Few theatrical spaces better fit their resident companies than the cell. In operation for almost a year, the Chelsea space manages both a Spartan elegance (complete with church-pew-seats) in keeping with co-directors Kira Simring and Nancy Manocherian’s screw-the-mainstream aesthetic, and an enormous blackboard wall that conveys the sense of endless experimentation that’s almost impossible to find away from a college campus. Whether or not Simring and Manocherian are aware of the way their zealously guarded sliver of theatrical integrity reflects their views on theater is unclear, but few spaces feel more specifically personalized than the cell.
“I think that’s actually why we joined forces about three years ago,” Simring offers on a recent Monday afternoon on the cell’s second floor, as a set unloads beneath us. “We do share an idiosyncratic aesthetic. We are basically using the same principles on what feels meaningful. Does it really resonate, question existence? Otherwise why do it? There are enough people entertaining.”
While Simring, who usually directs the shows the cell puts on, still comes across as an enthusiastic grad student, Manocherian proves her perfect foil with an endless stream of dry commentary that undercuts their passionate beliefs in the power of art with a welcome dose of humor. When asked what the cell’s guiding principle is, Manocherian widens her eyes and says, “What we like!” before eventually adding, “We have a mission statement that’s kind of broad and loose—which I can’t recite. We like to work with people that we like, whose work we like and who we as a company enjoy.”
After three years of working closely together on projects ranging from a contemporary opera to a handful of plays at Theater Row, Manocherian and Simring have an easy rapport that often blossoms into blithe talkfests, during which they overlap one another with the speed of screwball comedy heroines, pointing out things on the cell’s walls and renovations going on in the back garden. Both women seem genuinely thrilled to have their own home base, even after almost a year.
“You know what the machine is,” Sumring says. “You do some piece of shit in a grungy theater that nobody comes to. And everyone’s sooo desperate, and part of the reason you become an artist is for the people you get to spend time with! So we’re really trying to create what we want. Mostly, we just want to be able to take creative and artistic risks.”
Manocherian, who bought the cell’s current home, located in a townhouse on West 23rd Street, five years ago, feels the same way. “I wanted to be part of an art community without feeling the pressure of whatever ‘successful’ is. I just really wanted to work as an artist every day of my life.”
Without the threat of an inevitable rent hike that has killed many a popular performance space, the cell has the unique chance to play incubator for struggling young artists desperately in need of a place for their work to be seen.
“That’s the ideal,” Sumring says, mentioning an exhibit at the cell that led to a gallery show for photographer Miru Kim. “That someone will come here and get to know the artist. I think our focus is largely on fostering relationships with artists. The cell is the building block of life, after all! In the six months before we started publicizing ourselves, we really developed relationships with theater companies, so we have a lot of resident companies and in-house series. The Contemporary Opera, which has been around for 25 years. We have the Blackboard writing series, which is just for African-American writers. The Mainspring Theater Company. And they can come and be nurtured here and then have the opportunity to move on to the next thing. It’s a safe place for people to be.”
In many ways, the cell seems reminiscent of The Group Theatre, the famous 1930s theater collective founded by Cheryl Crawford, Stella Adler and Harold Clurman. Simring and Manocherian have similarly austere visions of theatrical integrity that they try to adhere to, although theirs are tempered by a saving note of humor: “We want to have serious fun,” Manocherian says. And part of their serious fun is recognizing their own limitations as a group and a space, something that comes up as the conversation meanders to The New Group’s recent production of Mourning Becomes Electra.
“Dzieci has something called Fool’s Mass,” Manocherian says. “They come in like they’re patients in a ward performing their own mass. That’s the kind of thing we want to support! It’s a really remarkable piece of theater, and I want other people to experience it.”
Sumring adds: “And then we go and see Mourning Becomes Electra from the New Group. And I know all these paths that I can take, but isn't that the example of what happens—”
“When you become too commercially minded,” Manocherian breaks in, “and you set your sights way far and above what's reasonable. We’re not trying to be highfalutin. We just want to make music and have fun.”
The cell, 338 W. 23rd St. (betw. 8th & 9th Aves.), www.thecelltheater.org.
“I think that’s actually why we joined forces about three years ago,” Simring offers on a recent Monday afternoon on the cell’s second floor, as a set unloads beneath us. “We do share an idiosyncratic aesthetic. We are basically using the same principles on what feels meaningful. Does it really resonate, question existence? Otherwise why do it? There are enough people entertaining.”
While Simring, who usually directs the shows the cell puts on, still comes across as an enthusiastic grad student, Manocherian proves her perfect foil with an endless stream of dry commentary that undercuts their passionate beliefs in the power of art with a welcome dose of humor. When asked what the cell’s guiding principle is, Manocherian widens her eyes and says, “What we like!” before eventually adding, “We have a mission statement that’s kind of broad and loose—which I can’t recite. We like to work with people that we like, whose work we like and who we as a company enjoy.”
After three years of working closely together on projects ranging from a contemporary opera to a handful of plays at Theater Row, Manocherian and Simring have an easy rapport that often blossoms into blithe talkfests, during which they overlap one another with the speed of screwball comedy heroines, pointing out things on the cell’s walls and renovations going on in the back garden. Both women seem genuinely thrilled to have their own home base, even after almost a year.
“You know what the machine is,” Sumring says. “You do some piece of shit in a grungy theater that nobody comes to. And everyone’s sooo desperate, and part of the reason you become an artist is for the people you get to spend time with! So we’re really trying to create what we want. Mostly, we just want to be able to take creative and artistic risks.”
Manocherian, who bought the cell’s current home, located in a townhouse on West 23rd Street, five years ago, feels the same way. “I wanted to be part of an art community without feeling the pressure of whatever ‘successful’ is. I just really wanted to work as an artist every day of my life.”
Without the threat of an inevitable rent hike that has killed many a popular performance space, the cell has the unique chance to play incubator for struggling young artists desperately in need of a place for their work to be seen.
“That’s the ideal,” Sumring says, mentioning an exhibit at the cell that led to a gallery show for photographer Miru Kim. “That someone will come here and get to know the artist. I think our focus is largely on fostering relationships with artists. The cell is the building block of life, after all! In the six months before we started publicizing ourselves, we really developed relationships with theater companies, so we have a lot of resident companies and in-house series. The Contemporary Opera, which has been around for 25 years. We have the Blackboard writing series, which is just for African-American writers. The Mainspring Theater Company. And they can come and be nurtured here and then have the opportunity to move on to the next thing. It’s a safe place for people to be.”
In many ways, the cell seems reminiscent of The Group Theatre, the famous 1930s theater collective founded by Cheryl Crawford, Stella Adler and Harold Clurman. Simring and Manocherian have similarly austere visions of theatrical integrity that they try to adhere to, although theirs are tempered by a saving note of humor: “We want to have serious fun,” Manocherian says. And part of their serious fun is recognizing their own limitations as a group and a space, something that comes up as the conversation meanders to The New Group’s recent production of Mourning Becomes Electra.
“Dzieci has something called Fool’s Mass,” Manocherian says. “They come in like they’re patients in a ward performing their own mass. That’s the kind of thing we want to support! It’s a really remarkable piece of theater, and I want other people to experience it.”
Sumring adds: “And then we go and see Mourning Becomes Electra from the New Group. And I know all these paths that I can take, but isn't that the example of what happens—”
“When you become too commercially minded,” Manocherian breaks in, “and you set your sights way far and above what's reasonable. We’re not trying to be highfalutin. We just want to make music and have fun.”
The cell, 338 W. 23rd St. (betw. 8th & 9th Aves.), www.thecelltheater.org.
