Introduction

The Vortex

In his essay “Discourse in the Novel,” Mikhail Bakhtin “declared that the natural and healthy state of language, which is a changing, socially stratified, multivocal clatter of discourses, is unrepresentable in poetry.” (Scanlon 2007: 1) Bakhtin espouses the view that poetry is monologic: that is, the text speaks with one voice, using one language–that of the author — admitting no possibility for outside voices (heteroglossia), and thus diversity of meaning within the text.  Bakhtin concludes that “the language of poetic genres…often become authoritarian, dogmatic and conservative, sealing itself off from the influence of extraliterary social dialects.” While Bakhtin does allow for some exception, for instance he notes that a “certain latitude for heteroglossia exists only in the ‘low’ poetic genres–in the satiric and comic genres and others,” his stance is quite fixed and sincere. While Bakhtin does point to some examples of dialogism in epic poetry, specifically Eugene Onegin (which is considered a novel even though written in verse), it is likely that Bakhtin never figured on a poetic work like that of Also, with My Throat, I Shall Swallow Ten Thousand Swords.

Also, with My Throat, I Shall Swallow Ten Thousand Swords is supposedly a collection of letters from Arkai Yasusada to a correspondent named Richard.  I say supposedly not only because it is unclear if Richard even exists, but because Araki Yasusada himself does not exist, being a persona of a translator Tosa Motokiyu.  However, the authorial confusion does not end there, as it may be that Motokiyu also does not exist and is a persona of poet Kent Johnson (or Kent Johnson and Javier Alvarez). It has also been asserted by Mikhail Epstein, in an essay at the back of Doubled Flowering , that two Russian writers, Andrei Bitov and Dmitri Prigov, may have created Yasusada.  And in an essay by Bill Freind it was suggested that Mikhail Epstein may not exist and is a “hyperauthor” created by Umberto Eco. (Freind 2004: 151) This confusion of authorial responsibility for Yasusada’s letters is just one of many methods by which Also, with My Throat creates diversity of meaning and challenges Bakhtin’s notion of the monologic poem. Through its employment of many authorial voices, use of multiple generic forms, broken English and mangled idiomatic expressions how Also, with My Throat means and how it’s many voices speak, and to what end, creates a fully heteroglossic work that is dialogic at in its very essence.  The importance of this should not be underestimated, for many have challenged the ethical position of Johnson, Alavarez, and Friend (Soltan 2001) and the ethical implications of the figure of Araki Yasusada.  This requires explanation. According to the description of Also, with My Throat on Amazon.com:

In the early 1990s, a number of respected US literary journals published the poems of Araki Yasusada, a Japanese poet and Hiroshima survivor who turned out to have never existed. The most likely author of this "hoax" (if it even is a hoax) is probably Kent Johnson. For this book, Johnson claims that Yasusada was in fact the creation of yet a third writer who uses the pseudonym Tosa Motokiyu, and who requested (prior to dying in 1996) that his legal identity never be revealed. ALSO, WITH MY THROAT is a collection of letters, in imperfect English, that Motokiyu wrote as Yasusada. Edited by Kent Johnson and Javier Alvarez, this new book might renew some of the many polarizing responses to Yasusada’s first appearance. "This is essentially a criminal act," claimed Arthur Vogelsang at the time. Carolyn Forche, on the other hand, argued that "’Yasusada’s’ writing is an entry into a spiritual space…It is a work of art in the largest sense."

With regard to the ethical implications of this “hoax,” the description notes that “respected US literary journals published the poems” and that Yasusada was a “Hiroshima survivor who turned out to have never existed.”  The ethical implications for the US literary journals are of course that an author or authors published material that, while theirs, was not represented truthfully, and that the journals were a tool in the distribution of this falsity to their readers; but as straightforward as this argument seems, it doesn’t end there, for the question of authenticity comes directly back to the journals in the form of their need for what Johnson refers to as “collective, pathological yearning for simulacral states.” (Freind 142) That is, Johnson contends that what “people are after nowadays is not so much ‘the Authentic’; they are after, rather, authenticity’s simulacral and constructed Figure, ready-made in the Author’s image.” (Freind 138) A fact that holds for journals as well.  More specifically, it is unlikely that “respected US literary journals” would have looked positively on “a white American constructing or appropriating the voice of a Japanese victim of the bombing of Hiroshima.” (Freind 143) And yet, without knowing this fact they were very willing to publish the work.  To this point, the ethical implications for Johnson and others is precisely this last point–to what end does he assume this voice? What are the implications of his fabricating a persona who supposedly bore witness to one of the greatest atrocities in human history–that is, assuming the voice of a witness to and a victim of such an event?  There are several answers that come from Freind, and the answer that seems perfectly acceptable: that “many survivors emphasize not only the necessity but also the impossibility of speaking about atrocity”; (Freind 144) that arguments against assuming a persona would “reduce” the “political to the personal and confine the act of writing to a factual narcissism” and that it amounts to “a denial of imagination” (Freind 145); further, such allegations dismiss wholly the experience that a reader has–as if to invalidate that experience based on the credentials of the author.  Thus, Johnson can be said to give voice to an experience to which victims themselves could not adequately give voice, and give readers access to an expression of that voice to which they would not have access otherwise.  But a more important point emerges when looking at the work through the lens of Mikhail Bakhtin, as noted by William Batstone:

Monologism was a “denial of equal rights”, a “verbal and semantic dictatorship” a “Ptolemaic conception”, whereas dialogism was “the activity of God in His relation to man, a relation allowing man to reveal himself utterly”; it was an act of love.  Dialogism revealed consciousness: “the thinking human consciousness and the dialogic sphere in which this consciousness exists, in all its depth and specificity, cannot be reached through a monologic artistic approach”. And dialogism revealed truth: “It is quite possible to imagine and postulate a unified truth that requires a plurality of consciousnesses” (Batstone 2002: 102)

That is, a dialogic text is an ethical text.  It is one that by presenting many voices inquires about the nature of how one lives one’s life, and through the dialogic nature of literature, asks the same question of the reader. (Scanlon 17) If Kent Johnson had come at the subject of Hiroshima through the voice of a “white American” poet living in the Midwest the directness of the speech act–the poem–and the monologic nature of that voice would not be able to capture truth and frame an ethical dialog.  The use of the persona of Araki Yasusada, the persona of Tosa Motokiyu, the editorial framework of Kent Johnson and Javier Alvarez, as well as the generic form of letters to a reader are heteroglossic and form a dialog that is ethical and provides the reader with a method for constructing truth.

Can Poetry be Dialogic?

Mikhail Bakhtin was a Russian literary critic, linguist, scholar, and philosopher who is perhaps most known for advancing a comprehensive theory of the novel.  Bakhtin did this through many of his works, but the singular work on the subject is The Dialogic Imagination a compilation of his early essays that was put together in 1975.  In this work, Bakhtin defined many terms for how a novel worked, both in relationship to itself—its internal operations—and how it worked in relation to readers and other literary works—its external operations.  One of these terms is “dialogic,” which refers to the ability of a text to present arguments through a variety of techniques: one of the most obvious being the use of different characters who represent different positions; but a text can also relate to, and be informed by, other texts.  According to Bakhtin, dialogism, which “is the characteristic epistemological mode of a world dominated by heteroglossia.  Everything means, is understood, as a part of a greater whole—there is a constant interaction between meanings, all of which have the potential of conditioning others.”(Bakhtin 1988: 426) So not only does dialogism refer to relationships between texts, it also relates to words themselves: every word means and may mean in ways that the person speaking or writing the word does not intend because no person can predict the contextual understanding of another, for whom a word may mean differently.  In the context of novelization or works of literature, dialogism is the relationship between works and between characters who populate those works—and even between the author and the reader.  For Bakhtin, monologic texts would be those that do not refer to other texts, or which are closed unto themselves, hermetic, and often as not may not even consider or care about any relationship to any outside (a reader, for example).  Within the definition of dialogism is the word “heteroglossia” which “insures the primacy of context over text. At any given time, in any given place, there will be a set of conditions—social, historical, meteorological, physiological—that will insure that a word uttered in that place and at that time will have a meaning different than it would have under any other conditions; all utterances are heteroglot in that they are functions of a matrix of forces practically impossible to recoup.” (Bakhtin 428) For Bakhtin, “the novel is the genre that accomplishes the subversive, ethically necessary act of decentralization, in large part through its incorporation of multiple voices representing clashing ideologies or world views, what Bakhtin calls ‘heteroglossia’ and Michael Holquist has helpfully described as a ‘plurality of relations’ rather than just a ‘cacophony of different voices.’" (Scanlon 2) It is important to note that for Bakhtin, if two different characters are expressing the same view of the world, there is no true dialogism and there can only be heteroglossia if the two characters represent different “stratifications” or worldviews—characters from two different professions, classes, countries, etc.  Other terms used include polyvocal or multivocal, which simply refer to the presence of other voices within a text, usually, but not necessarily, in dialog.  It is important also to note that dialogs can take place through time, forming what Bakhtin refers to as a chronotope. Chronotopes are "conceptions of time and space… [that] determine ‘to a significant degree the image of a person in literature.’”(Burton 39)

To advance his various philosophies of the novel, Bakhtin was often found drawing comparisons between the novel and the poem.  This foil for his theories was an important one for several reasons: first, the poetic styles to which Bakhtin addressed his attention were highly monologic (“Russian and Continental traditions which formed Bakhtin’s ideas of the lyric” (Richter 26)); second, at the time of his writing his theories, the monologic poetic form was being used as a nationalistic device to create a homogonous political world view in Russia (Scanlon 4); and third, Bakhtin was rebelling against a “formalist poetics” (Richter 14) that put itself forward as the quintessential form of literary achievement–creating a distinction characterizing something as “literature” or “non-literature” (Richter 26). This background demonstrates reason enough for the often antagonistic tone that Bakhtin takes toward poetry. But, as other authors have pointed out, Bakhtin took the strange approach of looking narrowly and looking backward as well, not looking toward new poetic traditions that were coming into their own (Richter 26) or even looking across the Atlantic to poetic movements in the United States. The authors of several articles, including Richter and Scanlon have argued that “multivocal collage” (Scanlon 10) poems such as Elliot’s The Wasteland, or Pound’s Cantos demonstrate clearly that heteroglossic possibilities exist in poetry.  Yet, as Batstone points out, “Bakhtin knew poetry well, loved it deeply, lectured on it continually–but never revised his view of lyricness.” (Batstone 100) This notion of “lyricness” is perhaps best stated by T.S. Eliot who wrote: “the voice of the poet talking to himself–or nobody–and part of our enjoyment of great poetry is the enjoyment of overbearing words which are not addressed to us.” (Batstone 101) Thus, Eliot makes clear what most appalled Bakhtin about the monologic nature of poetry: that there was not a thought of a dialog at all–even with a potential reader. As Richter notes in his essay, “like all dramatic poetry the dramatic lyric is ‘objectified discourse,’ the drama of the poet’s discovery of meaning in mute nature allows for very little in the way of ‘discourse with an orientation toward someone else’s discourse.’” This was appalling to Bakhtin because Bakhtin believed that the self was created and understood in the context of others (Batstone 105), in the context of society, and the various languages and world views that societies represent: what Bakhtin referred to as “stratification”. (Bakhtin 263)

