Finding Play

Relationships between play and rhythm in actor training

by Eilon Morris

Photograph by Seth Greenwald

Based on a research paper ‘Finding Play’ given at the 3rd International Conference of Dalcroze Studies, 3 rd of August
2017, Laval University, Quebec, Canada

Games on the Barcelona Metro

A few years ago, I found myself sitting amongst a group of children on the Barcelona Metro
travelling into the city centre. It was a day of independence marches and the carriage was packed
with people carrying bright flags and placards. Despite the chaos of the crowded carriage, the
children around me were deeply engrossed in playing clapping game for the entire duration of the
journey, lasting around forty minutes. Embedded amongst them, I attempted to discern the rules of
their games. In one of these games, two children sitting opposite each other would slap their thighs
to a regular beat, and between each slap they would shoot their hands out in different directions:
sometimes up, sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right. Occasionally, they would also clap
both their hand together in the middle and laugh wildly. They played this game for most of the trip,
often accelerating to frenetic speeds, getting faster and faster until the game collapsed in hysterics. I
spent most of the trip trying to understand, trying to find a pattern, but as hard as I tried I could not
find a logic to what they were doing. This was both intriguing and frustrating.
Six months later, while in London working on a production, the director Amy Draper introduced
this game (or one very similar) as part of a cast warm up. It was then that I discovered the rules
were much simpler than what I had imagined.
As I had observed on the metro, the two players keep a pulse and send their hand out in three
possible directions (up, left, or right). But what I had not deciphered, was that the order of these
directions is entirely improvised. And it is only when the two players happen to mirror one another
that they then slap their hand together (a celebration of their synchronicity).
I have since, played and taught this game at a number workshops and it never ceases to fill the room
with a contagious sense of joy. There is something in the simplicity of the game (there is only ever a
choice of three actions) as well as the complicity between partners (our attention must be both on
our partner and on ourselves). The rudimentary nature of this game makes it feel simple and safe,
no special skills or talents are needed. Because of this, we maybe feel we can risk losing a little
control. We are driven by the shared desire to ‘get it right’, while also being able to enjoy the
ridiculousness of ‘getting it wrong’. Burst of maximum delight generally erupt in the unexpected
moments, when the actions coincide or when one or both of us make a ‘mistake’ and are thrown out
of rhythm. Caught off-guard, there is a momentary scramble (both mental and physical) as we
search for the ‘right’ thing to do, to find our way back to some semblance of order. Our shared
rhythm allows us to work together, to search for the edge or tipping point between these two poles.
As with many games, here there is a sense of repetition and variation, structure and spontaneity,
trust and risk, order tipping into chaos and back into order. The game is not about getting it right, it
is about finding our edge, finding a shared sense of play.

Searching for play and rhythm

In the field of actor training, the significance of play and its role in both pedagogy and performance
is something that has been voiced by a wide range of practitioners. From the inspiration of
children’s play on the approaches developed by Suzanne Bing and Jacques Copeau at the beginning
of the twentieth century, through to Augusto Boal’s ‘Games for Actors and Non-Actors’i. From
Phillippe Gaulier’s training in 'Le Jeu’ and clown, through to Keith Johnstone’s theatre sports and
other more recent video game inspire performance from theatre company Punchdrunk.
Simon Murray, writing on role of play in the actor training approaches of Jacques Lecoq, Monika
Pagneux and Philippe Gaulier, explains:

For Lecoq, the creative performer has acquired a disposition to play generically
under any conditions, but combines this ability with an embodied understanding
of the specific demands of playing tragedy, melodrama, clown or bouffon, for
example. (Murray, 2010, p.222)

Here, play is seen to encapsulate all forms of performance. It is a prerequisite for engaging
creatively with a performance work and with one’s fellow performers.
While an instinctual sense of play might come easily to most, identifying precisely what it is that
constitutes play is often not so straight forward. The very act of defining or giving meaning to play,
often is seen to destroy it. Improviser and author Stephen Nachmanovitch, insists, ‘Play cannot be
defined, because in play all definitions slither, dance, combine, break apart and recombine’
(Nachmanovitch, 1993, p.43).
In the field of performance, we often encounter a similar difficulty when trying to define the subject
of rhythm.ii When I am training actors I tell them, ‘rhythm can be like a small animal – if we try to
grab hold of it, then it will either quickly run away from us or it will bite us on the hand. Instead of
trying to grasp rhythm, it might help if begin by listening, playing, watching, waiting. Then maybe
it will approach us and if we are lucky it will let us play with it.’ There is a paradox to both play and
rhythm that makes them intriguing yet problematic as research subjects.
The psychologist Alison Gopnik comments:

The irony is that over the long term, both children’s and adults’ play does lead to
practical benefits. But it does this precisely because the people who play, whether
they are children or adults, aren’t aiming at those practical benefits. The
fundamental paradox of play is that in order to be able to reach a variety of new
goals in the long run, you have to actively turn away from goal seeking in the
short run.

