The Cube and the Sphere

Author(s): Etienne Souriau

Source: Educational Theatre Journal, Vol. 4, No. 1 (Mar., 1952), pp. 11-18
Published by: The Johns Hopkins University Press
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THECUBEAND THESPHERE*
ETIENNE

SOURIAU

All I intend to do is state briefly the

principle of a possible discussion about
theatrical space, involving two different
conceptions of staging and perhaps of
the art of the theatre taken as a whole.
It may be that these conceptions reveal
two different ways of thinking; and if
this morphology of the theatrical world
leads me to speak of spherical or cubic
minds, I apologize in advance for such
strange terms. The title I have given
this paper, The Cube and the Sphere,
may have seemed somewhat enigmatic
to you, but I have no intention of giving you a riddle. My idea is quite simple, and you will see that its point of departure is elementary.
I submit the principle that in all the
arts without exception, but particularly
in the art of the theatre, the main business is to present a whole universe-the
universe of the work-en patuite, in a
state of patency. This rather rare philosophical term must not frighten you. It
denotes manifest existence, existence
that is clearly evident to the mind.
A universe that exists manifestly before us ... a universe presented with all
its power to stir us deeply; to overwhelm
*An address delivered at the Sorbonne, in Paris,
on 9 December 1948, before the Center of
Philosophical and Technical Studies in the Theatre. Translated by Claude P. Viens, Assistant
Professor of French at the University of Illinois,
from Architecture et dramaturgie (ed. A. Villiers), Paris, Flammarion, 1950; and reprinted
by permission of the publisher.

us; to impose its own reality upon us;

to be, for an hour or two, all of reality.
I used the word universe. Hamlet is
not only Hamlet; it is Ophelia too, and
Horatio, and Laertes, all of them linked
together by the action that brings them
face to face, torments them, sets them in
conflict with each other. It is also the
embankment at Elsinore, the waves that
break against it, the cloudy sky overhead, the earth under which the ghosts
make their way. All of this must exist
for us, surround us, take hold of us, be
ungue
given to us. But given-ab
leonem-in the form of a tiny fragment,
a nucleus cut out of that immense universe, whose mission will be to conjure
up for us, all by itself, the universe in
its entirety.
For it is impossible ever to reduce the
universe of a work to what is presented
concretely on the stage. Let us take for
example: II faut qu'une porte soit ouverte ou fermee. A man and a woman (the
Count and the Marquise) in a drawingroom, that is all that is presented to us
concretely, all that appears before us
physically and' in the flesh-in gross
presence, if I may use that term. But
how many other presences float around,
that are absolutely essential to the action; presences that work with our characters in the self-same adventure! There
is not only a whole past and a whole future, but all the space that surrounds

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EDUCATIONAL THEATRE JOURNAL

12

these, and the invisible people in that

space who have a part in the action:
there is M. Camus, the neighbor out in
the country; there is the jeweler to
whose shop the ring must be taken; the
little girls who bring hats; the draft
that comes in the door; there is the
weather-the showers beating down on
the city, the "celestial wrath whipping
windows, umbrellas, ladies' legs, and
chimneys." And to this external world
must be added the internal worlds, likewise invisible and essential to the action:
the characters' feelings and thoughts
that must be conveyed to us. All these
things are there, sometimes only vaguely
present, sometimes acutely and obviously so, actually present although invisible.
To take another example, think of Tartuffe who does not come on stage until
the third act of the play, but whose invisible presence is none the less central
from the very start.
And so, once more, a whole universe
must exist before us, but conjured up
and supported by a central nucleus, by
that small bit of realized reality, if I may
put it that way, which alone is brought
before our eyes and whose punctum
saliens, the living and beating heart, the
active center, is the temporary grouping
of the actors on the stage.
But how can this total existence, this
common life of the whole universe of
the work, be obtained from that small
beating heart-from the central point
which we actually see in action, and
whose essential feature is a small constellation of characters?
At this point, two methods of procedure are possible (obviously, I am simplifying and selecting the most obvious contrasts in the purest and most extreme
cases).
The first method is the one I call the
cube.
Let us imagine that we have before us
the entire universe of the work in its

