Avignon, 1976. Late on a July evening in the cobbled courtyard of the Théâtre Municipal, hundreds of festival-goers sit on wooden benches beneath a darkening sky. On stage, a strange and hypnotic tableau unfolds. A line of figures in unison slow-motion crosses from left to right, their movements deliberate and dreamlike. A young woman in a white dress steps forward, raises her arm at an impossibly languid pace, and points toward a bright halo of light. From the orchestra pit, an electric organ sustains a pulsating chord that seems to suspend time itself. In the front row, a man wipes sweat from his brow; it’s been four hours, and yet the performance of Einstein on the Beach is still in full flow, no intermission in sight. Some audience members quietly slip out for a break, then wander back in—a courtesy the director has encouraged. Up in the lighting booth stands Robert Wilson, tall and still at age thirty-four, his eyes taking in every detail. He wears all black, silver hair pulled into a tight ponytail, the very picture of calm control. As a gentle chorus of “do-re-mi” syllables echoes onstage in an endless loop, Wilson allows a rare, slight smile. This is his world: a theatre where time stretches, images speak louder than words, and the spectators’ sense of reality is slowly, inexorably being transformed.
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