In his essay “Catullus and Bakhtin: The Problems of a Dialogic Lyric,” William Batstone also explores the question of whether a truly dialogic lyric can exist.  Batstone notes, almost immediately, that:

Bakhtin drew a stark distinction between the poetic and prosaic style.  The contrast, as Bakhtin conceived it, was between a totalitarian form of thought and discourse…and an alternative form…which depended on the interpersonal nature of the meaning, preserved [in] the multiple voices that inhere in language and society, and celebrated our freedom from the totalizations and finalized images we become for others. (Batstone 99)

For Batstone, there are three requirements for a dialogic lyric and the tiered levels of the requirements expose an approach or an identification of the self that Shunryu Suzuki might himself enjoy. The first, requirement for Batstone is a “poetic practice in which the self is (or can be) polyphonic and interpersonal.  This interiorizes the external dialogue of the novelist into the self-fashioning dialogues that are constitutive of the life of the mind.”(Batstone 104) That is, we all have multiple selves inside of us and each of us is privileged in hearing the discourse between these voices.  The self is a polyphonic creation, where a mix of voices merge to create episodic selves.  The key challenge for Batstone is not to unify the voices nor is it to eliminate or silence voices, but to ensure that there is an “irreducible noncoincidence between the voices.”(Batstone 104) But this is a problem for us, because as we get older the “orchestration of these voices is hierarchical; it is an internal debate decided ahead of time or a constitutive tension over which the “self” presides.  For a truly dialogic lyric to exist, internal dialogue must be grounded in a psychology of the divided self, a self which is intersected by embodied discourses and may speak now with one voice, now with another.” (Batstone 104)

In the chapter “Study Yourself” in Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind, Suzuki writes:

If we think of ourselves as our bodies, the teaching then may be our clothing. Sometimes we talk about our clothing; sometimes we talk about our body.  But neither body nor clothing is actually we ourselves. We ourselves are the big activity.  We are just expressing the smallest particle of the big activity, that is all.  So it is all right to talk about ourselves, but actually there is no need to do so.  Before we open our mouths, we are already expressing the big existence, including ourselves.  So the purpose of talking about ourselves is to correct the misunderstanding we have when we are attached to any particular temporal form or color of the big activity.  It is necessary to talk about what our body is and what our activity is so that we may not make any mistake about them.  So to talk about ourselves is actually to forget about ourselves. Dogen-zenji said, “To study Buddhism is to study ourselves. To study ourselves is to forget ourselves.”  When you become attached to a temporal expression of your true nature, it is necessary to talk about Buddhism, or else you will think the temporal expression is it.  But this particular expression of it is not it. And yet at the same time it is it! For a while this is it; for the smallest particle of time, this is it.  But it is not always so: the very next instant it is not so, thus this is not it…When we forget ourselves, we actually are the true activity of the big existence, or reality itself.”(Suzuki 2006: 88-9)

In speaking to Batstone, Suzuki might say not to be “grounded in a psychology of the divided self” but to realize that the selves we manifest at any given time are manifestations of a temporal form that will pass away.  A Buddhist approach might suggest to release our attachment to any of the forms that may manifest themselves in us, but to observe them nonetheless.  In art, it is useful, undoubtedly, to let those passing selves speak to one another and form a dialogue.  Because, as Batstone points out, dialogism reveals truth. (Batstone 102) However, equally valid, is to not get so tied up in one manifestation of the self that it distorts who we really are.

The second prerequisite for a dialogic lyric, according to Batstone, is very much Buddhist in its conception—and even more so in its articulation:

If the intersected and polyphonic self is the first prerequisite of a dialogic lyric, the second is a consequence of that self: an elusive self, the event of the self-under construction, the noncoincidence of self-objectification.  From his earliest essays, Bakhtin thought of the “self” as a project, of “a life that is directed ahead of itself toward the event yet-to-come”. But the present is also a coexistent event, and there is an inevitable slippage between the authoring and the authored self…The lyricist who prized this aspect of consciousness would be looking not for his own word but for the word which reveals and hides him, not for the mask or the face behind the mask but for the potential and coexistence that find in the resources others offer us the ways we can appear to (and disappear from) ourselves and others. (Batstone 105)

Batstone’s third prerequisite for a dialogic lyric states, “If, then, it is possible to imagine a polyphonic self which remains elusive and unfinalized, it follows that this voice saying I asks for and expects a form of authorship (creative understanding, hearing) from its readers.” (Batstone 105)

This is precisely the expectation that Mara Scanlon emphasizes in “Ethics and the Lyric: Form, Dialogue, Answerability”.  Scanlon writes:
I am using here, then, two concepts of dialogism, ethics, and literature simultaneously. The first is the concept of the poem’s being heteroglossic and, within the dialogic play of those voices, making meaning. For Bakhtin, this is ethical representation of the stratified languages and voices of the world. The second type I invoke is the dialogue between the reader and the text that results in an ethical responsibility for the reader as she responds to the poem, an accountability that Bakhtin calls answerability. (2007: 9)

In her essay, Scanlon argues that a dialogic poem is possible using Robert Hayden’s “Night, Death, Mississippi,” which layers four or five voices into a relatively short poem consisting of nine quatrains and three interjections by a disembodied voice. While Scanlon finds Bakhtin’s theories to be a highly useful vehicle for the examination of poetry, she disagrees with Bakhtin’s assessment that all poetry is monologic.

[Ethics and the Lyric] has two purposes: to insist again that dialogic poetry is possible, which I will do by tracing the dialogism of the word and character-based dialogism in a heteroglossic lyric by Robert Hayden, foregrounding especially ways in which the lyric not only allows but even through its form makes possible a Bakhtinian clash of voices and ideas; and to connect this reading to the strengthening field of literature and ethics by arguing that a second dialogue, that between the poem and the answerable reader who attends the text, is implored, demanded, and even enacted by the lyric’s mobilization of voices and forms, including its use of call-and-response traditions. (2007: 2)

Interestingly, Scanlon not only traces the interplay of voices in the poem–that is, the dialogism between characters–but she also traces the dialogism between words, which is equally to the point of Bakhtin’s theory that every word means and words cannot be separated from their objects. This clash of voices is the heteroglossia that Bakhtin so much seeks.  In Bakhtin’s definition of heteroglossia it is interesting to note that there are reflections that resemble what Ezra Pound espoused in his idea of Vorticism.  A simple comparison of statements regarding the ideas will reveal their connection, but it is important to remember that Pound was referring to all art, while Bakhtin was referring to texts–however, Bakhtin’s ideas could be expanded.  In an early pamphlet, Pound writes:

The vortex is the point of maximum energy, / It represents, in mechanics, the greatest efficiency. / We use the words "greatest efficiency" in the precise sense–as they would be used in a text book of MECHANICS. / You may think of man as that towards which perception moves. You may think of him as the TOY of circumstance, as the plastic substance RECEIVING impressions. / OR you may think of him as DIRECTING a certain fluid force against circumstance, as CONCEIVING instead of merely observing and reflecting. / THE PRIMARY PIGMENT. / The vorticist relies on this alone; on the primary pigment of his art, / nothing else. / Every conception, every emotion presents itself to the vivid consciousness in some primary form. / It is the picture that means a hundred poems, the music that means a hundred / pictures, the most highly energized statement, the statement that has not yet SPENT / itself in expression, but which is the most capable of expressing. / THE TURBINE. / All experience rushes into this vortex. All the energized past, all the past that / is living and worthy to live. All MOMENTUM, which is the past bearing up on us, / RACE, RACE-MEMORY, instinct charging the PLACID, / NON-ENERGIZED FUTURE. / The DESIGN of the future in the grip of the human vortex.  All the past that / is vital, all the past that is capable of living into the future, is pregnant in the / vortex, NOW. / Hedonism is the vacant place of a vortex, without force, deprived of past and of / future, the vertex of a still pool or cone.  / Futurism is the disgorging spray of a vortex with no drive behind it, / DISPERSAL. (Pound 1)

Bakhtin writes of heteroglossia:

The basic condition governing the operation of meaning in any utterance.  It is that which insures the primacy of context over text. At any given time, in any given place, there will be a set of conditions—social, historical, meteorological, physiological—that will insure that a word uttered in that place and at that time will have a meaning different than it would have under any other conditions; all utterances are heteroglot in that they are functions of a matrix of forces practically impossible to recoup, and therefore impossible to resolve. Heteroglossia is as close a conceptualization as is possible of that locus where centripetal forces and centrifugal forces collide; as such, it is that which a systematic linguistics must always suppress. (Bakhtin 428)

In both statements we see the stress that is placed on how the thing means.  For Pound meaning is achieved through the “primary form” be it word, sound, picture; for Bakhtin the thing is the word.  Both place an emphasis on the context, what Pound characterizes in terms of the past becoming and moving to the future, spreading through “race memory” and what Bakhtin refers to dialogically and chronotopically and through stratification: “social, historical, meteorological, physiological” contexts; and both emphasize the “vortex” and the “centripetal” forces as well as the “centrifugal” forces, which Pound refers to as “dispersal.”  These forces are always operating in a living culture, what Pound refers to as man DIRECTING and CONCEIVING–active, not passively laying by–and these forces are always operating in a living language, what Bakhtin refers to as heteroglossia and dialogic, where “everything means, is understood, as part of a greater whole–there is constant interaction between meanings, all of which have the potential of conditioning others.” (Bakhtin 426)

Given this, as Scanlon points out, it is ironic that Bakhtin would characterize poetry as monolog.  But, interestingly, it is the very power of poetry that Bakhtin turns against itself.  Bakhtin states that the word in poetry is so fully charged and so fully heightened in its use, that there is no room for the play of meaning in the context of the word–the dialog is drowned out by the sheer force of meaning that is layered upon it. (Richter 10) But this does not foreclose the possibility of poetry or other poetic forms from being dialogic.

the heteroglossia of longer poems and twentieth- century epics commonly known as collage texts, such as Ezra Pound’s Cantos or T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, provide one example. These long poems and others like them show, of course, modernist fragmentation and radical juxtaposition at its most intense, the lines and stanzas themselves composed of dense quotation from multiple sources in numerous languages: newspaper, popular song, personal conversation and letters of the poet, Shakespeare’s plays, economic treatises, history texts, myth. Although one can debate unceasingly whether these long poems are heteroglossic (truly admitting different world views) or simply multivocal-that is, for instance, if Eliot’s alternate title "He Do the Police in Different Voices" suggests finally one speaker and intention, or if Pound’s ultimately unsuccessful attempts to wrest control over his collage text and use it for his own economic, cultural, and political ends work to smother the heteroglossic tendencies of the collage they certainly admit at least the possibility of dialogic illumination within the poem. (Scanlon 9)

David Richter agrees, and in his essay “Dialogism and Poetry,” Richter argues that there are four lyric forms that demonstrate the variety of expressive forms available in poetry: some of which are dialogic and some of which are not.