supposed reality, with all its dimensions

of space, time, and humanity (the whole
"rotten state" of Hamlet, or the whole
rain-lashed Paris of la Porte, or all of
the bourgeois group of Tartuffe, headed
by "the king who is an enemy of fraud").
In this universe we cut out a little cube,
as though with a saw-for example, the
one that contains just the sentry's box
on the "platform before the castle" at
Elsinore; or else the drawing-room of
the Marquise with its furniture and accessories: the cushion the Count will
kneel on, the log he will throw on the
fire, and the inside surface of the door
and the window, not forgetting the two
characters who are in the room. That
is the stage cube. WVithinthis cube are
rendered concretely, physically, in flesh
and bones, in wood or in canvas, with
real or sham articles (it does not much
matter which), everything that ought
to be there according to the hypothesis.
And then this cube of concrete, visible,
and audible realities is opened on the
side facing the spectator; one side is
removed. Now, it is this cube, this little
open box with its contents, that must
maintain in the mind's eye a clear picture of all the rest; around it there will
be constructed and arranged (more or
less satisfactorily) the whole universe
that remains potential and unrepresented.
This cube process entailing the complete bringing into concrete existence of
a small, well-defined fragment, cut out
of the universe of the work has three

striking traits from the point of view of

the theatre.
In the first place, its realism. Everything within the limits of the cube must
be incarnated or represented concretely
-it may be more or less stylized, but it
must be made apparent to the senses.
(The Antoine type of stage-setting, where
everything within the cube is genuine,
is merely the extreme limit of the genre.)

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THE CUBE AND THE SPHERE

This cube has a sharply defined form

and precise limits; limits that are invariable until a change of place and of
setting presents us with another cube,
cut out elsewhere in the universe with
which we are concerned.
In the second place, its orientation or
aspect. The little cube is open on the
spectator's side. It faces him. It exerts
a force over him, a dynamic force in a
horizontal plane pointing like an arrow
into the hall. If the actor turns his back
on the audience for a moment, it is his
back that exerts the force during that
moment. A dynamic back. It is this
back that becomes the arrow as long as
the actor remains in that position; it
assumes a function on the stage, it takes
on a force directed outward into the
hall, and makes an impact on the spectator.
And finally, its third trait: its predetermined, confining architecture. This
little piece of universe is internally organized, and the physical aspects of this
organization are imposed from start to
finish on everything that happens within the box. The whole incident, the
comings and goings of the characters, all
their stage business are constrained and
given shape in advance according to the
stage setting adopted; and they will have
to yield to it, trying to turn it to the best
possible account. Such are the colonnades of the temple in Mounet-Sully's
well-known piece of business: the blind
Oedipus feels his way along the columns
one by one, until this maneuver brings
him face to face with the spectators, who
then for the first time see the bleeding,
sightless eyes. Another example is Kitty
Bell's staircase (in Chatterton), down
which the dying Marie Dorval used to
let herself slide with a long scream. The
staircase is there from the very start, and
Dorval must come down it, some way
or other, unless she wants to die upstairs.
Of course, it may be that all this is ar-

