ABSTRACT

In spring 2005 one could see a theatre work in Berlin that in a stricter sense perhaps isn’t actually a theatre performance and of which one may even have to say that one did not see it: a performance without any spectacular action or impressive acting, neither virtuoso protagonists nor a baffling stage design, actually there was no one to see, you were left on your own, but it was a performance which has still affected me more, incited me more strongly, and has engaged me both artistically and politically much more than most of what could be seen on the theatre stages in recent years. Although going to the Hebbel am Ufer, 1 you were handed a mobile phone instead of an entrance ticket, which started to ring soon after: there is a voice on the other end of the line, English speaking, in my case a female voice with a strong Indian accent; a voice I have a conversation with for nearly two hours; a voice that manoeuvres me through a Berlin unknown to me by giving me very precise instructions (‘approximately ten metres to the left, then across the street, pass between the two grey houses, under the trash basket in front of the fence you will find a photo’ and so on). Apparently the voice is very well informed.