with this entire conun-
drum means acknowledging the happiness issue – and asking
how it might be that a variety of skills, forms, obsessions, and
“things that we are good at doing” could be valued in the
academy . . . with less panic.
5 History and performance: blurred
genres and the particularizing
of the past
We mine what are sometimes called counterhistories that make

apparent the slippages, cracks, fault lines, and surprising ab-
sences in the monumental structures that dominated a more
traditional historicism.
Stephen Greenblatt and Catherine Gallagher1
Their idea was to show that action went on within a matrilineal

sociocultural space. Somehow this device didn’t work.
Victor Turner on a restaging of a Ndembu female puberty ritual2
Local knowledges
In 1980, anthropologist and cultural critic Clifford Geertz pub-
lished an essay in The American Scholar that projected for many
the intellectual shifts that would pervade the humanities and so-
cial sciences over the course of the next decade. In “Blurred
Genres,” Geertz wittily surveyed a range of “new” approaches
in the analysis of culture and what he called “the refiguration
of social thought.” By the end of the first paragraph, he had
isolated three trends that, he said, were not only “true” but
“true together.”3 First, echoing his title, he noted the “enormous
amount of genre mixing in intellectual life.” Second, he noted
that such mixed genres tended to focus less on the general and
more on the particular, that scholars were not quite as interested
in “the sort of thing that connects planets and pendulums” as
much as they were in that which “connects chrysanthemums and
swords.” Finally, he identified an analogical impulse in cultural
analysis, an incorporation of the central metaphors of the human-
ities into sociological understanding. The analogies on which he
focused were “game,” “drama,” and “text”; all three were newer
interpretive concepts for the study of human behavior.
146
History and performance 147
In the same decade that Geertz, the figure who came to sym-
bolize “anthropology” for a generation of non-anthropologists,
waxed eloquent about the blurring, particularizing, and analo-
gizing of social thought, the discipline of performance studies
secured an institutional hold. After creating and documenting
their own blurred genres in the theatrical avant-garde of the
1960s and 1970s, Michael Kirby, Richard Schechner, and other
New York scholars and artists gradually formalized their pursuits
in the editorship of The (Tulane) Drama Review and, by 1980,
the coordination of an eclectic faculty into a department of per-
formance studies. By 1985, the oral interpretation wing of the
Speech Communication Association (later NCA) changed the
name of its central journal from Literature and Performance to
the more analogically expansive Text and Performance Quarterly.
At the same time, the Interpretation division changed its name
to Performance Studies and speech departments at Northwest-
ern, University of North Carolina, University of Texas, and more
followed suit. These simultaneous intellectual and institutional
“refigurations” are no coincidence. The concept of the blurred
genre underwrote the concept of “interdisciplinarity,” a move
that legitimized the kind of interdisciplinary genre-mixing es-
poused in performance studies. And certainly, the deployment
of “analogy” as a basis for intellectual engagement rational-
ized the deployment of “performance” as a principle for cross-
disciplinary binding. While analogical terminology in both the
humanities and social sciences was often accused of “jargonism”
or of instituting a variety of synecdochic fallacies in cultural anal-
ysis, such terms enabled scholars to push the boundaries of their
respective fields. The appropriation, redefinition, and expansion
of borrowed analogy provided the rationale behind the institu-
tionalization of performance studies. Perhaps less explicitly, but
no less importantly, Geertz’s second identified trend – the focus
on the particular – also legitimated performance as a domain,
a method, and a mode of attention. In an intellectual climate
that resisted large-scale abstraction in favor of case study, that
addressed the minute movements of the everyday in “thickly
described” local contexts, the imaginative life of performance
was an appropriate match.4 Scholars and artists of performance
brought their ways of perceiving gesture, image, space, voice, fa-
cial expression, corporeal motion, and collective gathering to a
scholarly arena that valued the most “local” of local knowledges.

This transition was made easier in that avant-garde performers
of the 1960s and 1970s had already been tuning performance
knowledge to “blur” the boundary between “art” and “the every-
day,” facilitating (though never resolving) the exchange between
the professional worlds of the scholar and the artist.
The less explicit domain of “the particular” actually will figure
quite prominently as the rest of this chapter analyzes the nature
and impact of selected intellectual formations that consolidated
in the 1980s. The focus on what Geertz called “case studies and
interpretations” rather than grand theories manifested itself in a
number of new key terms. The particular meant valuing rather
than discrediting symbolic forms of knowledge such as “stories,”
“narratives,” and “anecdotes.” It also meant searching for the
symbolic in other realms, indeed, defining realms of knowledge
like the “background,” the “contextual,” the “marginal,” and
the “periphery” as symbolic and dynamic rather than as sta-
ble and inert. The particular could refer to size, emphasizing
the “micro,” the “detail,” and the “minute.” It gleaned inter-
pretive utility from the fleetingness of “ephemera” and found
nothing trivial in the randomness of “trivia.” The particular also
characterized a performance of normality, focusing attention on
“common sense” and on the “ordinary,” the “everyday,” and
the “routine” as keys to cultural understanding. This highly fo-
cused and specific mode of attention influenced the discourse
and practice of a number of disciplines in the humanities and
social sciences, especially the subfields within these schools that
sought cross-disciplinary interaction. It also testified to the in-
fluence, not only of Geertzian anthropology, but also of post-
structuralist historians and theorists such as Michel Foucault.
Foucault’s anti-foundationalist histories homed in on minutiae
and on what he called the “capillary” process of institutional
authority. His influential work encouraged critics of the 1980s
to read the particular not only as the connective tissue of the
benignly cultural but also as the insidious operation of the not-
so benignly powerful. Not everyone greeted these intellectual
developments with enthusiasm. Conservatives in all fields wor-
ried that the rise of disciplinary blurring would entail the loss of
disciplinary standards. Meanwhile, Marxists and other progres-
sive critics found the Geertz-validated, Foucault-inspired focus
on the local to be a signal of the left’s capitulation. As student

activists of the late 1960s pursued their research in the conser-
vative climate of the Reagan/Thatcher 1980s, the utopic ideal
of large-scale revolution was supplanted by an “always already”
embedded model of the intellectual, a figure who could no longer
position herself outside of the institutions that she critiqued and
who could no longer turn to grand narratives of domination and
rebellion. For better and for worse, the focus on local instances
of power and culture seemed to offer a way of maintaining Left
suspicion without having very high expectations of where that
suspicion would go.
In what follows, I return to these themes and genealogies
to consider their relevance to the study of theatre and perfor-
mance. To do so is to return to many of the historical devel-
opments presented in Chapter One, especially as issues of in-
terdisciplinary exchange and the “culture wars” became more
explicit. It also means addressing this period’s engagement with
“culture” and “cultural studies” as anticipated, and resituated,
by the earlier genealogies of Chapter Three. For the purposes
of this chapter, however, I will also consider how shifts in cul-
tural analysis affected the discourses and practices of history,
historicism, and historiography. Within different wings of the
academy, historical practice altered and, depending upon the
field, increased under banners such as the New Historicism,
the New Cultural History, meta-history, and “the linguistic
turn.” In Europe, the French annalistes composed vast histories
of micro-practices and local beliefs while members of the Rad-
ical History movement in England developed an historiograph-
ical practice that interpreted political economy “from below,”
that is, through the everyday experiences of laboring peoples.
These and related historiographical movements blurred inter-
disciplinary genres and attended to the anecdotes, localities, and
tropic representational practices of historical events and of his-
torical writing itself. While they all promiscuously borrowed and
developed interpretive analogies across a variety of fields, such
experiments also varied depending upon period, politics, and
the disciplinary homes of respective practitioners. A focus on
“historicism” looked somewhat different depending upon
whether a scholar derived from the field of literature, anthro-
pology, or history itself. The cultural turn prompted reflection
on the practice of theatre and performance history as well. In

their collection-cum-textbook, Critical Theory and Performance,
Joseph Roach and Janelle Reinelt’s survey of the era’s most im-
portant intellectual transformations included sections on both
“Cultural Studies” and “Theater History and Historiography.”
It is no coincidence that the terms, principles, and references
in both of these entries overlapped significantly.5 As the next
sections argue, similar intellectual influences can be traced to
the work of many “cultural” and “historical” works of ground-
breaking scholarship. That intellectual confluence also spurred
the methodological interest in the particular. Using debates
around New Historicism as an illustration and counterpoint, I
consider the connections between such historical practices and
the precedents and innovations of theatre and performance histo-
riography. In later sections, I consider some of the effects, specif-
ically gendered effects, of these cross-disciplinary borrowings. I
suggest that a focus on the detail, the local, and the particular
has a gendered history, one that is more apparent in feminist cri-
tiques of anthropology as well as in feminist critiques of Foucault.
Hence, if “anthropology” and “Foucault” can serve as markers
for intellectual paradigms that galvanized interdisciplinary schol-
arship in history and culture, scholars of theatre and performance
would do well to investigate the gendered consequences of ap-
plying such paradigms.
New historicism, cultural anthropology,

and performance
To consider New Historicism, and especially New Historicism’s
relationship to theatre and performance history, requires a re-
view of an older historicism, one that affected the study of drama,
theatre, and literature in the historicist paradigms of philology.
While American theatre scholars such as Brander Matthews and
George Pierce Baker often expressed resistance to the “German”
philological trend, they most often borrowed its methods. In ad-
dition to adapting its genus/species models of genre develop-
ment, theatre scholars also employed its methodological preoc-
cupation with minute details, elsewhere referred to as “facts.”
As argued in Chapter Two, such theatre scholars took philol-
ogy’s emphasis on historical research and on the conventions
of literary transmission to rationalize the investigation of such

“extra-literary” realms as street lay-outs, building configurations,
set designs, managerial structures, actors, and audiences. To a
philological method acutely preoccupied with the accumulation
of facts, the hyper-contextual circumstances of the performed
event offered an endless supply of discoverable data, even if they
were not always the kind of data that literary philologists were
interested in or skilled in discovering. Such acts of accumula-
tion were more enthusiastically systematized in Germany un-
der the label Theatrewissenschaft. As Michael Quinn and Marvin
Carlson have argued, the once-ambivalently embraced methods
of the Germans founded and eventually routinized the field of
“theatre history” as a distinct disciplinary speciality throughout
the US and Europe.6 Even when mid-century literary scholars
broke from the “old historicism” of philology in favor of the
de-contextualizing analysis of New Criticism, the practice of
philology persisted in its theatrical guise. Societies, journals, and
hirings professionalized the practice of theatre history and con-
solidated the identity of the theatre historian. The avid study of
the detail, the minute, and the contextual galvanized and main-
tained the professional profile of theatre in higher education. It
will be important to remember the “historicism” in this perfor-
mance genealogy as we consider a new historicism’s focus on the
detail, the minute, and the contextual at a later period.
In 1980, literary scholar Stephen Greenblatt published
Renaissance Self-Fashioning.7 It was one of several texts, along
with Catherine Gallagher’s The Industrial Reformation of English
Fiction, Walter Benn Michael’s The Gold Standard the Logic of Nat-
uralism, D.A. Miller’s The Novel and the Police, and subsequent
texts of colleagues and students that signaled a new movement
in the analysis of culture.8 Initially clustered in Berkeley’s intel-
lectual community, what would occasionally be called “cultural
poetics” and more often receive the label “New Historicism”
began as an interdisciplinary reading group whose shared au-
thors included Lacan, Althusser, Foucault, Geertz, and other
authors of works of “theory” emanating principally from Paris,
Konstanz, Berlin, Frankfurt, Budapest, Tartu, and Moscow.9
Searching for a term that could unite the disparate backgrounds
and interests, they founded a journal under the title Representa-
tions to include historians and social scientists who took the idea
of representation seriously; it also included art and literary

historians who were expanding their analytic domain beyond
canonical works. Greenblatt’s study of “self-fashioning” showed
the legacy of such cross-disciplinary reading. In particular, it
deployed a Foucauldian model of power to argue that an emerg-
ing concept of an individuated “self” functioned as a vehicle for
the exercise of larger structures of authority. Thus, rather than
exerting a repressive power from on high, the Renaissance’s dis-
course of selfhood simultaneously advanced a practice of “self-
regulation” such that individual subjects could be counted on to
subject themselves to regulatory operation even as they adopted
a language of self-constitution. That classic Foucauldian struc-
ture was the springboard for other types of analysis. In what is
perhaps Greenblatt’s most famous subsequent essay, “Invisible
Bullets,” he studied “subversive” voices next to religious texts
and institutions, ultimately focusing on how such apparent in-
stances of resistance were actually produced and, furthermore,
“contained” by the orthodoxies that they seemed to contest.10 In
diffusing larger and grander models of power, Foucault’s model
also multiplied its objects of analysis. That is, by showing the
co-saturation of authority and resistance across a wide spectrum
of practices, his paradigms also rationalized a methodological
expansion into a range of previously neglected arenas. “[T]his
new historicism projects a vision of history as an endless skein of
cloth smocked in a complex, overall pattern by the needle and
thread of Power. You need only pull the thread at one place to
find it connected to another,” Carolyn Porter summarized.11 For
literary scholars such as Greenblatt, this expansion was happily
two-fold. It meant that the literary canon expanded to include
tracts, pamphlets, letters, and popular writing; at the same time,
it could also mean that the domain of the literary, often seen
as extraneous to politics, could be positioned as a charged and
relevant site for the analysis of social processes.
That renewed sense of relevance also came from another sig-
nificant set of intertexts for New Historicist work: Clifford Geertz
and cultural anthropology. Geertz’s anthropological embrace of
what he called humanist metaphors and methods spurred hu-
manists in turn to speculate on the utility of parallel concerns
in anthropology and the social sciences. Reflecting back on their
initial readings of Geertz’s “Thick Description” in his landmark
book, The Interpretation of Cultures, Greenblatt and Catherine
Gallagher recalled the thrill of hearing a social scientist call the

analysis of culture the “sorting out of structures of significa-
tion . . . and determining their social ground and import,” an
enterprise that, Geertz said, was “much more like that of a literary
critic.”12
[I]t made sense of something we were already doing, returning our own
professional skills to us as more important, more vital and illuminating,
than we had ourselves grasped . . . we were excited to find a sophisticated,
intellectually powerful, and wonderfully eloquent anthropologist who
could make use of the tools in our disciplinary kit and in so doing renew
in us a sense of their value.13
Emboldened by this endorsement, Representations writers began

to adapt their skills to the task of “thick description,” a term
that Geertz developed from the work of philosopher Gilbert
Ryle. Ryle had distinguished “thin” from “thick” description by
the latter’s ability to place accounts of behavior within a net-
work of affective and symbolic structures that gave them co-
herence. In his famous examples of the difference between a
“twitch” and a “wink,” or between a sequential description of
“pumping a bike” and an interpretation of the reason one might
pump at all, Ryle argued for the importance of the symbolic
in the analysis of human behavior, an argument that Geertz
adapted to argue for the analytic power of the “cultural” in cul-
tural anthropology. That emphasis on the symbolic and cultural
further supported the adaptation and expansion of the literary
and humanist disciplinary kit. This pivotal instance of scholarly
“blurring” would end up marking New Historicism as a key force
in the “cultural turn” of the 1980s. The recognition of its sig-
nificance showed up everywhere. Theatre scholars Roach and
Reinelt selected Greenblatt and New Historicism as key overlap-
ping figures and terms in the accounts of culture and historiog-
raphy. Meanwhile, James Clifford, the historian of social science
who in the 1980s supplied influential interpretive histories of
ethnography and anthropology, incorporated Greenblatt into his
fold. Clifford’s chapter on “Ethnographic Self-Fashioning” in
Predicament of Culture placed Greenblatt on a par with ethnogra-
phy’s much-touted fieldworker, calling the former a “participant-
analyst.”14
As numerous scholars have noted, New Historicism ended up
diminishing and augmenting the significance of the literary at
once. Literary critics privileged what had been heretofore pe-

ripheral to their training while simultaneously positing literary
training’s centrality in the analysis of culture. One of many later
twentieth-century developments that reacted against the mid-
century New Criticism, New Historicism revisited the once-
discredited contextuality of literature and interrogated accepted
notions of what came under the category of literature altogether.
While New Historicism claimed not to be New Criticism, it also
claimed not to be “old” historicism, or what Michael Warner
called “the somewhat dreary and encyclopedic historical work
that the philologists used to do.”15 Such reductive, if expedient,
characterizations effectively positioned philological historicism
as the domain of “thin description,” a transparent litany of facts
in which history functioned “as a stable point of reference, be-
yond contingency, to which literary interpretation can securely
refer.”16 While New Historicism had a kind of neither/nor re-
lationship to both New Criticism and philology, in other ways
it could be seen as integrating them. Its scholars made use of
new critical methods – conducting close reading, deploying ex-
plication to illuminate textual ambiguity and contradiction – and
applied them to the “non-literary” realm of the historical, now
illuminating ambiguity and contradiction in what was once con-
sidered securely referential.
New Historicism is an exemplary illustration of an interdis-
ciplinary site. As such, it also exemplifies some of its hazards,
including the disavowals, synecdochic fallacies, and reinvented
wheels that I have addressed throughout this book. As argued in
Chapter One, disciplinary breaks often carry more disciplinary
continuity than they initially acknowledge. Often such continu-
ities more easily appear to the outsider; outsiders see the repro-
duction of codes and conventions that the reproducers cannot
see themselves. Hence, New Historicism’s break with literary
studies still seemed quite “literary” to those outside literature
departments even if they seemed incredibly un-literary to many
New Critics. The kinds of arguments generated did not look
“historical” to many historians, who found any “analogy” be-
tween what Donald Kelley parodied as “The New Anecdotal-
ism” and their own ways of analyzing the past impossible to
fathom.17 Similar kinds of skeptical responses appeared not only
in debates about New Historicism but also in parallel moves to
unsettle relations between literature and history. Historian Joan

Wallach Scott was one who found herself defending a “linguistic
turn” in the field of history and arguing that the use of discur-
sive analysis was not necessarily an “unhistorical” capitulation to
the literary.18 Eventually, critics within literary studies began to
reckon with the reproduction of literary codes and conventions
within New Historicism’s announced rejection. Brook Thomas’s
“The New Historicism and Other Old-Fashioned Topics” first
appeared as an essay and then turned into a book describing its
links to traditional literary methods and concepts. Despite its im-
portant provocations, New Historicism was for Thomas a classic
case of a reinvented wheel. Carolyn Porter specifically named and
elaborated the effects of several of those “old-fashioned” con-
cepts, particularly the “formalist” methods of New Criticism.
She argued that the quest to unsettle literary studies had disin-
genuously augmented the status of its methods. “[It] serves to
legitimate a suspect formalism which seems to treat the social
text in much the same way it has been accustomed to treating
the literary one. As if you could say, in response to the question
of how you relate text to reality, reality is a text, and then pro-
ceed to read it, like a New Critic, for its paradoxes, tensions, and
ambiguities.”19 While the phrase “everything is a text” was also
a defensive one used to fend off as much as to embrace the idea
to which it referred, for Porter and others it was deservedly sus-
pect. In the compendium of interdisciplinary hazards, textuality’s
analogical expansion could rationalize an “everything is just like
me” attitude in literary scholars, positioning the domains and
objects of other fields as patiently awaiting illumination by their
own methods of explication. Porter called this dangerous atti-
tude “colonialist formalism,” and her argument suggested that it
had institutional effects.20 Given that “formalism has remained
institutionally inscribed, despite the fact that we ritualistically
denounce it at every opportunity,” its insidious re-use was a way
of maintaining the academic authority of literary studies despite
an announced scholarly interest in institutional critique.21
The relationship of theatre and performance to this interdis-

ciplinary convergence is complex, unsystematic, and ongoing.
Scholarship in these fields certainly bore the traces and influ-
ences of apparently newer historical models of culture. Often the
“cultural turn” was used to rationalize an expansion of interest

beyond theatre to a wider network of performance forms. While
this is a heuristic move, it had the effect of ignoring the ways
that theatre itself can be richly theorized as an exemplary site
for cultural analysis. Bruce McConachie and Tom Postlewait’s
edited collection Interpreting the Theatrical Past compiled essays
that demonstrated an array of approaches, methods, and genre-
bending analyses.22 In performance studies, Brooks McNamara
emerged as one of the leading historians of popular performance,
offering detailed histories of the vaudevilles, burlesques, amuse-
ment parks, and other extra-canonical performance venues. To
map New Historicism to theatre/performance, however, is at
once a match, a mis-match, and a curious redundancy. As
argued in Chapters Two and Three, theatre already had an
uncertain canonical status from many perspectives in literary
studies. In a sense, then, to study theatre was already to enact
the New Historicist search for the “extra-canonical.” A familiar
redundancy also surfaced in the deployment of Clifford Geertz’s
paradigms, for to tell theatre scholars to “blur” their “genres”
seemed both appropriate and much-delayed in its directive. The-
atre scholars had spent a great deal of time addressing perfor-
mance as a site of artistic mixture and integration long before it
was trendy to be “interdisciplinary.” The relationship between
these intellectual markers and theatre and performance thus
changes depending upon where one locates such forms and dis-
ciplines in a longer intellectual history. Similarly, the use of New
Historicist principles to transform theatre scholarship can seem
both compelling and misplaced. Roach, Reinelt, and Bruce Mc-
Conachie made calls for theatre scholars to take New Historicist
principles to heart, particularly the conception of historical con-
text as itself symbolic, dynamic, and subject to determination.23
That kind of critique is directed from a specific place to a spe-
cific audience, however. It addresses the philological legacies of
theatre history, at least in their “thinly described” forms. To the
extent that some fact-preoccupied, “monological” theatre schol-
ars had not made use of the cultural potential of theatrical cul-
ture, their critique is appropriate. However, one might also map
a New Historical connection to theatre and performance from
a different place and in a different direction. As reformed New
Critics touted a return to historicism, it is worth remembering
that theatre scholars never fully left it behind. The interest in the
contextual remained in theatre even when mid-century literature
scholars repudiated it. A consideration of that genealogy not only
positions New Historicism as a corrective to theatre scholarship
but also as an unacknowledged re-discovery of theatre’s disci-
plinary tradition.
I will try to illustrate the complications of these different types
of mappings by focusing on one example, specifically another
use of a theatrical analogy inside a New Historicist debate. One
of the central tenets of the New Historicist approach revolved
around text and context, particularly the goal of unsettling the
distinction. The New Historicism’s turn to the contextual distin-
guished itself from old historicism by positioning the contextual
as contingent and interpretable. Rather than being the stable and
referential background behind a text’s interpretive instabilities,
context too was actually textual. This kind of principle gave rise
to a number of unsettling assertions around fundamental episte-
mological constructs; with the text/context division, other divi-
sions such as that between foreground and background, between
center and periphery, between figure and ground, unsettled as
well. Interestingly, Carolyn Porter used a theatrical analogy to
characterize this shift.
As we all know by now, the relation between the literary and the historical
has been radically reproblematized. To put it far too simply, in trying to
approach literature as a historically situated cultural phenomenon, we no
longer regard ‘history’ as given backdrop against which to see the literary
text. It is neither something that springs forth from that back drop, spot-
lighted by its transcendent expression of the ‘human spirit,’ nor is it the
result of the fellow working the lights, exposing a fixed, historically ‘set’
scene. Neither lamps nor mirrors will do anymore. Further, the stage
metaphor breaks down . . . According to Frederic Jameson, the entire
range of conceptual models dependent on depth (essence/appearance,
latent/manifest, authenticity/inauthenticity, signifer/signified) has given
way to a ‘new kind of flatness or depthlessness’ which he finds charac-
teristic not only of postmodern art but of contemporary theory as well.
No longer on, or behind, or in front of the stage, we instead inhabit a
discursive field.24
Porter’s statement would thus seem to position theatre – the

stage – as an index of an older historicism, one that needed to
believe in divisions of texts and contexts in a mode analogous to
the belief in frontstages and backstages. Provocative as her illus-

tration is, however, Porter’s theoretical use of the stage metaphor
is not a helpful disciplinary use. It does not factor in the specific
disciplinary history of literary studies’ relationship to drama, one
characterized by a break in which theatre analysts wanted – some
years ago – to study more than the play itself and to conceive
backdrops and the fellow running the lights as themselves ob-
jects of study. An interest in conceiving such aspects and persons
as being something other than “context” has been a fundamental
principle of theatre history. In theatre studies, the backdrop has
not been part of the background for quite some time. Of course,
while theatre scholars have placed such realms at the interpre-
tive center of their analyses, this does not mean that they have
always treated these domains with the same tools as the writ-
ers of Representations. If they had, Roach, Reinelt, McConachie,
and others would not have felt the need to call attention to New
Historicism’s “flourish” of critical paradigms.25 However, it does
mean that the study of theatre had already implicitly exploded
a number of epistemological constructs, even when its scholars
had little interest in claiming that explosion. Now that histori-
cal and cultural innovations in the humanities and social sciences
have unsettled the boundaries between text and context, it seems
only appropriate to highlight the disciplinary utility of a perfor-
mance form whose hypercontextuality has always confounded
such distinctions. Such highlighting would not necessarily come
from within literary studies, however, where the use of a theatri-
cal theoretical vocabulary did not always translate into an interest
in the form and discipline of theatre itself. New Historicism’s rel-
ativizing frame was not enough to undo scholarly habits based in
earlier cultural hierarchies. Its provocative anecdotalism did not
itself ensure that theatre’s anecdotes would make their way into
the foreground.
New Historicism was one important instance of a “cultural turn”

that pervaded the humanities and social sciences and that sought
to create an interdisciplinary bridge. In this discussion, I have
focused more attention on connection and disconnects to some-
thing that called itself “theatre,” largely because the disciplinary
identity of theatre history is entrenched enough to argue for
possible links. The discipline of “performance history,” while

practiced by many earlier and recent historians, did not emerge
as a labeled and consolidated area of inquiry until the last decade
of the twentieth century when project proposals and job descrip-
tions began to add to or amend their titles. I will consider an
example of such historiographical work later in this chapter. At
this juncture, however, I want to track another set of connections
to the particularized study of culture, one that more explicitly af-
fected the domain of “performance” and “performance studies.”
Working from my introductory suggestion that the turn to culture
and the turn to performance studies were propelled by the same
“blurred” intellectual climate, let me briefly survey some of its in-
carnations. Clifford Geertz discussed three humanist analogies
that, in 1980, were “refiguring social thought”: game, drama,
and text. While the above discussion of New Historicism is an
example of the third term in action, the first two terms identified
conceptual paradigms that would become fundamental to the
epistemology of performance studies. Indeed, the scholars listed
under Geertz’s analogies would appear on many performance
studies syllabi over the next two decades.
The work of Erving Goffman was Geertz’s dominant exam-
ple of “gamelike conceptions of social life.”26 While Goffman
often used dramaturgical metaphors, Geertz argued that his “to
and fro” models of social interaction (“ping-pong in masks”)
were best positioned as game theory.27 Whatever the preferred
analogy, Erving Goffman would be appropriated in performance
studies as the founding architect of a subfield called “the per-
formance of everyday life.” In truth, this founding was perfor-
mance studies’ re-discovery of a longer sociological tradition, one
stretching back at least to the work of Chicago School sociology.
Nevertheless, Goffman’s engaging examples and performance-
based vocabularies were particularly resonant to performance
scholars who were trying to see the theatrical in places other than
the proscenium stage. Goffman spoke of the co-dependence of
frontstages and backstages, seeing their operations of display and
secrecy in homes, offices, classrooms, and other everyday sites.
He spoke of social actors who played “parts” and had “routines,”
what he defined as “pre-established patterns of action” that struc-
tured situational encounters.28 Goffman sounded a conundrum
familiar to “New theatre” practitioners when he discussed the

issue of whether or not actors “believed” in the realities that
they were creating, noting that no one should underestimate “the
strength of a little self-delusion.”29 His model of the individual
encounter was one where a person “projects a definition of the
situation” and then enjoys and endures subsequent interactions
that may affirm or discredit that projection.30 Just as projections
depended upon the performance of certain affirming behaviors,
so the identity of everyday spaces depended upon and altered
with the nature of the actions performed. “There are many re-
gions,” wrote Goffman, “which function at one time and in one
sense as a front region and at another time and in another sense
as a back region.”31
[O]f a Sunday morning, a whole household can use the wall around
its domestic establishment to conceal a relaxing slovenliness in dress
and civil endeavor, extending to all rooms the informality that is usually
restricted to the kitchen and bedrooms. So, too, in American middle-
class neighborhoods, on afternoons the line between the children’s play-
ground and home may be defined as backstage by mothers, who pass
along it wearing jeans, loafers, and a minimum of make-up, a cigarette
dangling from their lips as they push their baby carriages.32
In Presentation of the Self in Everyday Life, and later in texts such as