13

ranged in advance, and that the colonnade or the staircase is carefully calculated to announce prophetically Mounet's tragic journey across the stage, or
the pathos of Dorval's slide. That makes
no difference. Everything must be adapted to an initial decision about the staging, to a preestablished architecture.
Even the couch, placed center stage or
diagonally in the corner, is a force of inertia that blocks a point, that interferes
with the free use of the available space,
and forces the characters to sit down
there or walk around it. Hence the importance, the gravity of the initial question: where to put the couch? The decision will give the stage a certain form
which will itself be a force.
And now let us pass on to the principle of the sphere. As you will see, it
is entirely different. Its practical and
aesthetic dynamism are not at all the
same (of course, I am simplifying once
more, and taking an exaggeratedly pure
and extreme case).
No stage, no hall, no limits. Instead
of cutting out a predetermined fragment in the world that is going to be set
up, one seeks out its dynamic center, its
beating heart, the spot where the action
is emotionally at its keenest and most
exalted. This center is permitted to irradiate its force freely and without limits. The actors or the group of actors
who incarnate this heart, this punctum
saliens, dynamic center of the universe
of the work, are officiating priests, magicians whose power extends outward indefinitely into open space. The fictitious world of which they are the center
develops to dimensions limited only by
the incantatory group's power to conjure up and create. They are the center,
and the circumference is nowhere-the
point is to push it out into the infinite,
taking the spectators themselves into the
limitless sphere.

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EDUCATIONAL THEATRE JOURNAL

14

No stage! Obviously, you need some

utilitarian spot, some platform or other
on which the actors can stand and move
about; you need some place, some building, open like an amphitheatre or covered over, in which to house them along
with the spectators; but whether this be
the chancel of a cathedral, or a ring in
the circus, the courtyard of an Elizabethan inn, or a Russian-style circular theatre, the site of this theatrical theophany
sets no limits, and in no way imposes its
form on what is happening. Its only
function is to gather actors and spectators around the central point where
the happenings that animate the universe of the work vibrate and beat most
intensely.
There is no scenery either, properly
so-called, if we mean by scenery those
box-sides on which are painted one-dimensional representations destined to be
seen from a given point directly opposite in the hall. Only what is needed to
fix momentarily what will later become
intensified and take on local significance
in the world that is being suggested.
Why not simply a circular area on which
are a step-ladder and two boxes, so long
as we are willing to take that box at
various moments for a chair or a chopping block, a chest or a rock; and so
long as the step-ladder can be changed,
according to the moment and the dramatic needs, into a tower, a mountainside, or a ghost? In the other system,
that of the cube, all the beings of the
world selected for representation necessarily had one or the other of the following modes of existence: either they were
real and visible in the box, within the
limits of the section cut out, or else they
were immaterial and disincarnated in
the invisible world outside these limits,
in the wings. There are no wings here.
At most there are "mansions" as in the
medieval theatre, to which characters
whose presence is momentarily less use-

ful withdraw to give the effect of a

vaguer, more distant presence; later they
will return in a form whose realism matters very little, to take on more visibility, a more actual and localized presence,
as, under the collective magic spell, they
are summoned to appear at the author's
command.
If you want to find the basis for this
kind of staging by pure, spell-binding
suggestion outside the theatre, think of
a child sitting in a chair, cracking a whip
over another chair. He finds this enough
to play at being in a carriage, or at driving a dogsled on some Arctic trail-a
convention that is just as valid in the
theatre provided we, the spectators, enter
into the game, and are tempted like
him (or rather like the actor) to act out
a part whose main feature lies in the
visual and verbal representation of the
action. Or, to take an example closer
to the theatre, think of the clown who
makes all the spectators look up by pretending that the sleight-of-hand artist's
pigeon is still flying in circles under the
canvas top. But within the history of
the art of the theatre itself, think of the
actor Garrick wringing tender tears from
an audience while cradling a pillow in
his arms (it is true that this happened in
a drawing room and not on the stage);
and then making everyone cry out in
anguish when finally, with an imprecation against this illegitimate child, he
throws the pillow out the window. As
a matter of fact, in this system, it is
much more the actor's business than it is
the property man's or the scene-painter's
or the stage-hand's, to make a carrierpigeon fly across the sky (as in Mangeront-ils?), or to have Marco Polo's caravan file by on the horizon (as in Christophe Colomb); or, to come back to our
original example, to make gray seas
break against the terrace at Elsinore.
Now if this gradual transition by delicate nuances from presence incarnate,

