My first memory of Peter: early 1990, sitting with him in his office at the Bouffes du Nord in Paris, as he narrated the story of The Tempest and described Miranda’s character to me. More than what he said, I was struck by his luminous presence, his piercing blue eyes and his liveliness. It was the beginning of a new and grand adventure for my 14-year-old self. He opened the doors of a brave new world to me, full of the most wondrous people, spaces and stories.
A few months later, we had the first The Tempest workshop, with the chosen troupe of mixed ethnicities. Never once touching the script or the story, for a week we spent the entire day doing physical and vocal practices, and various types of games. We listened to each other’s stories and languages, we sang and danced together, we put up short scenes in imagined languages or without words. It was a space of infinite possibility, of exploration and experimentation, of no inhibition or judgement, of playfulness, and always of utter focus.
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Each day I was amazed at the things we did, and in awe of every single member of the troupe, of their boundless creativity, freedom and willingness to throw themselves into anything. Many of them had worked with Peter for years, and they blazed with a special intensity. I, on the other hand, was extremely shy, the youngest of the group, and always the last to join in for any improvisation or exercise.
The ‘aliveness’ of imagination
Peter was the force that propelled us, the heart around which everything pulsated and came to life. There emanated from him absolute calm and gentleness, and yet tremendous intensity: a combination that I found deeply compelling. I spent a lot of time discreetly observing him, mesmerised by how he moved between deep attention and almost child-like laughter.
That exhilarating first week opened onto a year of rehearsals, travelling the world and performing together. Unforgettable! The Tempest was a magical performance and audiences were enchanted by it.
That one year deeply transformed and shaped me, in more ways than I could fathom. I remember Peter explaining in interviews that one of the reasons he chose me as Miranda was my training in classical Indian dance. Other than the obvious physical discipline involved, he explained how that training had given a certain quality of awareness and sensitivity to my presence and body language, and how it had taught me to put myself aside and embody characters and stories.
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Peter was always very gentle and patient with me. He would explain things to me in a way that I could relate to. He would say, “You know how you hold your body in a certain posture, according to each character, when you dance? You have to find an appropriate posture for Miranda, too.” I listened to his words intently and tried to grasp what he meant to the best of my ability. I threw myself into the work with the candid trust of a 14-year-old.
Fast-forward 10 years, and I was once more at Bouffes du Nord, this time to play Ophelia, in English, for Peter’s production of The Tragedy of Hamlet. Another year of exhilarating rehearsals, travels, and performances with another wonderful troupe. This time I was even more deeply captivated by Peter’s words, always astonished at how he could explain complex ideas with such clarity and simplicity. He would say, “Theatre is like life, but in compressed time and space. To make that work, one needs high intensity and high quality.”
I tried my best to apply all that he spoke about, such as bringing quality and truth to every word and every gesture, and letting the emotion arise rather than “playing” it. He spoke of the importance of timing, of musicality and rhythm, of stillness and silence, of paying absolute attention and being keenly sensitive to every detail. He spoke of the paramount importance of aliveness of imagination and of listening deeply to each other.
I could easily relate to all this as a dancer, but it was quite a different and challenging exercise to embody a complex and dramatic character such as Ophelia. I applied myself to bringing her to life with all the passion of a 24-year-old.
Questioning the craft
Ten years later, I found myself once more in a rehearsal room in Paris with Peter and a group of his actors for The Tightrope, a film by his son, Simon Brook, in which the camera was to capture some of Peter’s work process, namely his legendary exercises. It was an intense and joyful week where we had the luxury of devoting ourselves to exploring the craft of theatre without having any performance to prepare. And Peter too seemed to relish that.
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It was such a gift to once more be able to plunge into work with him. I was reminded of the power of stripping things to the bare minimum and working with the ‘aliveness’ of imagination: a few bamboo sticks made up The Tempest’s shipwreck, some rugs and cushions were Hamlet’s castle, and a line on that same carpet became a tightrope strung up high.
I met Peter a few times after that. He loved telling and listening to stories, and showed keen interest in what I was doing; he was always full of humour and lightness. The last time I met him was in February 2020, at the Bouffes du Nord, for a showing of his Tempest Project. He spoke little, but was full of warmth, as always.
Peter threw himself passionately and relentlessly into life and theatre, ceaselessly questioning the craft, unravelling and exploring completely new dimensions. He transformed people and ignited their spirits, changing the way we approach, look at, think of and make theatre. What an extraordinary being. What an extraordinary life. And what a blessing to have known him and witnessed some of that greatness, to have been touched by his brilliant aura.
For Peter now, ‘the rest is silence’. For us, his tremendous presence will continue to shine through the silence.
The writer is a Kuchipudi and contemporary dancer, choreographer, and occasional actor.