Interaction Ritual and Frame Analysis, Goffman portrayed a world
where the highly local and detailed aspects of individual perfor-
mance – demeanor, dress, facial expression, linguistic codes, and
more – were central to the analysis of social process.33 While his
perspectives were not themselves post-structuralist, they suited
post-structuralism’s intellectual climate. In addition to the blur-
ring and appropriation of humanist analogy, Goffman’s insights
could be patched to a post-structuralist conception of power.
By the time he wrote Gender Advertisements – to some, his best
work – the connection between the performance of everyday
life and disciplinary docility was readily apparent.34 If human
subjects behaved within and against imputed projections, sup-
ported by the “strength of a little self-delusion,” then there was
a great deal of resonance between Goffman’s “encounters” and
Foucault’s paradoxical world of agentless self-regulation.
In explicating the “drama” analogy, another familiar scholar
figured centrally for Geertz – Victor Turner. Turner’s ritual
theory, in particular the concept of the “social drama,” brought

out the “temporal and collective dimensions” of social action as
well as the capacity of such performances “to transmute not just
opinions but . . . also . . . the people who hold them.”35 While
Geertz appropriately found there to be a formulaic quality to
Turner’s theory – “a form for all seasons” – there was no deny-
ing its epistemological impact. In performance studies, Turner
would be chronicled as one of the two “men who gave birth”
in performance studies’ origin narrative. Performance scholars
would find instances of social drama’s breach, crisis, redressive ac-
tion, and reintegration in all domains of social and artistic life.36
Richard Schechner, the other forebear, would cite Turner’s the-
ories extensively in his own definitional scholarship on perfor-
mance. Schechner’s “restoration of behavior” not only made use
of the social drama but also of Turner’s concept of “liminality,”
an in-between state within ritual structures in which individuals
and groups temporarily lacked definition and inscription. While
Turner ultimately argued that such liminal states “reintegrated”
into socially conventional ones, Schechner and other perfor-
mance anthropologists such as Dwight Conquergood argued for
their peculiar productivity.37 For Conquergood, the liminal was
intriguingly theorized as an illuminating break, an aporia within
accepted patterns of behavior that exposed their vulnerability.
This kind of theoretical development around the concept of per-
formance matched and carried forward contemporaneous con-
cerns with power and resistance. As New Historicists and their
critics wondered and worried about relations of mobility and
constraint, as other kinds of Foucauldian disciples speculated
upon the interaction between subversion and containment, per-
formance discourse also carried the opportunity and burden of
this double bind. Sometimes, performance was the mechanism of
social constraint, and sometimes performance was the vehicle
of social mobility. Sometimes performance was about making
community, and sometimes it was about breaking it. In either
instance, the vocabulary of performance propelled the analysis
of culture. While performance studies’ initial incarnations more
often took the scholarly form of “ethnography” – writings based
on fieldwork conducted with co-present participants – eventually
such theories and concepts found their way into the analysis of
“performance history.”
Gendered genres
Throughout my examples thus far, the “particular,” the “detail,”
and the “local” have appeared prominently in various forms as
the methodological basis for a new cultural analytics. So, too,
texts and contexts, foregrounds and backgrounds, frontstages
and backstages, have been invoked, analyzed, and reconfigured
by the phenomenon of performance. The examples have at-
tended to the ordinary and to the everyday. In all cases, ana-
lysts are encouraged to see the presence of big things in small
things, to make use of the humanist capacity for “close reading”
and the assessment of the minute and marginal. “We live in an
age when the detail enjoys a rare prominence,” wrote Naomi
Schor in 1987 in Reading in Detail, a book that excavated con-
temporary social theory (Foucault, Freud, Barthes) as well as
eighteenth-century aesthetics. Schor reminded readers just how
unusual such prominence actually was, for, “until very recently,
the detail has been viewed in the West with suspicion if not down-
right hostility.”38 Such hostility and “censure of the particular”
took two forms under neo-classical aesthetics and subsequent
reinscriptions. It is “bounded on the one side by the ornamental,
with its traditional connotations of effeminacy and decadence,
and on the other, by the everyday, whose ‘prosiness’ is rooted
in the domestic sphere of social life presided over by women.”39
Thus, the detail is historically associated with different types of
femininity, an equation that has been the basis for their mutu-
ally defined negativity. What then is the significance of the rare
prominence of the detail given this gendered history? Does it
“signify a triumph of the feminine with which it has so long been
linked?” asked Schor, or does the detail “cease to be connoted
as feminine at the very moment when it is taken up for the male
dominated cultural establishment?” I would like to use Schor’s
line of questioning to consider the tacit gender politics of cultural
paradigms as they have been adapted and developed in theatre
and performance studies.
In the same period that humanists and performance scholars
began to become enamored of all things “anthropological,” an
internal critique of anthropology’s basic paradigms appeared in
the work of feminist social scientists. Sherry Ortner published
her widely circulated essay, “Is Female to Male as Nature is to
Culture?” in 1974, contributing to a burgeoning field of inter-

disciplinary feminist critique. Ortner summarized the gendered
bifurcations that structured anthropological analysis. Women
“represent lower-level, socially fragmenting, particularistic sorts
of concerns”; furthermore, female/male distinctions are often
made across an axis of “relative concreteness vs. relative abstract-
ness: the feminine personality tends to be involved with concrete
feelings, things, people, rather than with abstract entities.”40 A
whole generation of feminist anthropologists subsequently un-
settled the “naturalized” associations attached to terms. While
some worked to show women’s participation in abstract domains
outside of the domestic, others demonstrated that there was
nothing “natural” about the domain of the particular. To attend
to “concrete feelings, things, and people” was to participate in
the production of culture at the most intimate level. For Naomi
Schor, a similar set of associations appears in the history of aes-
thetic theory. “Viewed as congenitally (rather than culturally)
particularistic, the woman artist is doubly condemned to pro-
duce inferior works of art: because of her close association with
nature, she cannot but replicate it.”41 Similarly, the feminine fo-
cus on the detail confounded Idealist aesthetics. In both literary
and visual theories, a particularist consciousness distracted
the artist from achieving the sublime. Schor argued further that
the anti-feminine prejudice against the detail derived from a more
pointed threat. “The irreconcilability of details and the sublime
and the concomitant affinity of details for the effete and effemi-
nate ornamental style point to what is perhaps most threatening
about the detail: its tendency to subvert an internal hierarchic
ordering of the work of art which clearly subordinates the pe-
riphery to the center, the accessory to the principal, the fore-
ground to the background.”42 Consequently, to give attention –
especially feminist attention – to the particular was potentially to
subvert an internal hierarchic ordering in the arts and anthropol-
ogy. Within the social sciences, it was to expose the contingency
of the heretofore natural, showing the dependency of the cul-
tural on the supposedly “trivial” activities of the domestic and,
furthermore, exposing the domestic as itself a product of skilled,
if devalued, labor. In aesthetics, it was not only to distract from
the achievement of artistic excellence but also to disrupt the per-
spectival conventions with which that excellence was defined,
dismantling the precarious balance and precarious dependency

of the centralized foreground on the peripheral background.
Given this gendered intellectual history and an available fem-
inist critique, one might think that the prominence of the par-
ticular in “the cultural turn” would have explicitly incorporated
feminist theorization. Interestingly, for all of Geertz’s focus on
“local knowledges” instead of abstractions, on “cases” instead of
“laws,” the feminist implications of this methodological revaluing
went unannounced. Instead, he and other colleagues analyzed
many of the same public rituals, but did so by using a thickly de-
scribed mode of analysis that would have been called “excessive”
and overly “concrete” in the rhetoric of the anti-feminine idealist.
Similarly, the reciprocal humanist enthusiasm for anthropology
did not highlight the gendered implications of a social analysis
of the detail. For those in the humanities, including theatre and
performance, the engagement with anthropology was more often
a way to gain a kind of masculine legitimation, “a touch of the
real,” the relevant, and “the efficacious” that redeemed the effete
realms of arts and literature. Nevertheless, the feminist connec-
tions are unmistakable. An article such as Geertz’s “Common
Sense is a Cultural System” pointed up the constituted char-
acter of the presumably given, a move that had its parallel in
feminist critiques of the ordinary, the mundane, and the natural.
Furthermore, if the disciples of Erving Goffman found the no-
tion of the “performance of everyday life” provocative enough to
found a subfield, they did so by covertly incorporating a feminist
epistemology. That the personal is political, that the private is
performed, that the everyday is made – all were variations on a
feminist critique that foregrounded the cultural constitution of
the heretofore “natural.” That “everyday life is performed” is
more apparent to the women most responsible for maintaining
the conditions of its production. That details and particulars con-
stitute the connective tissue of the cultural is an insight apparent
to anyone saddled with the task of making a laundry list.
The gendered history of the particular has another less be-
nign trajectory, however, one that returns us to Foucault’s post-
structuralist model of power. As I argued above, Foucault and
his followers dispensed with centralized models of authority in
favor of dispersed ones, operating in the minute behaviors of
bodies and selves, indirectly exerting its productivity on docile
participants. As it happened, a number of critics found an exem-

plary site for such dispersal in the domain of domesticity. Vic-
torian New Historicists especially found Foucauldian critique
and domestic performance to be an all-too perfect match. The
concept of domesticity had considerable currency in the nine-
teenth century as female writers worked to give the domain of
women some discursive specificity. Catharine Beecher, a pro-
tegée of British reformer Hannah More, published Treatise on
Domestic Economy, emerging as the leading voice of domesticity in
the United States. As numerous scholars have demonstrated, this
circumscribed arena gave women a means to exercise a degree of
power and indirect influence over their otherwise circumscribed
lives. Saying that female education was too preoccupied with cul-
tivating female appearance rather than female competence, More
and Beecher turned to a conveniently theatrical metaphor: the
life of the young lady “too much resembles that of an actress; the
morning is all rehearsal, and the evening is all performance.”43 To
More and Beecher, women’s confinement and lack of substantive
training made them ultimately ill-equipped to run a household,
ignorant of domestic skills, and unable to face the compendium
of minute, repetitive, constant, and simultaneous tasks that con-
stituted household labor. Beecher advocated another type of fe-
male performance, one that sought a balance of mind and body,
exterior and interior, abstraction and absorption, confinement
and mobility in an orderly domestic sphere. By moving from the
position of “actress” to stage manager, women would be in a
better position to maintain the healthy environments that pro-
duced healthy citizens. Such discourses of domesticity theorized
bodily comportment, the relation between bodies and material
culture, the processes by which spatial habits developed, the effi-
cient coordination of multiple actions, the dynamics of interper-
sonal sociality, the emotional ruptures of displacement, and the
environmental creation of kinship.
Domesticity was an intensely productive discourse in the nine-
teenth century. It offered a domain and a set of mechanisms
that women of a variety of race and class positions unevenly
appropriated to secure a modicum of legitimacy. As Claudia
Tate argues, African-American women deployed this discourse
on behalf of abolitionism in order to install themselves as the life-
giving force in a movement for social justice. The sinister edge
to domesticity’s program appeared when Beecher and her dis-

ciples positioned it as the locus of female authority, as a way of
“extending over the world those blessed influences, which are to
renovate degraded man.”44 To the ears of contemporary critics,
of course, such language is circumspect, partaking in a bloated
vision of American citizenship and its sense of superior entitle-
ment. Furthermore, and more pointedly for this chapter, the
exercise of women’s knowledge is characterized not as a privi-
lege that she holds but as an “influence” that she wields. This
is the formal problem of domesticity and, by extension, of fem-
inized authority. It is a power secured indirectly, less a thing
possessed than a force exerted. As Lora Romero writes, “It rep-
resents a way of figuring citizenship for a population imagined
as too mired in personal, affective, and local bonds to partic-
ipate in an abstract national identity.”45 Not surprisingly, the
domestic woman’s formal ambivalence has also produced am-
bivalence amongst her critics. She is simultaneously criticized for
not achieving a position of direct power as well as for enabling
indirectly the power of others. As it happens, this insidiously in-
direct formal structure also makes it a match for Foucauldian
critique. In the British context, Nancy Armstrong argued that
domestic ideology signaled a “cultural change from an earlier
form of power based on sumptuary display to a modern form that
works through the production of subjectivity.”46 From thence, it
was quite logical to interpret domesticity as the primary example
and vehicle of disciplinary power. Similarly, D.A. Miller’s Novel
and the Police exposed a nineteenth-century “field of power re-
lations” masquerading as a “domesticating pedagogy.”47 Such
works positioned middle-class femininity – sometimes figured as
a generalized maternal, sometimes figured as the service worker
of the feminized “helping professions,” sometimes figured as an
identificatory position within a text – as the efficient vehicle of
a tacit power structure. Such a model found and critiqued do-
mesticity’s localized focus on “people, things, and the concrete”
in the nooks and crannies of social life, seeing it not simply as
the connective tissue of culture but also as the capillary exertion
of power.
In Homefronts: Domesticity and Its Critics, Lora Romero takes a
critical look at the coincidence of a Foucauldian critique of power
and the exercise of female authority. Without defending the
latter unproblematically, she suggests that feminists should re-

consider a critical paradigm that inadvertently positions women
as an insidious force in an otherwise agentless mode of power.
The fact that many subsequent critics end up feminizing micro-
disciplinary operations suggests the presence of a latent gender
politics.
More recently, New Historicist criticism of the Foucauldian variety has

encouraged us to regard the feminization of culture as a symptom of
a larger feminization of power. Yet, the novelty of New Historicism
does not reside in its emphasis on power. Earlier, cultural analysis also
equated feminization with normalization. . . . Neither the poststructural-
ist upheaval that divides the cultural analysis of the 1960s and 1970s
from that of the 1980s and 1990s nor the feminist critiques to which
these analyses have been subjected have altered the basic narrative: nor-
malization is women’s work. Even if exposing the rhetorical work of
Foucauldian history does not in and of itself undermine the facticity
of New Historicist claims (all facts require human interpreters and so
all truth is necessarily rhetorical), still its practitioners cannot possibly
hope to direct their own rhetoric toward progressive ends without first
inquiring into the gender and race politics perpetuated by their use of
Foucauldian knowledge.”48
Romero finds this positioning all-too familiar, apparent in the

earlier scholarship of Christopher Lasch and in Ann Douglas
whose Feminization of American Culture unapologetically aligned
female power with “devious social control.”49 Such alignments
are pervasive in “Americanist” and American feminist literary
scholarship. They move from Nathaniel Hawthorne’s castiga-
tion of “scribbling women” to modernist poets such as Hart
Crane who invoke domesticity as a stand-in for both a suffo-
cating, micro-managing maternalism and the unthinking con-
formities of an ornamental, feminized mass culture. Whether
conceived as insidious stage management or as superficial dis-
play – as trivial “prosiness” or as excessive ornamentation –
domesticity became equated with capitulation, with normaliza-
tion, and with unself-conscious conformism. For avant-garde
artists, it was and has been conceived as an arena to be tran-
scended. It was by defining this gendered populist sphere as
conservative that they could define the high cultural arena of the
avant-garde as subversive. For Romero, post-structuralist liter-
ary history has done little to unsettle this equation. Whatever its
theoretical aspirations, applications of Foucault to this domain

have reinforced a long-standing anti-feminine prejudice.
These tacit prejudices and conceptual blindspots have been
reproduced in cultural and performance theory with varied and
discontinuous effects. It is no coincidence that Carolyn Porter’s
critique characterized New Historicist power models as a “skein
of cloth” woven by “the needle and thread of Power.” Her do-
mestic metaphor obliquely invoked the equation between insid-
ious diffusion and female authority. Erving Goffman’s amused
readings of the performance of everyday life can now be read
as a parodic replay of Catharine Beecher’s rules for domestic
balance, deploying her focus on ordinary minutiae in order to
expose the dependence (and sometimes subversion of) the pri-
vate on the operations of performance. Furthermore, examples
such as Goffman’s cigarette-toting stroller pusher – described
in tones that are at once fascinated and condescending – im-
plicitly invoke without explicitly analyzing the gendered conse-
quences of disruptions in frontstage and backstage. Not only did
Goffman’s mothers extend the backstage to the street and the
park, they also unsettled the image of the backstage, the home,
and the interior as stable and secure. Neither the location nor
the character of domesticity is fixed, given, or natural in his de-
piction. The partial and unsystematic invocation of gendered
examples appeared in other domains of cultural performance
theory. Schechner’s “restoration of behavior” analogized the gen-
erative stages of the performance process to “the mother-baby
relationship,” using D.W. Winnicott’s theory of transitional ob-
jects to characterize “workshop/rehearsal” as a liminal “not not
me” period between immersion and self-differentiation. “These
same operations of dissolving ordinary hierarchies, of treasur-
ing things beyond their ordinary worth, of setting aside cer-
tain times and places for the manipulation of special things in
a world defined non-ordinarily: this is also the definition of the
workshop-rehearsal process, the ritual process, the performative
process.”50 Interestingly, having theorized performance next to
an archetypal process in the maternal domain, Schechner says
that “those who are masters at attaining and prolonging this bal-
ance are artists, shamans, conmen, acrobats.”51 While such a
conclusion is understandable given the discipline-specific goals
of Schechner’s argument, it has the familiar effect of excluding
women or other maternal figures from such forms of mastery.

The argument positions the female as an environment, as the
place in which ritual occurs, rather than as a ritual subject
herself. While her presence provides an enabling metaphor for
the performance theorist, the metaphor does not enable her own
transformation.
For feminist critics of the male avant-garde, the location
of women as the enabling background is all-too conventional.
While, as suggested above, some artists characterized that back-
grounded position as insidious maternal control, others merely
naturalized the position, characterizing it as the surrounding ma-
terial for staging their own self-development. Rebecca Schneider
argues that the “bad-boy art” of the performance avant-garde
consistently used women’s bodies as markers of nature and as the
line to be crossed in often violent rituals of self-differentiation.52
Laura Levin argues that such violence partakes of a longer tradi-
tion of masculinist primitivism reaching back to the Surrealists.53
Richard Schechner himself seems to fuel a feminist critique when
he writes that “the imagination of the adolescent boy is the
core of theater. It is the celebration of his achieving the status
of manhood that is the subject of theatre.”54 Such an incrim-
inating formulation transposes the early liminal dramas of the
“mother-baby relationship” to the hyperbolic liminal dramas of
the teenager, staged by a male performer who alternately returns
to and rejects the protections and constraints of the maternal. It
is in such a structure that Schechner finds the dramatic, some-
thing made clear when he speculates on the effect of women at-
tempting to occupy the position of ritual participant. “Women’s
ceremonies, though often ribald, joyous, enthusiastic, lack the
intensity, brutality, aggression and storylike structure of man’s
ceremonies. In a word, women’s ceremonies are less dramatic.
With few exceptions, the heroes of drama are young men, or
old men who dream and scheme of becoming young again.”55
The lack of “intensity” can be ascribed to the formal difficulty of
women’s position. If women are historically ascribed to the realm
of the supporting prosaic and the tacitly mundane, then they are
not easily installed in the explicit and cathartic structures of the
most vivid ritual processes. If “normalization is women’s work” –
as confirmed by Schechner and critiqued by Romero – then
women’s work can never be made “dramatic.”
Thus, to answer Naomi Schor’s questions for theatre and per-

formance studies, it is not necessarily the case that the analytic
rise of the detail coincided with a conceptual valorization of the
feminine. The effects have been multifarious if not exactly fem-
inist. Sometimes the focus on the particular sidelined the femi-
nine, happily interpreting local knowledge without reference to
the gender politics of locality. Sometimes the feminine appeared
in performance analysis, but then as a naturalized index of the
backstage, as the site for rather than the subject of activist trans-
formation. And sometimes the feminine factored prominently,
but then as a marker of the role of the detail in perpetuating in-
sidious regimes of power. In all cases, it seems that the feminized
domestic is something to be transcended in order to enter the
analysis of an “efficacious” performance culture.
This intellectual tendency can have its effect on the application
of cultural performance theory to the domain of the historical.
It explains, for instance, what some have found to be a gendered
occlusion in what is on the whole an exemplary and brilliant in-
stance of performance history, Joseph Roach’s Cities of the Dead.
Along with Geertz and Foucault, the body of performance theory
outlined above is a significant set of intertexts for Roach’s project,
where the concept of restored behavior provides a way to posi-
tion bodily practices as a central means of historical transmission.
Roach deftly maps these performance paradigms to the work of
other social critics – annales historians such Pierre Nora and
Jacques Le Goff, social theorist Paul Connerton, and critical race
historian Paul Gilroy. Combining an analysis of African ritual
practices, British theatrical traditions, and the performance con-
ventions of the American South (specifically Louisiana), Roach
integrates his theorists and archival research to dramatize the
often violently embodied operations of what he calls a “kinaes-
thetic imagination” in a circum-Atlantic world. Upon investi-
gation of Roach’s models, it is possible to discern a gendered
blindspot similar to the ones I have been describing above. Pierre
Nora makes an important distinction for Roach between differ-
ent types of memorial transmission, distinguishing the alienated,
bicameral structures of modern memorial (lieu de memoire, or
places of memory) from the unalienated, ritually latent, and
tacit structures of pre-modern memorial (milieu de memoire,
or environments of memory).56 Such a distinction mapped
provocatively to Paul Connerton’s division between “inscribed”

and “incorporated” practices, opposing the former’s textual and
intentional methods of remembering to the latter’s bodily enact-
ments of habitual behavior.57 With a barely concealed nostal-
gia, Nora’s provocative discussion of environments of memory
privileged performance’s embodied focus on memorial practice.
However, the historical association between the environmental
creation of restored behavior and “women’s work” went unac-
knowledged by both Nora and Roach. Similarly, Connerton ap-
propriately cited a longer intellectual tradition for the analysis
of such latent realms – in hermeneutics, phenomenology, and
pragmatism. Once again, however, the gendered implications of
valuing such realms went unannounced. Connerton neither con-
sidered the maternal sphere as a conventional site of bodily incor-
poration nor tracked the feminist implications of highlighting this
particularized domain of intimate practices. Without investiga-
tion of the gendered blindspots in such paradigms, performance
historiography is at risk of reproducing them.
Other elements in Roach’s appropriated theoretical models
make it difficult for women to appear in Cities of the Dead. In ad-
dition to a gendered occlusion in theories of bodily performance,
the project is also at risk of maintaining a gender prejudice about
what qualifies as vivid and illuminating in cultural analysis, that
is, what qualifies as “dramatic.” In a study whose central system
of bodily transmission is the circum-Atlantic slave trade, Roach’s
study appropriately foregrounds the violent conventions embed-
ded in performance processes and the forceful instances of literal
and metaphoric mutilation that structure them. The prominence
of crisis and violence as key processes in the foundation of cul-
ture develops the paradigms theorized in Paul Gilroy’s The Black
Atlantic, where “the complicity of civilization and brutality” ra-
tionalizes a “turn towards death” for the descendants of African
slaves.58 Gilroy’s theories of circum-Atlantic culture thus dove-
tail with Richard Schechner’s theories of performance – where
“violent,” “turbulent,” “bloody,” and “perilous” activities con-
stitute the dramatic heart of ritual process.59 Necessary as such a
model is for Cities of the Dead, it runs the risk of bypassing other
kinds of “kineasthetic” performance processes and, moreover,
of excluding or over-determining the position of women in the
analysis of performance history.
That risk is perhaps more easily seen by considering an ex-

ample and testing my arguments next to an episode where a fe-
male figure does make a prominent appearance. One such place is
in Roach’s analysis of a mid-nineteenth century performance of
Dion Boucicault’s The Octoroon where Zoe, the adored offspring
of the master of Terrebonne Plantation and a slave, submits to
the auction block in order to save her late father’s estate from
bankruptcy. The moment of crisis occurs when Zoe stands atop
“a table in the mansion she once graced” and offers her husband
a wrenching inventory of her body: “Of the blood that feeds my
heart, one drop in eight is black . . . for I’m an unclean thing.”60
In Roach’s provocative analysis, Boucicault’s dramaturgical de-
cision to place Zoe atop a table is a significant bodily recalling.
“This action represents onstage the restored behavior of the slave
auctions of the New Orleans Exchange, the transformation of
cash into flesh and of flesh into property.”61 Roach’s considera-
tion of gender in this analysis thus focuses on the sexualized vi-
olence routinized in the performance conventions of the auction
block. What this insightful analysis does not consider, however,
is the specific, entrenched, and affectively binding domestic per-
formance that is bodily recalled and potentially overturned when
the young woman of the house stands on a table. Can the ges-
ture be read as a way of performing her thwarted claim to the
environment that she “once graced?” Is her step upon the table
then a hyperbolic and self-inflicted enactment of the disorder
and racial inversion of domestic stability? Indeed, a great deal
of the dialogue heretofore has focused on the fact that Zoe’s
mixed-raced status will prohibit her from “gracing” the house
with full entitlement. Despite the fact that one could never meet
a “lady more beautiful in person, or more polished in manners,
than that girl,” despite the fact that all heirs and would-be pur-
chasers of the estate have fallen in love with her, Zoe’s claims to
Terrebonne and its contents will be forever partial.62 Of course,
to ask whether the table top is a reflection of a crisis in Zoe’s
domestic identity would mean valuing domesticity as a source of
identity in the first place. By characterizing Boucicault’s trans-
position of the slave auction to the domestic sphere only as a
“surefire appeal to bourgeois anxieties of displacement,” Roach
leaves little room for such an analysis, allowing the “gracing” of
the home to remain a trivial and ornamental activity rather than
a fundamental basis for Zoe’s potential authority and thus com-

promised subjectivity.63 Whether or not Zoe’s moment on the
table top can be more heuristically interpreted, it is still signifi-
cant that a female figure makes her most prominent appearance
by “restoring” violent and “perilous” behavior. The moment may
have as much to do with the influence of Gilroy on Roach’s anal-
ysis as with the conventions of cultural performance theory. To
Claudia Tate, this kind of over-determined position derives from
the centrality of “violence” in the analytic paradigms most often
used to interpret African-American culture. Such an interpre-
tive tendency bypasses the local, life-coordinating performances
of domesticity in the production of national culture.
African American women gain entrance into Gilroy’s cultural history
only by forsaking domesticity, which is to say by forsaking a discourse
about the management and maximization of life. . . . The quotidian
responsibilities of nation building [however] involve processes of nur-
turing, education, and social reproduction; therefore, they speak the
language of life. Nationalism organizes itself around a gendered divi-
sion of labor between the task of founding the nation and the task of
guaranteeing its posterity – even if these activities are never wholly dis-
tinct or necessarily diachronic in their performance. The privilege of the
nationalist idiom of violence suggests an unevenness in the recognition
of nationalism’s different chores.64
Women thus appear only when they participate in the perfor-

mance of cultural violence rather than in the everyday activities
of cultural maintenance. For all of the emphasis on local knowl-
edge and kinesthetic imagination in cultural performance theory,
the gendered inertia of contemporary analysis still cannot find a
way to make such performances “dramatic.”
Gender and performance history