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THE CUBE AND THE SPHERE

through presence with a bare pretense

of representation, to immaterial presence, is in striking contrast with the
prime feature of the cubic system-the
All or Nothing, i.e., really present or
completely absent-there are also other
points of contrast.
We do not find here, or at least we
find the minimum of, face-to-face relationship, that arrow-like function of the
actor with reference to the spectator. As
much as possible, the spectators are in
the cathedral or around the platform as
participants; they are, so to speak, invited along with the actor to enter the
universe that is being conjured up. They
are within the sphere whose periphery
pulsates and is infinitely expansive, a
sphere whose walls can encompass them
or even go far beyond them. I was saying a short while ago in connection with
the cube, that if the actor turned his
back on the public, his back assumed
a dramatic force. Here, not only does
all of the actor's person have dramatic
force, but his ideal would be to get the
spectator's back to take on such a force.
Let me explain what I mean: if, in Oedipus Rex, the actor who is playing Oedipus manages, during his tragic inquiry,
to make the spectators feel with a little
shiver that Destiny is advancing on
Oedipus from behind their backs, then
they are indeed inside the sphere! And
it doesn't much matter then, basically,
how the stage is laid out. I was speaking
a moment ago about a round platform.
Obviously, with the cubic principle
there is a tendency to organize the stage
along the lines of the Italian theatre
(which is its natural product); while the
sphere calls for a broader organization,
one that is less rigid and more inclusive
as concerns the audience, like certain
Russian stages-or like open-air performances in amphitheatres or arenas.
Here the presence of the same real sky
over actors and spectators alike, and of

15

the country-side roundabout, helps to

assimilate everyone into the dramatic
action. But even on the Italian-style
stage this principle of assimilation is
followed whenever there is an attempt
to produce universal inclusiveness, to obscure the outlines, either physically according to methods of stage design (in
which a Gordon Craig, for example, has
pioneered) or, in a more general manner,
by any means that tends to destroy the
evidence of a structural framework formally bound to the stage locale. For
after all, the conflict between the Italianstyle stage and, let us say, the amphitheatre or the circular platform-or for
that matter any other analogous arrangement-is but an episode and a particular consequence of the choice made between these two broad systems, both of
which have many other aesthetic implications.
There is a third point of view from
which this effort towards universal expansion of a cosmic theatrical nucleus
is in contrast with the preestablished
architectural constraints of the cubic
system, a point of view based on the
former's freedom to improvise and to
move about. The ideal, the unattainable ideal pursued by the Sphericals (if
I may dare speak of them as though
they constituted a race, a nation, or a
sect), would be the absolute availability,
by mere invocation and as though magically, of every manifestation momentarily
needed, of every dimension to be traversed or conquered; the absolute malleability of theatrical material, in a perpetual and unimpeded improvisation,
without any previous calculation or
curb, without "exquisite constraint" (if
I may, in this connection, quote Valery,
who was speaking only of versification
-but after all, is there not a kind of
parallel between this problem, and the
duel, among poets, between the partisans
of free verse and those of conventional

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EDUCATIONAL THEATRE JOURNAL

16

verse?). Failing the ability to realize this

dream, how do the "spherical minds"
resolve the problem? Least successfully,
by means of the unspecified locale, supplemented either by imaginary or conventional evocations, or by means of mobile drop settings; more recently, by
settings involving projections, especially
cinematographic projections (but in this
case, the fatal presence of a screen, of
whatever kind, all too easily restores the
partition that the screen was intended
to eliminate); or finally-for want of a
revolving stage, which has never given
satisfactory results in this genre-by the
division of the set into compartments
(the original sets of the Cid!). This process has been rejuvenated in America by
drawing the attention of the audience
first to one compartment and then to
another with lighting effects, thus creating the impression that various points
of the universe of the work are being
conjured up instantaneously and at will,
as they are needed in the dramatic unfolding of the story, and according to its
particular pattern. But basically, a process of almost pure suggestion, an incantatory magic resting on the power of the
word, on the authority of the actor,
aided by a bare minimum of visual representation, and consciously conceived
as just an imaginative and evocatory pretext (this magic can be quite close to socalled abstract art)-such a suggestive
process, I say, still remains the best
means (and the most economical!) of
contributing to the freedom and to the
flexibility that are the ideal or the dream
of this form of theatrical thinking.
You see how very different are these
two broad conceptions of the art of the
theatre, not only in their principles, but
also in their artistic aims, in their effects,
and in their aesthetic means. At least
if they are studied in their pure state,
in extreme examples.
But you will now ask me which

one to choose. Which side I approve?