Just as we should give children the resources and space to play, and do so without
insisting that play will have immediate payoffs, we should do the same for
scientists and artists and all the others who explore human possibilities. (Gopnik,
2016)

While there are clear benefits that arise from both play and rhythm, if we fixate on achieving these
end-results, or give too much attention to their productive capacities, then we quickly lose sight of
the pleasure and immediacy that are intrinsic to each of these. Play theorist, Bernard De Koven
suggests ‘Play is intended to be without consequences’ (De Koven, 2013, p. xxiii). We play, not in
order that we achieve or attain some skill or personal benefit, but primarily because of the pleasure
that play affords us. In this sense play and games distinguish themselves from other daily activities.

They are like plays or songs or dances, belonging to some special sphere of
human activity which clearly lies outside the normal reality of day-to-day living.
They are not intended to replace reality but to suspend consequences. They are
not life. They are, if anything, bigger than life. (De Koven, 2013, p. xxii)

Cooking in Havana
In 2005, I was in Cuba listening to a rumba group playing at the Salon Rosado de la Tropical, an
outdoor venue outside central Havana. The group made up of around seven musicians included
drummers and singers, had been playing for about twenty minutes. The music was complex and
dynamic. These were highly skilled musicians and they played with confidence and energy. Yet,
despite the fact that a reasonably large crowd had gathered for this occasion and paid their entrance
fee, the dance floor remained empty. I asked the person who’d invited me why nobody was dancing.
He answered that they were waiting for the music to start cooking. I nodded, but I was not entirely
sure what he meant. I sat and listened and watched and sipped my mojito, trying to tap my foot to
the ever elusive beat of the rumba rhythm.
At some point an older man stepped onto the dance floor. Everyone’s attention instantly went to
him. His movements were small and precise, oozing with style and charisma. Soon a woman joined
him, and together they began to play, flirting, propositioning, approaching and avoiding one another
through their dance. The crowd become more animated. The musicians perked up. An infectious
electricity spread through the space. Soon the dance floor was filled with couples and it was clear
that the music was indeed cooking. It had heat, vibrancy, a fluid texture that seemed to bubble and
meld all the elements together.
Was it something in the rhythm of the music that had signalled to the man that it was time to dance?
Was it the dancing that gave the musicians purpose and focus, bringing their rhythms to life? I’m
not sure. But at a certain point it was clear that all these elements were feeding into each other.
Eventually the energy began to drop once more and the dancers dissipated, waiting for the next
wave to come, for the music to start cooking once more as evening descended to night.

The rhythm of play

In many languages, the same word meaning play, is also used to describe a quality of movement.
We can talk about the play of a rope, or light on the surface of water, or the movements of animals.
Anthropologist Roberte Hamayon, points to the sense of rhythmicity that unites many uses of the
word play across cultures, with play being used to describe movements that are both lively and
repetitious, as well as being commonly associated with actions of leaping, hunting and chasing
(Hamayon, 2016, pp.87–89). In the Buryant culture of Siberia the word for play also refers to the
movement of the wind rippling through grass, the twinkling of light beams, and fish spawning.
Hamayon proposes that rhythm is an integral aspect of all these forms of play, suggesting that in
these cases rhythm forms a ‘fictional frame’ a ‘context conveying the message “this is play,” a
frame in which action is “play.”’ (Hamayon, 2016, p.87)
Similarly Gopnik also identifies rhythm as an important signifier of play.