Finally, the impact of a “blurred” intellectual climate on the
study of theatre and performance was enabling in many ways,
though its effects and influences were varied and contradictory.
Newer “cultural turns” in the humanities and social sciences con-
tributed to the discursive rise of performance in the sociological
and anthropological strains of performance studies. At the same
time, they occasionally produced a reductive consciousness with
regard to the discipline of theatre, ahistorically casting theatre
studies as an “unblurred,” canonical field that awaited dispersal

from the interdisciplinary intervention of performance studies.
Furthermore, the analogical diffusion of the p-word did not in
itself transform the methodological habits and predispositions
of the disciplines that deployed the term. Nonetheless and de-
spite their disconnections from each other, various versions of
the cultural turn in social theory, literary studies, and theatre
and performance studies reckoned not only with the interdis-
ciplinary impact of cultural anthropology but also with post-
structuralist models of power. As such, their analyses explicitly
and implicitly grappled with the political ambivalence of those
models. From scholar to scholar, from project to project, their in-
terpretations waivered over issues of domination and resistance,
accepting power’s pervasiveness but still hoping to find places of
subversion. In performance theory, the unprocessed traces of that
ambivalence appear in the varied array of associations that were
appropriated for its umbrella, theorizing the habitually implicit,
on the one hand, and repeatedly celebrating the dramatically ex-
plicit, on the other. While performance was touted as a means
of making community, it became far more interesting politically
and theoretically when it ended up breaking it. As other critics
have noted, this ambivalence only suggests that the institutional
consolidation of performance studies in the 1980s was a product
of its time, sharing the attributes of other former activists-turned-
professional-intellectuals who “dreamed of being young again.”
I have argued, however, that that ambivalence also partici-
pates in and derives from gendered prejudices and occlusions.
It is important to note, moreover, that such occlusions can
persist in feminist analyses where domesticity has not fared well
as an analytic paradigm. The self-deferential nature of domes-
tic discourse – coupled with its practices of enactment on be-
half of persons other than women themselves – did not lend
itself well to a feminist movement that stressed self-activation
and self-advancement. The figure of the maternal was simul-
taneously too weak and too suffocating to feminist daughters
who inherited a few of those male modernist preoccupations.
It was similarly too weak and too suffocating to many femi-
nist theatre critics who allied their hopes instead to a feminist
performance practice within the sphere of the avant-garde. This
conceptual blindspot now contributes to a schism between the
study of historical and the study of contemporary feminist per-

formance or – what often amounts to the same thing – between
“historical” and “theoretical” feminist performance scholarship.
Indeed, to the extent that much feminist performance theory is
also quite focused on finding instances of resistance, subversion,
and transgression, other types of gender performances remain in
the theoretical background. The transgression framework makes
the implicit, domestic, everyday, life-producing performances of
women in earlier periods particularly difficult to track, casting
such historical examples as the regressive foil to present-day pro-
gressivism. With different valences, those prejudices have also
limited the theorizing of activism and the nature of the dra-
matic in variously gendered and racialized arenas, especially are-
nas of the past. “Critics’ tendency to regard domesticity as the
quintessential marker of mindless capitulation rather than as a
symbolic system compatible with a range of political positions has
prevented them from reading the relation between black women’s
domestic fiction and black activism,” writes Claudia Tate.65 The
same can be said for a variety of historical cultural production
produced by female performers of color.
Finally, by locating a gendered blindspot in the cultural anal-
ysis of the detail, I do not mean to suggest that there have not
been intriguing and important applications of particularistic per-
formance paradigms to women’s lives. I would suggest, however,
that such applications can have a kind of redundancy – “look
how local these women’s knowledges are” – that perpetuates
rather than exposes that blindspot. The point is not simply to
say that women (like men) perform their private lives but that
the knowledge that even “private” life is performed has an his-
torical (if not congenital) association with the feminine. While
the genderedness of social life has been fundamental to another
strain of theatre and performance studies derived from feminist
theatre and speech act theory (the subject of the next chapter),
that recognition has not been a focal point in the anthropological
strains of performance studies whose fundamental concepts still
only reluctantly incorporate gender critique.
6 Identity and performance: racial
performativity and anti-racist theatre
The orientals have no vital drama because they are fatalists,

because they do not believe in that free will without which the
drama cannot exist . . . A belief in free will is always favorable
to the drama, whereas a belief in foreordination may be not
be unfavorable to the novel, the chief figures of which are not
required always to know their own minds. Brander Matthews1
I can’t let you get away with thinking you know what I mean.
Ntozake Shange2
Professional passing
One of the most well-circulated essays by an artist of color in the
1990s begins with a description of a university gathering. It is a
“new graduate student reception,” and the artist in question is
also an entering student in Harvard’s doctoral program in phi-
losophy. This would-be philosopher is thrilled to be there, proud
and giddy to be surrounded by the men whose work she has read
and heard lauded for many years.
As often happens in such situations, I went on automatic pilot. I don’t

remember what I said; I suppose I managed not to make a fool of myself.
The most famous and highly respected member of the faculty observed
me for awhile from a distance and then came forward. Without introduc-
tion or preamble he said to me with a triumphant smirk, “Miss Piper,
you’re about as black as I am.”3
Adrian Piper uses this anecdote to open “Passing for White,

Passing for Black,” a meditation, analysis, and indictment of the
interpersonal structures that reproduce and entrench the larger
structures of American racism. By 1991, when she first com-
posed the essay, Piper had produced a large body of artwork that
176
Identity and performance 177
took the dismantling of racism as its central goal. While more

properly positioned as a conceptual artist rather than a perfor-
mance artist per se, her use of the mechanisms of performance
and her incorporation of her own body in her works drew the
attention of theatre and performance circles. As a light-skinned
African-American woman, Piper’s social embodiment proved an
all-too appropriate staging ground for interrogating the dynamics
of everyday racism. Through a variety of media and through the
management of various locutionary situations, her work deployed
what she elsewhere called “the indexical present” – the “concrete,
immediate, here and now” – to expose the racist dynamics of situ-
ations such as those she described in graduate school.4 “Artwork
that draws a relationship with the other in the indexical present
trades easy classification – and hence xenophobia – for a direct
and immediate experience of the complexity of the other and of
one’s own responses to her. Experiencing the other in the indexi-
cal present teaches one how to see.”5 By 1991, Adrian Piper had
also begun to enjoy and endure a notoriety that she had not pre-
viously experienced in her professional life as an artist. Having
begun working as a conceptual artist in the late 1960s, having
watched the audience for her work diminish between 1974 and
1987, she noted that it was not until “the late 1980s, when the
topic of gender, race, and difference became fashionable in crit-
ical circles that I was rehabilitated.”6 While characterizing a new
interest in gender and race as “fashionable,” Piper wryly iden-
tifies a historical juncture in art and academic circles of the late
1980s and 1990s, a time when issues of “identity” and “multi-
culturalism” were alternately celebrated and condemned, a time
that – whatever its fashionable limits – altered the political terms
of artistic and intellectual legitimation.
I want to use aspects of Adrian Piper’s work in conjunction
with other examples to consider how performance – as both a
theatrical object and as a mode of analysis – responds to issues
of racial identity. By locating this excavation at the millennial
shift between the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, this chap-
ter is also an excavation of performance’s relation to what has
often been labeled “identity politics.” Throughout, I will be en-
gaging a larger theoretical concern about the epistemological
and disciplinary connections between theatre studies and con-
temporary theories of performativity. Because the language of
“performativity” has produced both a disciplinary crisis and a

disciplinary opportunity for theatre and performance, it seems
important to include a chapter that brings the frames of per-
formativity in dialogue with theatrical performance. For many
reasons and in different ways, asking these questions returns
my study to a rhetorical genealogy in theatre and performance
studies. I see the theatre/performativity conundrum as embed-
ded in a larger set of genealogical tensions and obfuscations be-
tween the fields of drama and rhetoric. At the same time, I also
want to argue that such tensions and obfuscations in theatrical-
ity/performativity debates parallel the tensions and obfuscations
in debates about racial identification and racial injury, a paral-
lel that makes each serve as a vehicle for illuminating the other.
Adrian Piper’s work offers a starting point for thinking through
this connection. If, as I suggested in the opening to this book, the
conceptual opposition between theatre and performativity is also
one that exacerbates an occupational division between the artist
and the academic, then Piper’s status also resonates uncannily.
The management of two careers as both a professional artist and
a professional philosopher – while incidentally also being a com-
mitted yoga practitioner – has been a running source of tension
in Piper’s life.
Each field demands my full energy, attention, and commitment; each

resents my involvement with the other; each suspects such involvement
when I am absent; each feels personally betrayed when this suspicion
is confirmed; and each is absolutely and unconditionally unwilling to
concede any legitimacy to that involvement, much less make any ac-
commodation to it.7
Thus, in addition to the conflicted performance of racial iden-

tity, Piper has felt compelled to develop various “maneuvers” for
“partitioning” her professional identities, finding polite ways to
respond to fellow artists’ “pointed remarks about not needing
a Ph.D. in philosophy to make good art,” making sure to hide
her commitments to yoga when an analytic philosophy professor
berated “fuzzy-headed Eastern mysticism” during a course lec-
ture, and learning not to “take the bait” when philosophical col-
leagues raise eyebrows at her art-making.8 The institutional ten-
sions that underwrite theatrical and philosophical explorations of
identity – not only racial but also professional – thus serve as a

subtext to my analysis.
As it happens, the philosophical question of identity and sub-
jectivity has been at the heart of theoretical speculation on per-
formance for quite some time. It has also contributed to theatre’s
racialization. Several decades before Piper’s philosophy professor
disparaged Asian and Buddhist characterizations of identity and
action, Brander Matthews argued that “free will” could be both
a racial and a theatrical guarantor. With his generalized char-
acterization of “orientals,” he tried to delineate the anti-fatalist
structure of the dramatic event and to align it with a national (and
implicitly American) temperament. Revisionist histories and the-
ories have dismantled the fundamental assumptions of such a
statement (even if their effects persist in the offhand repudia-
tions of “Eastern mysticism”). Not only does Matthews’ racist
categorization appear ludicrous, many question the possibility
much less actuality of something like “free will.” In concert with
such revisions, I want to trace how the theatre, far from assum-
ing reductive conceptions of the self-sufficient subject, actually
foregrounds its contingency. Anti-racist theatres in particular ex-
pose the difficulty of “knowing one’s own mind.” As it turns out,
unsettling the equation between “drama” and “free will” goes a
long way toward unsettling disciplinary and theoretical debates
between theatre and performativity as well.
Performance, performativity, and racial identity

Recalling an American intellectual climate at the end of the twen-
tieth century, it is no coincidence that issues of identity and issues
of performativity simultaneously came to the fore. As described
in Chapter One, the university context at this time responded
to feminist and multicultural critiques of curricular and institu-
tional exclusion. Heralded and repudiated as “identity politics,”
students and scholars grappled with the historic effects of sexism
and racism and with the after-effects of a series of legal and politi-
cal struggles that belatedly and circuitously changed the content
and character of higher education. While the term “identity”
served as a placeholder with which to argue for inclusion, in fact
the nature and stability of something like coherent identity was
also under question. Feminists of color did some of the most

important work in troubling essentialist identity claims, even as
they simultaneously theorized their political importance. As per-
sons with multiple affiliations who endured different forms of
prejudice, women of color were particularly attuned to the lim-
its of homogeneous identity labels. Kimberlé Crenshaw’s con-
cept of “intersectionality,” Gloria Anzaldua’s theorizing of the
“mestiza,” Deborah King’s discussion of “multiple jeopardy,”
and Norma Alarcon’s complex surveys of scholarship by femi-
nists of color are examples of such identity critiques. At the same
time, a post-structuralist critique of the subject both advanced
and aggravated these political explorations of identity. The so-
cial theory of Michel Foucault argued that relations of power
were constitutive of identity, rather than simplistically “oppres-
sive,” and hence questioned the possibility of locating agency
outside of power at all. Psychoanalytic revisions of Jacques Lacan
theorized the subject as relational, as processual, and as fun-
damentally unknowable either to itself or to others. Such post-
structuralist theorizing often appeared antagonistic to the iden-
tity claims of identity politics, and many wondered aloud why
something like “free will” had become theoretically impossible
just as disenfranchised people tried to exercise it. Others, how-
ever, made careful deployments of identity critiques within politi-
cized writing. In fields such as subaltern, post-colonial, and crit-
ical race studies, such deployments were especially innovative.
Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak’s notion of “strategic essentialism”
managed a both/and approach to identity politics, offering es-
sentialism less as a referential term than as a necessary rhetorical
gesture. Patricia Williams’s Alchemy of Race and Rights, a key text
in what would become the field of critical race studies, placed
personal autobiography in conversation with legal theory’s de-
constructive dissections to expose the processes by which some
identities secure the fiction of wholeness.
Indeed, the political utility of post-structuralist arguments was
(and is) perhaps easier to see when applied to identities that were
privileged by forces of race, gender, sex, and class. Rather than
undermining essentialist claims in marginalized sites of strug-
gle, it was more useful to undermine the assumed integrity of
dominant sites of normalcy. Those who most needed to hear
a critique of free will were those who thought that they had it.
Those who most needed to hear a critique of self-knowledge

were those who thought that they knew their own minds. Sev-
eral scholars in post-colonial studies took this tack, focusing not
only on the experience of colonized peoples but also on the anxi-
eties, self-divisions, and what Homi Bhabha called the “ambiva-
lence” of colonizing subjectivity. Critical race theorists similarly
sought to particularize whiteness, a move that countered the as-
sumption that race was something that only non-white people
had. Limited discussions of racial others presumed the centrality
and normalcy of an unexamined white self, one whose partic-
ularity needed to be underscored, one whose sense of personal
normalcy and naturalness needed to be de-normalized and de-
naturalized. Post-structuralist arguments about power and the
psyche provided paradigms for theorizing this secret complex-
ity. Critical race theorists argued that it was precisely by not
seeming to be about race that whiteness secured its racializing
power. Naturalness was not a pre-given component of identity
but an effect of historical and rhetorical operations; an absent
normalcy was less a thing possessed than an obliviousness pro-
duced by one’s location in a racializing structure. The dilemma
of representing racism lay precisely in this simultaneous there-
ness and not-thereness, advanced every time a person of color’s
hyper-visibility translated into social invisibility, amplified every
time the particularity of white identity braced against its resilient
sense of its own generality. Thus, this exposure of the unacknowl-
edged, normalizing operations of racism helped to undermine
the fictional wholeness of dominant identities. As such, post-
structuralist theorizing uncovered the mechanisms and effects
of what civil rights activists had earlier called “institutionalized
racism” and “internalized oppression,” offering a critique of the
subject and a critique of power that understood racism’s insidious
ordinariness.
How does this genealogy in theories of race bear on the vexed
relationship between the act of theatre-making and the analytic
framework of performativity? As it happens, the debate about
identity and subjectivity in race studies had its parallel in per-
formativity’s critique as well, one that had a retroactive theoret-
ical relationship on theories of the theatre. Before elaborating, I
want to back up to recall this book’s introductory remarks and
to map performativity’s theoretical derivations. As noted earlier,
the term derives from speech-act theory, a subfield of ordinary

language philosophy where J.L. Austin and his colleagues an-
alyzed the world-making power of certain speech acts. To em-
phasize language’s constitutive function was indeed to unsettle
a classical opposition between rhetoric and philosophy, sidelin-
ing the question of language’s truth or falsity by placing effi-
cacy and force (what rhetoricians called “persuasion”) in the
analytical forefront. Austin’s landmark book, How to Do Things
With Words, delineated language’s reflective or constative func-
tion from its performative function. His project, however, be-
came more renowned for exceptions and qualifications, for the
ways he got himself into his own rhetorical conundrums by ex-
amining failed speech acts. By distinguishing a locution’s illo-
cutionary goal (the intention of the speaker’s doing) from its
perlocutionary effects (its “taking up” in a receptive context), he
opened the door to a wide field of linguistic complexity. Austin
often portrayed a world of miscommunication, of infelicitous
misfires, of “unhappy” performatives that bypassed their targeted
interlocutors, that were vulnerable to “infelicitous” uptaking, or
that seemed too precipitously dependent upon the conventions of
particular discursive spheres. Problems of misfires and contextu-
ality surfaced in speech that tried to pass itself off as constantive;
meanwhile, performatives did many things but not always the
doing that their speakers intended. Perlocutionary effects did
not always match illocutionary intents. Several critics alighted
upon the exceptions in Austin’s own theory, on what Shoshana
Felman called the “implicit performatives” of supposedly con-
stantive speech.9 The “original distinction between performative
and constantive was weakened, indeed, dislocated,” not only for
Felman but also for Jacques Derrida who recast the issue as one
of implicit citationality.10 Derrida argued that no speech could
pass itself off as autonomous given its saturation in a context of
conventions, values, labels, and protocol that it is always already
“citing.”11 A kind of self-division and internal difference emerged
as the very condition of speech. Thus, alongside the metaphysical
critique of presence outlined in Chapter Four, revisions of per-
formativity functioned as both target of and vehicle for much of
what became known as deconstruction. As such, deconstruction
heralded itself as a revival of the rhetorical in new form, decid-
ing to see the operations of the figurative and performative in
unexpected places and to theorize the structuring traces implicit

in all that called itself ordinary.
Such theorizing laid the groundwork for performativity’s con-
tribution to the larger issues of identity outlined above. In partic-
ular, this intellectual genealogy fundamentally altered the course
of sex/gender theorizing. Consider, for instance, the writings of
Judith Butler and Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. In their work, the not
altogether improbable assertion that we “perform our gender” is
actually complicated by the performative operations of those per-
formances. Butler questioned the heterosexism of the sex/gender
concept, one that allows delineations of male and female to have
a kind of constantive foundation in the realm of sex. In addition
to such a critique, Butler also emphasized that the citationalities
of sexual and gendered operations are actually obscured from
the view of their performers. For Butler, the thorny difficulty of
this citational performativity is that it “consists in a reiteration of
norms which precede, constrain, and exceed the performer and
in that sense cannot be taken as the fabrication of the performer’s
will or choice.”12 Eve Sedgwick took sex/gender and performativ-
ity in a slightly different direction in her elaboration of “queer per-
formativity.” Extending Austinian and Derridean analysis next
to Butler’s revisions, Sedgwick explored other knotty locutions –
silence, secrecy, disavowal – and their relationship to attendant
structures of shame, paranoia, and narcissism that persistently
shadow and undergird queer experience – even, and most espe-
cially, the queer experience of heterosexuality.
Theories of performativity have important implications for un-
derstanding not only sex/gender identity but also racialized sub-
jectivity, including the racist experience of non-raciality. Butler
and Sedgwick’s discussions of the recursive performativity of a
sex/gender structure echo earlier ways of talking about institu-
tionalized racism – that it maintains itself by being unregistered,
that its performers (both dominant and marginalized) are less
aware of the ways its production depends upon their own repe-
titions. Performativity names the iterative processes that do the
“institutionalizing” in institutional racism and that do the “inter-
nalizing” in internalized oppression. Racism is thus the ultimate
performative. In such a model, however, the question of resis-
tance is harder to fathom. To the extent that performativity imag-
ines institutional power as diffuse and internal self-knowledge as
deferred, alteration in racist performativity poses an epistemolog-

ical conundrum. “Resistance” requires a quite complicated and
formally obtuse act of “disidentification” from/within normative
citational processes. Such a formally impacted model of insti-
tutional racism thus sheds light on the dilemmas of individuals
working within racist and even anti-racist institutions, including
the institutions of the theatre and of the university.
In Excitable Speech, Judith Butler has developed her reflections
on performative speech next to issues of race by focusing on the
phenomenon of hate speech. I plan to take these thoughts in an-
other direction by attending to environments of liberal and even
anti-racist intention. In addition to tracking the unacknowledged
processes of racial convention, performativity’s speech-act the-
ory brings a more specific mode of discursive analysis to the en-
counter between performer and receiver. Furthermore, I find it
helpful to analogize this interactional space of performance next
to the dynamics of inter and intra-racial sociality in contempo-
rary American public spheres more generally. This means re-
membering how saturated with Austinian “misfires” is that most
ubiquitous of encounters, the cross-racial dialogue – or to adapt
Eve Sedgwick, how resiliently threatening is the possibility of be-
ing shamed by them. It also means examining the dynamics of
intra-racial locutionary spaces, where speech activates a circuit
of reciprocity that props up racial identity. In such spaces, one
sees and hears persons doing many things with their words, man-
aging culpability, shame, self-censorship, secrecy, and paranoia.
Certainly, such structures activate many kinds of public inter-
actions, including those of the university classrooms that try to
grapple with the impact of identity politics. It seems to me that the
position of the theatrical performer can illuminate such dynam-
ics. Sensitized to the vagaries of performative speech, persons in
such a position are always at risk of infelicity, constantly endur-
ing the threat of not being “taken up” by an audience of targeted
interlocutors. Theatrical performers try to instantiate a sociabil-
ity that always threatens to withdraw itself. In the next sections,
the work of Adrian Piper, Cherrié Moraga, Diana Son, Ntozake
Shange, and Anna Deavere Smith provide different opportunities
for analyzing the performative contingencies of theatrical speech.
Adrian Piper is an artist who specializes in the complicated
dynamics of racial identification and its dialogic infelicities. In
her famous piece, Cornered, this light-skinned, African-American

woman addressed an unspecific audience from a video screen,
asking viewers to reconcile her apparent lightness with her stated
racial identity. Her questions increasingly targeted the apparent
lightness of white viewers, asking them to consider the possibility
that they too were black. What would they do with this informa-
tion? Piper asked. Would they keep it a secret? Tell some people,
but not others? Piper created an interactional space in which in-
terlocutors had to decide how to “take-up” her proffered ques-
tions and, in the process, recognize that the capacity to decide
varied with racial privilege. Another notable performance piece,
the “calling card,” consists of a business card that Piper passes
out at key moments in everyday exchange.
Dear Friend:
I am black.
I am sure that you did not realize this when you made/laughed at/agreed
with that racist remark. In the past, I have attempted to alert white people
to my racial identity in advance. Unfortunately, this invariably causes
them to react to me as pushy, manipulative, or socially inappropriate.
Therefore, my policy is to assume that white people do not make these
remarks, even when they believe there are no black people present, and
to distribute the card when they do.
I regret any discomfort my presence is causing you, just as I am sure
you regret the discomfort your racism is causing me.
In “calling card,” Piper deploys a subtle performance mode –

one that might be located in a series of avant-garde performance
and invisible theatre experiments – to intervene inside racism’s
everyday performativities.
In a recent Lingua Franca article, “Black Like Me,” Adam
Shatz surveys Piper’s significant body of work. He writes, “Piper’s
aesthetic program . . . is mainly concerned with patterns of cog-
nition . . . Piper believed that shock tactics could force her in-
terlocutors into rational reflection on their own racism.”13 While
this might seem a reasonable assessment of the work, it is inter-
esting to note Piper’s response to the article. Her qualifications
illustrate the dilemmas of anti-racist performance as one pro-
duced by performativity’s operations. Piper responds: “I do not
try to ‘force’ viewers of my work to do anything. I do not believe
in ‘racial shock treatment’ or ‘shock tactics,’ and I do not have an
‘aesthetic program.’” She concludes that she is simply “depicting
the truth as I see it.”14 What exactly should be made of these

repudiations? Piper’s reaction could be construed as an artist’s
anti-intellectual resistance to being interpreted. Before immedi-
ately assuming this all-too familiar stance, it is worth lingering on
her act of disidentification and considering how her amplification
rests upon an awareness of unhappy addressive structures.
Many white viewers of my work are shocked by it because it confronts
them with circumstances, images, and ideas with which they are unfa-
miliar and uncomfortable. However, the truths I try to depict are not
news and not sources of discomfort to most members of the black au-
dience. . . . [B]ecause many whites often feel themselves to be not in
control of their reactions to my work, they often shut down cognitively
and emotionally and panic. They automatically assume that I am con-
trolling them; they then infer that I must have intended to “shock” them:
and they conclude that I have “forced” them into having those strong
reactions as part of my “aesthetic program.”15
Within the well-intentioned, even progressive-minded orienta-

tion of a Lingua Franca article, Piper still finds herself caught
within a network of what Austin would have called illocutionary
and perlocutionary effects. A work of art that provokes iden-
tification and self-recognition in one audience member elicits
“shock” and “discomfort” in another. But she is isolating more
than a difference in interpretation. White audience members’
consequent “panic,” she notes, is simultaneously posited as an
intended effect, a positing that locates and circumscribes Piper as
a strategizing subject. Rather than remaining cognizant of how
their panic is produced in the moment of their own receptive up-
take, white interlocutors instead construe Piper as the sovereign
and willful originator of their discomfort, disorientation, and
shock. This kind of dynamic is exactly the one that Piper tries
to counter with the strategy of the calling card. Having found
that an anticipatory notification of her racial identity (“by the
way, I am black”) was labeled “pushy, manipulative, or inap-
propriate,” Piper realized that the act of racial self-identification
was immediately received as a racially directed accusation by her
interlocutors.
The difficulties of coming to terms with Piper’s anti-racist per-
formance thus make explicit the locutionary politics of perfor-
mative speech. Intriguingly, Piper’s dilemma speaks to Judith
Butler’s elaborations of performativity in Excitable Speech. To
locate and specify the mechanisms of homophobic speech acts,