Whether I favor the cube or the sphere?
Whether I am registered with the Spherical party or the Cubist? Gulliver was
similarly called upon to become a BigEndian or a Small-Endian (I don't remember whether this involved the manner of using a spy glass or of breaking a
soft-boiled egg).
Well, I absolutely refuse to take sides,
on the grounds that both principles are
equally valid conceptions of the theatre;
both equally authentic although antithetical. It is up to the artist (whether
author, actor, or producer, or all of
them working together as a team) to decide how he is going to break the egg.
And of course personalities must be taken into consideration. One producer,
essentially Apollo-like, will prefer by far
an assignment that permits him to play
the clever architect; he will lay out in
advance the dramatic or spectacular action of his team-mates upon the stage,
through the strong and ingenious structure he creates in Olympian fashion at
the very start, by the very act of cutting
out his block of reality. Another, more
Dionysian, will yield to the intoxication
of being the sum and substance of all
the forces seething on the stage; he will
seek to amplify the rhythm of such
forces, to set in motion the beat of a
freely expanding universe, and to direct
a great evocatory rite in which theoretically he has control even over the public. Of course there are also other questions, such as the desires of the spectators, the search for novelty, and a fidelity
to established successes or to the nobility of the past.
But all these factors can be examined
from a common point of view, and perhaps integrated.
Both, as I was saying, are authentic
and valid. The spherical principle, more
primitive, more closely related to the
beginnings of the theatre-in certain re-

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THE CUBE AND THE SPHERE

spects, more "religious" (in the very

broadest sense of the term)-is perhaps
also the one that offers at the present
moment most opportunities for new research, for expansion of the present
boundaries of the theatre towards new
destinies. But the principle of the cube,
which is more solid, more classic (although it too can be broadened and diversified), more common in the theatre
of the last three centuries, has on its
side purity of structure, potential stylization, and a spectacular glamor, that
are susceptible of monumental elaboration.
As a matter of fact the art of the theatre has oscillated rhythmically, so to
speak, between the two tendencies, as
did the Greek theatre, for example,
which used them alternately in the contrast between the chorus and the actors,
in the preeminence accorded first to the
orchestra, then to the logeion. The defect of the cubic principle, or (if you are
getting tired of hearing those words repeated so frequently) of the principle of
the architectonic organization of a selected piece of the universe of the work,
presented in such a way that it faces the
spectator-its defect, I say, is that it
either limits itself too much to a mere,
artless reproduction of a piece of reality,
viewed as though through a keyhole; or
else, if it stylizes and arranges, it tends
little by little to fall into excesses of the
spectacular that some associate with the
"movies." The box is compressed onto
a narrow stage on which three or four
people in front of a backdrop face the
public and talk, then change their places
kaleidoscopically and start talking again
from new places, and so on until all
the combinations of places have been
exhausted! Meanwhile, at long, equal
intervals, four or five times in all, the
shape and color of the box are changed.
And the central location of the divan,
or the staircase, or the statue of Apollo,