For Richter, a useful framework for considering dialogism in poetry is the “formalist classification system” (Richter 15) that characterizes the “variety of speech-acts poems enact”(Richter 15) as articulated by Ralph Rader.  These are referred to as the “four subgenres of dramatic poetry” and are the dramatic lyric, the expressive lyric, the dramatic monologue, and the mask lyric.

If one were to translate Rader’s description of the four subgenres of dramatic poetry from his own formal/phenomenological notation to Bakhtin’s idiom of svoi and chuzhoi," one would discover a curious symmetry. The dramatic lyric presents the poet’s acting self as though emancipated from time and memory: the Self as Other; while the mask lyric presents a concrete character in circumstances that inwardly are identified with the poet’s: the Other as Self. Meanwhile the expressive lyric presents the poet as simultaneously thinking and speaking, finding in him or herself the language to suit his or her thought: the Self as Self; while the dramatic monologue, both thought and language belong to a created character: the Other as Other. All these forms would minimally belong to Bakhtin’s second category, since all would have to be considered "objectified discourse," the "discourse of a represented person," because the poet by definition represents himself or others within a setting. (Richter 16)

This characterization of “speech-acts” allows us to conceptualize the speaking voice, that is the poet’s self, as Self as Other; Other as Self; Self as Self; and Other as Other.  When considering how the poet acts or relates to the poetry that is created, it is curious to note the similarity of this discussion with that of Mikhail Epstein’s essay at the end of Also with My Throat, where Epstein writes:

As far as authorship is concerned, one could say it always points to something or somebody else behind the alleged author: God, Muse, a prompter, an inspirer, a shadow, a ghost, an anonymous writer, a crowd, a social class, the will of the people, imagined voices and fictive figures, modes of representation and hallucination.  This does not imply that authorship is a false or “outdated” (since when? Since Plato?) concept, but that its content is very different from its conventional definition.  The concepts of “self” or “identity” do not cohere with it.  Authorship is far from being a possession of the finished work and/or its meaning; it is, rather, a state of being possessed.  It is not a point of origination but rather a path of transgression.  Authorship is Othership.  By becoming an author I “other” myself, or the Other appropriates me. (Johnson and Alvarez 45)

It is interesting to note that in a recent interview, Ray Bradbury said that “he will sometimes open one of his books late at night and cry out thanks to God.”  That, "I sit there and cry because I haven’t done any of this….It’s a God-given thing, and I’m so grateful, so, so grateful. The best description of my career as a writer is, ‘At play in the fields of the Lord.’ "(Blake 1) It is also interesting to note these two conceptions, by both Bradbury and Epstein, carry the notion of God; and to put this in light of what Suzuki says in his discussion of “God Giving”:

“To give in nonattachment,” that is, just not to attach to anything is to give…every cultural work that we create, is something which was given, or is being given to us…Moment after moment we are creating something, and this is the joy of our life.  But this “I” which is creating and always giving out something is not the “small I”; it is the “big I.”  Even though you do not realize the oneness of this “big I” with everything, when you give something you feel good, because at that time you feel at one with what you are giving. (Suzuki 69)

But for Richter, the notion of the Other as Self has the potential for creating a fully dialogic poetry in the sense that Bakhtin implies:

the subgenre that most directly contradicts Bakhtin’s views on poetry is the mask lyric. The mask lyric is dramatic in the sense that the speaker is defined as an Other, with a name, time, and place that may well be distant from the poet’s: Tennyson writes of Ulysses in Homeric Ithaca, and T. S. Eliot of J. Alfred Prufrock in fogbound Boston, not of themselves. But it is lyrical in that it continually demands of the reader an emotional and intellectual empathy with the protagonist, rather than clarity of judgment of his character and predicament… the mask lyric presents the poet with manifold opportunities to objectify the speaker and set him into dialogical relations with others. (Richter 23)

There is no firm answer one way or another to the question of whether a dialogic poetry can or does exist.  The very definitions of the context make the discussion somewhat slippery.  For instance, even given Richter’s presentation of the four subgenres with, per the above, the mask lyric looking like a strong candidate for a dialogic poetry, Richter is forced to concede that “All these forms would…have to be considered ‘objectified discourse,’ the ‘discourse of a represented person,’ because the poet by definition represents himself or others within a setting.”(Richter 16) For Bakhtin this would imply that the poem is an image of a poem, not the direct thing itself–that is, “objectified discourse” and thus novelistic.  So, there is a sort of chicken and egg situation with Bakhtin in that any literary activity that meets a certain set of criteria becomes a novelization: hence the notion, for Bakhtin, that Eugene Onegin is a novel in verse, and not merely an epic poem. (Bakhtin 44) In his essay, Richter may put his finger on the problem precisely when he writes, with regard to the question of prose versus poetry in Bakhtin’s cosmogony, “the reasons of this opposition may be seen in the fact that the poem is an uttering act whereas the novel represents one."  Thus, Also, with my throat, could be both depending on which persona is speaking at a given moment.

Also, with my throat, I shall swallow ten thousand Authors

It is within the context of the discussion above that this paper will now approach Araki Yasusada’s Letters in English.

What is interesting here, in the context of Yasusada, is primarily the notion of heteroglossia and dialogism–with a stressed focus on the interaction of the various authors as well as the direct address to the reader. Again, heteroglossia and dialogism refer to not only the presence of many voices in a text, but the presence of many different or distinct worldviews–and how they comment on and inform each other.  As we’ve discussed above, to Bakhtin, a multiplicity of voices forms a dialectic that forces all of the voices into conjunction and expands the understanding of the text with the complication of the different perspectives.  The Yasusada letters accomplish this on an amazing number of levels, and in fact, accomplish them on the astonishing level of the sentence or line, what Scanlon refers to as an internal dialogism: “that is, the interplay of and tensions between voices in a multivocal text.” (Scanlon 9) But for Yasusada, the tension of voices arises at the very level of the sentence: the play of voice occurs between the author’s inner voice (the voice framing the correspondence and choosing what to say) and the English language translation of that speech-act.  The mere mis-interpretation of idiom in many cases is enough to pop a hole in what would ordinarily be a mundane literary vehicle (a letter–i.e. one authorial voice) and allow a plethora of vexing voices to flow in–including the monolithic and austere voice of culture (or some sub-culture)–what Epstein’s essay refers to as “authorial position” or “genre.” (Johnson and Alvarez 45) But as noted at the outset of this paper, it is difficult to refer to the notion of the “author’s inner voice” especially in the context of Also, with my throat.  First, there is the issue of Araki Yasusada, who does not exist, as well as the possibility that the correspondent, Richard (in Ohio, no less) also does not exist, which means at the very least the letters have been written by an assumed persona–or to use Richter’s terminology, the Other as Self, mask lyric, that is, the presentation of a “concrete character in circumstances that inwardly are identified with the poet’s” (Richter 16) or the Other as Other, dramatic monologue, where “both thought and language belong to a created character.” (Richter 16) This immediately sets up a complex dialogism between the true author (whomever that may be), the assumed persona as letter writer (Yasusada), the persona as recipient of the letters (Richard–and often in the text there is speculation as to how Richard would react), and the actual recipient (the reader).  A complex dialog is formed in many different ways, none of which has to do with the actual sentence-level construction of the letters, which, as mentioned above, creates its own internal semantic and syntactical dialog.  As discussed above by Batstone with the notion of the divided self, the author of the letters, in assuming the voice of Yasusada, had to both identify with and embody the particular internal self that would allow this voice to speak honestly and directly to the reader.  No small challenge, and one that would make Constantin Stanislavski proud.  Having done this, the speech-act is directed outwardly at a fictive reader who must also be imagined in order to be addressed.  This act is nearly the equal to the act of embodying the letter-writing persona.  Further, great care is taken to establish the immersive world in which the letter writer lives–what Bakhtin again refers to as stratification, the immersive social context in which Yasusada finds himself.  As Bakhtin notes:

In any given historical moment of verbal-ideological life, each generation at each social level has its own language; moreover, every age group has a matter of fact its own language, its own vocabulary, its own particular accentual system that, in their turn, vary depending on social level, academic institution…and other stratifying factors…Thus at any given moment of its historical existence, language is heteroglot from top to bottom. (Bakhtin 290)

And great care is given to create the fictive environment in which Yasusada is bounded: his overbearing English instructor, the events of his daily life, his family, friends, networks and peerages, institutions he encountered, journals to which he subscribed and applied, conversations with editors, and so on.  Then, to include in this the intentionally anachronistic errors, which form a dialog with another time, serve as a running commentary on that time, and directly challenge the reader to be engaged with the text.  But the complexity does not end here.  For layered in atop this is the suggestion that the actual writer of the letters was Tosa Motokiyu. Throughout Also, with my voice, Motokiyu is an editorial voice both translating and commenting in notes on the text of the letters.  To discover that this writer could also be the author of the letters implies an author who is commenting on the writing of his own persona.  The level of dialogism within the text drops another story in the layered meaning that the text embodies.  But again, there is no floor, as it is revealed that Tosa Motokiyu could also be a persona! Can a persona embody a persona?  At what level does the true author (whomever he may be) become schizophrenic in this kaleidoscope of personas and speaking selves?  And there’s more, at least within Doubled Flowering, as Bill Freind points out:

Furthermore, the notes are written, allegedly, by three people: Tosa Motokiyu, Ojiu Norinaga, and Okura Kyojin, and they utilize the first person plural pronoun ‘‘we,’’ thus suggesting that the presentation, or representation, of the poems is a group effort. (Freind 149)

So there may be more than one persona, each with his own unique stratification of voice, class, education, perspective, etc. And, of course, the coup de grace, is that the whole of it may be written by Kent Johnson, or Kent Johnson and a group of others:

Even Doubled Flowering is something of a group effort, since it includes essays by Johnson and Alvarez, Marjorie Perloff, and Mikhail Epstein (1997), who further muddies the waters by suggesting that two Russian writers, Andrei Bitov and Dmitri Prigov, may have invented Yasusada. Epstein later noted that some subscribers to Russian Journal, a scholarly Web site, began to speculate that ‘‘Mikhail Epstein’’ was actually a hyperauthor created by Umberto Eco. (Freind 151)

The hyperbole with which authors are or are not the authors of the text is explosive and eventually withers the will to continue to look at the matter, as the author simply disappears into a mesh of possible authorial voices, all of which are vying for the reader’s attention.  Freind addresses this question explicitly in a number of ways: “Yasusada mounts an implicit and sustained critique of what Kent Johnson has called ‘the ideology of the author’” (Freind 139) and more directly in quoting from Michel Foucault whose “notion that writing is not a purely individual process but is instead shaped and bound by various social and political forces,” and notes, finally, that in a “culture in which the author function has disappeared” (Freind 140) … that other questions will become irrelevant:

questions which explicitly invalidate any privileging of the biographical author: ‘‘Who is the real author? Have we proof of his authenticity or originality?’’ (ibid.) His essay’s final sentence clearly summarizes that position: ‘‘And behind all these questions, we would hear hardly anything but the stirring of an indifference: What difference does it make who is speaking?’’ (ibid.). For Foucault, this is a fundamentally liberating movement, since the author function has served to limit the meanings of the text and to control the play of language. (Freind 140)

This notion of authorship only confirms the Buddhist conception of God Giving as expressed by Suzuki above as “Dana prajna paramita,” or “the true wisdom of life is to give.” (Suzuki 69) And thus, Suzuki quotes Dogen-zenji as saying, “To produce something, to participate in human activity is also dana prajna paramita.” (Suzuki 70) Further, Suzuki would remark that the obsession with authorship is “the danger of human culture:”

And when we repeat, “I create, I create, I create,” soon we forget who is actually the “I” which creates the various things; we soon forget about God…to create with the “big I” is to give; we cannot create and own what we create for ourselves since everything was created by God.  This point should not be forgotten. But because we do forget who is doing the creating and the reason for the creation, we become attached to the material or exchange value.  This has no value in comparison to the absolute value of something as God’s creation…Not to be attached to something is to be aware of its absolute value.” (Suzuki 71)

With Foucault’s quote above in mind, though, it should be pointed out that the notion that the “author function” serves to limit meaning and control language is precisely the Monologism that Bakhtin strove to dispel. And, in fact, in the end, it is the sheer variety of authorial voices available in Also, with my throat that make the text truly dialogical and heteroglossic:

Internal stratification present in every language at any given moment of its historical existence is the indispensible prerequisite for the novel as a genre.  The novel orchestrates all its themes, the totality of the world of objects and ideas depicted and expressed in it, by means of the social diversity of speech types and by the differing individual voices that flourish under such conditions.  Authorial speech, the speeches of narrators, inserted genres, the speech of characters are merely those fundamental compositional unities with whose help heteroglossia can enter the novel; each of them permits a multiplicity of social voices and a wide variety of their links and interrelationships (always more or less dialogized). (Bakhtin 263)

Bakhtin asserts that this is something fundamental to the novel.  It is without a doubt present in Also, with my throat, which leads us back to the earlier question of whether the text represents a novelistic form or a poetic form.  Regardless of the answer, Also, with my throat is a profoundly heteroglossic and dialogic text.

Next to the presence of multiple authors is the importance of the presence of multiple genres or generic forms.  For Bakhtin, this is also a method by which heteroglossia can be introduced into a text. (Bakhtin 263) For Bakhtin, such an introduction of other genres is an introduction of different voices, but usually with the intent of parody or irony, that is, the represented genre “in no way function[s]…as the primary means of representation (as they would function in a direct, “serious” song…); rather they themselves have here become the object of representation, or more precisely of a representation that is parodied and stylized.  This novelistic image of another’s style (with the direct metaphors that it incorporates) must be taken in intonational quotation marks within the system of direct authorial speech.” (Bakhtin 44) An example of this is the Heian poem by Lady Murasaki presented to Dick in one of Yasusada’s letters.  The poem becomes, for Bakhtin, an image of a poem because it is not presented to the reader as something to be understood and engaged as directly voiced from the poet, but rather as contextualized within another narrative context–as an example of something.  That this is parody cannot be doubted by the mere fact that Yasusada is translating the poem, complete with his malformed idiomatic phrases, and further confirmed by the notes, provided by the “editors,” which remark that the “parenthetical interjections” inserted by Yasusada into Lady Murasaki’s poem do not exist in the original, and that most of the passage is “willful invention.” (Johnson and Alvarez 29) A further extension of the heteroglossia introduced into the text is the direct editing of existing text on the page presented in later letters.  There is the notion not only of an incomplete text, but a text whose meaning can never be final because other possible meanings, presumable excised by Yasusada, are left intact by the editors.  This also furthers the illusion of authorship, as Freind notes:

There are also a number of references to illegible words and phrases, smeared ink, tea stains. Again, those are common features in writers’ notebooks, which might be the point. The notes seem to suggest that we, as readers who are deprived of the original notebooks, unable to read Japanese, hindered by blurring, smearing, and tea, can never gain access to the original, autonomous text. This is supposed to be proof of its authenticity: … translations, commentary, and annotations without an original. (Freind 149)

Although, Freind here is referring to Double Flowering his observation still holds for Also, with my throat.

Authorship, however, is only one part of the equation for a dialogic text.  As many authors that this paper has looked at have pointed out, the second part of the equation is the reader of a dialogic text.  For Batstone, the reader is the third prerequisite for a dialogic poetry (Batstone 105) and Scanlon states that “the dialogue between the reader and the text that results in an ethical responsibility for the reader as she responds to the poem, an accountability that Bakhtin calls answerability.” There can be little doubt as to the expectation of a readerly response in Also, with my throat.  The genric form that the text takes, epistolary, is a form that demands a reader response: as there is little, if any, concealment of by whom the letters are being read.  As well, the relentless questioning by Yasusada not only begs a response, but it many cases the nature of the questions are such that the reader most likely responds to them before even realizing he or she has responded: that is, the questions are of the mundane and common sort that a person might encounter in any run-of-the-mill social environment: where do you live? Are you married? Do you have kids? What is the weather like? How are you doing?  These questions are the “easy” ones, though, and mask the questions of a more profound nature that follow soon after.  The early questions lay the ground work for a reader response, that is, they almost make the response inevitable.  This works to adjust the reader to having to respond and makes it difficult to sidestep later questions that require more effort.  Also, as mentioned above, the shattered idiomatic expressions used by Yasusada momentarily fracture understanding and force the reader to pay attention and work at understanding, and, one hopes, the effort already undertaken is continued on to the answer.  For example, early on Yasusada writes, “How are the present things? How is the family, so lovliness in a photo?” (Johnson and Alvarez 10) These are questions that are relatively common.  The phrasing, again, forces the reader to pay attention and think about the nature of the question.  The phrasing also transforms meaning, causing the reader to participate in the act of creating meaning: or as Scanlon would say, “Creation is then a process of relation in which both parties are potentially changed.” (Scanlon 3) But then Yasusada continues with, “How angry are many leftists in the orchard?  Did you lock some doors to spite their blossoms?” (Johnson and Alvarez 10) Given the time period, one can presume that Yasusada is inquiring about worker strikes on the home front, as well as whether or not Richard locks his door at night to keep their rioting out.  But the mangled idiom is far from clear and breaks upon the reader’s mind in potentially dozens of ways.  Meaning is created and the strange context of the words explode like fireworks in the mind, creating strange associations that the language poets strive for, or that Ezra Pound strives for in his Imagism.  One must work to reach understanding of the text, because interestingly, if the reader does not, Yasusada’s letters will leave the reader bewildered and a strange, unnerving otherness will linger in the mind until some meaning is hammered out.  Scanlon also makes an interesting observation with regard to the nature of the use of the second person, which is inherent in the epistolary form:

a second-person address is particularly surprising or, I would say, compelling…the work of William Waters on the "du" address of Rilke helpfully theorizes the effect of the sudden introduction of the second-person address. As Waters writes about the lyric "you" in his work, it is a pronoun which "tends to hail; it calls everyone and everything by their inmost name. . . . One can read unidentified ‘I’ or ‘she’ with comparatively small concern, but the summons of unidentified ‘you’ restlessly tugs at us, begging identification" (Scanlon 15)

This is certainly the case in Yasusada’s letters, where this reference is made literally manifest when Yasusada writes, “Thank you that I am asked to write in your intimate name.” (Johnson and Alvarez 29) But this intimacy also occurs where the nature of the questions evolve to being highly personal, and move into that area of “inmost” concern: “What was there before your birth? / What was there after your death? / Who or what is it, at this moment, that is reading?” (Johnson and Alvarez 5)

Conclusion

The direct question asked at the outset of this paper may not be directly answered, but preferring the method of Mikhail Bakhtin, it is hoped that the truth lies somewhere in the mix of all the voices and dialogs that have been presented to discuss it.  Much of the answer depends finally on one’s opinion as to what makes something a poem and what makes something prose.

Also, with my throat, places inordinate power on the individual word and in this manner hypercharges the meaning, which is very like the poetic approach to text construction.  As well, Batstone quoting Bakhtin, states that one marker of poetry is that “all fully signifying authorial interpretations are sooner or later gathered together in a single speech center and a single consciousness; all accents are gathered together in a single voice.” (Batstone 103) “Authorial interpretations” in this case being a criticism of the poet’s attempt to unify the language of the work, or more darkly perhaps, to subordinate the language to that of the poet’s unifying vision: that is, voices are not left to live or mean on their own.  This paper has hopefully demonstrated that this is not the case with Also, with my throat, which is so interpenetrated by the voices of authors, translators, editors, and other generic forms that if any attempt has been made at unifying the language it has failed miserably.  On the novelistic side, it is put forth by Bakhtin that the novel requires a “plurality of unmerged voices and consciousnesses. They may agree or disagree, they may even disagree with the author, but their essential characteristic is that they speak ‘as subjects of their own directly signifying discourse.’” (Batstone 102) Ultimately, the most important point is not whether the text is considered this generic form or that generic form, but what it accomplishes, and as was noted early in this paper, perhaps the most important achievement is the realization, through a complex form, of Also, with my throat as a truly ethical text: one that finds human meaning and truth through the interplay of many dialogs and many voices, including that of the reader.