Butler develops a concept of paranoia. Her goal here is to under-
stand how naming one’s sexual identity (“I am a homosexual”)
can be interpreted by the non-homosexual as seduction; “a state-
ment is construed as solicitation . . . a self-ascription taken as an
address.” What Butler argues of homophobic reaction applies
to the racial encounter. While the declaration of sexual iden-
tity is received as seduction, the declaration of racial identity is
received as accusation. Butler describes a complicated and para-
noid process of psychic displacement. “The slights and injuries
experienced within what is called paranoia are the psychic traces
of existing social regulations, even as those traces have become
estranged from the regulations from which they are derived.”16
In paranoia, the residue of a subject’s estranged desire becomes
conflated with an externalized social (presumably judgemental)
encounter. “The coincidence of the judgment of Others and a
turning back upon oneself,” registers “psychically as the imag-
ined slights and injuries performed by Others.”17 Piper’s work
elicits such coincidences, moments when an audience member
“turns back upon herself” registering that turning as “a slight or
injury performed by” Adrian Piper. As I will discuss throughout
this chapter, a partial, attenuated, non-identificatory, or simplis-
tically identificatory relation to a racial performance can cause
an interlocutor to position herself as the performance’s “target.”
Piper may not intend to shock in an absolute sense; however,
her performances are deployments of this kind of rhetorical com-
plexity and involve complicated networks of illocutionary and
perlocutionary force. Thus, her urge not to be assigned absolute
intention does not eliminate the fact that the projection and de-
flection of intention and culpability are pervasive in both racist
and anti-racist encounters, including the encounters of her per-
formance and installation work. In such forums, everyone seems
to have a “program,” at least to everyone else. Whether the culpa-
ble subject is the racist or the figure who claims racial injury, par-
ticipants sort through with more and less complexity the formal
dilemmas of being tagged an intentional subject and, by exten-
sion, a willful injurer. As persons accused and accused of doing
the accusing, Piper and her audience members find themselves
being injurious by claiming injury and feel themselves injured
upon being labeled injurious.
My discussion thus far offers one way of mapping a theoretical

relationship between performativity and theatrical performance –
and to use that relationship to understand the complexities of
liberal racist and anti-racist exchange. I argue for a connection
between theatrical exchange and the (in)felicities of performative
speech, further adapting the deconstructive critique to suggest
that the uncertainty of a performer’s intention is part of the com-
plexity of cross-racial exchange. To align theatrical performance
and performativity, however, is to flout Austinian disalignments
as well as to modify some of the more recent elaborations of
their relationship. J.L. Austin famously called the “utterance” of
the stage actor “hollow or void,” characterizing such locutions
as “parasitic” upon and derivative of primary linguistic use.18
Such a stance would make Adrian Piper’s theatrical speech irrel-
evant to serious or substantial philosophical analysis, a prejudice
that also supports the professional divides between artist and
philosopher that Piper knows all-too well. Intriguingly, a num-
ber of contemporary critics have roundly criticized Austin’s neo-
Platonic description of theatrical language as “etiolated” (“lack-
ing in vigor or natural exuberance”19 ). Indeed, Derrida’s concept
of “citationality” makes derivativeness a rule rather than an ex-
ception and suggests that there is nothing uniquely “etiolated”
about the theatre. As William Worthen has argued, however, the
theoretical counter to Austin’s anti-theatricalism has not neces-
sarily resolved other persistent anti-theatricalisms.20 Dramatic
theatre still does not appear as a favored object of analysis in
critical theory.
Indeed, scholarly debates about and between terms such as
drama, performance, and performativity contain much disavowal
and a great deal of misrecognition. Theorists from different disci-
plinary homes use a variety of unstable oppositions (drama versus
performance, performance versus performativity) to delineate
their own interests, to target others, and to stake new claims. The
disciplinary conversation around these terms is itself an instance
of unhappy uptakes, of imputed slights, and of unintended effects
in which theoretical paradigms (e.g. performativity and textual-
ity) are erroneously conflated and aesthetic forms (e.g. drama
and performance art) are opportunistically aligned and opposed.
Whether performance is characterized as drama, dance, theatre,
or performance art, however, there is a certain line of theoretical
thinking that distinguishes all of these forms from the registers

of performativity. In the aftermath of her provocative book of
1990, Gender Trouble, Judith Butler worried that readers mistak-
enly assumed that the performance of gender was voluntary, and
that alteration in gender performance occurred through the in-
tention or politicized will of the performer. In “Critically Queer”
(reprinted in 1993 in Bodies That Matter), she felt compelled to
specify performativity as a “reiteration of norms which precede,
constrain, and exceed the performer” and characterized perfor-
mance as a realm that assumed “will” or “choice.” She concluded
her clarification by asserting infelicitously that “the reduction of
performativity to performance would be a mistake.”21 I call the
assertion infelicitous because of how very unhappily it could be
taken up by scholars of theatre, dance, and performance. While
it was not Butler’s “intention,” these and similar kinds of as-
sertions were displaced onto and taken up within performance’s
disciplinary spheres, unwittingly “citing” a longer history of in-
stitutional exclusion. The use of the word “reduce” in reference
to performance sounded too familiar to its academic proponents,
reinforcing rather than rectifying an equivocal academic history.
For Jill Dolan, such a theoretical move appeared to rational-
ize disciplinary oversight. “As much as performativity captures
the political field, theatrical performances, as located historical
sites for interventionist work in social identity, are rarely con-
sidered across the disciplines, methods, and politics that borrow
[theatre’s] terms.”22 That “performativity” appeared to Dolan
to be “borrowed” from theatre studies rather than from speech
act theory demonstrated the term’s unwitting enmeshment in
several chains of citation. Even when the speech-act genealogy
was acknowledged, however, performance scholars still specu-
lated on its disciplinary effects. “Though ‘performativity’ is not
an ‘act’ but a ‘reiteration’ or ‘citation,’” wrote Elin Diamond,
“why should we restrict its iterative sites to theory and to the
theorists act of seeing? Theatre, too is theory.”23 In forum after
forum, theatre and performance scholars meditated on the irony
that performativity theory undermined rather than enhanced the
theoretical potential of their favorite objects of study.
If the main point of Judith Butler’s clarification was to assign
intentional self-consciousness to performance, then she certainly
had a point. Brander Matthews’ alignment of drama and free
will anticipated such an equation. Indeed, late twentieth-century

identity-based performance reproduced Matthews’ formulation
even as it sought to counter the generalization of its racism. In
feminist, anti-racist, and anti-homophobic theatre – in the collec-
tions of its plays, in the program notes that introduced produc-
tions, in the syllabi that disseminated the playwrights – the pres-
ence or absence of self-conscious intention became equated with
the presence or absence of political relevance. As such, perfor-
mance was repeatedly invoked as the vehicle by which fragmented
identities were made whole, the silent given voice, the invisible
made visible, and the injurer targeted by the injured. While of-
ten factoring an anti-essentialist stance on the nature of identity,
theatres of identity still seemed to emphasize essentialist notions
of power, the psyche, and the theatrical form. Theatre would de-
lineate the powerless from the powerful and move marginalized
subjects from a state of unknowingness to the more enlightened
state of knowing one’s own mind. When Dolan elaborated on
how theatre scholars might “borrow back” the theory of per-
formativity, she wrote that we “might put Butler’s provocative
performative metaphor to use in theatre spaces, in which the
intentional performance of gender acts might be examined, dis-
rupted, and reconfigured.”24 Elin Diamond too had theorized
feminist theatre as a site where “the gender lexicon become[s]
so many illusionist trappings to be put on or shed at will.”25 For
Butler, however, it was precisely the “intentional performance of
gender” – the “at will” – that was under question.
Several scholars attempted to craft a relationship between per-
formance and performativity, including Judith Butler herself. For
Butler, theatre emerges as a necessary type of hyperbolic gesture,
a spectacle that might expose habituated citational scripts. Later,
in Excitable Speech, she developed this assertion in a way that
sounded less “reductive” to the proponents of performance. The
“aesthetic reenactment uses the word, but also displays it, points to
it, outlines it as the arbitrary material instance of language that
is exploited to produce certain kinds of effects.”26 To theatre
and performance scholars and practitioners, this characteriza-
ton of the aesthetic enactment is familiar. The language of overt
display, of pointing, of exposing the arbitrary, echoed Brecht’s
language of defamiliarization. This is how theatre theorists such
as Elin Diamond and William Worthen have reconciled theatre
and performativity, lodging Brechtian defamiliarization inside

Butlerian resignification. José Muñoz’s elaboration of “disiden-
tification” utilizes a similar strategy in its analysis of queer per-
formers of color who cite conventions of race, gender, and sex
with a parodic difference.27 Such ironic performances repeat nor-
malized stereotypes not to reify them but in order to expose them
and, after Butler, “calling attention to it as a citation, situating
that use within a citational legacy.”28 This is an intensely pro-
ductive move and one that I would not argue against. However,
I am not sure whether it always resolves the issue of intentional-
ity. The defamiliarization paradigm still might assume the self-
consciousness of a subject who does the displaying, the pointing,
and the outlining – that is, the subject who has a “program.”
I think that it is particularly important to refine this model of
ironic defamiliarization when it comes to anti-racist theatre in
the United States. If there is ever a time when the tolerance for
ambiguous address is low and the quest for literal representation
high, it is in instances of explicitly racialized performance. In
anti-racist performance, audience members often forget what-
ever they once knew about theatrical irony.
Most theories of the theatre develop aspects of its ocularcentric
etymological root: “a place for viewing.” As a hyperbolic place
of display, theatre requires the seeability of its object. Such a
space has also been historically conceived as a space of performer
agency; as Matthews asserted, “free will is always favorable to the
drama.” Finally, the idea of “drama” is formally bound up in a
dyadic interaction; the thrill of an exchange between protagonists
and antagonists creates the drama in the dramatic. Performativ-
ity, on the other hand, emphasizes radically different elements,
especially in its deconstructive mode. It identifies conventions
that are unregistered and unintended rather than fully visible
and willed; it also questions the possibility of locating a discrete
antagonist outside of the subject who is injured. Performativity
thus seems to question the foundations of the theatrical. Now, if
I add to this impossible mix my contention that racism is the ul-
timate performative, I think that it becomes easier to understand
why the effort to theatricalize racism has been so difficult. It also
makes its theorizing somewhat tricky. Peggy Phelan’s 1993 book,
Unmarked: The Ontology of Performance, is significant in this re-
gard, particularly for the way that it theorizes performance as
an ephemeral site of invisibility and disappearance rather than

unproblematic visibility and presence. Eve Sedgwick’s own the-
orizing on “Queer Performativity” initially opposed these de-
constructive and theatrical legacies outlined above, particularly
their respective introversion and extroversion, but offered the
operation of shame – its doing and undoing of the subject, its
rituals of exposure, its averted head and downcast eyes – as a
kind of pivot on which both trajectories could meet.29 Mean-
while, Anne Cheng’s The Melancholy of Race took seriously the
fundamental impossibility of complete self-knowledge; toward
the end of the book, she offered the concept of “immersion” as a
risky but necessary practice in politicized encounters where the
“successful” identification of racial subjectivity can never be fully
assumed.30
In the next sections, I take seriously the formal difficulty of
reconciling racism’s tacit performativity with theatricality’s ex-
plicit visibility. In other words, I use a discussion of theatricality
and performativity to understand the formal dilemmas of anti-
racist performance. My attempts to connect race, performance,
and performativity will suggest that the vexed relationship of one
pairing can help us to understand the difficulties of the other.
Thus, I will argue not only that critical race and feminist dis-
courses can be adapted to drama and performance but also find
an alternative sense of their own possibilities in them. In such
experiments, theatre’s high extroversion meets the habituated
introversion of race privilege. Such theatres attempt to perform
racism within and despite the secreted, normalizing, and unreg-
istered operations of racism’s performativity. They attempt to
narrate injury and, in doing so, stage the difficulty of locating
the injurer. In the case of white privilege, they attempt to use
the extraordinariness of public space to make character from an
experience of characterlessness, to make theatre of an experience
whose distinctive attribute is the feeling that nothing dramatic is
happening. Theatrical performances of racism thus offer a par-
ticularly illuminating laboratory for exploring the possibilities of
integrating theatrical and deconstructive genealogies of perfor-
mance. They are also a good place to think about what it means to
create a pedagogical public sphere that investigates race privilege
and racial injury. Such an arena might reveal that the difficulties
of creating such a sphere are often formal problems and limited
by the operational, gestural, spectatorial, and verbal conventions

of publicity, especially when they meet the unnoticed, fleeting,
and mired dynamics of normalcy.
Anti-racist theatre and rhetorical infelicity

A look at other theatrical public spheres dramatizes more con-
nections amongst performative speech, theatre, and racialization.
As a co-editor of This Bridge Called My Back, Cherrı́e Moraga is
a particularly significant figure as both a critic and an artist. This
Bridge, published by Kitchen Table Press, countered essentialist
identity claims within racial, cultural, and feminist movements
by exposing what Kimberlé Crenshaw would call the “intersec-
tionality” of multiple claims of affiliation. At the same time, this
anti-essentialist work sat uneasily, and productively, next to the
radical language of revolution, love, hope, and healing. Moraga
sought, with other women of color, persons “who you can sit
down to a meal with, who you can cry with.”31 There is nothing
“essentialist” about being able to engage the felicitous conven-
tions of the kitchen table; however, they could feel essentialist
when an unfamiliar person sat down. In the response to texts
such as This Bridge, essentialism became a placeholder for im-
puted sovereignty, the projection of an intentionally bounded,
autonomous, and exclusive identity. Whether Bridge’s reader
felt addressed or ignored, included or accused, often dictated
whether such a text was labeled essentialist or anti-essentialist –
and whether that label received a positive or negative valuation.
For Moraga, an appeal to the experiential could expand rather
than reduce the array of possible identifications. She recalled that
addressing race became necessary in order to address her sexu-
ality. “I wanted/needed to deal with racism because I couldn’t
stand being separated from other women. Because I took my les-
bianism that seriously.”32 Furthermore, she became better able
to understand the mechanisms of racism after facing the injuries
of homophobia. “The joys of looking like a white girl ain’t so
great since I realized I could be beaten on the street for be-
ing a dyke.”33 Moraga’s statement figures intersectional identity
not simply as an addictive mixture of racial and sexual elements
but as a network of identifications that mutually and sometimes
backhandedly construct and disavow the other. Consequently,
Moraga’s playwriting has self-consciously addressed themes of

race, culture, gender, and sexuality. As such, her plays have also
endured the homophobic reaction of imputed solicitation as well
as the racist reaction of imputed accusation. In Giving Up the
Ghost, she specifically addressed intra-cultural and cross-cultural
lesbian love. In Shadow of a Man, a story of lesbian sexual recog-
nition was perhaps less volatile than her dramatization of Chi-
cano male homosociality as simultaneously erotic and misogy-
nist. Writing plays that address a variety of cultural, sexual, and
political contexts, Moraga’s audiences can find different ways of
being accused, injured, or left out. In such theatres, being ig-
nored and being targeted are surprisingly compatible forms of
uptake.
The fraught dynamics of performative speech are blatantly il-
luminated by another element of identity-based theatre in a US
context: that is, the use of languages other than standard English.
Debates over the construction of Latino/a, Mexican-American,
and Chicano/a identity most explicitly engage the issue of speech.
In heated discussions over English proficiency and bi-lingual ed-
ucation, in theorizing and counter-theorizing on the indexical
authenticity of Spanish, Spanglish, and English-Spanish code-
switching, speech emerges as a powerful and strangely threaten-
ing mode of instantiating identity. As such, these discussions also
make explicit the constitutive relation of linguistic forms. In an-
alyzing Moraga’s Shadow of a Man at Brava’s center for perform-
ing arts in San Francisco, for example, Yvonne Yarbro-Bejarano
noted the dynamics of its reception.
The bilingual voice of the play was a source of discomfort for non-Latino
spectators. Some white male critics . . . spoke of the bilingual dialogue
as a ‘drawback’ or of the play’s ‘frequent excursions into Spanish.’ This
perspective is shared by the interviewer . . . who referred to the ‘novelty’
of the script’s mixing of Spanish and English. This novelty has a twenty-
five year history in Chicano theater.34
Non-Spanish speaking reviewers thus illustrated a range of differ-

ent responses or modes of “taking up” this play. Casting Spanish
as an “excursion” reified the presumption of English as a stan-
dard convention, a naturalized assumption maintained when a
second critic cast it negatively as an aesthetic “drawback” and
when a third cast it positively as a theatrical “novelty.” Yarbro-

Bejarano appeals to the simultaneous normalcy of another set of
conventions, however, when she refers to the “twenty-five year
history” of Chicano theatre that the script implicitly cites. In
the public sphere created by Moraga’s Shadow, there exists more
than one set of linguistic and aesthetic conventions. The critics’
reception – an Austinian “uptake” – occurs within that contin-
gent sphere, even if the unqualified use of terms such as draw-
back, excursion, and novelty disavow it. Of course, the capacity
to effect such performative disavowals is itself a racial privilege;
racial privilege means being able to hold the world accountable
to one’s projections.
There is another aspect to this addressive moment that is also
worth exploring, for the disavowal can be construed more pre-
cisely as a response to not being addressed. An audience’s response
is thus an attempt to secure, through speech, a way out of criti-
cal disorientation. The non-Spanish speaking audience does not
have the skills to inhabit the interlocutionary positions that the
play provides. To call Moraga’s technique a “drawback” or, more
well-intentioned, a “novelty” is an attempt to assume a position
that the interlocutor cannot find for herself in the play. However,
if the assumption that one is always addressed is a consequence
of privilege, it is also an everyday principle that often goes unrec-
ognized by those who hold it. Thus, if a privileged person enters
a space whose language is unfamiliar and still assumes that s/he is,
as usual, being addressed, then such a person might not always
capitulate to disorientation. Instead, she may decide that there
is addressive intent in the non-address, that s/he is being inten-
tionally left out, that being left out is her position. This scenario
exemplifies the deeper narcissism of interpreting a lack of ad-
dress as a personal assault, in this case a “slight” to the centrality
of the non-Spanish speaker. S/he thereby generates the psychic
fantasy of being “injured” by an Other, “shocked,” “forced” –
the “target” of an Other’s “program.”
If the predicaments of Piper and Moraga illustrate two differ-
ent versions of addressive and receptive entanglements, Diana
Son’s R.A.W. (‘Cause I’m a Woman) shows yet a third theatri-
cal encounter with performative speech as well as an attempt to
diminish the risk of infelicity. Son’s play consists of four female
Asian-American actors as well as a slide projector that creates a

fifth type of speaking position. Throughout the production, the
slide projects different kinds of racial locutions, ranging from
a list of stereotypic adjectives (“Exotic,” “Submissive,” “Chic,”
“Obedient”) to condescending dialogue that instantiates racial
and gender identity (“I love your eyes” . . . “I love Oriental
women”). Around the display of each screen, actors work to
disengage from this performative positioning. Responding to the
comment about her/their eyes, each actor takes on a different part
of a first-person response, ending in a literalization that short-
circuits her/their exoticization.
2: My eyes.
3: That they have given earnest love to men.
4: And complex love to women.
3: That through them he feels the grace that God has lent me.
1: That they’re slanted.
After the slide “asks” the questions, “Where are you from?”
and later “I mean what country are you from?” the four female
actors speculate on the spectral speaker’s illocutionary fascina-
tions. “Because he wants to hear: /I’m from a fishing village off
the Yangtze river/ Where my mother was a shaman who taught
me shiatsu/ Where my father made musical instruments out of
fish bones and moss. . . .”35 Both of these moments re-perform
and, in so doing, de-familiarize a chain of racist citations. Son’s
text uses the word “slanted” in order to “outline” and “dis-
play” its erotic and prejudiced effects as well as to foreground
the complexity and “grace” that it occludes. R.A.W.’s rendering
of the longer interior monologue also exposes a particular brand
of racial differentiation experienced by children of immigrant-
Americans from China, India, Japan, Korea, and other Asian
countries. Even third-generation Americans find themselves po-
sitioned as inhabitants of an elsewhere; racial identification as
Asian thus seems to stall national identification as American, a
process de-naturalized in the play.
The paradigm of defamiliarization tracks only part of what
is going on in Son’s dramaturgy, however. Son’s discussion of
her decision to use the slides shows her negotiation of audience
“uptake.” The slides not only de-familiarize but also attempt to
mollify the theatrical event’s paranoid structure.
I didn’t want lines like ‘I’ve never been with an Oriental woman before’ to
be delivered with exaggeration or mockery. Slides are non-judgmental.
I am not trying to condemn men who say lines like this. The words
express themselves; no commentary is necessary. But I want people to
know that Asian American women have to hear these comments all the
time.36
However one interprets the assertions that slides are non-

judgmental or that words express themselves, Son at the very least
can be seen facing the issue of performative address – that the
reflective attempt to let “people know” can be interpreted as the
active attempt to “condemn.” Indeed, rather than assuming
the disingenuousness or political weakness of Son’s claim that she
is “not trying to condemn,” her play might be appropriately read
as a navigation of the performative complexity of racial injury.
R.A.W. theatricalizes racism by unsettling rather than specifying
its source. By matching the complexity of racial performativity
to an alternative theatrical rhetoric, her stage directions say, “the
audience can give the man whatever voice they hear internally.”37
In some ways, the slides diminish rather than heighten the effect
of parody – or more accurately, the risk of an interlocutor feel-
ing parodied – and so the perception of accusation. Of course,
it could be argued that audiences are always receiving theatrical
speech through “whatever voice they hear internally,” placed as
they are in a theatrical structure where the “judgment of others”
coincides with their own “turned back desires.” Son’s rhetorical
technique, however, offers a space to modulate that coincidence.
By receiving the words of explicit and liberal racism onstage, an
audience member can take up a position as its target, listener, or
speaker. Some may find themselves addressed and addressing.
Hearing the speech of another couched as her own, the comfort
of listening might simultaneously return as the echo of an all-too
familiar speaking. It is through such techniques, however, that
R.A.W. alights upon the secret, psychically deferred character of
racial performativity via racialized theatricality.
These questions about the convolutions and formal dilemmas
of racialized addressive structures provide an interesting way to
rethink past instances of identity-based theatre in the United
States. Indeed, that longer history is filled with instances of racial
accusation that occasionally miss their target; meanwhile, other
attempts to portray racial experience are perceived to do more
“targeting” than they intend. Such deflections and projections

in identity-based theatre require artists and critics to address the
diffuse, obtuse, but no less impactful operations of power and
the psyche. Anne Cheng argues that the mid-century civil rights
struggle asked US citizens to take such dimensions seriously.
By arguing that racism exerted psychic damage that warranted
retribution, Brown v. Board in particular “may be said to be
an unprecedented judgment about the necessity of examining
the invisible but tenacious aspects of racism – of allowing racial
grief to have its say even if it cannot definitively speak in the
language of material grievance.”38 In many ways, late-twentieth-
century playwrights have been galvanized by the discursive milieu
marked and advanced by the Board ruling. As such, they have
also endured what Cheng identifies as its potentially conservative
effect, the “beginnings of the slip from recognizing to naturaliz-
ing injury.”39 Turning from grief to grievance, that is, narrating
and formalizing the injuries of race, can have the effect of fixing
that which it seeks to undo. In many ways, Ntozake Shange’s
plays exemplify this kind of movement in anti-racist performa-
tives. Shange is a playwright who has made a habit and a political
project out of exorcising the damage to which Board referred. In
both academic and theatrical contexts, Shange’s work also fig-
ured centrally in critiques of the theatrical canon, occupying a
pivotal space in syllabi, anthologies, and production seasons that
sought to expand the representation of female artists and artists
of color. For colored girls who have considered suicide when the rain-
bow is enuf voiced the intangibles of internalized oppression (“I
can’t stand being sorry and colored”) and of racial injury. To the
extent that her play also portrayed the deleterious intersectional
experience of race and gender in the lives of both black men
and women, however, for colored girls also received cross-racial
and intra-racial approbation. Whether white audience members
felt accused or excluded or black men felt accused and berated,
Shange’s play also seemed to risk naturalizing the injuries that it
sought to recognize.40
The subtle difference between recognition and naturalization,
however, might well be a matter of uptake. Shange followed for
colored girls with Spell #7. I want to linger on this text in order
to foreground its rhetorical choices and to consider how they
reflect on the dilemma and opportunity of performing racism.
Written in the mid-1970s, Spell takes place within the imagina-

