The immersive performance “Year 13” by Signa and Arthur Koestler was shown in Hamburg. Review

In the Schauspielhaus in Hamburg, in a former factory workshop rented by the theatre, screenings of the immersive performance “Year 13” by spouses Signa and Arthur Koestler took place. Spent five hours among the inhabitants of a village lost in the mountains as a teenager Alla Shenderova.

Nobody complains about the number nicknamed the devil’s dozen. It is not surprising that Signa Koestler, who does not recognize taboos, called her next performance “Year 13.” The performance, also known as a total installation, begins with the spectators’ coats and personal belongings being taken away. This happens in the cold, at the entrance to the theater. Having gathered a slightly discouraged audience in a small lecture hall, slides are projected onto the wall: a bus crawling among mountains shrouded in fog, a coniferous forest – a good setting for the beginning of a thriller.

The text on the slides warns that those who accept the proposed circumstances can participate in the performance: we are all 13 years old, we went on an excursion to the mountains, during which the bus broke down and the driver disappeared, leaving the children in an unfamiliar place. When the lecturer, pointing at me, asks how old I am, I stammer and answer “12.” He nods.

The performance is performed in German, translation is excluded – this is actually not a performance or an installation, but like a small life. Leaving the hall, we find ourselves in a ravine. There is a cloudy suspension in the air: looking up, you can barely discern that above your head is not a twilight sky, but a stretched canvas. Perhaps the remains of a factory workshop are hidden behind it. But Signa, who designs her works herself, turned it into a low sky, as if pressing on a village hidden between the mountains: with dirty houses, narrow passages, a puddle-pond, above which sits a completely creepy person. Catching her gaze, I rush back. But the inhabitants are already pouring out of the houses: just behind the tulle curtains they seemed like disheveled dolls with plaster faces and now they are wedged into the crowd of “lost children” and sorting them into their families.

Hearing me mumble in German, my future sister wants to talk me down to the neighbors, but their house is full. And she drags me to my mother: a small woman with a gentle, always frightened face. The head of the family is sleeping behind a plywood wall, suffering after an encounter with some kind of beast. His hands are tied with rags, moans come from his plaster mouth – the dolls here are almost indistinguishable from the actors. I and three other spectators are forced to undress in his “presence” down to our underwear – we are given new clothes, that is, cast-offs. I will be wearing cotton tights, two sweaters and boots. I point to the “big sister” at my legs, try to pull the sweater down, and she hands me the trousers.

I will spend five hours in this outfit, which does not protect against dampness. I will listen to the gong, at the sound of which the inhabitants of the village freeze, and a certain voice from above announces the time, according to which the local twilight either turns pale or darkens. Listen to the drunken screams of neighbors fighting at the only source of water. Walk in formation to the toilet, peel potatoes: lunch will be made from these potatoes and slightly salted water. Salt is at a premium here: it is sprinkled on the entrance to the house to ward off the monster. Actually, because of him, everyone lives in fear, even my older sister is a hooligan, dragging us away at night to a session where the guys and girls (they seem to be 16 years old) play spin the bottle and drink alcohol.

Transforming into spoiled teenagers, young actresses and actors manage not to cross the line: watching their nervous youthful embraces is not embarrassing, but it’s interesting, just as it’s interesting to watch a masterfully played role. At the same time, the general hopelessness of the world seems not to be a game at all, but a reality. The only bright spot here is either a fortune teller or a dealer in stolen goods (Signa enjoys this role, cheering on the audience with all her heart), while the others are afraid of any rustle.

Signa works in Hamburg for the second time. In 2021, her performance “Peace” was shown at the old post office. Both times – with local performers. She also worked in St. Petersburg in 2019, where “Toys” were made at the then-existing NET festival, which provoked viewers to stand up for girls who were victims of manipulation, abuse and harassment (for more details, see “Kommersant” dated December 5, 2019 of the year). Signa easily found a common language with the Russian team; the only thing that bothered the audience was that they sometimes recognized St. Petersburg actresses in their performances.

Something similar happened with “Year 13”: while rushing to the night train, I learned from one of the spectators that she had been invited by a fellow participant, an acting student. Another fellow traveler, an elderly Berliner who came to Hamburg specifically for Signa, turned out to know about “Toys”. Both immediately asked me which of the performances was cooler. It was not easy to answer. “Toys” remained in the reality where harassment and abuse seemed the most disgusting, where each of the participants dreamed of receiving an inheritance and escaping to the big free world. We had no idea then that abuse could be accompanied by eternal darkness, timelessness and lack of prospects simply because the world would narrow down to one huge, evil, totally unhappy village.