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The Tufts Daily
Where you read it first | Friday, March 29, 2024

Not By Bread Alone' provides sensory delight

Feature-Image_Place-HolderPRESLAWN2

It is not often that a performance can successfully create a close rapport between the audience and the cast members, but this is exactly what "Not by Bread Alone," a live performance piece brought to Boston by ArtsEmerson and performed by members of the Nalaga'at Theater Ensemble, achieves. The theater was buzzing long after the curtain dropped, and viewers, trying to make sense of what had just happened, congregated around the actors. Everyone wanted to talk with the performers, but they were limited to handshakes and hugs of appreciation due to one simple fact: the entire cast of "Not by Bread Alone" is deaf-blind.

Indeed, the Nalaga'at Theater Ensemble is no ordinary theater group. It is composed of 11 men and women from Tel-Aviv many of whom were born deaf and have gradually lost their sight to retinitis pigmentosa, a degenerative eye disease. Others in the ensemble still have traces of sight and hearing.

In Hebrew, "nalaga'at" means "please touch," and, fittingly, the actors communicate on stage by touch and touch-sign language. Those who can talk speak in Hebrew and Russian. English supertitles appear above the stage, and a translator signs their words to the audience. Upbeat, lively music plays throughout most of the show, but vibrations of a single drum are what cue the actors to move about the stage. Often the actors themselves remind each other of a scene change by squeezing the hand of their neighbor, as if playing a game of telephone.

Despite these rather unconventional elements, it soon becomes obvious that these men and women are hardly handicapped. Their collective energy emits a sense of both joy and peace, and, somehow, the reality on stage seems almost more candid than real life — an effect is perhaps due to the fact that each actor in the troupe plays him or herself.

This personal touch is evident from the opening scene. Sitting almost shoulder-to-shoulder behind long, wooden rectangular tables in a kitchen reminiscent of a Parisian boulangerie, men and women knead bread together. Their faces bear a melange of expressions — some of them focused on the task, others smiling out into the audience — but their hands are most expressive, creating shapes from the dough and brushing against those of their neighbor as if to share a nervous laugh.

Eventually one of them drops the dough and stands up. Itzik, a tall, ruddy-faced man is first to speak. He tells us he was born blind and became deaf after contacting meningitis at age 11.

Then Bat-Sheva pipes up, a sparkling voice bursting from her small frame. "I like to run around without anyone to help me," she declares. Other introductions come from Yuri, who "enjoy[s] fishing" and Shoshana, who slowly explains, "What is important to me is that people shake my hand because this way I know [they exist]."

As each person shares a taste of their story, the audience begins to understand a little bit about the values, hopes and ambitions of these actors, a comprehension aptly captured by the line, "Welcome to our lives ... our darkness and silence."

As bread rises in the oven and the aroma fills the theater, it transports the audience into the world of the actors, where smell, taste and touch are paramount senses. Then, through a series of vignettes, they illustrate the sensory experience of their everyday lives. In one emotionally raw monologue, Itzik recalls a lonely holiday when the ability to walk outside alone, smoking a cigarette in the cold night, became an elated moment of independence.

Those who once were able to see describe the beauty of a lightning storm; two nearly deaf women argue about whether the drizzle in Israel can compare to the Russian rains. With childlike delight they act out the small, pleasurable moments of life — dancing, getting a haircut, holding a baby — as well as their fantasies. Genia wants to marry her childhood sweetheart. When she finds him, he recognizes her hands and draws her close.

Occasionally, a memory or fantasy requires exaggerated gestures in order to clearly convey what is happening. Though everyone is always charming, the increased animation of these bits reminds the audience that the internal lives of the actors can't possibly be realized on stage.

Yet the actors themselves remain so real. Remarkably, as they manage to glide gracefully around the stage, the audience can almost see them working, counting how many steps they can take before reaching the edge. Through their movements, the actors carry their stories, their worries, their insecurities and joys. They cannot hear the audience's laughter, sighs or applause, just as theatergoers cannot feel the touch of their hands. But in this theater, for one night, everyone can smell the bread baking and share one small pleasure of the human experience.