tive space of Eli’s bar, a space where female and male African-
American actors gather routinely after rehearsals, auditions, and
day jobs to reminisce and to imagine possible lives. Actors named
Alec, Dahlia, Lily, Maxine, and Natalie initiate fantasy scenes in
the middle of the bar, propelled by fellow actors who alternately
perform roles as characters, co-narrators, and audience mem-
bers. Meanwhile, another character named Lou serves as the
show’s primary narrator in the role of Mr. Interlocutor, taking
on the role of magician, trickster and story-teller as he guides
the action as well as the audience’s relationship to that action.
As a traditional African-American figure of trickery and dialogic
interaction, Mr. Interlocutor is a reminder that performativity
and counter-performativity have racialized histories and that lo-
cutionary conventions such as testifying, witnessing, the dozens,
and signifyin’ cite a long-running counter-tradition of disiden-
tificatory speech. When audience members take their seats at a
production of Spell #7, they are confronted by a “huge black-
face mask hanging from the ceiling of the theatre.” Shange’s
stage directions are explicit – “the audience must integrate this
grotesque, larger-than-life misrepresentation of life into their pre-
show chatter” – thus simultaneously expanding the circumfer-
ence of performance to incorporate and aggravate the conven-
tional behaviors of theatrical spectators. Many have discussed
this play’s use, or re-use, of the minstrel mask and other racist
imagery. Within the context of speech-act theory, the decision
to incorporate rather than to eradicate the racist grotesque ex-
emplifies Judith Butler’s call for a resignification of hate speech;
once again, this theatre uses the word, displays it, points to it, and
“outlines it as the arbitrary material instance of language that is
exploited to produce certain kinds of effects.”41
Spell #7 coordinates several levels of story-telling at once, an
integration of different narratorial modes. I call these techniques
rhetorical for specific as well as general reasons. Not only do
they have performative effects, but they secure those effects by
manipulating registers of narration and realigning the conven-
tions of self and other along the way. The critique of such formal
manipulations in narrative and performance has a specific dis-
ciplinary history, having received sustained critical attention in
the rhetorical genealogy of performance studies. Indeed, the ways
and means of performed narration – diffused, split, deferred, and

re-routed – has been the historic domain of that gently mocked
field known as “oral interpretation.” Oral interpretation’s formal
rather than thematic approach to literature finds an especially
productive intersection in identity-based performance. Spell #7
interlaces and overlays several narratorial frames at once. Sto-
ries such as the tale of Sue-Jean, a woman who gives birth to
and later kills her longed-for child whom she calls “myself,” are
embedded within the actors’ conversations about employment,
the racist stereotypes of casting, and other stories about their
lives. The story-telling at the bar is itself framed by Lou’s direct
addresses to the audience and actors. Shange’s stage directions
have a meta-theatrical awareness of performative speech. The
inhabitants understand that this space is reciprocal, where inter-
locutors know how to uptake so as to allow the relatively safe ex-
ploration of unsafe things. Meanwhile, the levels of story-telling
are fluid and occasionally subvert the authority of a primary nar-
rator. New narratives begin with an actor’s enunciation and oc-
casionally another actor may join in. The narratorial authority
constantly shifts between initial locutions and uptakes, careful
to maintain a felicitous context. Sometimes the primary charac-
ter of a story may narrate herself in the first person. Sometimes
another figure serves as primary narrator. Often self-narration
occurs in third-person and past tense. In the latter use, the im-
plied first-person of the actor’s body rests in counterpoint with
the third-person pronoun; similarly, the action’s past-tense ar-
ticulation unsettles the present-tense incarnation. Thus, rather
than deploying a monologic form to reify theatrically a sovereign,
self-originating speaking subject, there is a deferred and deflected
quality to these enunciations. Speech is exposed as an “act,” as
alterable and contingent, by presenting language alongside a con-
trasting and variable bodily enactment. Channeling the discon-
tinuous possibilities of the theatrical medium, of pronoun and
gesture, of speech and image, of intonation and focus, Spell’s
speaking subjects perform their difference from themselves by
presenting conventions of speech and body in unconventional
combinations.
I also want to consider the position of spectators toward such
stories and their many-pronouned locations and locutions. Lou
and other characters often employ the word “you” throughout
the play, asking audience members “why don’t you go on & in-
tegrate a german-american school in st. louis missouri” or, con-
tinuing to invoke Brown v. Board, “why don’t ya go on & be a
red niggah in a blk school in 1954.”42 At such moments, spec-
tators must decide 1) whether they will try to engage in a form
of racial identification or 2) whether they are outside the the-
atre’s addressive structure. Both positions are different types of
ill-fits for white spectators. The first is a “see what it feels like”
positioning that will be partial and lacking as white spectators
imagine “integrating a school in arkansas” and know that they
never had to. Since, as Eve Sedgwick suggests, such interruptions
of identification are shame’s way of making identity, it is often in
this structure that white audience members will complain about
being made to feel guilty. In the second, white spectators endure
the feeling of not being addressed, witnessing from a distance a
circuit of reciprocity amongst the actors and other non-white au-
dience members. Such moments expose how habituated to being
addressed white spectators often are, usually and by definition,
without knowing it. Without such tacit locutionary comforts, the
white would-be interlocutor is at sea. Missing the normalizing
foundation of racial reciprocity, it is often within this structure
that white audience members will complain about being left out.
While non-white audience members may find different ways
of felicitously taking up Lou’s address – whether recalling a spe-
cific African-American history or adapting its stories to another
Latino or Asian racial history – it would be reductive to call
such uptaking “happy.” As Lou’s address continues, he moves
through a tale of his magician father who “put all them ras-
samatazz hocus pocus” away the day that “a friend of mine/from
3rd grade/asked to be made white on the spot.” Speculating that
“colored chirren believin in magic/waz becomin politically dan-
gerous for the race,” Lou sets different terms for Spell #7 and
closes his opening with the phrases that will be this play’s most
memorable refrain.
all things are possible
but aint no colored magician in his right mind
gonna make you white
i mean
this is blk magic
you lookin at
& i’m fixin you up good/fixin you up good & colored

& you gonna be colored all yr life
& you gonna love it/ bein colored/ all yr life/
colored & love it
love it/bein colored.43
As Lou finishes these lines, the stage directions call the rest of the
cast onto the stage wearing “tattered fieldhand garb, blackface,
and the countenance of stepan fetchit when he waz frightened.
their presence belies the magician’s promise.” This series of im-
ages, gestures, and words sustains a functional ambivalence. Like
Shange’s earlier for colored girls, the play represents the dilem-
mas of systemic inequality and internalized racism. In the earlier
play, the sensibility evoked by the condition of “bein sorry and
colored ” eventually gave way to a final “layin on of hands” in
which the damage was provisionally healed through a shared rit-
ual. The black magic of Spell #7 also represents the legacy of this
psychological and structural redundancy and the urge toward
recovery and pride. Moments such as Mr. Interlocutor’s intro-
duction, however, position African-American audience members
somewhat differently by representing the legacy and the urge at
once. Channelling the simultaneity of the theatrical medium,
shame and pride compete in the juxtaposition of the minstrel
smile with Mr. Interlocutor’s welcome; the comforting tones of
storytelling brace against references to the self-hating desire to
“be white.” The repeated phrase – “yr goin to be colored an love
it” – is both inspirational and prescriptive, evoking a “lovin it”
that could also be a command to be colored and take it. The
play gestures to the possibility of cross-racial identification and
then, cognizant of its pain and its dangers, adjusts its own magic
to the limits of a more constraining social imagination. Even as
Mr. Interlocutor offers particular intra-racial identifications, the
play manifestly performs their aggression. Finally, his repeated
“why doncha” is an invitation that some do not have the option
of taking – even as it is also an offer of racial identification that
others do not have the option of refusing.
Issues of racial identification and reception become more ex-
plicit toward the end of the play. Lily, a bi-racial actress, has just
finished a frustrated story involving a casting director who tells
her that she is “too light to play blck” but that casting her as a
white girl “wdn’t be ethical.” After Lily elaborates on the social
limits of the theatrical imaginary, Natalie, another actress, re-

sponds to her story by initiating a new scene “as a red-blooded
white woman/ i cant allow you all to go on like that” declaring
that, “today, i’m gonna be a white girl.”44 Natalie decides to
play a white girl for a day, creating a send-up of stereotypic white
femininity. She meditates on hair (and on how white girls “fling”
it) on beauty treatments (where “I sit under the sunlamp to get
more color back” after all “beauty can be bought”), on ‘lil black
and caribbean boys (who “notice how beautiful i am . . . they
love to look at me”) on valium (since “i am a protestant subur-
banite with 2 valiums slugged awready”), on ignorance (“like if i
do anything/anything at all i’m extending myself as white girl”),
and on dependence upon housekeepers (“im still waiting for my
cleaning lady”) – all expose the particularity and contingency of
white female identity. Natalie thus performs the magical desire to
be white that had earlier been deemed “dangerous for the race”;
however, she does so on different ground, attempting to recog-
nize its damage while maintaining her distance. Reaching for the
metaphoric pivot “as,” she declares herself to be (like) a white
woman with red blood, thus slyly parodying the color fetishism
of racialization along the way. The simile-making preposition is
one that typically sets up unabashed equivalences in the forums
of identity politics, where self-nomination (“Speaking as a . . .”)
precedes any statement or conversation. However, the statement
in a theatrical frame shows up the tenuous condition of the sim-
ile; Natalie will fragilely alight on an “as” instead of an “am”
throughout her speech. In the next line, for instance, the tenu-
ousness emerges through an alteration in tense, “cuz today im
gonna be white girl” juxtaposing a present-tense simile with a
future conditional ontology. This discontinuous enunciation cre-
ates a built-in self-deferral, for the actress commits to the indica-
tive fullness of immediate, vocal embodiment next to the deferred
grammatical articulation of a prospective identity. The white girl
comes into representation via a self-conscious metaphor that is
perpetually “gonna be.”
Despite this internal discontinuity and despite the fact
that Shange’s stage directions link its performance directly
to “Natalie’s pain,” the monologue has provoked notoriously
virulent responses from white critics and audience members.
While some simply noted their disapproval by saying that the
monologue “doesn’t work,” is “fuzzy” or is “too long,” others

called it “savage.”45 Most who have taught this play in a mixed-
race context know how often white students feel themselves “ac-
cused.” I think that there is something interesting in the unhappy
(and sometimes even the happy) reception of this hyperbolic
gesture. More than being simply an instance of misinterpreta-
tion, it highlights the formal complexity and formal difficulties
of eliciting consciousness about racial privilege, a project that
is often at risk of infelicity. As Peggy Phelan writes, “using vis-
ibility to rectify invisibility often misfires.”46 Phelan’s statement
holds true not only for the social invisibility of racial marginal-
ity but also for the secreted invisibility of racial privilege. Con-
sider how Shange packs the lines of this monologue, exposing
the recalcitrant dilemma of theatricalizing white performativity.
“i’ll retroactively wake myself up,” Natalie says next, casting the
difficulty of particularizing the normal in temporal terms, as a
realization that is always and by definition “retroactive,” “ah low
& behold/a white girl in my bed.” Shange manipulates pronouns
here, introducing what will be a recurring ambiguity between
the monologue’s first and third referents. Is the “i” the same as
the girl she wakes up? The white girl – who may or may not de-
clare that the bed is “mine” – is paradoxically within view of the
speaker, one who simultaneously claims to be the one sleeping.
The conflation of third and first person positionings continues
at yet another register in the next line: “but first i’ll haveta call
a white girl i know to have some accurate information.” This
line has the potential to make explicit use of the built-in ad-
dressive structure of the theatrical event. Self-identified white
girls in the audience might decide at such a moment whether or
not they are its “target,” especially as Natalie continues. “what’s
the first thing white girls think in the morning/ do they get up
bein glad they aint niggahs?” The pointed question risks infelic-
itousness for what might seem a number of reasons, but I am
most interested in the ways that the line parallels the difficulty
of “retroactive self-waking.” Can such a subject outline the con-
tours of white privilege when they contour her? Can she watch
herself sleeping? At the same time, the self-righteous denial to the
thought that one would wake up bein glad – “no!” – cannot suc-
cessfully disengage from the question. For it is the privilege of not
being either glad or sad, not waking to an awareness – hyperbolic,
willed, intentional, theatrical, and seeable – of what one is not
that is precisely the point. However, it is also for this reason

that Shange’s project often seems to misfire, get called fuzzy, too
long, and savage. The self-consciousness that would make these
phrases about “being” glad seem felicitous, one that achieves the
work it seeks to do, is not a condition of the targeted interlocu-
tor. The overt intentionality of “bein glad” is at odds with the
unhyperbolic state of conditioned obliviousness.
Of course, even the focus on this moment in the play risks
reproducing a particular way of taking it up. For critic Sandra
Richards, Shange’s play walks a constant tightrope, “depict[ing]
truths painful to Blacks” while running the risk of “confirm-
ing existing negative stereotypes.”47 Sue-Jean’s story of un-
wanted pregnancy and Maxine’s mourning acknowledgment of
intra-racial conflict precede and follow Natalie’s monologue. If
Shange’s challenge is to recognize racial injury without natural-
izing it, Richards argues that Natalie’s monologue is strategi-
cally positioned, functioning to quell the disturbances that are
and will be engendered by Sue-Jean and Maxine, respectively.
To Deborah Geis, one of the critics who originally called the
monologue savage and extreme, Natalie’s monologue seems to be
the moment that most provokes disturbance, a marked difference
in uptake. While Richards reads this monologue inside a larger
effort to represent internalized racism, Geis finds this displaced
dramatization of psychic damage itself to be injurious. Even at-
tempts to disengage from the accusatory structure can sometimes
miss their mark. Geis specifically comments on the interlocution-
ary position of the “white girls in the audience” who “may feel
too angry at Natalie’s speech to find it funny. Or they may laugh
to distance themselves from the reality of her words.”48 Both
laughter squelched and laughter forthcoming emerge as differ-
ent types of audience self-distancing. The first manifests itself in
stony silence, creating the theatrical version of a misfire. Such
moments are often the ones that theatre practitioners will say
are “not working” or that theatrical reviewers will call “fuzzy.”
The second kind of position – laughter forthcoming – allows the
audience a means of uptaking – and thus the chance for a felici-
tous exchange, a theatrical moment that “works.” However, the
uptaking simultaneously involves a deflection of self, a “white un-
like me” strategy of white spectatorship. Such moments of recep-
tion inspire a fine-tuning of Brechtian defamiliarization as well as
of Judith Butler and José Muñoz’s concepts of disidentification.
These paradigms need specific analyses of the different kinds

of strategies that may call themselves “dis-identification” from a
racialized “normative.” If much white liberalism is fueled by the
desire not to look bad, then there is a kind of will to disidentifi-
cation already built in to its discourse about itself. The question
remains, however, whether such linguistic and comic modes of
self-distanciation – a Butlerian or Brechtian means – function to
Butlerian or Brechtian effect. If white privilege operates as a thing
that is often unregistered and is, at this historical moment, also
the thing that no one wants to be caught having, then some types
of self-distancing might reproduce rather than resist the motiva-
tions that underpin white racialization in the first place. Given
that white liberal disidentification is already too happy a perfor-
mative, perhaps a more proximate positioning of the racialized
self is called for.
Theatricality’s racial performativity

To “perform” racism thus appears in these moments to be the-
oretically redundant, theatrically impossible, and hence produc-
tively volatile. The representation of grief risks essentializing the
figure who endures it. Meanwhile, the narration of pain is re-
ceived as accusation by the one who does not feel it. In the first
case, the intangibility of psychic damage wrestles against the con-
ventions of representation, showing up in non-continuous uses
of pronominal, narrative, and bodily identity markers. In the sec-
ond case, the limits of avowal in white audience members lie in
the manifest difference between the reception of hyperbole and
the operation of obliviousness, the intentionality of theatrical-
ity and the intentionlessness of white privilege. The redundancy
of performing racism in the deconstructive sense thus produces
the apparent impossibility of performing racism in the theatrical
sense.
Because the panic was so high

that, oh my God,
I was almost thinking:
“Did I deserve this,
do I, do I deserve it?”
I thought me, personally – no,
me, generically,
maybe so.49
These phrases belong to an “Anonymous Man #2 (Hollywood

Agent),” one of dozens of characters in Anna Deavere Smith’s
Twilight: Los Angeles 1992 who is called upon to narrate the ex-
perience of the 1992 L.A. uprisings. Most characters in the play
such as Mrs. Young-Soon Han, Elvira Evers, and Josie Morales
are named and often stand in for some kind of group identity –
Asian American, African-American, Latino. The Anonymous
Agent is one of a handful whose names are kept secret; other
anonymous characters in the play are, as the script says, “a for-
mer gang member” and “a Simi Valley juror,” inviting the ques-
tion of whether there could be similarity between the stakes of
their respective positions as speaking subjects. The Anonymous
Agent’s speech (both as theatrical monologue and as linguistic ar-
rangement) constantly displays and works to recover from panic,
embarrassment, and humiliation. It also approaches the issue of
a kind of culpability – “do I deserve it? – an approach that is
simultaneously deflected by phrasing it as a question, by saying
that he was “almost” thinking it, by delineating “personal” ver-
sus “generic” categories, and by concluding the thought with an
ambivalent “maybe.”
I want now to resituate the problematics of this chapter
through the vehicle of Anna Deavere Smith’s Twilight. From
one perspective, Smith’s language-based method of research and
performance is tailor-made for Austinian musings and decon-
structive revisionings. Indeed, her theatrical process provides a
comeback to Austin’s notorious dismissal of the theatre. Acutely
preoccupied with how to do things with words in speech, Smith
begins by casting herself as a kind of Ms. Interlocutor, seeking
out sites of struggle and the enunciations that emerge in the
midst of such personal and social trauma. After the uprising
in Los Angeles, Smith interviewed people at liminal moments
when they had just begun to place words around the crisis, say-
ing that she finds herself most artistically moved and enabled as
a performer during the point in an interview when “language
breaks down.” The stops and starts, the slips, the run-on sen-
tences – such linguistic punctures provide a workable point of
entry.
I’m mostly interested in when people fail to say something, like when
they maybe say the wrong word or get caught in stutters, because I
think character really exists in the struggle to say something . . . I’m
more interested in their pursuit of the perfect sound bite. When language
doesn’t work, when it fails, when it falls apart, it usually ends up being
a moment or a time, once I try to re-enact it, that brings me closer to
what I would think of as the feeling of that person.50
Rehearsing with a constant, almost Skinneresque repetition of

their words, pacings, and intonations – rewinding her ever-
present headphones – Smith’s replaying of this struggle to speak
is the key, she says, to “character.” The process thus joins a
certain kind of deconstructive fixation on linguistic failure with
a theatrical understanding of linguistic productivity. The undo-
ingness of deconstructive performativity here activates the doing
of theatrical performance.
There have been many different kinds of responses to the pub-
lic spheres Smith created in performances of Twilight. Among
them is a recurring preoccupation with the presence or absence
of sympathetic white characters, a fixation that suggests some-
thing about racial felicities in the Broadway-bound performance.
In a more laudatory piece on Anna Deavere Smith, John Lahr
chose to devote some time to this concern, publishing a quota-
tion from one of Anna Deavere Smith’s notes to her dramaturgs.
“It’s crucial that white people in the audience find points of iden-
tification . . . points of empathy with themselves.”51
To create a situation where they merely empathize with those less fortu-
nate than themselves is another kind of theatre. . . . My political prob-
lem is this: Privilege is often masked, hidden, guarded. This guarded,
fortressed privilege is exactly what has led us to the catastrophe of non-
dialogue in which we find ourselves . . . I’m talking about the basic
privilege of white skin which is the foundation of our race vocabulary.52
Smith’s active attempt to perform white privilege, to theatricalize

the “masked, hidden, guarded” dimensions of racial performa-
tivity, thus provides a useful case study in the investigation of a
theoretical redundancy and a theatrical impossibility. First, the
response to Smith’s effort is heterogeneous, even and especially
amongst self-identified white audience members. Some review-
ers focused on the representation of Daryl Gates in a way that
suggested success in creating “points of identification.” “Former
police chief Daryl Gates comes across as more human than some
may suppose,” wrote Christopher Meeks, “a man whose weak-
ness is his inability to see himself or his actions in context.”53
Meanwhile, Jack Kroll felt that “Smith transmits Chief Daryl

Gates . . . without caricature.”54 Robert Brustein, however, took
up the representation of white privileged characters quite dif-
ferently, saying that such characters came off as “the patsies of
the piece,” asserting Smith’s culpability in the creation of cul-
pable subjects. The most spectacularly explicit white person in
the show is Elaine Young, a Beverly Hills real estate executive
and self-nominated “victim of silicone” who made an infamous
news appearance by discussing her retreat to the safety of the
Beverly Hills Hotel during the uprisings. By spectacular, I mean
that she is seeable as white and wealthy; it might be such social
and, therefore, dramaturgical markings that produce a lack of
identification. Young discourses freely about being a “victim of
silicone,” about having a date canceled the day of the riots: “Now
mind you I’m only three weeks separated and I didn’t want to
be/alone . . . and my housekeeper goes off for the weekend.” She
made television history when she unabashedly told a reporter
about the relief of finding safety in the Beverly Hills Hotel. As
she explained to Smith, “So then you say, ‘Well let me put this out
of my mind for now and/go on.’ So that was the mood at the Polo
Lounge . . . ‘Here we are and we’re still alive, and you know, we
hope there’ll be people alive when we come out.’”55 Young wears
her obliviousness like a banner. And the Beverly Hills Hotel is
the ultimate place of dubiously secured sanctuary. From the in-
sulated house of Shange’s white girl and now to the Beverly Hills
Hotel, this is the space of paralyzing exclusivity and privileged
enclosure – “safety in numbers.” Elaine is all extroversion. She
is not discrete.
Smith’s performance of Elaine Young is usefully located in a
longer genealogy of anti-racist theatre, one that includes Shange’s
representation of Natalie’s “white girl.” The deployment of such
white female figures is a common strategy and a necessary one
within the context of feminism. It marks as racially specific the
concerns that many white feminists earlier claimed applied to
all women. Nevertheless, for many white (and female) audi-
ence members, this figure provoked an all-too familiar reac-
tion. For critic Tania Modleski, Elaine Young confirmed Smith’s
anti-feminism and provoked an uncharacteristically polarized re-
sponse from Modleski: “If Smith was not prepared to acknowl-
edge my oppression as a woman, I felt, I would not recognize
her as an African-American.”56 While I strongly take issue with

Modleski’s so-thereism, I do wonder whether Smith’s marking
of whiteness might be in danger of another kind of regressive re-
marking. The representation of Elaine Young prompts the ques-
tion of whether whiteness is made more seeable when it rides atop
the seeability of feminine excess. By thus de-naturalizing white
privilege, the technique might be in danger of re-naturalizing fe-
male stereotype, exposing white performativity by reifying fem-
inine theatricality. My concern comes from an awareness of
how such hyperbolic figures encourage the “white unlike me”
operation alluded to above. This mode of uptake illustrates
the importance of refining a Butlerian concept of disidentifica-
tion, of theatrical hyperbole, and of Brechtian distancing. Elaine
Young receives the loudest of self-disidentifying laughs from Twi-
light’s audience. The moment that Smith’s jaw drops and her
eyes widen into the familiar expression of unsubstantiated self-
righteousness, the moment her voice launches in to the high-
pitched, unyielding tones of unjustified entitlement, the audience
can disengage from any threat of identification or intra-racial reci-
procity. The long misfire that is Young’s monologue, however, is
simultaneously a successful theatrical moment; its felicity as a
theatrical performative rests on her infelicity as a speaking sub-
ject. If hyper-femininity is deployed as de-familiarization, then it
seems important to ask whether this mode is itself estranged or
whether it is only used to estrange. The performance of Elaine
Young is a defamiliarization of racism that actually runs the risk
of naturalization: “she is not me.” Racial distancing in this the-
atrical space can translate into racist disavowal, allowing a liberal
uptaking that displays racism by safely locating it elsewhere.
It may be that by placing Elaine Young as the object of total self-
distancing that Twilight frees the audience to develop more com-
plicated relationships with other characters. Like Richards’s con-
textualization of Natalie’s “white girl” monologue, Elaine Young
needs to be interpreted within a longer series of performative
disturbances. The Anonymous Agent to whom I referred earlier
is one of the most compelling for the questions of this chapter.
His speech comes closest to outlining the theoretically obtuse
contours of racial performativity in performance. First, his lin-
guistic dilemma is a formal problem of location. How does such
a person narrate his experience of the uprising?
There was still the uneasiness that was growing

when the fuse was still burning,
but
it was
business as usual.
Basically,
you got
such-and-so on line one,
such-and-so on line two.
Traffic,
Wilshire
Santa Monica.
Bunch of us hadda go to lunch at the
the Grill
in Beverly Hills.
Um,
gain major
show business dead center business restaurant,
kinda loud but genteel.57
As the Anonymous Agent speaks, his monologue dances near

and around several kinds of rhetorical seductions and obstacles.
Throughout, he tries to come to terms with the tension between
the high drama of the uprising and simultaneous un-drama of
the spaces he occupies. In many ways, the agent’s position as a
less dramatic white person in the riots is a metaphor for the non-
experience of white racialization supported by class privilege.
Certainly, his lack of spectacularity illustrates the perniciousness
of white performativity with more precision than did the non-
voluntary theatricality of Reginald Denny, the white man whose
assault during the uprising was nationally broadcast. The first
lines of broken sentences articulate the situation: there is an un-
easinesss growing even though it is business as usual. The vacil-
lation between a perceived “unease” and an unperceived “usual”
will recur, as will the tendency toward a passive metaphorizing of
the situation. Turning to the second-person pronoun, the agent
then proceeds to elaborate on the usual normalcy, “you got such
and so on line one.” He offers what are to him the conventional
tropes of everyday existence, articulated by a generalized “you”
and in the rhythmic sing-song that enacts their predictability.
The sing-song invites its interlocutor into a shared acknowledg-
ment of the predictability, asking for a rhythmic nod that would
complete the circuit of reciprocity and thereby recursively instan-

