The discourse surrounding sustainability perpetuates a misleading belief that continuous growth and consumption can continue “sustainably” through small green changes. It seems as though there is no inherent contradiction between a finite planet and unlimited growth. (…) To resolve the ecological crisis, merely transitioning to consume “sustainably” manufactured products in the same volume as we currently consume “unsustainable” products is insufficient. Even if we succeeded in converting all consumption to solar-powered alternatives, continuous growth would still be unfeasible.
(Tanskanen & Kuoppa 2023, 91–92)
When I connect a light fixture to the electrical grid on stage, the solar energy contained within fossil fuels, accumulated from the earth’s early vegetation, is released instantaneously.
Fossil fuels have enabled efficient food production, industry, transportation, and infrastructure development, placing wealthy Western nations deeply in debt to oil. Oil has shaped our experience of the world, detaching people from the interconnectedness of production and consumption (Salminen & Varen 2013, 17). Researcher Karoliina Lummaa examines the era of the “Great Acceleration,” which began in the 1950s, characterized by simultaneous surges in population, investments, energy consumption, fertilizer use, transportation, telecommunications, methane and atmospheric ozone levels, land use, deforestation of tropical forests, and more. In her article, Lummaa illustrates how Westerners have become reliant on the energy forms and resources they adopt. The accelerating curves of humanity suggest that we are increasingly at the mercy of matter (Lummaa 2021, 28–35).
Is the only way to achieve ecologically sustainable lighting design to “hit the brakes” and disconnect from the electrical grid in theatre spaces?
The history of theatrical lighting is fascinating, reflecting both technological advancements and changes in the artistic expression of light. The development has been remarkable; before the oil lamp, Europeans in the early 18th century had access to the same lighting possibilities as the ancient Romans and Greeks (Lyytimäki & Rinne 2013, 62).
In the early history of theatre, performances were often held in amphitheatres designed to utilize natural light, with torchlight used for evening shows. During the Middle Ages, churches used candles and daylight filtered through stained glass windows. During the Renaissance and into the 17th century, candles were placed at varying heights and distances from the stage to create depth and shadow. However, candle and oil lamp-based light sources posed risks of fire and smoke. In the early 19th century, gas lighting began to be used in theatres, allowing for a more consistent and controlled light output, which facilitated technically challenging lighting effects while increasing the overall illumination. By the late 19th century, the advent of electric lighting revolutionized theatrical illumination – electric lights replaced gas lamps and introduced greater safety and control over lighting (Ervasti 2004/2017). Today, electricity is a given and a prerequisite for theatre operations; its absence would completely halt performance activities.
But what if we were to turn back time slightly and illuminate the stage solely with candles? What kind of experiential reality would that create? What material connections would I be linked to through the candle’s presence?
The next step toward a more ecologically sustainable stage begins with a demonstration conducted in collaboration with the WAUHAUS arts collective during the SPARKS residency at the Dance House Helsinki in the summer of 2021, where the relationship to electrical networks was explored. The working title of the piece was Electromusical. The question posed at the start of the residency was what it would mean to arrive at a theatre disconnected from electricity in terms of lighting (Tanssin talo 2021).
For the WAUHAUS demonstration week, I prepared a very simple ramp light using materials sourced from the group’s storage: tea lights and two mirrors. During the SPARKS residency demo week, we experimented with various light-reflective materials in candlelight, creating a kind of counterpoint to the 2016 premiere of the piece Flashdance (2016), which centred around “moving darkness.” The moving golden cloak illuminated by candlelight evoked the imagery of a solar storm. The candlelight brought forth historical dimensions and temporalities of theatre. The prevailing architectural space vanished as visual perception became focused on the shimmering, vaguely defined light entity.
What, then, are the material connections of the candle? The raw materials of a candle are primarily paraffin and stearin. Paraffin is a byproduct of oil refining, while stearin is derived from palm oil or made from animal tallow. For example, the tea lights used in the SPARKS residency demo are linked to raw materials sourced from palm oil plantations in the Amazon rainforest. There are also more ecological and ethically sustainable alternatives to palm oil, such as olive oil-based stearin, produced in Italy (Valonia 2020). However, this raises questions about the emissions from the transportation of candle materials and their manufacturing processes: even if I were to disconnect from electrical grids in Finland and carry out lighting design using candles, how much do the materials and their delivery burden the environment elsewhere? The candle wick is commonly made of cotton, which requires significant water for its production and is known to be produced under unethical conditions (Ethical Consumer 2023).
The continuous dimness in the theatre space led to discussions with the residency organizer about audience safety and the use of emergency exit lights. The green exit lights could not necessarily be turned off during the performance due to legal regulations. On the other hand, the question arose: “Would the ramp light created from candles release so many particulates into the air that it would be harmful to the audience’s health?” This comment illustrates a common Western approach – emissions are acceptable elsewhere, but not in my space, and the health of those outside my space is of little concern. Additionally, each audience member’s vision is subjective, meaning a performance based solely on the light of a single candle would not be accessible to all. However, as I noted in my previous essay, the scarcity of light activates and gives space to other senses.