[Play] has special characteristics that let you distinguish it from the real thing.
When rats play fight, they nuzzle each other’s necks; when it’s for real, they bite
each other’s flanks. When children pretend to pour tea, they make big exaggerated
sloshing movements. (Gopnik, 2016)

She goes on to explain:

Play has a special structure, a pattern of repetition and variation. When rats play
fight, they try different patterns of offense and defence against each other. When a
six-month-old plays with a rattle, she tries shaking it louder or softer, banging it
against the table with more or less vigour. (Gopnik, 2016)

The rhythms of play indicate to us that we are entering a context of fiction of ‘make believe’ of
experimentation. They tell us that what is happening is not ‘real’, that it is fictional or poetic, a
metaphor or analogy. Sometimes these rhythms are overt, as seen in activities such as pantomime
and children’s nursery rhymes. Other times the rhythmicity of play can be more subtle, a glimmer in
the eyes or a slight lilt in the voice.
Marrying Focus and Play in Athens
Last October, I was teaching a class in Athens, Greece at the DUENDE School of Ensemble
Physical Theatre. At one point in the session I asked the students to pay attention to spaces between
their steps, the time between one foot touching the ground and the next. Starting to working on this
task, many of them slowed down their walking, or made their steps louder, more intentional. I went
on to instruct them, ‘can you shift your attention without changing the way you walk?’
Receiving these additional instructions many of their faces become a mask of earnest consideration,
shutting off from each other, their eyes glazed over. I ask them, ‘if you smile are you still able to
sense the spaces between your feet? Can you be attentive and still be playful and aware of each
other? Why do we associate attention with seriousness?’.
The director of the school, John Britton emphasises the importance of engaging with performance
from a place of personal pleasure. Britton sees this sense of pleasure as means of connecting to the
present moment of a performance and connecting with others. Yet as Britton points out, ‘This does
not mean doing what I like, but identifying what I like in what I do’(Britton, 2013, p.323). It is
primarily about learning to shift one’s attitude.
The challenge for many performers is how to find both precision and play. While many performers
can easily engage with the playful energy of a fun clapping game, marrying this sense of play with
a detailed quality of focus and rigour can often feel incompatible or contradictory. This is
particularly noticeable when actors are asked to sustain their attention over long durations or engage
with emotional or psychological aspects in their performance.
Young children often seem to blend these elements with very little difficulty, becoming engrossed in
the details of what they are doing while still being immensely creative and playful. Their sense of
focus and attention to the moment in no ways detracts from their play. If anything, their focus and
curiosity is what feeds and maintains their play and vice versa. So why is it that as adults we often
separate and even oppose play and precision? And how do we (re)discover this relationship?

The play of rhythm

As well as describing activities that are lively and repetitious, play can also describe what might
otherwise be termed ‘leeway’. We talk about the play of a steering wheel, a sheet of metal, a rope or
a chain, the looseness or the extent to which a material can bend and flex. In performance we might
think of this as a range of freedom within the form or structure of a piece. From the subtle shifts in
timing from one performance/performer to another, through to the wider parameters of an
improvisation. Film director Sergei Eisenstein described this relationship as water flowing through
a river or canal. For him ‘The source of expressiveness is not the aesthetically perceived form’ it is
the flexible movement within this form, the water rolling over the rocks (Eisenstein in Law and
Gordon 1996:177–8). Here there is a clear relationship between the sense of play and the
limitations imposed on it - a dynamic dialogue between structure and spontaneity. Eisenstein’s
contemporary and teacher, Vsevolod Meyerhold, thematised this relationship through the concepts
of rhythm and metre. For him rhythm was something that ‘overcomes’, ‘disputes’, and ‘conceals’
the metre of a performance. He described rhythm as a the ‘breath’, the ‘subtext’, ‘the mastering of
the empty moments between rhythmic beats’ (Meyerhold, 1998, p.135). The art of the actor, like
that of a great musician or conductor, lay in bringing to life the spaces and nuances of a
composition, to let the work breathe and have a life of its own.
One of the ways Meyerhold approached this quality of rhythmic vitality, was by (paradoxically)
imposing more structure on an action. Through a tripartite rhythmic structure performers broke up
each of their actions into three parts, often referred to as ‘otkaz’ ‘posil’, ‘totchka’. Beginning with a
preparation or ‘pre-action’; followed by the realization or expression of the action; finally leading to
a point of dynamic ‘rest’ or ‘fixity’ from which the next preparation could arise (see Pitches, 2005,
p.76). Having deconstructed their actions into these three parts, Meyerhold’s actors were then able
to play with varying the rhythmic timing of each part. Working within the limits of their physical
scores, the actors were encouraged to improvise, not with the form of their actions, but with the
spaces between, the movement from one beat to another.
On the surface these training approaches may seem mechanical or formal, lacking individual
expression. But here the expression or play lies not in the form, but in the spaces. When I am
training performers to find greater freedom of rhythm, I encourage them to sense not only the points
of accentuation in their movements or sounds, but also the spaces between these points, the ways
one moment leads to the next. Paying attention to these spaces can at first feel difficult. Attention is
generally attracted to moments of accent and intensity in sound and physicality, places of arrival,
departure, strength, stillness. In school we are taught to clap and step with the beat. When we start
listening to what lays between these moments, we can become disorientated; in the gaps what can
we grasp? But as we learn to occupy these spaces we also learn to sense the life of the rhythm, a
subtle sense of breath or flow that moves through a performance. I would call this play.