Works Cited

Bakhtin, M. M., et al. The Dialogic Imagination : Four Essays. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1988. Print.

Blake, John. "Sci-fi legend Ray Bradbury on God, ‘monsters and angels’." 2010. Web. 3 August 2010.  <http://www.cnn.com/2010/LIVING/08/02/Bradbury/?hpt=C1>.

Batstone, William W. "Catullus and Bakhtin: The Problems of a Dialogic Lyric" Bakhtin and the Classics. Robert Bracht Branham. Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 2002. Print.

Burton, Stacy. "Bakhtin, Temporality, and Modem Narrative: Writing ‘the Whole Triumphant Murderous Unstoppable Chute’." Comparative Literature 48.1 (1996): 39. Print.

Freind, Bill. "Deferral of the Author: Impossible Witness and the Yasusada Poems." Poetics Today 25.1 (2004): 137-58. Print.

Johnson, Kent, and Javier Alvarez. Also, with My Throat, I Shall Swallow Ten Thousand Swords :Araki Yasusada’s Letters in English. Combo Books, 2005. Print.

Pound, Ezra. "Blast (1914-1915)." Web. 3 August 2010. <http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/m_r/pound/blast.htm>.

Richter, David H. "Dialogism and Poetry." Studies in the Literary Imagination 23.1 (1990): 9-27. Print.

Scanlon, Mara. "Ethics and the Lyric: Form, Dialogue, Answerability." College Literature 34.1 (2007): 1-22. Print.

Soltan, Margaret. "The Bicameral Mind: Response to Bill Freind’s ‘just Hoaxing’." Angelaki 6.3 (2001): 221-4. Print.

Suzuki, Shunry¯u, et al. Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind. Boston: Shambhala, 2006. Print.

Abstract

This entry discusses the current funding strategy of two theaters in Cleveland, in the context of current funding strategies for theaters in the United States. The entry identifies the evolution of funding forms and strategies for US non-profit theaters, current trends, challenges, and examines these topics. Important financial information for the two theaters has been removed, because it’s not mine to give out, but if you contact me directly I’m sure between you, me, and the theaters something can be worked out.

Introduction

Western theater, as we think of it today: with staged performance and actors and writers, has been around for many thousands of years.  While the origins of theater are unclear, speculation is that dramatic forms emerged from religious ceremonies, most likely in the form of ritual.  That theater is related to religion is beyond doubt, as even the earliest forms of theater in the Greek world were identified with Dionysian festivals.

Theater has had as many funding models throughout the centuries as it has had forms.  In ancient Greece, “theaters were supported by public funds, and the playwrights competed for prizes during the great festivals of Dionysus.”(Jacobus, 2005) As well, “The performances were paid for by wealthy Athenians as part of their civic duty. The great Greek plays thus were not commercial enterprises but an important part of civic and religious festivals.”  This form suggests a similarity with the funding of non-profit theaters today in the United States: a mix of funding from private wealth and government sources.  In Rome, drama was one of many forms of entertainment from which citizens could choose, so very like today theaters in Rome had to compete.  Andreasen refers to this as behavior-level competition (Andreasen & Kotler, 2008): that many forms of entertainment are directly competitive with theater: movie theaters; sports venues; orchestras and ballets; parks and nature preserves; in short, any place or event that serves as an alternative to going to theater—even doing nothing at all.  Except, in ancient Rome, the competition was sports events, gladiator battles to the death, chariot races, the slaughter of wild beasts, and sacrifices of Christians and others to animals. (Jacobus, 2005)  In Rome, however, the “producer had to please the audience or lose his chance to supply more entertainment.” (Jacobus, 2005) Thus, theater was squarely a business proposition and no subsidized funding was received. Moving forward, European drama was re-born in the Roman Catholic Church as an accompaniment first to religious ceremonies, and then later moved outside of the church as the theatrical events grew. During this Medieval period, the general population was highly religious; and later, the people who produced plays were members of guilds whose personal pride was represented in their work.  The religious or mystery plays gave way to cycles of plays that covered major religious events from Creation to Judgment Day.  As Jacobus notes, “the demands of more sophisticated plays encouraged the development of a kind of professionalism, although it seems unlikely that players in the cycles could have supported themselves exclusively on their earnings.” (Jacobus, 2005) Theater evolved and by the “ second half of the sixteenth century, the early Renaissance, groups of wandering actors were producing highly demanding and sophisticated plays, and writers such as Shakespeare were able to join them and make a living.  When these professionals secured their own theaters, they had no problems filling them with good drama, with actors, and with an audience. (Jacobus, 2005)” Theaters in this time were businesses and sank or swam based on their ability to earn money from audience attendance.  In fact, “Shakespeare, who was part owner of the Globe and, later, of the second indoor Blackfriars Theatre, received money from admission fees and from his role as chief playwright.  He became rich enough to retire in splendid style to Stratford, his hometown. Few other Elizabethan actors and playwrights had as much of a financial stake in their work as did Shakespeare.” (Jacobus, 2005)  As Jacobus notes, “The entrance fee to the theaters was a penny, probably the equivalent of five to ten dollars in today’s money.  For another penny, one could take a seat, probably on the bench, in one of the upper galleries.” In fact, this price is comparable to many small to mid-sized theaters in today’s market, including Cleveland Public Theatre and convergence-continuum: each of which charge between $10 – $20 per show, depending on the content and time of year. 

Beyond the seventeenth century, probably the most notable evolution of theater occurred in the nineteenth to twentieth century when on the road of content, staged productions encountered a fork.  Jacobus notes, that in England the “upwardly mobile urban middle classes and the moneyed factory and mill owners who had benefited  economically from the industrial revolution demanded a drama that would entertain them.” Thus, plays became entertainment for the uneducated and their form and content was dominated by the “well-made play” and plays of such vapid and maudlin themes and plots that a rebellion began in Scandinavia with playwrights such as Ibsen and Strindberg introducing the theater of social criticism or social issue plays dealing with injustice in economic conditions and feminist themes.  Jacobus writes that “as we begin the twenty-first century, the stage is vibrant.  The great commercial theaters of England and the United States are sometimes hampered by high production costs, but regional theaters everywhere are producing fine drama.  The National Theatre in London has made inexpensive seats available for most of its plays, and other theaters are doing the same.” (Jacobus, 2005)  And on the other side there is “Poor Theater”–which is the counterpoint to Commercial Theater and seeks experimentation. Thus we have the twin tension of theater as entertainment (business) and theater as art and raising social consciousness (non-profit), which seem to be the fundamental divisions today. 

History and background of funding in non-profit theaters

Nonprofit theater as we know it in the United States today was born of the “Little Theatre” movement in the early nineteen hundreds.  Throughout the 1920s and 1930s a movement was born that resisted and even resented the commercialism of Broadway. 

As Constance D’Arcy MacKay writes:

“The very name Little Theatre is salted with significance.  It at once calls to mind an intimate stage and auditorium where players and audience can be brought in close accord: a theatre where unusual non-commercial plays are given; a theatre where the repertory and subscription system prevails; where scenic experimentation is rife; where ‘How Much Can We Make?’ is not the dominating factor.”(Mackay, 1917)

According to this same book, the movement can be traced to 1887 “when the first small experimental theatre was established in Paris.”(Mackay, 1917) The little theater movement exploded throughout the early part of the twentieth-century ending with the stock market crash of 1929 and the advent of the Great Depression. But during this short period little theaters sprang up all over the world and in nearly one hundred cities in the United States, from Philadelphia, PA to Portland, OR.

Cleveland is as much a mirror to this movement and history as anywhere else. The Cleveland Play House “was founded in 1915 by a group of eight prominent Clevelanders, among them Charles and Minerva Brooks, who sought to bring plays of substance to the people of Cleveland in an era dominated by vaudeville.” (Cleveland Play House, 2010a)  Although not originally founded as non-profit theater, for the designation did not explicitly exists, the altruistic aims of its founders were clear enough, with Francis Drury donating the Ammon House on which the current Play House sits.  And, in 1927 with 127 members, the company scraped together enough money to make renovations. (Cleveland Play House, 2010b) Going back to MacKay, who writes of the Cleveland Play House:

“It is apparent that such a theatre will not be self-supporting.  The expense will be met in part by dues to be paid by the active members.  To those who are not of the active group an opportunity is given to join in this work by becoming supporting members, upon a minimum payment of $25.00 per year.” (Mackay, 1917)

Thus, from an early point in the non-commercial theater we see the notion of subscription memberships which, no doubt, quickly gave rise to the annual appeal.

Per the above, the original funding model for nonprofit or “little theaters” was by subscription members; although other models existed including government ownership.  In his book The Art Theater, Sheldon Cheney writes,

“Most American little theaters lean for their chief support upon a subscription audience.  Because they are not endowed, nor capitalized, as is the business theater, they find the security enjoyed under this system necessary to any sort of permanency.  But the subscription system has more advantages than the securing of a certain income each season.  A subscribing audience always feels a proprietary interest in the theater.  It is the link between the producing group and the community. This is a matter of such importance that I think that even an endowed art theater, with its implied economic independence, would be very unwise to abandon the subscription basis.  From humble beginnings to maturity it should have its “members.”(Cheney, 1969; 1925)

Another model pointed to by Cheney is the Volksbuhne theater in Berlin, which at the time the book was written (1969) had 100,000 subscribers.  It is notable that the subscribers also owned the theater.  In this regard it is very like the Green Bay Packers, which is a city-owned football franchise.  Thus invested, regulation of the organization is by elected officers and the cost of attending performances is very low.  The added benefit is that theater artists can be maintained on staff; thus actors need not fear being downsized or cut due to poor attendance or other factors that affect theater operations.