tiate the experience as ordinary and unmarked. He continues,
“Bunch of us had to go to lunch at the/the Grill/ in Beverly Hills.”
The article “the” would, in an ideal reciprocal encounter, slip by
unnoticed and in that unnoticing performatively insure a capi-
tal “T.” But with Anna Deavere Smith as visiting interlocutor,
the “t” comes back small, requiring him to double the article –
“the/the” – and needing not only repetition but more qualifica-
tion – “in Beverly Hills.” The agent then stalls with his “um” and
enmeshes himself in a sentence that has almost two predicates
and no subject: “um / gain major / show business dead center
business restaurant, kinda loud but genteel.” Reaching for the
subjectless verb – one that does not name the “who” who is do-
ing the gaining – he deflects the focus away from the “us/I” and
onto the restaurant. In this series of speech acts, language teeters.
The speaker stumbles over an “um,” stutters twice on an article,
tries again on “Beverly Hills,” and finally recovers the capacity
to change the subject after a fitful ride on a non-grammatical
string of words. Such precarious speech reveals the performative
mechanisms that create identity positions. The struggle consti-
tutes and breaks an interlocutionary circuit, a puncture in an
ideal reciprocity, thereby exposing language’s tenuous and con-
tingent support system. Additionally, such ruptures illumine the
difficulty of speaking of normalcy. The “ya’s” and sing-song ac-
company the description of an L.A. agent’s routine, but such
speech always risks missing its target, failing in its quest to de-
scribe the speaker’s feeling of non-particularity. Sometimes such
a linguistic act comes boomeranging back, the particularity of
the speaker all the more scandalously revealed because it con-
trasts sharply with the act’s normalizing discursive intent. This
all occurs in a few seconds, a fleeting and recoverable revelation
of the contextuality of his sense of normalcy. But within that lim-
ited time and before it passes into the realm of the unrecorded,
Twilight’s speaker stumbles.
And he changes the subject. He does it by returning to the
opening topic of “uneasiness . . . burning,” an experience that
is more linguistically available than “business as usual.” Within
“business as usual” there is an “incipient panic . . . palpable, it
was tangible, you could cut it with a knife.” His description of
The Grill’s atmosphere gestures to its circle of intra-class and

intra-racial reciprocity.
All anyone was talking/

about, you could hear little bits/
of information – /
did ya hear?/
did ya hear?/
It’s like we were transmitting/
thoughts/
to each other/
all across the restaurant . . .
We were just
getting ourselves into a frenzy . . .58
Recursively propelling and propelled by the performative struc-

ture of a self-activating paranoia, The Grill is in a theatrical,
seeable frenzy. The “did ya hear’s” were perhaps less significant
for the “bits of information” they contained, than for the way
the interrogative multiplied itself, creating a structure in which
participants amplified their anxiety and constituted themselves
as a group. At the same time, this is a type of group consoli-
dation that happens within the habitual protocols of everyday
life. Over the clinking of forks, with backs of chairs remaining
opposed to each other, the room filled with the steady hum of
“information” that heads cocked sidewise to hear. His later de-
scriptions of “people running around” or “the vision of all these
yuppies . . . fleeing like/ wild-eyed/ All you needed was Godzilla
behind them” are followed with the paradoxical assertion of un-
drama – “I don’t mean that somebody in the restaurant had a
fight” or “still,/still,/ nothing had happened – I don’t mean to
tell you that bombs were exploding.” The juxtaposition creates a
psychoanalytically rich portrait of a raced and classed paranoia,
where panic and anxiety spring most exuberantly from the per-
petually deferred arrival of a still unspecific threat. Reminding
Smith that “nothin’ happened” in one moment – “nothing, just/
ya know/ Caesar salad/da-de-da/ ya know” – he then elaborates
on the need for “protection,” vacillating between a willingess to
inhabit and urge to retreat from a positioning inside the scene he
narrates.
When we drove back,

and it’s about a ten-minute drive,
talking about the need for guns
to protect ourselves . . .59
Between the prepositional phrase beginning with “when” and

the modifying gerund beginning with “talking,” the grammati-
cal subject of the sentence remains absent. A string of dependent
clauses introduce and modify an unfilled position. The sentence
evokes the action while avoiding the discomfort of first-person ar-
ticulation, bypassing the entanglements of active (and culpable)
grammaticality. Finally, this monologue sustains – in stutters,
in hystericized imagery, in sing-songy da-de-da’s, in the spec-
tre of Godzilla, in passive-voiced constructions, and subjectless
predicates – the simultaneity of white performativity and white
theatricality. It navigates unregistered citationality and highly
dramatized spectacularity, evoking the internalized ordinari-
ness of the former and the exteriorized extraordinariness of the
latter.
Anna Deavere Smith has said of this character: “I’m not in-
terested in who’s responsible. I’m interested in catching this par-
ticular agent, who wears Armani suits and is a neat guy. Where
is he? That inability to express is itself a reality.”60 Her state-
ment could be interpreted as a disingenuous apoliticalism, akin
to Adrian Piper saying that she doesn’t have an “aesthetic pro-
gram,” akin to Diana Son saying that she does not want “to con-
demn.” However, the “not interested” in responsibility might
also show Smith’s interest in something other than locating an
individuated and sovereign culpability. Certainly the question
of culpability is at issue for the Anonymous Agent, something
broached and suspended as he struggles to make himself the
subject of his own sentences.
Whether well-intentioned or not,

somebody got the short shift,
and they did,
and I started to
absorb a little guilt
and say, uh,
“I deserve,
I deserve it!”
I don’t mean I deserve to get my house burned down.
The us
did
not in . . .
not,
I like to think, not intentionally,
but
maybe so . . .61
In contemporary liberal American society, the intentionlessness

of racial privilege and the urge to avoid culpability brace against
the structure of a grammatical sentence, particularly in the first-
person, particularly in the present tense. It might be helpful to
ask what an ideal performative sentence would be – really – and
upon sensing the inevitability of imperfect uptakes and the lure of
self-deferral, to think more judiciously and pragmatically about
language’s impure performativity. Until that moment, the expe-
rience of race and class privilege will return to the positions that
always seem happier, that of the “white unlike me,” or that are of-
ten too readily available, that of hidden, normalized anonymity.
Performing professions
The vexed and productive relationship between theatricality and
performativity offers a structure for understanding the dynamics
of identity-based theatre. In turn, instances of racialized and anti-
racist theatre give contemporary rhetoricians a useful site with
which to explore the dynamics of intra-racial and cross-racial
exchange. Such racialized deflections and infelicities appear in
a variety of American public spheres, including the sphere of
the post-1990s university classroom. As it happens, the issue of
imputed intention and sovereign subjectivity turns out to be fun-
damental to understanding a triangulated conversation amongst
the discourses of race, theatre, and performativity. In theatrical
exchanges, different spectators not only “have different views”
but also posit addressive effects as the intended goal of the per-
former. An uptake is posited as a send-out; his disorientation
is cast as her misfire. That process is exacerbated in racialized
theatres where injuries are narrated, imputed, deflected, and ex-
changed in circuitous currents and with alarming force. Infelicity
is the occupational hazard of anti-racist theatre where the possi-
bility of “getting it right” is quite low even as the stakes for not
getting it right are quite high. To take a rhetorical and perfor-

mative stance on race and theatre makes it possible to see these
dilemmas as formal operations and, perhaps, to put less pressure
on the dream of complete felicity or unproblematic success. That
stance might also help politicized critics and artists to navigate
their relationship with each other. It offers a different way of ap-
proaching instances of artist self-deflection, those “I don’t try”
and “I wasn’t thinking” responses that frustrate critics’ attempts
at interpretation. Before calling such responses “apolitical” or
“anti-intellectual,” it might be helpful to examine the highly indi-
viduated terms with which critics identify an artist’s “program.”
Rather than questioning the political commitment of an artist
who says that she is “not trying to condemn” a specified op-
ponent or that she is not interested in “who’s responsible,” the
performativity critique asks us to reconsider the models of sub-
jectivity and the dynamics of locution with which artists exper-
iment. From this view, a number of performance-based artists
might turn out to be “performativity coordinators” after all.
Thinking about theatrical production and reception through
the addressive operations of speech has more implications from
the standpoint of institutional history. To bring discourses of per-
formativity and discourses of theatrical performance into conver-
sation is simultaneously to join rhetorical and dramatic legacies
that became disconnected from each other in the United States
over the course of the last 100 years. A theatricality and per-
formativity debate might thus offer the chance for a different
kind of reunion between theatre and rhetoric. This version of
the rhetorical is a far cry from the “briefs” that George Pierce
Baker once offered in rhetorical argumentation. However, this
theatre is also a far cry from Baker’s “how to make a play” ped-
agogy and from the rather simplistic assumptions of free will
on which so much academic drama relied.62 Writing Excitable
Speech from a Rhetoric department traditionally centered on the
act of persuasion, Judith Butler’s elaboration of the role of “bodily
demeanor” in producing the effects of speech is a reminder of
the relationship between the theatrical and the rhetorical; as she
says, “any theory of acting knows this.”63 One theatre critic’s
account of Anna Deavere Smith gestures, however off-handedly,
to a rhetorical genealogy as well: “This is as close as our cul-
ture can come to the impact of Homer, enacting his ‘Iliad’ to a
rapt audience in the days when the medium was the person.”64
And Anna Deavere Smith’s own dramaturgical sense displays an
active interest in the creation of a public sphere. “I believe the
audience’s response and presence is as important as my speaking.
For instance, people may hear a line and experience it as mov-
ing – that same line may cause others to laugh. My hope is that
in the physical experience of seeing Twilight – sitting in a room
with 700 other people and everyone having different responses –
a kind of integrative thinking will begin to happen.”65 Such con-
nections can revitalize the now tired relationship between Speech
and Theatre – the two words that still hang unhappily next to
each other above the stone entrances of several university depart-
ments. Similar connections might prompt reassessment along
other axes as well, such as those that plot the opposition between
“theory” and “practice” or between “humanistic” and “techni-
cal” knowledge. They might traverse the geographic distance that
separates so many humanities departments from so many theatre
departments, an infrastructural preoccupation that both required
and maintained their epistemological separation. Whether or not
it offers alternative, if historic, principles of connection between
diverse persons who occupy different university buildings, some-
thing provocative can be gleaned by acknowledging our shared
disciplinary interest in language as action.
Those shared disciplinary interests, however, will not neces-
sarily resolve institutional obstacles. To conclude not only this
chapter but also this book, it is important to acknowledge that
almost all of the artists whom I considered (and many, many
others who I could have considered) have had complicated rela-
tionships with academia. “I’ve realized that people in academic
circles aren’t really talking to me. They’re trying to figure out if
I’m smart or not,” Anna Deavere Smith noted in an interview.66
As a professor of acting at Stanford who ended up with another
full-time career, Smith offered brief reflections on her university
work environment. Those occasions rapidly diminished when
the time-space requirements of professional performance inter-
fered with the time-space requirements of professional teach-
ing and service. The difficulty of managing not simply inter-
disciplinarity but also “inter-professionality” ultimately proved
to be overwhelming, and Smith resigned from Stanford. Such lo-
gistical disparities between the world of the artist and the world of
the intellectual constantly recur. More recently, they reappeared

in Adrian Piper’s suit against Wellesley College. There, Piper ac-
cused college administrators of being insidiously unsupportive
of her artistic career, despite their public celebration of her
innovation. “Wellesley has used my public visibility to enhance
its multicultural public image while in reality actively prevent-
ing me from doing the multicultural work it publicly claims to
welcome.”67 In an open letter to Wellesley’s president, published
on her website, she argued that the college had not granted neces-
sary leaves, funding support, or reduced teaching loads. Despite
the pressures assorted with her “public visibility,” she was told
that she needed to do college committee work in order “to keep
the institution running.”68 As a professor of performance and,
on occasion, a performing professor, I am sympathetic to Piper’s
sense of betrayal and to her frustration at not having time to
complete her own work. As a professor of performance and, on
occasion, a performing professor, I am also sympathetic, not only
to the idea that someone has to keep the place running, but that
that running is also part of “my own work.”
For many of us who hold out the possibility of unifying re-
search and art-making – so-called “theory” and “practice” –
Adrian Piper has been a much-touted example. Hence, to see this
philosopher and artist ultimately admit and publicize her insti-
tutional quandary is profoundly unsettling. Indeed, “quandary”
seems an apt word for the situation, for the question of profes-
sional injury and culpability is quite complicated. In a piece of
semi-parodic writing entitled, “My Job Description,” Piper laid
out the demands of teaching, departmental service, and profes-
sional research next to those of the art theorist and art-maker,
including “preparing lectures,” “holding office hours,” “writing
letters of recommendation,” “arranging conferences,” “review-
ing books,” “reading PhD dissertations,” “delivering specialized
papers,” “creating and fabricating,” “photo-, slide-, or video-
documenting,” “labeling; inventorying,” “writing explanatory
statements,” “coordinating promotional efforts with dealers and
curators,” “installing; exhibiting,” “marketing through mail-
ings,” and the list continued.69 The need to create such a descrip-
tion stemmed from her perception not only that her Wellesley col-
leagues could not fathom the demands of an art career but also
that her art colleagues had (like most of the non-academic public)
very little idea of what it meant to be a professional scholar. As

unsettling as it is to recognize that the job description of the
artist-and-academic is still so unclear, it is more unsettling to
realize how long this mutual ignorance has persisted despite the
inter-dependence of art and academic institutions. As Howard
Singerman notes, “[t]he university too has its representations,
its discourses of service and citizenship, of independent research
and Bildung, and there are types and legends of the artist that it
cannot easily include . . . The artist, or artistic subjectivity, is the
university’s problem and its project. From the turn of the century
on, it has offered a series of new artistic subjects, written over
and over in the likeness of the university professional.”70 The
problem of artistic subjectivity has had particular impact on the
project of performance in the academy. Performance’s problems
and projects have manifested themselves disciplinarily as well as
institutionally. Its “writing over” has meant simultaneous incor-
poration and deflection from major critical schools and politi-
cized intellectual projects – philology, New Criticism, cultural
studies, deconstruction, New Historicism, and identity politics
to name a few of those explored in this book. It has meant the
embrace and rejection of legitimating pedagogies and curricular
terms that divided its knowledges, its objects, its practices, and its
faculties into different technical, humanistic, and occupational
spheres. At the same time, the partiality of the incorporating
embrace and the reluctance of the deflecting rejection have also
provided opportunities for analysis; they expose and render intel-
ligible the principles, divisions, and occupational conventions of
academic knowledge. My hope is that by investigating the partial
spaces of university inscription we might imagine performance’s
“writing over” into a different kind of likeness.
Notes
CHAPTER ONE
1. Marjorie Garber, Academic Instincts (Princeton University Press,
2001), p. 57.
2. Michel Foucault, Archaeology of Knowledge and the Discourse on
Language, Trans. A.M. Sheridan Smith (New York: Pantheon,
1972), p. 44.
3. J.L. Austin, How to Do Things with Words (Cambridge: Harvard
University Press, 1962, 1975), p. 22.
4. Foucault, Archaeology 32.
5. Foucault, Archaeology 33.
6. John Guillory, “Literary Critics as Intellectuals,” Rethinking Class:
Literary Studies and Social Formations, eds. Wai Chee Dimock and
Michael T. Gilmore (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994),
pp. 110, 111.
7. Jon McKenzie, Perform or Else: From Discipline to Performance (New
York: Routledge, 2001), p. 47.
8. Peggy Phelan, “Introduction,” The Ends of Performance (eds.) Peggy
Phelan and Jill Lane (New York University Press, 1998), p.3.
9. Richard Schechner, “A New Paradigm for Theatre in the
Academy,” The Drama Review 36.4 (1992), 7–10.
10. See, for instance, Josephine Lee, “Disciplining Theater and Drama
in the English Department: Some Reflections on ‘Performance’ and
Institutional History,” Text and Performance Quarterly 19 (1999),
p. 3. Lee considers some of the early figures who will appear in
the next chapter. While she focuses on the conservative dimen-
sions of early pro-theatre discourse to challenge the radical claims
of contemporary performance discourse, I will be more interested
in remembering the radicality of early pro-theatre efforts to counter
the present tendency in performance studies to see such figures
as necessarily conservative and conventional. See also, Jill Dolan,
“Geographies of Learning: Theatre Studies, Performance, and the
‘Performative,’” Theatre Journal 45 (1993), 417–41.
11. Foucault, Archaeology, p. 33.
220
Notes to pages 11–23 221
12. Philip Auslander also criticized the use of the term “paradigm”
to describe performance studies. See, “Evangelical Fervor,” The
Drama Review 39.4 (1995), 169–80.
13. Gerald Graff, Beyond the Culture Wars: How Teaching the Conflicts
Can Revitalize American Education (New York and London: W.W.
Norton and Co., 1992).
14. Marvin Carlson, Performance: A Critical Introduction (New York:
Routledge, 1996).
15. Joann Kealiinohomoku, “An Anthropologist Looks at Ballet as
a Form of Ethnic Dance,” What is Dance?: Readings in Theory
and Criticism (eds.) Roger Copeland and Marshall Cohen (Oxford
University Press, 1983), p. 533.
16. Kealiinohomoku, “An Anthropologist Looks,” p. 534. See also, Eli
Rozik, The Roots of Theatre: Rethinking Ritual and Other Theories of
Origin (University of Iowa Press, 2002).
17. Laurence Veysey, The Emergence of the American University
(University of Chicago Press, 1965).
18. Frederick Rudolph, The American College and University: A History
(New York: Vintage Books, 1962), pp. 247, 264.
19. Julian B. Roebuck and Komanduri S. Murty, Historically Black Col-
leges and Universities: Their Place in Higher Education (Westport CN:
Praeger, 1993).
20. Andrew Abbott, The System of Professions: An Essay on the Division
of Expert Labor (University of Chicago Press, 1988).
21. For discussions on the professionalization of the intellectual, see
Bruce Robbins’s edited collection, Intellectuals: Aesthetics, Politics,
Academics (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1990).
22. Bruce Kuklick, “The Emergence of the Humanities,” South Atlantic
Quarterly 89.1 (1990), 205–6.
23. For discussions of the idea of the amateur, see Wendy Lesser, The
Amateur: An Independent Life in Letters (New York: Pantheon, 1999),
and Marjorie Garber’s first chapter of Academic Instincts.
24. Abbott, System of Professions, p. 197.
25. Abbott, System of Professions, p. 198.
26. Rudolph, American College and University, p. 272.
27. Rudolph, American College and University, p. 281.
28. Sally Banes, “Institutionalizing Avant-Garde Performance: A Hid-
den History of University Patronage in the United States,” Contours
of the Theatrical Avant-Garde: Performance and Textuality (ed.) James
M. Harding (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000),
pp. 217–38; Howard Singerman, Art Subjects: Making Artists in
the American University (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1999).
29. William Bennett, “To Reclaim a Legacy,” 1984 Report on Hu-
manities in Education, Chronicle of Higher Education (January 13,
222 Notes to pages 23–43
1988), A52; Dinesh d’Souza, Illiberal Education: The Politics of Race

and Sex on Campus (New York: Free Press, 1991); Roger Kimball,
“‘Tenured Radicals’: A Postscript,” The New Criterion 9.5 (January
1991), 4–13; Graff, Beyond the Culture Wars, p. 16.
30. Richard Hornby, “The Death of Literature and History,” Theatre
Topics 5.2 (September 1995), 145–6.
31. Ted Wendt, “The Displacement of the Aesthetic: Problems of
Performance Studies,” Text and Performance Quarterly 10 (1990),
248–56.
32. Hornby, “Death of Literature and History,” 145–6.
33. Stephen Bottoms, “Titillating the Impotent,” Unpublished Essay
delivered at American Society for Theatre Research, 2001.
34. Pierre Bourdieu, Homo Academicus (trans.) Peter Collier (Cam-
bridge UK: Polity Press, 1988), p. 36.
35. Andrew Ross, “Defenders of the Faith and the New Class,”
Intellectuals (ed.) Bruce Robbins, p. 122.
36. Ross, “Defenders of the Faith,” p. 125.
37. MacKenzie, Perform or Else, p. 49.
38. Sigmund Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents (1930), in The Stan-
dard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud,
ed. James Strachey (London: Hogarth Press and the Institute of
Psycho-Analysis, 1986) 21:114. See also Garber’s discussion of
“Discipline Envy” in Academic Instincts, pp. 53–96.
39. Sverre Sjølander, “Long-Term and Short-Term Interdisci-
plinary Work: Difficulties, Pitfalls, and Built-In Failures,” Inter-
Disciplinarity Revisited (eds.) Lennart Levin and Ingemar Lind
(Stockholm: OECD, SNBUC, Linkoping University, 1985),
pp. 85–101.
CHAPTER TWO
1. Michael Bérubé, The Employment of English: Theory, Jobs, and the
Future of Literary Studies (New York University Press, 1998), p. 101.
2. Joseph Roach, “Reconstructing Theatre/History,” Theatre Topics 9.1
(March 1999), 3–10, 9.
3. George Lyman Kittredge to George Pierce Baker (March 19, 1905),
Papers of George Pierce Baker, Harvard Theatre Collection, Pusey
Library, Harvard University.
4. Roach, “Reconstructing Theatre/History,” 3.
5. Paul Edwards, “Unstoried: Teaching Literature in the Age of Per-
formance Studies,” Theatre Annual 52 (1999), 1–147; Alexandra
Carter, “General Introduction,” Routledge Dance Studies Reader
(ed.) Alexandra Carter (New York: Routledge, 1998), pp. 1–18.
6. James Hatch, “Some African Influences on the Afro-American
Theatre,” Theatre of Black Americans (ed.) Erroll Hill (New York:
Applause, 1987), pp. 13–29.
7. Julian B. Roebuck and Komanduri S. Murty, Historically Black

Colleges and Universities: Their Place in American Higher Education
(Westport, CN: Praeger, 1993), p. 61.
8. See Josephina Niggli, Mexican Folk Plays (ed.) Frederick Koch
(Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1938);
Walter Spearman, The Carolina Playmakers: The First Fifty
Years (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1970),
p. 71.
9. George Pierce Baker, “The Mind of the Undergraduate,” Educa-
tional Review 30 (Sept 1905), 189–200, 193.
10. George Pierce Baker, “The Theatre and the University,” Theatre
Arts Monthly 9.1 (Jan 1925), 99–108, 99.
11. Alexandra Oleson and John Voss, The Organization of Knowledge in
Modern America, 1860–1920 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1979), pp. x–xi.
12. Barbara and John Ehrenreich, “The Professional-Managerial
Class,” Between Labor and Capital (ed.) Pat Walker (Boston: South
End Press, 1979), pp. 5–49, 12.
13. Charles Eliot to George Pierce Baker (April 25, 1895), Harvard
Theatre Collection.
14. Barbara and John Ehrenreich, “The PMC,” p. 26.
15. Richard Moulton, Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist: A Study of
Inductive Literary Criticism (original publisher not listed, 1888),
excerpted in Gerald Graff and Michael Warner (eds.) The Origins of
Literary Studies in America (New York: Routledge, 1989), pp. 61–74,
61–2. Moulton’s italics.
16. Moulton, Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist, p. 63.
17. Laurence Vesey, “The Plural Organized Worlds of the Humani-
ties,” Organization of Knowledge, pp. 51–106; Laurence Vesey, The
Emergence of the American University (University of Chicago Press,
1965).
18. Stuart P. Sherman, “Professor Kittredge and the Teaching of
English,” The Nation (1913) reprinted in Graff and Warner, Origins
(cf. notes 36 and 37), pp. 147–55: 152.
19. Sherman, “Professor Kittredge,” p. 152.
20. Sherman, “Professor Kittredge,” p. 155.
21. John Guillory, Cultural Capital: The Problem of Literary Canon For-
mation (University of Chicago Press, 1993), p. 80.
22. Michael Quinn, “Theatrewissenschaft in the History of Theatre
Study,” Theatre Survey 32 (1991), 123–36; Marvin Carlson,
“Theatre and Performance at a Time of Shifting Disciplines,”
Theatre Research International 26.2 (2001), 137–44. For a related
discussion of literature, performance, and philology see, Shannon
Jackson, “Professing Performance: Disciplinary Genealogies,” The
Drama Review 45.1 (Spring 2001), 84–95.
23. Kittredge to Baker (Dec 20, 1894), Harvard Theatre Collection.
24. Review Materials, passim, Papers of George Pierce Baker, Harvard

Theatre Collection.
25. Barrett Wendell to Baker (December 20, 1894), Harvard Theatre
Collection.
26. Graff and Warner, Origins (cf. notes 36 and 37), p. 4.
27. Edwards, “Unstoried”; Margaret Robb, “The Elocutionary Move-
ment and Its Chief Figures,” History of Speech Education in America
(ed.) Karl R. Wallace (New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, 1954),
pp. 178–201. See other chapters in this edited collection for a di-
verse disciplinary history of speech and rhetoric.
28. Edwards, “Unstoried,” 77.
29. Wisner Payne Kinne, George Pierce Baker and the American Theatre
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1954), p. 7.
30. Elizabeth Bell, “Performance Studies as Women’s Work,” Text and
Performance Quarterly 13 (October 1993), 362.
31. Harry P. Kerr, “Baker’s Principles of Argumentation,” The Speech
Teacher (March 1962), 120.
32. Kerr, “Baker’s Principles,” 121.
33. Kerr, “Baker’s Principles,” 122.
34. Review Materials, passim, Papers of George Pierce Baker, Harvard
Theatre Collection.
35. Eliot to Baker (April 25, 1895), Harvard Theatre Collection.
36. William Lyons Phelps, Autobiography with Letters, 1939, excerpted
in Graff and Warner, Origins, pp. 156–67, 159.
37. Phelps, in Graff and Warner, Origins, p. 160.
38. James Berlin, Rhetoric and Reality: Writing Instruction in American
Colleges, 1900–1985 (Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University
Press, 1987).
39. Wendell to Baker (Feb 11, 1899), Harvard Theatre Collection.
40. James Morgan Hart, “The College Course in English Literature,
How it May Be Improved,” PMLA (1884–85), reprinted in Graff
and Warner, Origins, pp. 34–7, 35.
41. Kinne, George Pierce Baker and the American Theatre, pp. 3–4.
42. Ibid.
43. Brander Matthews, The Development of Drama (New York: Scribner,
1904), pp. 1–9.
44. George Pierce Baker, The Development of Shakespeare as a Dramatist
(New York: Macmillan, 1923), p. 4.
45. Roach, “Reconstructing Theatre/History,” 5.
46. Kittredge to Baker (September 28, 1902), Harvard Theatre Col-
lection.
47. Kittredge to Baker (March 8, 1905), Harvard Theatre Collection.
48. Thomas Wood Stevens, “Carnegie Tech: First Phase,” lecture deliv-
ered in 1915, p. 3, Thomas Wood Stevens Collection, Manuscripts,
The University of Arizona Library.
49. Thomas Wood Stevens, “Carnegie Tech: First Phase,” p. 2.

