Do artists owe us the truth? Autobiography is inherently subjective and colored by creative license. But if it holds up a mirror that reflects everyone in one way or another, doesn’t that make it true?
Playwright and director Aya Ogawa digs so deep into her conscious memory in “The Nosebleed,” which opened Monday at the Claire Tow Theater and previously screened at Japan Society last fall, that it’s no wonder someone’s head ends up leaking. Conversational, fearless and subtly layered, Ogawa’s memoir-esque dig tests the boundaries of love and family obligations through intimate confession. But the creator does more than relieve themselves of haunting regrets, forcing the public to give details and release their own regrets. Not everyone will be ready to face what they find.
The lights are still on when Ogawa introduces himself, explaining that “The Nosebleed” started out as an exploration of failure. Four actors, standing in the aisles of the theater, step forward one by one to briefly recount their own failures. Earlier that day, Ashil Lee was adjusting her mask when it broke back into her eyes, briefly blinding her on the street. A daytime dog walker, Drae Campbell was once so distracted by her phone that a riotous dog defecates inside. Memories of these incidents add another dimension of reality to the ensemble’s untouched performances, portraying everyone on stage as infallible, imperfect and human.
That pouring schnoz belongs to Ogawa’s 5-year-old son, screaming in his blood-soaked bed on a family trip to Japan, jet lagged and delirious. Ogawa plays her own son and father on stage, but hands off the part of herself to a quartet of other actors, a striking embodiment of the multiple instincts and voices that animates a single mind. Aya, the character alternately played by the others, has been awake streaming bootleg episodes of “The Bachelorette,” in which a contestant’s estrangement from his father forces her to consider her own. She has dragged her children around the world to connect them with their Japanese heritage, but the real quest seems to be finding her own sense of identity.
“Why can’t we just be ‘normal’ Americans?” asks an iteration of Aya (Saori Tsukada).
“Why can’t we find a place that feels like home and just live there?” pleads another (Kaili Y. Turner), annoyed.
This unfettered sense of perpetual in-between will sound familiar to immigrants, their descendants, and anyone who has felt trapped between cultures. Ogawa’s introspection, like so much self-reflection, leads back to her parents, and especially to her tense and often wordless relationship with her late father. Finding a sense of home starts with reconciling with the ghosts in the attic.
In concept, “The Nosebleed” might have been navel-gazing had it not been conceived with a generosity of perspective and an unpretentious attempt to engage the audience. (If there are perhaps too many requests onstage for a show of hands during the 70 minutes of the play, at least the continued exchange feels deserved.) Some spectators may not want to be confronted with their own private thoughts. But breathing the same air means participating in “The Nosebleed”, even for those who sit still and still.
Ogawa’s sharp, evocative production has a blank canvas quality that feels similar to a visual invitation to personal association. Jian Jung’s white-walled set gradually recedes, increasing the depth of field. As the action transitions from near-spectacle-like to communal ritual, even a loose movement feels lyrical.
When loss is the only real certainty, Ogawa tells her own in a way that grapples with enduring questions of mortality, forgiveness, and self-determination. But as she insists from painful experience, it’s the questions that aren’t asked that stick with you.
the nosebleed
Until August 28 at the Claire Tow Theatre, Manhattan; lct.org. Running time: 1 hour 10 minutes.