One of the biggest transformations of the funding model for theaters came about due to the Great Depression.  As early as 1933 the Roosevelt administration in Washington requested a pilot project in New York City that would “create jobs for idle professional people, especially women.” (Library of Congress, 2010)  This plan grew and on January 21, 1935 funds were allocated by Congress for what would become the Federal Theatre Project. (Library of Congress, 2010)  Although only active through 1939, this program “was responsible for hundreds of stage productions, both of classics and new plays written for the FTP, mounted in cities across the nation. The FTP is the only instance in which the Federal government was directly responsible for the production and administration of stage work on a large scale.” (Library of Congress, 2010)  But perhaps more than anything, it signaled an interest in the federal government in funding arts projects and laid the foundations for what, 25 years later, would become the National Endowment for the Arts.  As theaters developed and as foundations developed alongside them, there grew a slow merger of support.  For the most part theaters relied and still rely on ticket sales and subscription fees.  A frustration recently articulated in a New York Times article by Peter Zeisler, one of the founders of the Tyrone Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis:

“In America, there are major symphony orchestras, dance companies and opera companies that have a density of excellence unmatched any place in the world…Look at the amount of support these institutions have had, compared with what has gone to our theater. It’s ludicrous. That’s not to say that the support shouldn’t have gone there. But it is still not accepted that theater is not a profit-making business. We haven’t found a way in this country to sustain theater artists over a long period.” (Gussow, 1987)

Throughout the 1930s the Rockefeller Foundation was contributing to theaters, but the majority of its support went to college drama programs; this, at a time when foundations were largely supporting “practical and constructive” projects, such as medical education, international relations, and other university programs in language, history, and religion. (American Academy of Arts and Sciences, 2004) While the Rockefeller Foundation signaled a change in giving that would lead to the funding of theaters, the trend still favors the practical: that is, foundations tend to fund programs in theaters (especially educational programs) that have little to do with the true support that theaters need–reflecting instead the desire that theaters (and other arts venues) create something practical, measurable, and defensible with the money they are provided.  This fact, too, is bemoaned in a very harshly worded diatribe by Mike Daisey against the large regional theater system in the United States (LORT theaters–League of Resident Theatres):

Better to invest in another "educational" youth program, mashing up Shakespeare until it is a thin, lifeless paste that any reasonable person would reject as disgusting, but garners more grant money. (Mike Daisey, 2008)

A quick glace around the theaters in Cleveland will only demonstrate too well the point, as small theaters such as Dobama to mid-sized theaters such as Cleveland Public Theatre, up to the large LORT theaters such as the Cleveland Play House all have education programs aimed squarely at children and young adults.  The question, cynical or not, becomes, is this a part of the mission of theater, or did the mission of theater change to accommodate a financial beneficial approach to its operations?

Nonprofit theaters today are funded by a complex maze of sources and likely always have been: ticket sales and subscriptions; donations from individuals; grants from corporations, government, and foundations; concession sales and other attempts at for-profit activities.

History and background of funding for one Cleveland-area non-profit theater

In 1992, according to a report from the National Endowment for the Arts, an estimated 13.5% of the U.S. adult population attended a live dramatic theater event.  This was up from 11.9% in 1982.  In 1992, this estimated 13.5% represented between 24 and 26.2 million Americans.  Further, the NEA reported that there was a frequency of attendance of 2.4 times per person, meaning that 60.2 million attendances of a live dramatic theater event were recorded in the United States.  As this study was not repeated for 2002, it is somewhat difficult to gauge the trend, but if the trend has been sustained, 15.1% of the U.S. adult population attended a performance in 2002. With an estimated adult population of 216 million in the United States that means that nearly 33 million Americans attended a theatre event in 2002 and if the same 2.4 frequency of attendance applies, 79.4 million attendances would have been recorded. To put this in perspective, this year Major League Baseball gleefully reported 79 million people attended baseball games in the United States. The data described above indicates, at the very least, that there is great interest in theatre in the United States, and other factors point to the impact that active and successful theatres have on their communities.  For instance, the June 24th Plain Dealer article "Energizing Detroit-Shoreway; Theater renovations, new building at the heart of neighborhood revitalization" presents evidence that successful theatres are a boon to revitalizing neighborhoods and increasing economic development.  A fact further confirmed by the same NEA report mentioned at the outset, which concludes that "Dynamic forces shape [theater] participation patterns in each community, including characteristics of the resident and nonresident markets, the supply of producing and presenting activity, the availability of suitable performance facilities, as well as local traditions and history."  And further, that vital [theater-going] communities will exist where vital theatre producing communities are active and available.  The report specifically identifies highest theatre participation rates in "Seattle/King County (WA) where a thriving theatre community was observed, including playwrights, actors, and a plethora of small, experimental ensembles known collectively as ‘Seattle’s fringe theaters.’" (AMS Planning and Research Corporation, 1996)

Cleveland, Ohio, certainly has the potential of becoming one of the most successful theatre communities in the United States.  It has a diverse mixture of urban education centers and populations, interested young artists, and established veteran performers, directors, designers, and technicians combined with an historic economic downturn that has left numerous, low-cost spaces accessible and available for use.  This is to say that established, highly-priced, conservative theaters no longer hold the keys to gates of theater entertainment in the Northeast Ohio community.

Cleveland Public Theatre (CPT) is a nonprofit arts and culture organization that considers itself to be “Cleveland’s leading stage for experimental theater” with a goal of “producing innovative original work dealing with provocative political and social issues featuring culturally and ethnically diverse artists.” (Cleveland Public Theatre, 2009)  CPT is located on the near west side of Cleveland in the Detroit-Shoreway neighborhood, an area now being referred to as the Gordon Square Arts District.  Founded in 1981, CPT occupies a considerable campus along Detroit Avenue with six theater spaces, including two church spaces, the purchase of which was completed in January of this year. The mission of Cleveland Public Theatre is to raise consciousness and nurture compassion through ground breaking performances and life changing educational programs.  With reference to the theater portion of its mission, CPT offers a variety of programs, including Dark Room, Little Box, Big [BOX], a full season of stage productions, and Dance Works.  With reference to the educational portion of its mission CPT offers an array of educational programs, including Student Theatre Enrichment Program (STEP), Brick City Theatre, Y-Haven Theatre Project, and the Women’s Voices Project. 

In 1981 James Levin founded Cleveland Public Theatre to be for Cleveland what LaMaMa theater company had been for him in New York City.  LaMaMa’s mission is to “develop, nurture, support, produce and present new and original performance work by artists of all nations and cultures (LaMaMa ETC, 2009),” a mission that CPT also embraces.  Early CPT programs reflect this focus and, more interestingly, an almost exclusive focus on theater. For instance, from 1983-1987 CPT provided “Free Shakespeare at the Zoo” at the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo and, according to its website, “CPT has supported innumerable emerging artists, arts organizations, and itinerant theatres” including “original work by innovative contemporary artists, including emerging playwrights and performing artists from the San Francisco Mime Company, Annie Sprinkle, and the Imani African American Dance Company” and originating the Cleveland International Performance Art Festival in 1988.  Levin was the Founder/Artistic Director at Cleveland Public Theatre through 1998 when he turned the reigns over to Randy Rollison, who had been the artistic director of HOME for Contemporary Theater and Art and director of HERE, both off- off-Broadway theaters in New York. (Staff Writer, 1998) In April 2006, Raymond Bobgan took over as Executive Artistic Director a position that he continues to hold. Bobgan appears to have been a natural choice for several reasons: first, was familiar with CPT having been with the theater in one capacity or another since 1991; second, Bobgan briefly held the position of Artistic Director in the mid-‘90s when Levin left for a period of time. (Brown & Critic, 2005) Cleveland Public Theatre continues to advance the goals for which it was originally founded, producing thirty-eight different productions in 2009 including three productions by its educational programs.

History and background of funding at convergence-continuum

In 2000, convergence-continuum was co-founded by Clyde Simon and Brian Breth and incorporated as a non-profit with the State of Ohio; and in June 2004, convergence-continuum obtained 501(c)(3) tax-exempt status. In 2002 Breth and Simon undertook extensive renovations to convert the commercial portion of a landmark building in the Tremont neighborhood of Cleveland into a 40-50 seat performance space. The result was the Liminis an 1100 square-foot black -box theatre that is home to convergence-continuum. Certificate of Occupancy was granted to convergence-continuum from city of Cleveland in August 2002. In this same month convergence had its 1st production, QUILLS by Doug Wright, presented in a 4-week run. In 2003 runs were expanded to 5 wks. The 35th production will open the 2010 season in April. Since the 1st production, critical and audience response has been very positive and attendance mailing list and box office receipts and patron donations have increased annually. In 2004 and 2005 convergence-continuum received awards from Cleveland’s professional theatre organization Cleveland Theatre Collective: for Risk-taking choices and overall excellence in directing acting and design and the Cleveland Critics’ Award for Best Production (non-musical) of 2004/05 for its production of Paula Vogel’s play HOT ‘N’ THROBBING. In 2006 Cleveland Magazine named convergence "Cleveland’s Best Small Theater," and in Rave and Pan’s 2008 “Best of Cleveland Theater” Awards, convergence was represented in three categories: Actress of the Year, Best Original Script by a Local Playwright, and Best Actress in a Small Role. Additionally, convergence-continuum has been awarded three Gund Foundation grants for 2005, 2006 and 2007 seasons, three Ohio Arts Council Arts Access grants, and three Cleveland Foundation grants for 2007, 2008, and 2009.

Since its inception in 2000, convergence-continuum has had the core artistic mission to produce "theatre that expands the imagination and extends the conventional boundaries of language, structure, space and performance that challenges the conventional notion of what theatre is." The programs offered to the community are consistent with this core mission. Convergence has an artistic vision that is unique to the Cleveland area and thus is offering the community an opportunity to experience a totally different style of theatre than what is currently being presented locally. Convergence has had considerable feedback from the community regarding the quality of its work and the artistic identity that has been forged in the Northeast Ohio theatre scene.  In post-show conversations and survey responses, audience members have commented that the type of theatre experience that convergence provides was completely new and exciting for them. Others compared it to experiences they’ve had in New York or European cities.  In this regard, convergence-continuum is committed artistically (as a theatre and down to each individual artist) to creating a unique, powerful theatre experience that expands the audience’s perception of what is possible in the theatre.

Like many non-profit organizations for a substantial period of time convergence viewed grants as the key to their strategy–this beyond the obvious revenue stream generated by ticket sales which is the life blood of most performing arts organizations regardless of its inability to fully cover all costs associated with productions.  Other forms of fundraising include approaches to local businesses and merchants for either small cash or in-kind donations: which often as not didn’t work out. Convergence has been sending out an annual appeal, Simon learned this approach by working in other theaters, most notably the Flea Theater in New York.  But it was likely viewed as 1) a way to keep in touch with people who signed the mailing list, and 2) a method of picking up some extra money by asking for donations. The annual appeal is the foundation of a strongly supported organization (one that has the “ability to expand the donor base” (Seltzer, 2001), as well the annual appeal is key to identifying future “prospects for larger and planned gifts” (Seltzer, 2001).  Based on the clear evidence supplied by multiple sources, including the text already cited, the annual appeal will become “the essential element” (Seltzer, 2001) in convergence-continuum’s funding strategy.