50. John Mason Brown, “The Four Georges,” George Pierce Baker
(New York: Dramatists Play Service, 1939), p. 9; George Pierce
Baker Collection, Sterling Memorial Library, Yale University.
51. John Mason Brown, “Four Georges,” pp. 13–14.
52. Wendell to Baker (June 21, 1902); Wendell to Baker (August 3,
1902), Harvard Theatre Collection.
53. Elizabeth H. Hunt to George Pierce Baker (Dec 9, 1920), Harvard
Theatre Collection.
54. John Mason Brown, “Four Georges,” p. 16.
55. Donald Oenslager, “Mr. Baker in His Theatre,” George Pierce Baker
(New York: Dramatists Play Service, 1939), p. 26.
56. Lawrence Lowell to George Pierce Baker (May 21, 1923), Harvard
Theatre Collection.
57. Baker to Lowell (May 13, 1924), Harvard Theatre Collection.
58. Lowell to Baker (May 14, 1924), Harvard Theatre Collection.
59. Baker, “The Theatre and the University,” 100.
60. George Pierce Baker to Phillip Barry (October 6, 1925), Box 1,
Folder 10, George Pierce Baker Papers, Sterling Memorial Library,
Yale University.
61. George Pierce Baker to Harley Granville-Barker (October 30,
1925), Box 4 Folder, 79, George Pierce Baker Papers, Sterling
Memorial Library, Yale University.
62. Baker to Barry (April 10, 1930), Box 1, Folder 10, George Pierce
Baker Papers, Sterling Memorial Library, Yale University.
63. Lee Simonson, “Faith and Works,” Theatre Arts Monthly 17.7 (July
1933), 509.
66. Thomas Wood Stevens, “A School of the Theatre Arts,” un-
dated publication, Thomas Wood Stevens Papers, Manuscripts,
The University of Arizona Library.
67. Thomas Wood Stevens, “The Theatre Goes to School,” un-
dated lecture, Thomas Wood Stevens Papers, Manuscripts, The
University of Arizona Library.
68. Stevens, “Carnegie Tech: First Phase,” p. 1.
69. Wendell to Baker (November 9, 1899), Harvard Theatre
Collection.
CHAPTER THREE
1. Robert Brustein, “Why American Plays Are Not Literature,” Amer-
ican Drama and Its Critics (ed.) Alan Downer (University of Chicago
Press, 1965), pp. 245–55; originally appeared in Harper’s Magazine
(1959), p. 209.
2. Raymond Williams, Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society

(New York: Oxford University Press, 1984), p. 20.
3. Raymond Williams, “Preface,” Modern Tragedy (London: Chatto
and Windus, 1961), p. iv.
4. See Cary Nelson, Paula A. Treichler, and Lawrence Grossberg,
“Cultural Studies: An Introduction,” Cultural Studies (New York:
Routledge, 1992), pp. 1–16; Stuart Hall, “Cultural Studies and Its
Theoretical Legacies,” Cultural Studies, pp. 277–85; Cary Nelson,
“Always Already Cultural Studies,” Manifesto of a Tenured Radical
(New York University Press, 1997), pp. 52–74.
5. Richard Schechner, “A New Paradigm for Theatre in the
Academy,” The Drama Review 36.4 (1992), 10.
6. Eric Bentley, The Life of the Drama (New York: Atheneum, 1967).
7. Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993), p. 75.
8. For an example of such a debate, see William Worthen’s “Disci-
plines of the Text/Sites of Performance,” The Drama Review 39.1,
13–28 and the responses from Richard Schechner, Joseph Roach,
and Jill Dolan that follow.
9. Anthony Easthope, Literary into Cultural Studies (London and New
York: Routledge, 1991).
10. Brustein, “Why American Plays Are Not Literature,” p. 247.
11. John Guillory, Cultural Capital: The Problem of Literary Canon For-
mation (University of Chicago Press, 1993), p. 28.
12. George Pierce Baker, “The Dramatist and His Public,” The Lamp
(1903–4), 329.
13. Brander Matthews, The Development of Drama (New York: Charles
Scribner’s Sons, 1903), pp. 4, 6.
14. Laurence Veysey, The Emergence of the American University (Univer-
sity of Chicago Press, 1965), pp. 186, 191. Internal quotation is
from C.F. Thwing (president of Western Reserve Academy), The
College of the Future (Cleveland, 1897), pp. 12–13.
15. Terry Eagleton, Literary Theory: An Introduction (1983, Minneapo-
lis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), p. 39.
16. Eagleton, Literary Theory, pp. 40, 42.
17. See Guillory, Cultural Capital and Gerald Graff, Professing Lit-
erature: An Institutional History (University of Chicago Press,
1987).
18. Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism (Princeton University Press,
1967).
19. Eagleton, Literary Theory, p. 80.
20. Cleanth Brooks and Robert Penn Warren, Understanding Poetry
(New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, Inc., 1960).
21. Cleanth Brooks and Robert Heilman, Understanding Drama (1945,
New York: Henry Holt, 1948), p. 24.
22. Cleanth Brooks, John Purser, and Robert Penn Warren, An Ap-
proach to Literature (New York: Appleton-Century, 1952).
23. Eric Bentley, The Playwright as Thinker (1946, New York: Harcourt,
Brace, and World, 1967), pp. xix, 75.
24. Bentley, Playwright as Thinker, p. xxii.
25. John Gassner, “There is No American Drama,” Theatre Arts
(September 1952), 24–5, 84.
26. Gassner, “No American Drama,” 24.
29. Gassner, “An Answer to the New Critics,” Theatre Arts (November
1952), 59.
30. Gassner, “No American Drama,” p. 24; Gassner, “An Answer,”
60.
31. Gassner, “An Answer,” 60.
37. A.M. Drummond and Richard Moody, “Indian Treaties: The First
American Dramas,” Quarterly Journal of Speech 39.1 (February
1953), 15–24.
38. Edith Isaacs, The Negro in the Theatre (New York: Theatre Arts
Incorporated, 1947), p. 15.
39. Bernard Hewitt, Theatre U.S.A (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1959);
Walter Meserve, An Emerging Entertainment (Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 1977); See Joseph Roach, Cities of the Dead (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1996), pp. 186–7.
40. Francis Fergusson, The Idea of the Theater: The Art of Drama in
Changing Perspective (Princeton University Press, 1949), p. 21.
41. Fergusson, Idea of the Theater, p. 22.
42. Clifford Geertz, “Blurred Genres: The Refiguration of Social
Thought,” Local Knowledge (New York: Basic Books, 1983), pp. 19–
35; Stephen Greenblatt, “Toward a Poetics of Culture,” New His-
toricism (ed.) Aram Veeser (New York: Routledge, 1989), pp. 1–14.
43. Eagleton, Literary Theory, pp. 27–8.
44. Eagleton, Literary Theory, p. 32. He elaborates on the reproduced
if occasionally unrecognized legacy: “The fact remains that English
students in England today are ‘Leavisites’ where they know it or
not, irremediably altered by that historic intervention. There is no
more need to be a card-carrying Leavisite today than there is to be
a card-carrying Copernican” (p. 27).
45. T.S. Eliot, Notes Towards the Definition of Culture (1948, London:
Faber, 1962).
46. In fact, his list was akin to the kind drawn by Drummond
and Moody in 1953: “charades, initiations, parades, costume
dances, football celebrations, snake dances, and the life . . . burials,
marriages, commencements, church services, courtroom trials,”
p. 15.
47. For a discussion of Hoggart’s indebtedness to practical criticism in
his study of the “lived experience” of working-class English fam-
ilies, see Andrew Goodwin’s introduction to The Uses of Literacy
(1957, New Brunswick and London: Transaction, 1998), pp. xiii–
xxxiv.
48. Raymond Williams, Culture and Society (1958, New York: Columbia
49. John Higgins, Raymond Williams: Literature, Marxism, and Cultural
Materialism (London: Routledge, 1999), 21–45.
50. Raymond Williams, Sociology of Culture (New York: Schocken,
1982).
51. Jill Dolan, “Geographies of Learning,” Theatre Journal 45 (1993),
417–41.
52. Fred Inglis, Raymond Williams (London and New York: Verso,
1995), p. 233.
53. Raymond Williams, Problems of Materialism in Culture (London and
New York: Verso, 1980), p. 29.
54. Raymond Williams, Drama from Ibsen to Brecht (London: Chatto
and Windus, 1968), pp. 18, 20.
55. Raymond Williams, “Drama in a Dramatised Society,” Professorial
address (Cambridge University Press, 1975); Reprinted in Writing
in Society (London: Verso, 1983), pp. 20–1.
56. Williams, Modern Tragedy, p. 43.
59. Williams, Sociology of Culture, p. 204.
60. Inglis, Raymond Williams, p. 241
61. Inglis, Raymond Williams, p. 105.
62. Stuart Hall, “Communities, Nation, and Culture,” Cultural Studies
7.3 (1993), 349–63.
63. Paul Gilroy, ‘There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack’: The Cultural
Politics of Race and Nation (University of Chicago Press, 1991),
pp. 49–50; Gilroy quotes Williams’s Towards 2000 (Harmonds-
worth: Pelican, 1983), p. 195.
64. Paul Gilroy, “Black Music and the Politics of Authenticity,” The
Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 1983), p. 75.
65. Gilroy, The Black Atlantic, p. 77.
68. Gilroy, “Black Music,” p. 74; James Hatch, “Speak to Me in Those

Old Words, You know, Those La-La Words, Those Tung-Tung
Sounds,” Yale/Theatre 8.1 (Fall 1976), 25–34.
69. Eleanor W. Traylor, “Two Afro-American Contributions to Dra-
matic Form,” The Theatre of Black Americans (ed.) Errol Hill (New
York: Applause, 1980), pp. 45–60.
70. James Hatch, Black Image on the American Stage: A Bibliography of
Plays and Musicals, 1770–1970 (New York: Drama Book Specialists,
1970); Eileen Southern, The Music of Black Americans: A History
(New York: W.W. Norton, 1971); Errol Hill (ed.) The Theatre of
Black Americans (New York: Applause, 1980); Edith Isaacs, The
Negro in the Theatre, p. 15.
71. Meagan Morris, “A Question of Cultural Studies,” unpublished pa-
per cited in Lawrence Grossberg, Bringing It All Back Home: Essays
on Cultural Studies (Durham and London: Duke University Press,
1997), p. 14.
72. Dorothy Hale, Social Formalism: The Novel from Henry James to the
Present (Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, 1998), p. 13.
73. Hale, Social Formalism, p. 5.
74. Hale, Social Formalism, p. 12.
75. Catherine Gallagher, “The New Materialism in Marxist Aesthet-
ics,” Theory and Society: Renewal and Critique in Social Theory 9
(1980), 633–46, 635.
76. Grossberg, Bringing It All Back Home, p. 16.
CHAPTER FOUR
1. Deb Margolin, “A Perfect Theatre for One: Teaching Performance
Composition,” The Drama Review 41.2 (Summer 1997), 81.
2. Allan Kaprow, “Education of the Un-Artist, Part I,” Essays on the
Blurring of Art and Life (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1993), p. 109.
3. Nick Kaye, “Elizabeth LeCompte: Interview,” The Twentieth-
Century Performance Reader, ed. Michael Huxley and Noel Witts
(London: Routledge, 1996), pp. 228–36, p. 230.
4. Nick Kaye, “Elizabeth LeCompte: Interview,” p. 231.
5. Howard Singerman, Art Subjects (Berkeley: University of Califor-
nia Press, 1999), p. 130. See also, Judith Adler, Artists in Offices: An
Ethnography of an Academic Art Scene (New Brunswick, NJ: Trans-
action Books, 1979).
6. Sally Banes, “Institutionalizing Avant-Garde Performance: A Hid-
den History of University Patronage in the United States,” Contours
of the Theatrical Avant-Garde: Performance and Textuality (ed.) James
pp. 217–38.
7. Kaye, “Elizabeth LeCompte,” p. 234.

8. Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, trans. Gayatri Chakravorty
Spivak (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press,
1974), pp. 97–164. Originally published in France in 1967 by Les
Editions de Minuit.
9. Barbara Johnson, “Translator’s Introduction,” in Jacques Derrida,
Dissemination (University of Chicago Press, 1981), p. viii.
10. Jacques Derrida, “The Theater of Cruelty and the Closure of Rep-
resentation,” Writing and Difference (trans.) Alan Bass (University
of Chicago Press, 1978), p. 232.
11. Derrida, “Theater of Cruelty,” p. 234.
14. John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding (ed.) John
W. Yolton, 2 vols (London: Dent and New York: Dutton, 1961)
Book 3, pp. 87–8.
15. Locke, An Essay, Book 3, p. 87–8.
16. De Man quotes Locke, An Essay, Book 3, p. 105.
17. De Man, “The Epistemology of Metaphor,” Critical Inquiry 5
(1978), 16.
18. De Man, “Epistemology,” 17.
19. De Man, “Epistemology,” 28.
20. Lucy Lippard, “Questions to Stella and Judd,” Minimal Art (ed.)
Gregory Battcock (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1968), p. 149.
21. Michael Fried, “Art and Objecthood,” Art and Objecthood: Essays
and Reviews (University of Chicago Press 1998), p. 151.
22. Clement Greenberg, “After Abstract Expressionism,” Art Interna-
tional 6.5 (Summer 1962), 25.
23. Greenberg, “After,” 25.
25. Fried, “Art and Objecthood,” p. 153.
26. Robert Morris, quoted in Fried, “Art and Objecthood,” p. 153; see
also, Robert Morris, “Notes on Sculpture, Part I,” Artforum 4.6
(February 1966), 42–4.
29. The suspicion of the theatrical also came from the criticism of the
Frankfurt School, where a theatrical terminology was used to char-
acterize the invasion of mass culture sensibilities and processes on
the artistic object.
31. Clement Greenberg, “Modernist Painting,” Art and Literature
(1965), 193–201, 194.
33. Robert Morris, quoted in Fried, “Art and Objecthood,” p. 150.
34. Donald Judd, quoted in Fried, “Art and Objecthood,” p. 165.

39. Jerzy Grotowski, Towards a Poor Theatre (Odin Teatrets Forlag,
1968), p. 123.
40. Grotowski, Towards, pp. 124–5.
41. Grotowski, Towards, p. 257.
44. Grotowski, Towards, pp. 20, 21.
45. Sally Banes, Judson Dance Theatre: Democracy’s Body, 1962–
1964, PhD Thesis (New York University Press, 1980), pp. xv–
xvi.
46. Michael Kirby, Happenings: An Illustrated Anthology (London, Sidg-
wick and Jackson, 1965), p. 27.
47. Kirby, Happenings, p. 27.
48. Kirby, “The Activity: A New Art Form,” The Art of Time: Essays on
the Avant-Garde (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1969), pp. 160–5.
52. Rebecca Schneider, The Explicit Body in Performance (London and
New York: Routledge, 1997).
53. James Hatch, “Some African Influences on the Afro-American The-
atre,” The Theatre of Black Americans (ed.) Erroll Hill (New York:
Applause, 1980), pp. 19–20.
54. Rosalind Krauss, “Pictorial Space and the Question of Documen-
tary,” Artforum 10.3 (November 1971), 63.
55. Singerman, Art Subjects, p. 178.
56. It is telling that a recent issue of October on the “Obsolescence” of
professional art criticism cited the anti-academic histories of “first
generation Conceptualists.” See George Baker et al., “Round Ta-
ble: The Present Conditions of Art Criticism,” October 100 (Spring
2002), pp. 200–28.
57. Kaprow, “Un-Artist,” (details already given in n. 2), p. 107.
58. Jon McKenzie, Perform or Else: From Discipline to Performance (New
59. Andrew Ross, “Defenders of the Faith and the New Class,” Intellec-
tuals: Aesthetics, Politics, Academics (ed.) Bruce Robbins (Minneapo-
lis: University of Minnesota Press, 1990), p. 128; Alvin Gouldner,
The Future of Intellectuals and the Rise of the New Class (New York:
Continuum, 1979).
60. Kaprow, “Un-Artist,” p. 107.
61. Allan Kaprow, “The Artist as a Man of the World,” Essays on the
Blurring of Art and Life, p. 55.
62. Lucy Lippard, Six Years: The Dematerialization of the Art Object from
1966 to 1972 (New York: Praeger, 1973), p. 8.
63. Rosalind Krauss, The Originality of the Avant-Garde and Other Mod-
ernist Myths (Cambridge, MA and London: The Massachusetts In-
stitute of Technology Press, 1999), p. 209.
64. Quoted in Sally Banes, Greenwich Village, 1963 (Durham and
London: Duke University Press, 1993), pp. 92–3.
65. De Man, Allegories of Reading: Figural Language in Rousseau, Niet-
zsche, Rilke, and Proust (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979),
p. 9.
66. Barbara Johnson, “Gender Theory and the Yale School,” A World
of Difference (Johns Hopkins University Press, 1988), p. 41.
67. Trisha Brown, “An Interview,” The 20th Century Performance
Reader, eds. Noel Witts and Michael Huxley (Routledge, 1996),
p. 125.
70. Greenberg, “Modernist Painting,” p. 194.
73. Philip Auslander, From Acting to Performance: Essays in Modernism
and Postmodernism (London and New York: Routledge, 1997), p. 56.
74. Singerman, Art Subjects, p. 156; he quotes Jurgen Habermas,
“Modernity-an Incomplete Project,” The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on
Postmodern Culture (ed.) Hal Foster (Port Townsend, WA: Bay Press
1983), p. 9.
CHAPTER FIVE
1. Catherine Gallagher and Stephen Greenblatt, Practicing New
Historicism (University of Chicago Press, 2000), p. 17.
2. Victor Turner, From Ritual to Theatre (New York: Performing Arts
Journal Publications, 1982), p. 97.
3. Clifford Geertz, “Blurred Genres: The Refiguration of Social
Thought,” (reprinted) Local Knowledge (New York: Basic Books,
1983), p. 19.
4. Clifford Geertz, “Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive The-
ory of Culture,” The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic
Books, 1973).
5. Joseph Roach and Janelle Reinelt, Critical Theory and Performance
(Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1992), pp. 9–15, 293–8.
6. Michael Quinn, “Theatrewissenschaft in the History of Theatre
Study,” Theatre Survey 32 (1991), 123–36; Marvin Carlson,
“Theatre and Performance at a Time of Shifting Disciplines,” The-

atre Research International 26.2 (2001), 137–44.
7. Stephen Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning (University of
Chicago Press, 1980).
8. Catherine Gallagher, The Industrial Reformation of English Fiction
(University of Chicago, Press, 1985); Walter Benn Michaels, The
Gold Standard and the Logic of Naturalism (Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1987); D.A. Miller, The Novel and the Police
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987).
9. Catherine Gallagher and Stephen Greenblatt, Practicing New
Historicism (University of Chicago Press, 2000), p. 2.
10. Stephen Greenblatt, “Invisible Bullets: Renaissance Authority and
Its Subversion,” Glyph 8 (1981), 42–56.
11. Carolyn Porter, “Are We Being, Historical yet” The South Atlantic
Quarterly 87:4 (Fall 1988), 765.
12. Clifford Geertz, Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic Books,
1973), p. 9.
13. Catherine Gallagher and Stephen Greenblatt, Practicing New His-
toricism (University of Chicago Press, 2000), p. 21.
14. James Clifford, Predicament of Culture: Twentieth-Century Ethnog-
raphy, Literature, and Art (Cambridge: Harvard University Press,
1988), p. 94.
15. Michael Warner, “Literary Studies and the History of the Book”
The Book 12 (1987), p. 5.
16. Stephen Greenblatt, “Introduction,” The Forms of Power and the
Power of Forms in the Renaissance (Norman, OK: Oklahoma Uni-
versity Press, 1982), p. 5.
17. Donald R. Kelley, “Practicing New Historicism (Review),” Journal
of Interdisciplinary History 32.1 (2001), 99–101, 99.
18. Joan W. Scott, “The Evidence of Experience,” Critical Inquiry
17 (Summer 1991), 773–97. For a discussion of the linguistic
turn in relation to performance history, see Shannon Jackson,
Lines of Activity (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000),
pp. 18–35.
19. Carolyn Porter, “Are We Being Historical Yet?,” The South Atlantic
Quarterly 87:4 (Fall 1988), 743–86, 780.
20. Porter, “Are We Being,” 779.
21. Carolyn Porter, “History and Literature: ‘After the New Histori-
cism’” New Literary History 21.2 (Winter 1990), 255.
22. Thomas Postlewait and Bruce McConachie, Interpreting the The-
atrical Past (University of Iowa Press, 1989).
23. Bruce McConachie, “New Historicism and Theatre History,” The
Performance of Power ed. Sue-Ellen Case and Janelle Reinelt (Uni-
versity of Iowa Press, 1991), pp. 265–71. Roach and Reinelt, Critical
Theory and Performance, p. 295.
24. Porter, “Are We Being,” 770.

25. Roach and Reinelt, Critical Theory and Performance, p. 295.
26. Geertz, “Blurred Genres,” 25.
28. Erving Goffman, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life (New York:
Doubleday, 1959).
29. Goffman, Presentation, p. 21.
33. Goffman, Interaction Ritual: Essays on Face-to-Face Behavior (New
York: Anchor Books, 1967); Frame Analysis: An Essay on the Orga-
nization of Experience (New York: Harper & Row, 1974).
34. Goffman, Gender Advertisements (New York: Harper & Row, 1979).
36. Victor Turner, Dramas Fields, and Metaphors (Ithaca: Cornell
37. Dwight Conquergood, “Poetics, Play, Process, and Power: The Per-
formative Turn in Anthropology,” Text and Performance Quarterly 1
(1989), 82–95.
38. Naomi Schor, Reading in Detail: Aesthetics and the Feminine (New
York: Methuen, 1987), p. 3.
39. Schor, Reading in Detail, p. 4.
40. Sherry Ortner, “Is Female to Male as Nature is to Culture?” Woman,
Culture, and Society (eds.) Michelle Zimbalist Rosaldo and Louise
Lamphere (Stanford University Press, 1974), pp. 79, 81.
43. Hannah More, Strictures on the Modern System of Female Education
(Boston: Joseph Bumstead, 1802), p. 61.
44. Catharine Beecher, Treatise on Domestic Economy (New York: March,
Capen, Lyon, and Webb), pp. 36–7.
45. Lora Romero, Homefronts: Domesticity and Its Critics (Durham:
Duke University Press, 1999), p. 64.
46. Nancy Armstrong, Desire and Domestic Fiction: A Political History of
the Novel (Oxford University Press, 1989).
47. D.A. Miller, The Novel and the Police, p. 10.
48. Romero, Homefronts, p. 50.
49. Quote in Romero, Homefronts; Ann Douglas, Feminization of Amer-
ican Culture (New York: Anchor/Doubleday, 1978), p. 81.
50. Schechner, “Restoration of Behavior,” p. 110.
51. Schechner, “Restoration of Behavior,” p. 113.
52. Rebecca Schneider, The Explicit Body in Performance (New York:
Routledge, 1997), p. 4 and elsewhere.
53. Laura Levin, “Masculinist Rites: Ritual Models and Gender Iden-
tity,” Unpublished Essay.
54. Richard Schechner, Environmental Theater (New York and London:
Applause, 1994), p. 100.
55. Schechner, Environmental Theater, 99.
56. Pierre Nora, “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mem-
oire,” Representations 26 (Spring 1989), 7–24.
57. Paul Connerton, How Societies Remember (Cambridge University
Press, 1989), pp. 72–104.
58. Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993).
59. Richard Schechner, “Ritual, Violence, Creativity,” Creativity/
Anthropology (eds.) Smadar Lavie, Kirin Narayan, Renato Rosaldo
(Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993), pp. 297, 298.
60. Joseph Roach, Cities of the Dead (New York: Columbia University
Press, 1996), pp. 218, 220.
61. Roach, Cities of the Dead, p. 218.
62. Dion Boucicault The Octoroon, Plays by Dion Boucicault (Cambridge
University Press), p. 138.
63. Roach, Cities of the Dead, p. 218.
64. Claudia Tate, Domestic Allegories of Political Desire (New York and
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), p. 66.
65. Claudia Tate, Domestic Allegories of Political Desire (New York and
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), p. 67.
CHAPTER SIX
1. Brander Matthews, The Development of the Drama (New York: Scrib-
ner, 1904), p. 96.
2. Quoted in Tejumola Olaniyan, Scars of Conquest/Masks of Resistance
(New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), p. 128.
3. Adrian Piper, “Passing for White, Passing for Black,” First pub-
lished in Transition 58 (1992), 4.
4. Adrian Piper, “Xenophobia and the Indexical Present: Lecture I,”
Out of Order Out of Sight (Cambridge, MA: The Massachusetts
Institute of Technology Press, 1996), p. 247.
5. Piper, “Xenophobia and the Indexical Present: Lecture I,” Out of
Order, p. 248.
6. Piper, “On Wearing Three Hats,” Originally presented at the
Third Annual Tillie K. Lubin Symposium, Who Is She? Con-
versations with Multi-Talented Women (with Mary Catherine Bate-
son, Perri Klass, Kristin Linklater, and Sherry Turkle) at Bran-
deis University/Rose Art Museum on March 17, 1996. Available at
<http://adrianpiper.com>
7. Piper, “On Wearing Three Hats.”

