Bertolt Brecht: an address to Danish worker actors on the art of observation

This poem comes from a set of seven called “Gedichte aus dem Messingkauf”. In each of these Brecht gives practical advice to those who work in the theatre. They thus offer a remarkably concise exposition of his aims and demands as a dramatist. But they are more than simply a precis of Brecht’s own theoretical prose works: they are specifically didactic poems, but the practical universality of the images and observations occurring in them means that many of their lessons apply even outside the theatre. This poem, which Brecht wrote as a refugee in Denmark in the 1930’s, certainly seems relevant to some of the problems of cinema and television as well.

You have come here to act plays 
But now you are to be asked: 
For what purpose? 
You have come here to reveal 
Yourselves in all that you can do 
You think this worthy of being watched. 
And you hope the people will applaud 
As you transport them ·
Out of the narrowness of their world 
Into the largeness of yours, 
Sharing with you the dizzy peaks 
And the tumults of passion. 
But now you are to be asked: 
For what purpose is this?

On their low benches 
Your spectators begin to argue. 
Some hold and maintain 
You must do more than show yourselves. 
You must show the world. ·
Where is the use, they ask ·
Of being shown time and time again 
How this one can be sad, 
How she is heartless, 
How that one would make a wicked king? 
Where is the use in this endless 
Exhibiting of grimaces, 
These antics of a handful 
In the hands of their fate? 

You show us only people dragged along, 
Victims of foreign forces and themselves. 
An invisible master 
Throws them down 
Their joys like crumbs to dogs. 
And so too the noose is fitted round their necks
The tribulation that comes from above.
And we on our low benches 
Held by your twitches and grimacing faces, 
We gape with fixed eyes 
And feel at one remove 
Joys that are given like alms, 
Fears beyond control. 

No. We who are discontented 
Have had enough on our low benches. 
We are no longer satisfied. 
Have you not heard it spread abroad 
That the net is knotted 
And is cast 
By men? 
Even now 
In the cities of a hundred floors, 
Over the seas on which the ships are manned, 
To the furthest hamlet-
Everywhere now the report is: man’s fate is man. 

You actors of our time, 
The time of change 
And the time of the great taking over 
Of all nature to master it 
Not forgetting human nature, 
This is now our reason 
For insisting that you alter. 
Give us the world of men as it is, 
Made by men and changeable. 

Thus the gist of the talk on the low benches. 
Not all of course agree. 
Most sit their shoulders hunched, 
With brows furrowed 
Like stony fields ploughed 
Repeatedly in vain. 
Worn away by increasing daily struggles 
They avidly await the very thing their companions 
Hate. 
A little kneading for the slack spirit. 
A little tightening for the tired nerve. 
The easy adventure of magically
Being led by the hand 
Out from the world given them, 
Out from one they cannot master. 
Whom then, Actors, should you obey? 
I’d say: the discontented. 

Yet how to begin? How to show 
The living together of men 
That it may be understood 
And become a world that can be mastered? 
How to reveal not only yourselves and others 
Floundering in the net, 
But also make clear how the net of fate 
Is knotted and cast, Cast and knotted by men? 
Above all other arts 
You, the actor, must conquer 
The art of observation. 

Of no account at all 
How you look. 
But what you have seen 
And what you reveal does count. 
It is worth knowing what you know. 
They will watch you 
To see how well you have watched. 
But one who observes only himself 
Gains no knowledge of men. 
From himself he hides too much of himself. 
And no man is wiser than he has become.

Therefore your training must begin among 
The lives of other people. 
Make your first school 
The place you work in, your home, 
The district to which you belong, 
The shop, the street, the train. 
Observe each one you set eyes upon. 
Observe strangers as if they were familiar 
And those whom you know as if they were strangers.

Look. A man pays out his taxes. He differs from 
Other men paying their taxes. 
Even though it is true 
No man pays them gladly. 
In these circumstances 
He may even differ from his normal self. 
And is the man who collects the taxes different 
In every way from the man who must pay? 
The collector must also contribute his due 
And he has much else in common 
With the one he oppresses. 
Listen. 
This woman has not always spoken with her present harshness. 
She does not speak so harshly to all. 
Nor does that charmer charm every one. 
Is the bullying customer 
Tyrant all through? 
Is he not also full of fear? 
The mother without shoes for her children 
Looks defeated, 
But with the courage still left her 
Whole empires were conquered: 
She is bearing — you saw? — another child. 
And have you seen 
The eyes of a sick man told 
He can never be well again 
Yet could be well 
Were he not compelled to work? 
Observe how he spends such time as remains 
Turning the pages of a book telling 
How to make the earth a habitable planet. 
Remember too the press photos and the newsreels. 
Study your rulers 
Walking and talking and holding in their pale 
Cruel hands 
The threads of your fate.

All this watch closely. Then in your mind’s eye 
From all the struggles waged 
Make pictures 
Unfolding and growing like movements in history. 
For later that is how you must show them on the stage. 
The struggle for work, 
Bitter and sweet dialogues between men and women, 
Talk about books, 
Resignation and rebellion, 
Trials and failures, 
All these you must later show 
Like historical processes. 
(Even of us here and now 
You might make such a picture: 
The playwright, having fled his country, 
Instructs you in the art of observation.)

To observe 
You must learn to compare. 
To be able to compare 
You must have observed already. 
From observation comes knowledge. 
But knowledge is needed to observe.
He who does not know 
What to make of his observation 
Will observe badly. 
The fruit grower will look at the apple tree 
With a keener eye than the strolling walker. 
But only he who knows that the fate of man is man 
Can see his fellow men keenly with accuracy. 
The art of observing men 
Is only part of the skill of leading them. 
And your job as actors
Should make you prospectors and teachers 
Of this larger skill. 
By knowing and demonstrating the nature of men 
You will teach others to lead their own lives. 
You will teach them the great art of living together.

Yet now I hear you asking: 
How can we – 
Kept down, kept moving, kept ignorant 
Kept in uncertainty 
Oppressed and dependent
How can we 
Step out like prospectors and pioneers 
To conquer a strange country for gain? 
Always we have been subject to those 
More fortunate than us. 
How should we 
Who have been till now 
Only the trees that bear the fruit 
Become overnight 
Fruit growers? 
Yet as I see it, 
That is the art you must now acquire, 
You, my friends, who on the same day are 
Actors and workers.

It cannot be impossible 
To learn that which is useful. 
You are the very ones, 
You in your daily occupations, 
In whom the art of observing is naturally born. 
For you it is of use 
To know what the foreman can and cannot do, 
To know also the ways of your mates exactly 
And their thoughts. 
How else save with a knowledge of men 
Can you wage the fight of your class? 
I see all the finest among you 
Impatient for knowledge, making 
Observation more keen 
Thus adding again to itself. 
Already the best of you learn 
Those laws which govern 
The living together of men, 
Already your class makes ready 
To overcome all that hindering you 
Stands in the way of mankind. 
Here is where you, 
Acting and working, 
Learning and teaching, 
Can intervene from your stage 
In the struggles of our time. 
You with the intentness of your studies 
And the elation of your knowledge 
Can make the experience of struggle 
The property of all, 
And transform justice 
Into a passion.

Translated by Anna Bostock and John Berger