Funding Approaches of Non-Profit Theaters

As was mentioned at the outset, there are several funding streams that non-profit theaters use: of them all, the most notable is ticket sales.  This method shares the most in common with for-profit business models of funding.  Like any other business, the key elements to a funding strategy that relies on ticket sales is the cost of tickets (seats), quality of the product, and the characteristics of the local market (Marburger, 1997). Cost of tickets is a factor, as any form of entertainment will be immediately compared with any other form by a consumer at what Andreasen and Kotler refer to as Behavior-level Competition: for instance, do I pay $15 to see a play or $12 to see a movie.  Or, at what Andreasen and Kotler refer to as Enterprise-level Competition: do I pay $15 for a play at theater X or $45 for a play at theater Y. (Andreasen & Kotler, 2008)  Next within this framework is the notion of quality: does a play at theater X have the same production values, quality of content, etc., as a production at theater Y?  And finally, what are the characteristics of the local market: are there a lot of theaters from which one may choose? Is theater a valued choice amongst all the possible entertainment choices in the market?  What additional features are available at the given theater venue?–concessions, facilities, parking, and so on.  An additional feature of ticket pricing is pointed out by Oster, Gray, and Weinberg:

Pricing can also help to change the timing of demand. By offering a lower fee for off-peak use of a service, an organization may be able to stretch its capacity to offer service to more people. Recreation centers, for example, may charge a lower fee during the day to encourage people to use the facilities at times other than morning or evening peaks when demand stretches capacity limits. (Young, National Center on Nonprofit Enterprise, & Foundation Center, 2004)

At most nonprofit theaters ticket sales represent 40%-50% of the operating budget. The practice of selling tickets is both a revenue stream and a tradition. In most cases, performance art venues have tickets whose whole cost is subsidized in part by a foundation or government unit.  That is, the attendee to a performance pays a fraction of the whole cost associated with an event. Thus, Young and Steinberg quote Henry Hansmann, noting that “donations to arts organizations” are a “form of voluntary price-discrimination” where “organizations can charge a lower than break-even ticket price with the expectation that donors will step in and allow the organization to survive.”(Young & Steinberg, 1995)

Another revenue stream available to theaters is that of memberships, annual appeals, and subscriptions.  Beginning with the latter, as it is most related to the previous section on ticketing, subscriptions are a highly valuable and desirable revenue stream for theaters.  Called “product bundling” by Oster, Gray, and Weinberg, theaters can sell season subscriptions that bundle their seasonal performances with a selection of other offerings, such as more experimental pieces (based on patron selection), to encourage attendance at these events.  Beyond that, selling in volume has distinct advantages in that the money for a full season of offerings is gained up front, and attendance at events is encouraged, as purchasing the tickets in advance is a sunk cost for the patron–having spent the money the patron either sees the performance or they do not, the theater already has the income.

Again, per Oster, Gray, and Weinberg:

Theaters sell subscriptions to most or all of the plays produced in a season. In these subscriptions, theaters offer a series of plays for a price that is slightly lower than the price of the separate tickets, pushing patrons to attend a play they might otherwise eschew.(Young & Steinberg, 1995)

Season subscriptions are often an outcome of, or directly related to Memberships.  This depends largely on how the theater in question handles the two.  Often, a membership includes subscriptions at a discounted price.  Usually memberships include other features, including access to preview versions of performance events, access to exclusive events–such as mingling with directors and actors at Stages at the Cleveland Play House, and mention in theater programs.  As discussed by Michael Seltzer in Securing your Organization’s Future, the annual appeal is an extension of membership:

The base of most organizations’ support is their membership–the large number of donors who make relatively modest contributions each year, usually to an annual fund appeal. Almost every individual whose first gift to an organization is less than $250 becomes a prospect for the annual fund campaign.  The annual fund campaign is an essential element, perhaps THE essential element in an organization’s development plan because of its ability to expand the donor base and identify prospects for larger and planned gifts–this in addition to generating contributions… Fundraisers would do well to concentrate on building this base of support instead of hoping for an immense gift from one individual… (Seltzer, 2001)

Because theaters engage in offering performance goods to the general community, theaters are in the unique position of capturing detailed information on those who regularly attend performances. With the advent of online ticket sales and easily implemented credit card point-of-sales systems in the box office, theaters have at the tips of their fingers not only detailed information on attendees to performances, but a host of pre-formatted computer coded information that can be broken out, sorted, and sifted by a number of pre-existing fields.  For instance, the address and zip code provide easy access to geographic data that can infer demographic data as well.  But perhaps more importantly, by having detailed personal information on who had purchased tickets, contact can be instigated almost immediately and if the product is good and patron enthusiasm is there this ticket sales information can be quickly converted to membership commitments or subscription sales. Other than ticket sales, individual giving–be it memberships, subscriptions, or annual donations–represents the largest, consistent source of external funding for theaters.

Programs offer the potential for expanding revenue streams to theaters, but must be created carefully and must fully meet the intentional mission of the organization–as there is a real danger of mission drift associated with chasing money, and often there are substantial hidden costs associated with programs and engaging in them has unintended consequences.  Cost benefit analyses should be undertaken to assure that any program will be fully covered by the revenues that the program will create, and that, ideally, the program will generate surplus revenues for other purposes. For example, Cleveland Public Theater offers several community programs that address the needs of many segments of the at-risk community in Northeast Ohio, from children through adulthood.  Brick City Theatre is a partnership with Cuyahoga Metropolitan Housing Authority and “offers safe, after-school arts programming on site for children ages 5-14 who live in public housing.”(Seibert, 2009a) STEP is an “arts education and job training [program] for low income urban teens. Youth develop performance, academic and interpersonal skills as they create and perform an original play that is toured to public parks in Cleveland.”(Seibert, 2009b) The Y-Haven Theatre Project is a program for “residents of Y-Haven, a transitional facility for homeless men in recovery. The men learn performing arts and technical aspects of theatre to create, and perform for the community, an original play based on their personal experiences.”(Seibert, 2009d) The Women’s Voices Project is similar to Y-Haven, except it is a program for “women in residence at the Elyria YWCA Campus Project who are recovering from domestic abuse or addictions and transitioning to independent living.”(Seibert, 2009c)  Each of these programs, excepting Brick City Theatre, produces a theater performance which is staged at Cleveland Public Theatre as a part of their annual season offering. Additionally, these activities are meant to demonstrate CPT’s commitment to the Northeast Ohio community and belief that theater is transformational and can have a positive, definitive, and lasting impact on people’s lives.  Many of these programs, on the surface, blur the line between theater and social services. 

Advertising and sponsorship is becoming a more common way for nonprofit organizations to generate revenue streams.  Broadly, this method of funding suggests that a corporate sponsor gives money to the nonprofit and in return that company has its brand or profile elevated to the patrons of the theater or art events.  The most common form of advertising in theaters comes through the program or playbill that is distributed, in many theaters, prior to each show.  Advertising is a sticky form of revenue as the IRS has exotic rules with regard to unrelated business income tax, and advertising is one of those areas to which these rules apply.  IRS rules also are very clear with regard to sponsorship, in particular with reference to what is allowed and what is not.  This can be demonstrated very clearly with regard to WCPN radio broadcasts.  Organizations can pay WCPN to deliver on air messages regarding their activities and programs, but these messages must be crafted in such a way that they are purely informational in character and do not urge listeners to take any particular action with regard to the message just received.  This is because encouraging an activity one way or another constitutes a form of advertising which places any revenue in an unfortunate IRS category.  More often today, sponsorships take the form of for-profit and non-profit partnerships.  One of the more interesting relationships was discussed in a Masters Thesis by Michael L. Musick in 1999.  The relationship was between Stages Theater Company in Orleans, Massachusetts and American Communications Network (ACN). ACN is a “customer acquisition company that markets leading telecommunications products and services to the United States and Canada.” (Musick, 1999) To make a long story short, ACN works very like Amway, where a representative can both sell products and services as well as recruit new representatives.  In this model the original representative makes money from both the sales of products and services as well as a percentage of income from the activities of the new representatives he or she recruits.  In the case of ACN the product or service is telephone services and Stages Theater Company successfully encouraged 93% of its patron base to sign up.  Earning between 2%-8% of each dollar from the services, Stages brings in around $1,000 per month from this arrangement.  ACN benefits by gaining access to the customer base of Stages Theater Company.

External support is probably the single most common form of nonprofit revenue other than ticket sales and the support of individuals.  I chose the heading “External support” which includes support from Foundations, Government, and Corporate sources.  As discussed above, this form of support is usually attached to some activity that is views as practical or that shows a demonstrable benefit to the community: like an educational program for children or teens, though obviously there are exceptions.  According to Seltzer, “foundations represent the philanthropic interests of their founders and the interests of their founders’ appointees, who serve as stewards of the foundation’s assets.” (Seltzer, 2001) The best current example of government support is the Cuyahoga Arts and Culture funding that was created by voters in November of 2006.  This ballot initiative placed a ten-year tax on cigarettes to fund arts and culture activities in Cuyahoga County.  Most notable about the CAC funds it that the program gives out General Operating Support funding that covers two years of operations.  CAC also provides Project Support Grants.  Project Support Grants are matching grants in that the CAC will fund only 50% of a project requiring the other 50% to be funded by other sources of funds or funds of the receiving organization. It is rare to find a foundation that will provide on-going support to an organization.  For this reason, and others, nonprofit theaters should recognize clearly the danger of relying on foundation support for revenue and the need for a broad base of organizational funding.

Fundraising events are a popular form of raising dollars that can be used for operating purposes.  Convergence-continuum has an annual fundraiser which varies in its theme. Cleveland Public Theatre also has an annual fund raiser called Pandemonium.  Fundraising events have the potential to merge many of the previous forms of support, including individual contributions, memberships, annual appeals, and has the added bonus of being a form of “face-to-face solicitation.” (Seltzer, 2001)  For convergence, fundraising events capitalize on the theater’s ability to get free in-kind donations of virtually anything, it seems; and the downtime in its performance calendar (convergence closes during the winter due to the high cost of heating the space).  The fundraiser for convergence consists then largely of overhead costs associated with the physical space, as all items are donated and all event management activities are voluntary.  The biggest threat to an organization running a fundraising event is that the cost of the event will exceed the revenues brought in.