17

determine (in advance) the steps of this

ballet. How great then is the urge to
expand all that, to break down all partitions, to explode through space and
descend into the midst of the spectators,
in an excitement carrying away actors
and spectators alike in common exaltation!
Yes, but there is the alternative.
Pushed to extremes, the triumph of the
spherical principle results in a caricature. A tragedy is reduced to dance
movements by several choruses around
an area in whose center a few officiating
"priests" are intoning their lines or indulging in a kind of ceremonial choreography. They thus proceed, by an essentially verbal theophany, to the evocation of a great legend, or of some myth
(of past ages or of future time)-to
which a thousand spectators, seated on
circular tiers, pay rapt attention, silent,
immobile, docile in their hallucination.
Or, if we are dealing with a comedy,
we find some kind of free and universal saturnalia, or the carnival-like improvisations of communal merry-making.
What becomes of the truly theatrical in
all this? Of the art of the stage, properly speaking? What a temptation it is
to say to those high priests of lyricism:
"Climb up on the platform, or, if that
is beneath your dignity, delegate some
of your henchmen who won't disdain
to get up on the stage in front of us
and let themselves go-in
actions as
well as in words, with pantomime as
well as with settings!" Or to tell that
life-of-the-party at the carnival: "Come
out of the crowd; get up on those boards
and show us what you can do-as an
artist!" Now was it not by just such a
selective process that the theatre was
born and that it constantly rises anew
out of its religious or socially collective
origins? Isn't this return to the cube
from the sphere a technical reconstruction of the development of the theatre?

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18

EDUCATIONAL THEATRE JOURNAL

And so the true life of the theatre

oscillates between these two opposite
poles; it quickens and draws enthusiasm
from their struggle, from their double
and contrasting impulses, from the everlasting nostalgia these two extremes have
for each other-neither of them ever
completely triumphant, for then the theatre would die.
This basic discrepancy, this double
principle (or alternating temptation),
seems to me of the very essence of the
theatre. And that is the theme that I
submit to you for discussion. If, in order
to shorten the distance between these
two extremes, it seemed necessary to
sketch out the outlines of a possible synthesis, I should say that the real theatrical sequence, or at least the most natural and effective, is to start with the cube,
and to have it burst, abruptly or gradually, into the sphere. The great advantage of the cube is that its stage arrangement and the nature of its opening scenes arouse the interest of the spectators at the very beginning, before they
come under the spell of the drama proper. The spherical principle requires that
the audience be spell-bound from the
very start, yet it is difficult to seize the
spectator's attention immediately and
wholly unless a measure of readiness has
been built up in him beforehand, in
some way. But is it not one of the finest
and most complete artistic triumphs to
succeed sooner or later in casting this
collective spell, in registering this total
presence of the universe of the worka presence that finally pervades the entire audience and permits it to enter into communion? This is a quasi-religious
communion, as many have shown.
The reason is that the same is true of
art, after all, as of reality: we know very
well that man is at once in the world,
and looking out on the world. In all art
as in all reality, there is a kind of external presence, in front of us, indispen-

sable to us; and also a kind of internal

presence that is equally useful and perhaps fills a greater void in our existence.
And the triumph of theatrical art is the
moment when there begins to grow
around the small architectonic structure facing the audience a presence, an
existence-one that swells, dilates, becomes more and more vast, more and
more cosmic, and that finally carries
away high-priests and audience alike in
a whirlwind, to a new universe conjured
up and imposed by the magic act of art.
If I had to become specific about questions of technique and stage structure,
I would say that the best theatre was
the one that put the fewest obstacles in
the way of the following transition: a
gradual evolution in which the action
was first presented in front of an audience on a shallow stage, then by progressive stages (corresponding to important
moments in the play) was broadened.
Ultimately it might include a step-bystep descent into the very midst of the
spectators, until they were finally enveloped, and were merged with the players
in a common act of artistic creation.
But why specify? Each work has its
own particular way of blossoming forth.
The basic need is for a microcosm, architecturally organized and rich with all
the power of form, but aiming at the
spectator an action that keeps opening,
and conquering, and expanding into
universal existence. At any rate, this
gradual transformation of a microcosm
into a macrocosm is certainly the supreme act of the art of the theatre, an
act that no other art permits with quite
so much breadth. For the theatre alone
permits the existence-half-concrete, yet
half-abstract, half-perceptible to the
senses, yet half-hallucinatory-of a universe in all its dimensions and all its
emotional force; and it is this very instant of total existence that constitutes
true theatre, theatre in its highest form.

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