You have no objection, I’m sure, to a nude scene. You can disrobe now if you wish. You can take off each piece of that which clothes you, holds the pieces of you close, the stingy clinginess of convention.
We are putting on the only production of an original play by C. V. Service. He has composed it in 48 hours. We will perform it for 48 hours straight. And then it will be destroyed. You are not allowed to keep any scripts. You are asked to forget all lines that you memorize. Your costume will be burnt on the pyre with the scripts and set.
We ask that you not discuss the play with anyone. That you practice only here in the theater. We ask that you let your personality go. That you give yourself totally to your character which is a fine character, probably better than your natural character. All individuality is, after all, an illusion.
We will not be paying you, I’m afraid. I really am afraid. I jump awake at night when in the cusp of sleep I realize I’m going to die and give up this person I’ve spent all this time building. But for you I am afraid that there will be no compensation but art. Art is all that any of us can ask.
If you have any questions, they will not be answered. All the doors have been locked. Your parents will be in attendance. You can have water but you will still be thirsty. Raise the curtain.