Going back to the Masters Thesis by Michael L. Musick in 1999, there is another example that is worth mentioning that represent “other categories” of revenue.  This example is that of Westbeth Theatre Center in New York, which partnered with an area restaurant to generate concessions revenue:

Westbeth wanted to provide their audiences with a cabaret that served food and alcohol. The restaurant wanted to provide their customers a cabaret environment that offered entertainment. Westbeth had the cabaret space and a ready pool of entertainment talent and the restaurant had the food service expertise, equipment, and a liquor license. This symbiotic relationship is of a conjugate nature and is a classic example of what Kotler and Scheff call a strategic collaboration. A non-profit organization joins forces with a business to both expand their customer base and develop new funding sources for both parties.(Musick, 1999)

Interestingly, in his article, Marburger cautioned that ticket prices had a direct impact on concessions income and that if theaters (or other venues) wished to maximize income from concessions that ticket prices should be low–as the money not spent on tickets usually went to concessions.  Thus, any increase in ticket prices adversely impacts concessions sales.  Interestingly, Marburger pointed out that this relationship is not of as much concern if the organization outsources its concessions, since it is seeing little (if any) of this revenue. This observation by Marburger may point to a reason why the relationship between Westbeth and the restaurant eventually did not work out. (Marburger, 1997)

Some organizations, including Cleveland Public Theatre, have space rental as one stream of earned revenue, and sometimes rent equipment as well. 

Trends in non-profit theater funding

As mentioned above, theaters have always relied on subscriptions and ticket sales; however, for a significant period of time reliance on external support had been taking up more and more of theater budgets to the point that theaters, like the Raven Theatre in Chicago, relied on unearned income to make up 70% of its annual budget. (Fields-White, 2010)  Theaters like convergence and Cleveland Public Theatre have always relied on a patchwork of funding sources: for instance, CPT’s budget ending 2009 had grant funds and ticket sales.  Total earned income at CPT for 2009 consisted of ticket sales, fees, rentals, concessions, and advertising income.  But this represents only 18% of their total income.  With grants and benefit events making up the rest.  Sources of unearned income for CPT include grants from Cuyahoga Arts and Culture (CAC), Gordon Square Arts District (GSAD), Detroit Shoreway Community Development Organization (DSCDO), Ohio Cultural Facilities Commission, Ohio Arts Council, and a number of foundations, including the Gund Foundation, the Cleveland Foundation, the Shubert Foundation.

However, as a recent discussion in Crain’s Chicago Business has made clear, and to quote a Bob Dylan song, “The times they are a changin’.”  According to Jackie Keenan on the Crain’s Chicago Business multimedia newscast, seats in Chicago theaters are filling up–so ticket sales are increasing as the recession seems to lighten; however, funding from foundations, state government, and corporations have dropped significantly.  Thus, any gains that theaters have made from individuals have been undermined by losses on the unearned side of the ledger. (Fields-White, 2010)

“Giving to arts and humanities groups likely dropped 5% last year from $12.2 billion nationwide the year before, says Edith Falk, CEO of Chicago-based non-profit consultancy Campbell & Co. That’s following a 6.4% plunge in 2008 and a 7.8% rise in 2007 — just before the start of the recession. And that’s on top of a 63% reduction in the state’s Illinois Arts Council budget.”(Fields-White, 2010)

For instance, the Raven Theatre Company with a $300K+ budget recently experienced a 30% cut in state funding and had to switch from a model in which 70% of their income was unearned toward a model where earned income assumed a greater role (they now have 50% of their budget in unearned income).  Accordingly, the Raven has seen an increase in subscriptions, moving from 40 in 2008 to 400 in 2009.  It is likely that Ohio will face a similar circumstance with a $640 million shortfall in 2009 and a likely similar shortfall in 2010.  Inevitably, these deficits will adversely impact arts funding in Ohio. (State of Ohio, 2010) 

The consequence for large financial losses in theater budgets include “slashes” in production budgets (less flashy sets, costumes, etc), “slashes” in advertising budgets, “slashes” in staffing, and theaters are now producing plays with greater commercial appeal (Fields-White, 2010)–a move which is a death knell for new works and new playwrights.  Thus, per Musick’s masters thesis discussed above, theaters are increasingly having to explore more entrepreneurial options and arrangements with corporate partners in order to make the bottom line balance.  Nonprofit theaters may be experiencing a startling return to their roots in terms of cultivating individual subscribers, theater memberships, and a self-reliance that, while it might be frightening, may be refreshing as well.

In-depth discussion of convergence-continuum’s approach to funding its theater.

The primary source of revenue for convergence-continuum is ticket sales.  Convergence is unique in that its operations rely almost exclusively on voluntary labor.  Those who work with convergence are extraordinarily committed to theater and especially the sort of theater that is produced by convergence: edgy, experimental, contemporary and challenging to the audience. This is to say that the variable costs associated with a production are low, with the main cost for each production being the cost of the performance rights owed to the playwright or publisher of the play being produced.  All other costs which would confront a “normal” theater are absorbed by the efforts of the company: costumes are pulled, usually, from the massive stock of clothing and costumes already owned–else new items are brought in by volunteers; sets are created by two day blitzes in which ten to twenty volunteers descend on The Liminis and turn the black box into an imaginary world; actors are given a small honorarium at the close of the performance; the box office is staffed by volunteers as is the house staff, and the operator of the light and sound board.  Depending on turn out or interest in a particular play, the revenues for a production can vary.

As was mentioned in the initial consideration of ticket sales above, most nonprofit theaters rely on a portion of their ticket prices to be subsidized in whole or in part by a donor; this is true for convergence as well.  The total income (ticket sales + concessions + donations) for one of convergence’s more popular 2008 shows: Freakshow represented 63% of the total necessary to simply break even. Ticket prices at convergence are $15 for general admission and $12 for students and seniors.  Given the above example, these ticket prices represent 63% of the actual cost that should be charged per ticket.  At the very least, ticket prices at convergence should be between $20 -$25 in order to ensure costs of operating the theater (at a minimum level) are covered.

The problem with raising ticket prices to fully cover expenses is that ticket pricing falls into the economic category of price-elastic demand.  As noted by Young and Steinberg, “in general, an increase in price will decrease the volume of sales.” (Young & Steinberg, 1995)   This is not rocket science, as it is well documented that price increases tend to decrease demand, but for performance goods this seems to be especially the case, and, oddly, lower prices tend to increase revenues. There is even a principle associated with this effect: “When demand is price-elastic, an increase in price will decrease total revenue and a decrease in price will increase total revenue.” (Young & Steinberg, 1995)  This is so because the increase in volume caused by lower prices will be enough to offset the loss per ticket.  However, we’re not finished with the conundrums yet, as this rule is thrown off again because usually there is fixity of seats within a theater which substantially limits the volume that can be obtained–a doubly potent problem for a theater like convergence, which can muster between 40-50 seats per show.  This limitation has the effect of placing ticket prices in the inelastic portion of demand, because convergence is very likely to sell all of its seats and as the principle states: “When demand is inelastic, an increase in price will increase total revenue and a decrease in price will reduce total revenue.” (Young & Steinberg, 1995) However, this is only so as long at the prices being offered are comparable to the prices being offered at comparable organizations in the same market: as any notable increase may cause patrons to replace one theater’s product with another that is priced less: referred to as “availability of substitutes.”(Young & Steinberg, 1995)   This forces theaters to rely as much on loyalty as anything else.  The matter for theaters becomes even more complicated as many offer concessions.  Referred to as complements in the economic literature, concession sales can be adversely impacted by an increase in pricing on tickets, as the two are “consumed together… Thus, the cross-price elasticity is negative for complements.” (Young & Steinberg, 1995)  

Advertising as a revenue stream is complicated, as mentioned above, with regard to unrelated business income tax, but convergence has used advertising in the past as a way of paying for its program production.  This was done in 2008 as a combination of pro-bono printing by a local printing company and a concerted effort to attract local businesses for advertising space.  Unfortunately, it was not repeated in 2009, as the pro-bono printing offer was not extended for a second time and businesses were not approached quickly.  This highlights one of the real problems of operating a theater with a primarily volunteer staff: it is difficult to get people to take ownership of a process.  Very like fundraising in general, approaching businesses about advertising is “an ask” or “a sit” and the person doing the ask must be confident and assured in what he or she is asking for and clear in explaining the options available.  It is also generally best if that person has a prior relationship with the business or individual being approached.  In lieu of this, many volunteers do not feel comfortable in a process like this and will avoid participating or fail.  Advertising also includes sponsorship dollars.  Convergence has used sponsorship in its annual benefits, getting various companies to donate materials and then post a banner, for instance, to take credit for their contribution.  This process again must be carefully considered as there are IRS regulations regarding how sponsorship occurs and what the context, timeframe, etc., is.

As mentioned previously, the number one source of earned income for convergence-continuum is ticket sales.  Until recently, the number one source of unearned income was grants.  Convergence-continuum, very like Cleveland Public Theatre mentioned above, has created a patchwork of external funding sources to subsidize the price of tickets to make the break-even point on productions.  Between 2005 and 2007, convergence-continuum was awarded three Gund Foundation grants, and between 2007-2009 convergence was awarded three Cleveland Foundation grants. From 2005-2007, convergence received three Ohio Arts Council Arts Access grants and from 2008-2009 convergence received two Cuyahoga Arts and Culture Project Support Grants.  As mentioned above, with regard to the current climate for theaters in Chicago, convergence discovered early that relying on foundation support for operations was a tenuous proposition and discovered the need to look for a plan of funding that uses a variety of sources.

Summary and Recommendations

Western theaters have moved from extensions of religious institutions and civic festivals subsidized wholly by wealthy patrons or religious institutions to for-profit ventures whose product had to meet the tastes, desires, and expectations of the popular audiences who paid the ticket price.  Theaters have undergone this movement back and forth time and again very much like Newton’s cradle.  In modern times the two divergent approaches to theater are firmly in place, with for-profit theaters taking on investors for each production and banking on high attendance rates in places like New York City and London.  Nonprofit theaters very much rely on the older approach of having their operations supported wholly or in-part by wealthy patrons–now foundations or government sources–or subscriptions and memberships. While ticket sales still account for a significant portion of nonprofit theater funding, a significant portion of the operational expenses for nonprofit theaters are funded through unearned sources.

References

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