Imitation and imagination – Geneva 1916

Clearly rhythm is not the only source or signifier of play. There are many other aspects that
contribute to our experience and engagement with play. Notable amongst these is our sense of
imagination and the pleasure we take in imitating people, animals, objects or situations.
In 1916 Jacques Copeau and Suzanne Bing travelled to Geneva to observe the teachings of Émile
Jaques-Dalcroze. They were seeking inspiration for establishing their own school for training actors
in Paris. The noted the playful nature of the classes led by Dalcroze and the ways he effectively
used story telling and movement as a means of developing musical understanding. One tendency
they noted though was the difficulty that many of Dalcroze’s students had in playing human
emotions. As they went on to develop their own approaches, they explored this further. Yet, instead
of tackling this directly, they started by getting their students to imitate the movements and rhythms
of animals, plants and other natural as well as mechanical processes. Starting from here, they then
gradually evolved these movement qualities into human characters (Kusler 1974:51).
This sense of imitation seems to be an important aspect of play. The fact that we are not doing
something ‘for-real’, that we become other than we are, gives us permission to explore and create.
This form of imaginative play, allows us to step outside our own limitations, to suspend our
disbelief, to encounter something other.
One of the first games we learn to play as infants involves imitation between parents and child. The
child makes a sound and the parents echo it back, and vice versa. Sometimes the child will echo
with a movement or another sound, sometimes just the rhythm will be imitated, translating a sound
into a gesture or vice versa. These simple exchange help form emotional bonds and establish the
foundations of learning and socializing (Feldman 2007). But arguably, what we learn before any of
these, is how to play with others.

Playing with others

Perhaps the most essential goal of play is that of connecting to another. It could be said that play
needs an ‘other’: real, or imagined, human, animal, spirit, or even object.
Games can help us find a shared sense of play with others. A game establishes common goals,
guidelines and parameters through which a group are able to play together. Yet as De Koven points
out, ‘We need to recognize that these guidelines are fragile and fictitious ... The only real assurance
we have lies within the community of people with whom we are playing’ (2013, p.11). Ultimately
what unites the community of players is the ‘intention to play well together’ and the understanding
that the people they are playing with are as important as the game itself, if not more important.

The nature of a play community is such that it embraces the players more than it
directs us towards any particular game. Thus, it matters less to us what game we
are playing, and more to us that we are willing to play together (De Koven, 2013,
p.12).

This interrelationship between self and others is at core of the training of theatre director John
Britton, who I have worked with extensively over the last eighteen years. He explains that his
approach is aimed at training ‘each individual by facilitating encounters with him/herself in
evolving and dynamic relationship with others’ (Britton, 2010). One of the key means by which
Britton facilitates such encounters, is an exercise referred to as ‘the ball game’. The premise of this
game is a simple and familiar one. A group stand in a circle and throw and catch balls together. But
where other versions of this game tend to emphasise how well each individual throws or catches,
Britton intentionally focuses on to our ability to play together. The game becomes a medium
through which we can explore the ways we give and receive, the ways we communicate with and
perceive others – a metaphor for performing.
Playing this game in a workshop with John Britton, one of the first challenges that many
participants face, is their tendency to apologise. When participants drop a ball, or throws the ball
high or wide, often the first thing they will do is say ‘sorry’ (either out loud or silently to
themselves). Britton points out that while in daily life saying, ‘I am sorry’ is often useful, in the
context of this game, not only does it this not help, but often it breaks the flow of interactions and in
turn stops the game. He explains that when we say ‘I am sorry’, often what we are actually saying is
‘I am a good person, please don’t judge me’. And this tends to be more about preserving our
individual sense of pride than about serving the group.
Related to this tendency is the desire to help one another by trying to making things easier. Yet as
Britton points out, ‘”being helpful” does not necessarily aid collaboration’(Britton, 2013, p.326).