8. Piper, “On Wearing Three Hats.”
9. Shoshana Felman, The Literary Speech Act: Don Juan with J.L.
Austin, or Seduction in Two Languages (Ithaca, NY: Cornell Uni-
versity Press, 1983), p. 17.
10. Ibid.
11. Jacques Derrida, “Signature/Event/Context,” Margins of Philosophy
12. Judith Butler, Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of Sex
(New York: Routledge, 1993), p. 234.
13. Adam Shatz, “Black Like Me: Conceptual Artist Adrian Piper Gets
Under Your Skin,” Lingua Franca 8.8 (November 1998), 40; quotes
and ellipses added by Piper in (January 1999) response.
14. Adrian Piper, “Ways of Seeing: Letter to the Editor,” Lingua Franca
(January 1999), 7.
15. Piper, “Ways of Seeing”, 94.
16. Judith Butler, Excitable Speech (New York: Routledge, 1997), p. 119.
17. Butler, Excitable Speech.
18. J.L. Austin, How to Do Things with Words, 2nd Edition (1962,
Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975), p. 22.
19. Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary (Springfield, MA: Merriam,
1958).
20. William Worthen, “Drama, Performativity, and Performance,”
PMLA 113.5 (October 1998), 1095.
21. Butler, Bodies That Matter, p. 234.
22. Jill Dolan, “Geographies of Learning: Theatre Studies, Perfor-
mance, and the ‘Performative,’” Theatre Journal 45 (1993), 420.
23. Elin Diamond, Unmaking Mimesis (London and New York: Rout-
ledge), p. 47.
24. Dolan, “Geographies of Learning,” 434.
25. Elin Diamond, “Brechtian Theory/Feminist Theory” TDR
(November 1988), 85.
26. Butler, Excitable Speech, p. 199.
27. José Esteban Munoz, Disidentifications: Queers of Color and the Perfor-
mance of Politics (Cultural Studies of the Americas, V.2) (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1999).
29. Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, “Queer Performativity: Henry James’s The
Art of the Novel,” Gay and Lesbian Quarterly 1.1 (1993).
30. Anne Cheng, The Melancholy of Race: Psychoanalysis, Assimilation,
and Hidden Grief (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press,
2000), p. 188.
31. Cherrie Moraga, “Preface,” This Bridge Called My Back (New York:
Kitchen Table Women of Color Press, 1981), p. xvii.
32. Moraga, “Preface,” p. xvii.
33. Cherrie Moraga, “La Guera,” This Bridge, pp. 28, 29.
34. Yvonne Yarbro-Bejarano, “Cherrı́e Moraga’s Shadow of a Man:
Touching the Wounds in Order to Heal,” Acting Out: Feminist
Performances (eds.) Lynda Hart and Peggy Phelan (Ann Arbor:
University of Michigan Press, 1993), p. 87. Yarbro-Bejarano cites
Wright, Daily-Ledger-Post Dispatch and Steven Winn, San Francisco
Chronicle (November 11, 1990).
35. Diana Son, “R.A.W. (‘Cause I’m a Woman),” Contemporary Plays
by Women of Color (eds.) Kathy Perkins and Roberta Uno (New
36. Diana Son, “Artistic Statement,” Contemporary Plays by Women of
Color, p. 289.
37. Son, “R.A.W.,” p. 291.
38. Cheng, The Melancholy of Race, p. 4.
39. Cheng, The Melancholy of Race, p. 5.
40. Ntozake Shange, for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the
rainbow is enuf (New York: MacMillan, 1977).
42. Ntozake Shange, Spell #7 (New York: Samuel French, 1980), p. 9.
43. Shange, Spell #7, p. 9
44. Shange, Spell #7, p. 44.
45. Richard Eder, “Stage: Ntozake Shange in her “Spell #7” at the
Public,” New York Times (June 3, 1979); David Gelman, “This
Time Shange Casts No Spell,” Newsweek (July 30, 1979); Deborah
Geis, “Distraught Laughter: Monologue in Ntozake Shange’s The-
ater Pieces,” Feminine Focus (ed.) Enoch Brater (New York: Oxford
46. Peggy Phelan, Unmarked: The Politics of Performance (New York:
Routledge, 1993), p. 96.
47. Sandra Richards, “Conflicting Impulses in the Plays of Ntozake
Shange,” Black Literature Forum 17.2 (Summer 1983), 76.
48. Geis, “Distraught Laughter,” 77.
49. Anna Deavere Smith, Twilight Los Angeles, 1992 (New York: Anchor
Books, 1994), p. 139.
50. Richard Stayton, “A Fire in a Crowded Theatre,” American Theatre
(July/August 1993), 73.
51. John Lahr, “Under the Skin,” The New Yorker (June 28, 1993), 90.
52. Ibid.
53. Christopher Meeks, “Twilight: Los Angeles 1992,” Legit (June 28,
1993), 30.
54. Jack Kroll, “Fire in the City of Angels,” Newsweek (June 28, 1993),
62.
55. Smith, Twilight, p. 152.
56. Tania Modleski, “Doing Justice to the Subjects,” Female Subjects
in Black and White: Race, Psychoanalysis, Feminism (eds.) Elizabeth
238 Notes to page 211
Abel, Barbara Christian, and Helene Moglen (Berkeley: University

of California Press, 1997), p. 70.
60. Lahr, “Under the Skin,” 93.
62. Joseph Roach, “Reconstructing Theatre/History,” 9.
64. Kroll, “Fire in the City of Angels,” 62.
65. Bob Blanchard, “Drama of L.A.’s Anguished Soul,” The Progressive
(December 1993), 36.
66. Deavere Smith, “Anne Deavere Smith: The Word Becomes You,”
interview with Carol Martin, TDR 37.4 (Winter 1993), 49.
67. “PERSONAL REPORT” From Professor Adrian M.S Piper to
President Diana Chapman Walsh (July, 3 2000) Wellesley College.
Available at <http://adrian.piper.com> Piper’s italics.
68. “PERSONAL REPORT” From Professor Adrian M.S. Piper to
President Diana Chapman Walsh.
69. Piper, “My Job Description”. Available at
<http://www.adrian.piper.com>
70. Howard Singerman, Art Subjects, p. 5.
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Index
Abbott, Andrew 16 Bentley, Eric 86, 88, 89–91

Abstract Expressionism 112, 130 The Playwright as Thinker 89
Alarcon, Norma 180 Berlin, James 57
amateurism see professionalism Bérubé, Michael 29, 40
American G.I. Bill 88 Bhabha, Homi 181
American Repertory Theatre (ART) Bildung 18–19, 21, 22, 25, 219
1 Black Mountain College 127, 130
anthropology 4, 7, 8, 9, 36, 100, 105, Blackmur, R.P. 88
147, 149, 153 Bloom, Harold 22
gender and 162–163 Boucicault, Dion
Anzaldua, Gloria 180 The Octoroon 172–173
Armstrong, Nancy 166 Bourdieu, Pierre
Artaud, Antonin 118–119, 120, 126, Homo Academicus 27
127–128 Brecht, Bertolt 190, 205
Auslander, Philip 143 Brecht, George
Austin, J.L. 2, 3, 12, 182, 186, 188, Recipe 136
207 Breen, Robert 9
How to Do Things with Words 2–3, British Education Act 88
182 Brooks, Cleanth 88–89, 92
An Approach to Literature 88–89
Bacon, Wallace 9 Understanding Drama 88
Bahktin, Mikhail 12 Understanding Poetry 88–89
Baker, George Pierce 35, 40–41, 43, Brown v. Board 198
44–45, 47–48, 51–53, 55–56, 57, Brown, Trisha 139–140
58–59, 61, 63–64, 65, 74, 75, Brustein, Robert 79–80, 81, 84–85,
85, 150, 216 86–87, 89, 209
“The Mind of the Undergraduate” “Why Plays Are Not Literature” 79
44 Burke, Kenneth 12
Shakespeare as a Dramatist 61 Butler, Judith 12, 14, 183–184,
Specimens of Argumentation 55 189–190, 199, 205
Banes, Sally 113, 128 Bodies That Matter 189
Barry, Phillip 71 Excitable Speech 184, 186–187,
Bateson, Gregory 12 190, 216
Bauman, Richard 12 Gender Trouble 189
Beecher, Catherine 165, 168
Treatise on Domestic Economy 165 Cage, John 110, 129
Bell, Elizabeth 55, 68 Carlson, Marvin 51, 151
Benjamin, Walter 139 Performance: a Critical Introduction
Bennett, William 22 12
248
Index 249
Carter, Alexandra 41 Douglas, Mary 9

Chaiken, Joseph drama 5, 23, 25, 35, 40, 42, 44, 51,
The Presence of the Actor 127 59, 60–61, 63, 64, 65–66, 75–76,
Chekhov, Anton 99 77, 79–87, 88–108, 150, 158,
Three Sisters 110 159, 178, 188, 189, 191, 192,
Cheng, Anne 198 216
The Melancholy of Race 192 dramatic arts 61
class 25–29, 37–38, 43, 45, 48, 51, dramatic literature 24, 51, 60,
58, 69, 74–75, 85, 86, 97, 102, 64
131–132, 180 Drummond, A.M. 93
domesticity and 165 DuBois, W.E.B. 43, 103
literality and 132
race and 213–215 Eagleton, Terry 96
racialization and 211 Literary Theory 87
see also professionalism Easthope, Anthony 83
Clifford, James Edwards, Paul 41, 54
Predicament of Culture 153 Ehrenreich, John and Barbara 46–47,
Conquergood, Dwight 9, 23, 161 56
Crenshaw, Kimberlé 180, 193 “The Professional-Managerial
cultural studies 23, 35, 36, 80–83, 90, Class” 26, 46–48
94, 97, 149, 150, 219 Eliot, Charles 45, 47, 50, 56, 57
Cunningham, Merce 110, 129 Eliot, T.S. 90, 92–93, 94, 96–97
Curry, Samuel 54 Notes Towards the Definition of
Culture 97
D’Souza, Dinesh 22 Emerson, Charles Wesley 54
Dada 130 Empson, William 88, 91
dance 5, 7, 8, 11, 12–13, 36, 41, 64, Seven Types of Ambiguity 94
74, 103, 114, 129, 142, 188,
189 Felman, Shoshana 182
deconstruction 112, 113, 115, 117, feminism 7, 9, 23, 25, 37, 81, 125,
120, 124–125, 127, 134, 138, 167, 169–170, 190, 192
144, 182, 219 anthropology and 150, 163–164
class and 139–141 deconstruction and 139
feminism and 139 domesticity and 174–175
gender and 139–141 race and 179–180, 193, 209–210
literality and 139 Féral, Josette 143
DeMan, Paul 116–117, 124–125, Fergusson, Francis 94–95, 105
126, 128–129, 131, 134, 138 The Idea of the Theater 95
Allegories of Reading 138 Fletcher, John 67
“Epistemology of Metaphor” Foucault, Michel 1, 4–5, 6, 10, 11,
119–120 30, 38, 77, 82, 148, 150, 160,
Derrida, Jacques 12, 14, 112, 164–168, 180
116–119, 120, 121, 124–127, Language, counter-memory, practice
128–129, 134, 139, 182, 4–5
188 Freud, Sigmund 31
De la Grammatologie 117, 126 Fried, Michael 116–117, 120–127,
Dewey, John 12 128–129, 130, 131, 134, 135,
Diamond, Elin 189, 190 136, 137, 139, 141,
Dickinson, Thomas 41 143–144
Dolan, Jill 98, 189, 190 “Art and Objecthood” 117, 121,
Douglas, Ann 136, 142
Feminization of American Culture Frye, Northrop
167 Anatomy of Criticism 88
250 Index
Gallagher, Catherine 106, 107, 146, Renaissance Self-Fashioning 151

153 Grotowski, Jerzy 127–128, 141
The Industrial Reformation of English Towards a Poor Theatre 127
Fiction 151 Grossberg, Lawrence 81, 106
Garber, Marjorie 1 Guillory, John 4–5, 25, 29, 48, 50, 84
Gassner, John 90–94, 95, 96, 99, 103
“There is No American Drama” 90 Hale, Dorothy 106–107
Gates, Henry Louis 106 Hall, Stuart 81, 97, 102, 103
Geertz, Clifford 146–148, 152–153, Hansen, Al 131
156, 159, 160–161, 164 Happenings 128, 130, 137
“Blurred Genres” 146 Harkness, Edward 71
“Common Sense is a Cultural Hart, James Morgan 58
System” 164 Harvard University 15, 40, 44, 45,
The Interpretation of Cultures 152 56, 64, 65, 67, 69–73, 76, 176
Geis, Deborah 205 Hatch, James 104
gender 29, 36, 37–38, 43, 48, 54, 58, Hewitt, Bernard 93
65–69, 70, 72, 76, 86–87, 92, Hill, Errol 104
93, 106, 131–132, 150, Hirsch, E.D. 22
162–173, 180, 190, 196, 198 Hoggart, Richard 97
domesticity and 165–168 Uses of Literacy 97
institutionalization of performance Hornby, Richard 24
and 43–44, 48, 51, 54–55, 58 “The Death of Literature and
literality and 132 History” 23
performance studies and 174–175 Hunt, Elizabeth 68
performativity and 183 Hutcheon, Linda 14
university enrollment and 15, 22,
45, 48 Ibsen, Henrik 63, 101
whiteness and 203 Inglis, Fred 98, 101
Gilroy, Paul 81, 102, 103–105, 173 interdisciplinarity 4, 7–8, 14, 23, 30,
The Black Atlantic 82, 171 32, 77, 79, 81–108, 114, 117,
There Ain’t No Black in the Union 123–124, 130, 134, 143, 147,
Jack 102 149, 154, 155, 156, 158, 217
Glissant, Edouard 103 anti-disciplinarity 123
Goffman, Erving 12, 159–160, 164, disciplinarity 6, 7, 38, 82, 123
168 gender, race, class and 25
Frame Analysis 160 intra-disciplinarity 7
Gender Advertisements 160 textuality and 155
Interaction Ritual 160 Isaacs, Edith
Presentation of the Self in Everyday The Negro in the Theatre 93, 104
Life 160
Gouldner, Alvin 26, 135 Johnson, Barbara 106, 117, 139
Graff, Gerald 11, 29, 48 Johnston, Jill 132
“The Great Color Purple Hoax” 23 Jonson, Ben 49
The Origins of Literary Studies in Judd, Donald 121, 124, 126
America 53 Judson Dance Theater, the 127
Gramsci, Antonio 5
Granville-Barker, Harley 71 Kaprow, Allan 109, 110, 131, 132,
Greenberg, Clement 116–117, 121, 135
122, 123, 125, 126, 128–129, 18 Happenings in 6 Parts 130, 131
130, 134, 137, 141, 142, 143 “Education of the Un-Artist” 134
Greenblatt, Stephen 146, 152–153 Kaye, Nick 110–111, 113, 125, 139
“Invisible Bullets” 152 Kealiinohomoku, Joann 12
Index 251
“An Anthropologist Looks at Ballet McNamara, Brooks 156

as a Form of Ethnic Dance” 12 McRobbie, Angela 81
Kelley, Donald 154 Margolin, Deb 109
Kerr, Harry 55–56 Matthews, Brander 41, 60–61, 64,
Kershaw, Baz 23 85, 150, 176, 179, 189
Kimball, Roger 22 The Development of Drama 60
King, Deborah 180 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 28
Kinne, Wisner Payne 59 Meserve, Walter 93
Kirby, Michael 110, 129–131, 147 Michael, Walter Benn
Kittredge, George Lyman 40, 44–45, The Gold Standard the Logic of
47, 49–52, 58, 63–64, 70 Naturalism 151
Koch, Frederick 41, 44 Miller, D.A.
Krauss, Rosalind 133, 135–136 The Novel and the Police 151, 166
Kuklick, Bruce 8 Miller, Harriett 55
Mills, C. Wright 29
Lacan, Jacques 12, 180 Minimalism 121–126, 133, 136, 142
Lahr, John 208 literalist art 122–126, 130, 133
Lasch, Christopher Modleski, Tania 209
Feminization of American Culture Moody, Richard 93
167 Moraga, Cherrı́e 193–195
Leavis, F.R. 95 Giving Up the Ghost 194
The Great Tradition 96 Shadow of a Man 194–195
Leavis, Q.D. 96, 97 This Bridge Called My Back 193
Fiction and the Reading Public 96 More, Hannah 165
LeCompte, Elizabeth 110–115, 125, Morrill Federal Land Grant 16
137 Morris, Meagan 105
Levin, Laura 169 Morris, Robert 110, 121, 122, 124,
Lippard, Lucy 135 126
literary studies 2, 4, 12, 44, 48, 53, Moulton, Richard 49, 52, 60
54, 57, 66–67, 76, 94–101, multiculturalism 7, 22, 23, 179
105–108, 116 Muñoz, José 191, 205
English 21, 24, 42, 44, 48–51, 52,
55, 58, 59, 64, 65, 69, 74, 83, Nelson, Cary 29
87 new criticism 87–92, 94–96, 100,
gender and 163, 167 101, 106, 116, 151, 154, 156,
Literature 8, 30, 36, 42, 54, 55, 60, 219
62, 66, 67, 70, 75, 77, 79, new historicism 149, 150–155, 161,
81–93, 114, 149, 150 165, 167, 219
new historicism and 151–155 literary studies and 151–155,
text 62, 157–158, 159 157–158
Living Theatre, the 127 theatre and 156–159
Locke, Alain 43, 103 New Lafayette Theatre
Locke, John 125, 131, 138 Ritual To Bind Together and
Essay Concerning Human Strengthen Black People So That
Understanding 119–120 They Can Survive the Long
Lowell, Lawrence 70–71 Struggle That Is To Come 132
Lyly, John New York University (NYU) 8, 9
Endymion 51 Tisch School of the Arts 8
Niggli, Josephina 44
McConachie, Bruce 156, 158 Noh Theatre 110–112
Interpreting the Theatrical Past 156 Northwestern University 8, 9,
McKenzie, Jon 8, 10, 30, 135 147
252 Index
Ohmann, Richard professionalism 45–49, 51, 54, 58,

English in America 40 60, 67, 68, 76, 83, 89, 95, 109,
Oldenburg, Claes 113, 114, 133, 151, 217
Washes 131, 132 amateurism and 17–18, 28, 62
Ortner, Sherry 163–164 class and 5, 134–136
“Is Female to Male as Nature is to “Professional-Managerial Class”
Culture?” 162 26, 45, 56, 57, 75
postmodernism and 133–134,
performance art 11, 82, 188 145
performance studies 2, 3–10, 11, 15,
22, 23–24, 25, 30, 32, 36, Quinn, Michael 51, 151
77–78, 80–83, 95, 103–105,
107–108, 110, 111, 113, 129, race 29, 37, 93–94, 106, 131–132,
130, 135, 136, 147–148, 156, 167, 175
159, 173–175, 178, 199 anti-racist politics 37–38, 81,
class and 25–29 176–177
feminism and 25 class and 213–215
interdisciplinarity and 7, 24 critical race studies 180
origins of 7, 8–11, 23, 36, 144, 161 domesticity and 165, 172
theatre and 3–10, 15, 22, 23–24, identity and 177–181, 202–206,
35, 59, 143, 173 208–210
performativity 1–2, 3–10, 36, institutionalization of performance
177–179, 216–217 and 43–44
gender and 183 nation and 102–105, 173, 196
race and 181–197, 199 performativity and 181–197, 199,
theatre and 178, 188–191 204–216
theatricality and 178, 188, 192–197 racial injury 197–206
textuality and 188 racialization 179, 192, 203, 206,
Performing Garage, the 110, 127 211
Phelan, Peggy 8, 14, 204 theatricality and 204–216
Unmarked: The Ontology of university enrollment and 16, 22,
Performance 191 45
Phelps, William Lyons 57 Rainer, Yvonne 110, 132
philology 35, 48–52, 59, 60, 61–62, Dance for 3 People and 6 Arms 131
75, 88, 116, 150–151, 219 Ransom, John Crowe 88
new historicism and 154 Reinelt, Janelle 153, 156, 158
Piper, Adrian 184–188, 195, 214, Critical Theory and Performance 150
218–219 Representations 151–153, 158
“calling card” piece 185, 186 Reuben Gallery 127
Cornered 185 rhetoric 4, 7, 9, 44, 51, 52, 53, 56,
“Passing for White, Passing for 58, 69, 116, 178, 182, 216
Black” 176–179 anti-rhetorical prejudice 119
Plato 3 oratory and 53, 54, 63, 66
Pollock, Jackson 130 Richards, I.A. 87
Pop Art 128 Richards, Sandra 205
Porter, Carolyn 157–158, 168 Roach, Joseph 40, 41, 62, 153, 156,
postcolonial studies 181 158
Postlewait, Tom Cities of the Dead 170–173
Interpreting the Theatrical Past Critical Theory and Performance 150
156 Robb, Margaret 54
postmodernism 110–114, 121, Romero, Lora 166, 169
137–141 Homefronts: Domesticity and Its
literality and 132–134, 136 Critics 166–167
Index 253
Ross, Andrew 29, 135 Tate, Claudia 165, 173

Rousseau, Jean Jacques 120, 121 The Drama Review (TDR) 8, 23,
Confessions 117 147
Rudolph, Frederick 19 Theaterwissenschaft 20, 51, 151
Ryle, Gilbert 153 theatricality 114, 126, 141, 143–145
anti- 3, 76, 144, 188
San Francisco Actors Workshop, the anti-theatrical prejudice 3, 12, 38,
127 69, 114, 116, 121, 144
Schechner, Richard 8, 9, 14, 23, 80, figural, and the 115–118, 126, 128,
97, 110, 129, 131, 143, 147, 144
161, 168–169, 171 literality, and 116, 118, 122–124,
Schneemann, Carolee 110, 132 127, 128, 142–144
Schneider, Rebecca 132, 139, performativity and 178, 188,
169 192–197, 204–217
Schor, Naomi 170 Thomas, Brook
Reading in Detail 162 “The New Historicism and Other
Scott, Joan Wallach 155 Old-Fashioned Topics” 155
Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky 12, 106, Traylor, Eleanor 104
183–184, 192, 201 Tulane Drama Review see The Drama
Shakespeare, William 24, 52, 53, 61 Review
Hamlet 24 Turner, Victor 8, 12, 146, 160–161
Shange, Ntozake 176, 198–206
for colored girls who have considered Veysey, Lawrence
suicide when the rainbow is enuf The Emergence of the American
198, 202 University 85
Spell #7 198–206
Shatz, Adam Walker, Alice 24
“Black Like Me” 185, 186 Warner, Michael 53, 54, 154
Shaw, Bernard 89 The Origins of Literary Studies in
Singerman, Howard 112, 133, 144, America 53
219 Letters of the Republic 54
Sjølander, Sverre 31 Fear of a Queer Planet 54–74
Smith, Anna Deavere 216, 217 Washington-DuBois debate, the 16
Twilight: Los Angeles 1992 207–215, Wendell, Barrett 52–53, 56–57, 67,
217 76
Smith, Tony 121, 125, 132 English Composition 56, 57
Son, Diana 214 Wendt, Ted 23, 24
R.A.W. (‘Cause I’m a Woman) Williams, Emmett
195–197 Ten Arrangements for Five Performers
Southern, Eileen 104 131
speech 4, 9, 10, 24, 36, 42, 54–59, Williams, Patricia
77, 200, 217 Alchemy of Race and Rights 180
identity and 194–195 Williams, Raymond 79–81, 92,
oratory 3–10, 11, 41, 53, 54 97–103, 106–108
School of 9 Culture (or, The Sociology of Culture)
speech-act theory 3, 4, 175, 182, 184, 98
189, 199 Culture and Society 79, 97
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty 180 Drama in Use 79, 98
Stebbins, Elizabeth 54 Drama from Ibsen to Brecht 79, 98
Steiner, George 99 Drama from Ibsen to Eliot 79
Stevens, Thomas Wood 41, 64–65, Keywords 79
74–75 Modern Tragedy 79, 99, 100
Surrealism 130, 169 The Long Revolution 98
254 Index
Williams, Raymond (cont.) Sakonnet Point 110

“structure of feeling” 98–100, 102, To you, the Birdie 110
107 also see LeCompte, Elizabeth
Winnicott, D.W. 168 Worthen, William 188, 190
Wooster Group, the
Brace-Up! 110 Yale University 15, 59, 71
Nayatt School 110 School of Drama 44
Route 1 and 9 110 Yarbro-Bejarano, Yvonne 194–195

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Today’s academic discourse is ﬁlled with the word “perform.

            is Associate Professor of Rhetoric and

Each volume in the Theatre and Performance Theory series introduces

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This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception

First published 2004

Printed in the United Kingdom at the University Press, Cambridge

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ISBN 0 521 65189 1 hardback

1 Discipline and performance: genealogy and

The idea for this project began, appropriately enough, during my

Anne Wagner, Lynn Wardley, Linda Williams, Stacy Wolf, and

“Differentiation is one strategy that disciplines employ to protect

“It is not easy to say something new.” Michel Foucault2

I continued chewing. I swallowed.

and re-organized – in institutional controversies, in “new” in-

certain keywords. The fact of the matter is that speech-act theory

“drama,” or “dance” – while simultaneously tracking the discur-

While it has always seemed necessary to define intellectuals by their in-

The suggestion that the phenomenon of the intellectual rests

between “theory” and “practice” is erroneous, as much as both

practice of theatre and performance. In theatre, in performance

a way of analyzing the relation between disciplines and insti-

meant that the decision to shift nomination and orientation to

knowledge formation from which “new” epistemologies break.

The vagaries of the interdisciplinary encounter are compounded

has been a site of epistemological anxiety in many societies for

This survey of the literature reveals an amazing divergence of opinions.

same time it was an outgrowth of exuberance, was totally spontaneous,

The kind of malleable historicization outlined by Kealiino-

architecture’s study of material entrances, exits, thresholds, and

artifice, and inauthenticity that still circulate in most other wings

ideals, sometimes touting a new civic ideal for the university

such as law and medicine, in newer fields of employment such

During the late nineteenth century the university as we understand it,

Kuklick’s language repeats the fundamental assumptions of con-

societies, hirings, curricula, standards, and self-justifications.

element of the Bildung model rested on its anti-professional dis-

newer universities responded to the modified “practical” orienta-

eye toward the development of the professional artist. Depending

the country formed with the express intention of developing an

of color; this is what Gerald Graff parodied as the “Great Color

that he argued participated in the de-valuing of literature in favor

progressive, theatre and performance, creates more obfuscations

cultural front that was both symbolically significant and socio-

while remaining obliviously blind (or self-hatingly in denial) of

of cultural capital, which guarantees them a bureaucratic career and a

If professors and artists thus usually occupy different sectors,

calls the “contradictory political interests” of the New Class:

[T]heories of the new class, or the professional-managerial class, have

As an “anti-discipline” born in the 1960s and consolidated in

is that attributions of sameness and difference are variable, con-

The energy behind the quest for self-differentiation can also

skills, and reality principles, networks that appeared separately in

and structures that they claim to transcend. Institutional struc-

more often, for intellectual legitimacy – can also remain ignorant

between performance and the writing of “history,” particularly

Performance and performance-inflected vocabularies have an