The light conditions created by the candles were perceived by the WAUHAUS arts collective as a challenging starting point that restricted movement expression. This is a typical friction point that must be confronted when striving for more ecological production. In hindsight, the SPARKS residency at the Dance House Helsinki was not the right context to experiment with disconnection from electricity. The proposal is so radical in its simplicity that a week-long residency, functioning like an Idols competition (where the best group works are selected for further development and the poor ones are eliminated), does not lend itself to the ongoing development of a candle concept. Moreover, a deeper dialogue should have been established from the beginning among the artistic group and production members about the values underpinning decision-making in the creative process. Nevertheless, the idea of an electric-free performance continued to simmer in the background.
The potential of power outages
In February 2022, Russia invaded Ukraine, prompting a reassessment of Finland’s relationships and connections with its neighbour. This was particularly impactful regarding the import of electricity generated from fossil fuels from across the eastern border. The decision was made to phase out fossil energy from Russia, contributing to an energy crisis in Finland while the Olkiluoto 3 nuclear reactor was still under construction. Discussions about the sufficiency of electricity for the winter began as early as the summer months, with the energy industry planning rolling blackouts (YLE 2022).
The question posed during WAUHAUS’s residency in the summer of 2021 – what it would mean to have a performance in an electricity-free theatre – turned out to be surprisingly relevant a year later.
Widespread power outages are not entirely new to Finland. For instance, at the end of 2011, prolonged outages occurred due to winter storms, leaving tens of thousands of homes without power, with repairs taking several weeks. Researchers Jari Lyytimäki and Janne Rinne discuss a 2012 survey by the Energy Industry Association, which found that the main issue during outages was the uncertainty about their duration, cited by 60% of respondents. Interestingly, fewer than a fifth (23%) considered darkness a problem, even though the outage took place during a snowless winter. The survey also noted that longer outages made darkness an even less frequently mentioned issue. Nonetheless, power outages still created major challenges for agriculture, animal welfare, food preservation, and hygiene (Lyytimäki & Rinne 2013, 162–163).
I come from the countryside, surrounded by forests, and I have grown accustomed to darkness, especially during the winter months. Power outages caused by thunderstorms or snowstorms were very common during my childhood.
In 2020, the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic forced many of us into remote work, and I occasionally retreated to my mostly empty childhood home in Satakunta. This former home transformed into a kind of residency, during which I also worked on the Reorientations project. In 2021, I implemented a community-based and site-specific photography and video art project in my hometown of Huittinen. I will discuss this project and its impacts in more detail in my essay Site-specific emotional experiences as catalyst for environmental connection. The community art project Hetkiä Suttilassa (Moments in Suttila) took place between 2021 and 2022 at the local village hall.
This hundred-year-old village hall holds significant meaning for me, as it is where I first witnessed theatre performances before I was of school age. The strong tradition of amateur theatre, which began in the 1950s, often dealt with local themes, such as the life of Huittinen MP Mandi Hannula (1880–1952). I first performed on the village hall stage in 1994.
It was a great surprise when, while working on the community art project, I found several discarded lighting fixtures from the Theatre Academy, including PC, Fresnel, and profile lights from the late 1980s, in the attic of the village hall.
At the same time that the energy industry warned of potential rolling blackouts in the summer of 2022, I pondered how to prepare for such an emergency in my hometown. Instead of merely waiting in the dark for the electricity to return, could I organize a concert in the village hall where local residents could come to listen to acoustic music by candlelight during a power outage? How could the state of emergency be transformed into an opportunity to create a safe space for processing emotions amid multiple crises? Could the old, dust-covered theatre lights in the attic be utilized in some way for the concert?
In August 2022, I conducted an experiment where I replaced the nearly burnt-out candles found in the kitchen of the village hall with the bulbs from the old Theatre Academy lights, illuminating the birch stage flats that had been in use for over 70 years. The light was extraordinarily beautiful and surprisingly strong, evoking an archaic feeling. The theatre lights functioned like lanterns. Their optics worked normally, allowing for precise light shaping. The only challenge arose when tilting the lights, as the stearin began to flow unexpectedly.
In this unexpected limbo of different timelines and technologies, I found myself at the intersection of living fire and the theatrical lighting technology developed in the 1930s on the stage of my hometown. Aesthetically, it was something extraordinarily old-fashioned and dusty, yet strangely resonant in the context of the surrounding ecological crisis.
What kind of holistic performance could emerge from this place and these lighting conditions? How could art take place despite the impending winter power outages?
Surprisingly, using old theatre fixtures and half-burnt candles for lighting felt more inspiring and meaningful in the old village hall of Suttila than it did on the Erkko stage at the Dance House Helsinki.
Panu Pihkala, a theologian and researcher at the University of Helsinki, explores the significance of communal rituals amid multiple crises. He argues that the sorrow associated with environmental destruction and anticipatory grief require some form of communal transition rituals. Pihkala poses the question: what would a transition ritual look like that addresses the shift away from a fossil fuel-based lifestyle (Pihkala 2019, 64)? Perhaps in the candlelit village hall, shrouded in darkness from the power outage, candles could be lit in memory of fossil capitalism?
Ultimately, the winter of 2022–2023 was mild, and the planned rolling blackouts did not occur. Yet, the concept of lighting a performance without electricity had, in a fascinating way, become a reality.
Sources
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Valonia. 2020. “Kynttilöissä piilee päästöriski.” valonia.fi/materiaali/kynttiloissa-piilee-paastoriski. Accessed 18 October 2024.
YLE. 2022. “Suomalaiset voivat joutua kärsimään sähkön säännöstelystä ensi talvena.” yle.fi/a/3-12534457 Accessed 18 October 2024.