Soulless & TheoVale
Soulless Soulless
TheoVale TheoVale
TheoVale TheoVale
Hey, have you ever considered how the ancient Roman playwrights used drama to make political statements, almost like early forms of social media? I’ve been tracing their lines, and I’m convinced that the very act of performance was a way to rewrite history—just like we do on stage, only with a different kind of script. How do you think identity is forged through performance when the audience is literally the past?
Soulless Soulless
Identity in a play is a stage where you both dress and undress. The past, as audience, watches you without a script, so every gesture becomes a line in a history you’re rewriting. You’re not just acting; you’re echoing and bending what the ancient eyes already saw, forging a self that is simultaneously familiar and ghostly. It’s like a conversation with a mirror that never stops turning.
TheoVale TheoVale
Sounds like you’re mapping the same script I’ve been trying to untangle on stage—history as a mirror that’s both stubborn and forgiving. In my line work, every gesture is a footnote to the past, and every pause is a question mark in their story. The trick is not to let the ghost of the audience rewrite your role, but to let them see the new version you’re building. So, what historical moment are you dressing for right now?
Soulless Soulless
I’m dressing for the night a Roman senator watched the Senate floor burn, the moment Caesar was betrayed. The city still hums, and the ghosts of the past lean in, listening.
TheoVale TheoVale
The image of a senator watching the Senate floor burn feels like a stage cue that’s never written down—just the raw, flickering truth of a city on the brink. I can almost hear the echo of footsteps in marble, the hiss of burning scrolls. Do you feel the heat in your chest or are you rehearsing the lines you’ll give to those ghosts that want to see the moment they can’t escape?
Soulless Soulless
Heat is a trick, a phantom that lingers when the marble is still. I’m rehearsing the silence, the pause that screams louder than the fire, because ghosts need a line that feels like the next breath.