If I help someone by trying to simplify their experience, am I not preventing them

from experiencing precisely the sort of difficulty that will help them learn and
grow?... Is there not also a risk that if I am trying to do someone else’s job for
 them, I might also be looking for a way to avoid paying attention to my own
tasks. (Britton, 2013, p.326)

The task of keeping the balls flowing is similar to keeping a rhythm alive as an ensemble. While
this often involves following certain structure and rules, as well as drawing on my skills as an
individual, ultimately the life of the rhythm depends on my relationship to others. It is not enough
that I simply play my part properly or stick to the score. Here, play requires that I listen, look, and
relate to others through what I am doing – that I cultivate a willingness to play and give space for
others to play as well. Building a connection with others is often as much about how we transgress
or transcend the rules of a game or a society as it is about our ability to follow these structures.
While it is reassuring to know that everyone is playing the same game and sticking to the rules, if
we stay too long within the safety of one set of structures or rhythms then things can easily become
too predictable and stale. Being able to modify and evolve the nature of our playing to meet our
own need as well as the needs of others, is what allows us to play together more effectively and for
longer.

The ethics of play and rhythm

These examples point to some of the principles that inform play. These are often distinct from those
we follow in daily life. Through play our relationships are changed, and through the changing of our
relationships we invite the possibility of play. We create a fictional frame or a space for imagining
other possibilities of relating. While play offers many clear benefits to creative development,
educational learning and social interactions, its main reward lies in the pleasure it affords our
actions. Rhythm also is often attributed with strong benefits: synchronizing activities, aiding
learning, memory, communication and the building of communities. Yet in the immediacy of
encountering rhythm, arguably, it is our sense of pleasure and play that are foremost in our
experience. As such, learning to recognise and tap into this pleasure is an important if not essential
part of our education as performers.
In play the consequences of our actions are also suspended. Having carved out this space, we have a
chance to encounter something new, perhaps more real than what we find in our daily reality.
Sometimes a metaphor can reveal a truth that might otherwise be hidden by facts.
Games offer us a useful framework in which to discover this sense of play, but they can also risk
trapping us into formulized notions of playing, in which the rhythmic characteristics of the game
can become more dominant than our sense of play. There is always the risk that the game itself can
become an imitation of play, a demonstration of play rather than process of discovery. It is useful to
remember John Britton’s comments here. That is not just about doing what we like, but identifying
what we like in what we do. In this way, play is not just about behaving in a certain way, but about
how we relate to our own behaviour and to that of others. This includes the ways we direct our
attention and the space, to others, and the freedom we give our imagination.
One of the challenges of a performer is how to discover a sense of immediacy, relationship and life,
in the repeated act of performing, regardless of whether it is a comedy, a tragedy, a dance, a piece of
music, a ritual, an improvisation, or an existing composition. For me, this sense of life exists in the
play of rhythm, in its freedoms and limits, its associations and relationships. And performance is an
ongoing process of finding this again and again.

References
Boal, A. (2002) Games for Actors and Non-actors. London: Routledge.

Britton, J. (2010) Research Outline. Ensemble Physical Theatre - John Britton [online]. Available
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Britton, J. (ed.) (2013) Encountering Ensemble. London: Methuen Drama.

De Koven, B. (2013) The Well-Played Game: A Player’s Philosophy. Cambridge, Massachusetts:

The MIT Press.

Feldman, R. (2007) 'Parent–infant synchrony: Biological foundations and developmental outcomes'.

Current directions in psychological science, 16, (6), pp.340–345.
Gopnik, A. (2016) In Defense of Play: The ‘elaborate detour’ of having fun pays cognitive
dividends. The Atlantic [online]. Available from:
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Hamayon, R. (2016) Why We Play: An Athropological Study. English Translation. Chicago: Hau
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Kusler, B. (1974) Jacques Copeau’s Theatre School: L’Ecole Du Vieux-Colombier, 1920-29.

Unpublished PhD Thesis, University of Wisconsin.
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Murray, S. (2010) Jacques Lecoq, Monika Pagneux and Philippe Gaulier: Training for Play,
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Nachmanovitch, S. (1993) Free Play: Power of Improvisation in Life and the Arts. Reprint edition.
New York: Jeremy P Tarcher.

Pitches, J. (2005) Science and the Stanislavsky Tradition of Acting. 1st edition. Oxon: Routledge.

Stanislavski, K. (2008) An Actor’s Work: A Student’s Diary. 1st edition. Oxon: Routledge.

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Williams, D. (1991) Peter Brook and the ‘Mahabharata’: Critical Perspectives. London:
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i The title of Boal’s book first published in English in 1992 (see Boal, 2002).
ii Theatre director Peter Brooks stated: ‘One cannot define rhythm; never the less one can state that
at the heart of a fine performance there is always rhythm’ (Williams, 1991, p.79).