Excons & Shared Fossils
A viewing of Los días afuera (Theatre de la Ville - Châtelet) & Fossilia (Theatre de la Ville - Les Abbesses)
This year the Lithuanian Cultural Season comes to Paris. While this is the first time I've encountered this program, I’m told that each year Paris hosts the arts of a different nation, spotlighting an amalgamation of its arts best in show.
Since moving to France, I have by divine intervention or accident stumbled into a pocket of Lithuanian creatives. Their unofficial collective forms a cool pack. Although not Lithuanian myself, I feel a strong affinity towards this group. Although culturally distinct, as ex-USSR countries Lithuania and Ukraine share much of the same trauma, the leftovers of which are tangible in much of our food, rituals and sense of humour.
Eager to support the program and all the people I like in it, I grab tickets and make bookings for anything on show, while actively encouraging others to do the same. On seeing that a friend has taken part in creating projections for a theatre show which runs for only 3 nights, I justify the cost as a cultural investment and buy a ticket for the following evening.
The next day, I didn’t mind that I was working late, with the gallery where I spend my days in the same Paris quartier as the theatre that evening, working a bit later just meant I wouldn't have to find somewhere else to wait. Under the assumption that the show was a 10 minute meander away, I was playing it really casual-cool-easy, tap, tap, tapping away, keeping busy and all that. Once I finally decide it is time to leave, I find my psycho-geographic have deceived me, although both are in the Marais - today it seems Paris is in fact bigger than I am always claiming. The are minutes ticking and there is no choice but to cycle. It's starting to rain and as usual when one finds oneself in a rush none of the Velibs are on your side. All 10 refuse to budge, with battery, burst tyre or other unknown causes of death. There is even the token one-pedal-wonder (impossible, I've tried).
Desperation hits as I see a lime bike eying me with its lurid colours and bulky frame -surrendering my wallet and my pride I attempt to mount. No luck. Ding, my phone tells me i've spent a euro while trying to get the thing to start and I see the time again. Shit, no time to catastrophise.
On my second attempt the lime lock releases and I am finally on route. Cycling past Notre Dame I hear 8 chimes, each bell corroborating my lateness. I decide not to focus on the negatives, I'm very close. Finally in front of the theatre, I'm filled with dread as I notice no green bikes parked in sight, a sure sign that this is not a parking area. Cycling back a few blocks I finally dismount and run. 20:06 on the clock & seven euros spent on the journey, I enter the theatre, sweating, half expecting to be presented with a gold medal. Instead, unfortunately I am greeted by security who asks to search my backpack.
Although I get the general bla bla gist of the need for security, the reality of these searches is an ego-dropping episode of the ‘whats in my bag videos’ on youtube. Instead of a Hadid showing off their new fragrance, it's the mass of garbage accumulated in the bottom of my bag. Seemingly agreeing to its futility, the guards' bag search proves more superficial than usual.
Running but without direction - I recentre my thoughts and head towards a knowledgeable looking woman behind a desk. I show my ticket, which she attempts to scan. ’Mais madam… - you've come to the wrong Theatre - the show is at our other venue in… ..non non pas possible, its in Montmartre.... But didn't you check your ticket before you left?.....Hmm, no no c’est impossible I can't exchange the ticket here, you have to contact the theatre in Montmartre directly - they decide..’. We speak in french through furrowed brow, she refutes every badly grammared question I pose.
Regardless of my rush of a journey, my ticket is for another play, which started 6 minutes ago, at a different Theatre de la Ville, on the other side of Paris. My distress at my own incompetence must be visible because Madam takes pity and offers to let me see that show; ‘So your ticket isn't a complete waste?’. Ticket, journey, existence… I digress.
After a little power tussle up with her younger colleague, Madam points me towards the stairs, ‘third floor, the usher will seat you’.
On the 3rd floor I find the usher and a fellow inadequate lady latecomer, who seems to be less defeated than I, with a smile all like ‘oh, aren't we silly’. The usher tells us she’ll let us in, once the final late comer arrives.
Panting and out of breath he arrives, and finally the door is swung, and the usher does in fact, usher us into the darkness of our seats.
We walk into a scene not at all dissimilar from the finale of High School Musical 3 - A Night To Remember. Actors sing and dance centre front. As the translucent silk curtain lining the stage begins to rise, I ask myself 3 things: What have I signed up for? Followed by; what had I done to deserve this? And finally; for how long?
Instead of the highly cultured emotional Lithuanian evening I had envisioned, I berate myself for having sat down for Camp Rock Live. That's what you get when you don’t check your ticket.
Planning my escape, I turn left and find the route blocked by other viewers and my social conscience. With the curtain fully up, I accept my indeterminable entrapment, calming myself with the thought that this might be the only song - something just to get the show started.
With no clue to even the name of what I have sat down to, I succumb to the warmth of the theatre and settle in for the long haul.
The set is stripped back. A scaffolding structure has 2 levels - a ground floor and a balcony which runs along the top, accessible via stairs or numerous fireman-esque poles. Various separations and rooms created opening and closing of translucent curtains lining the structure. A big screen hangs centrally, projecting live footage of anything it is important for us to see up close.
The first act begins with the whole cast sitting in the stationary car on the left of the stage. Their faces are blown up on screen, via a camera attached to the car's bonnet.
Subtites on screen follow the Spanish dialogue, blue text for english, yellow for french (don’t quote me on the colours).
The play does not follow a linear narrative, but instead a retelling, unfolding with a succession of fragmented monologues which form a patchwork of the group's lived experiences. As the play progresses, amongst other things, we learn that all but one of the group are Argentinian, 3 cis women, one trans man and one trans woman, and they have all been to prison. Each shares their experience, the years before, the jobs, getting out, finding a home, family, kids, money and all the other things which are difficult even without a criminal record. Each story starts with a somewhat serious, frank, direct, dialogue which more often than not, transforms into a slightly absurd & camp (in the best way) singing and dancing number.
Although the singers' voices are not that of angels, I find their voices resound in energy from the sheer joy and pride they have while doing it.
There is a slight tension amongst the spectators, who seem undecided between disregarding the silliness or releasing their preconceived snobbery and letting themselves go into enjoying the madness on stage.
By the 3rd song - I’m into it. I find myself wishing I knew the lyrics so as to sing along. I can't help but wonder if the reception of the play would be on the whole more merry-gun-ho with a Spanish speaking audience.
The singing is accompanied by a solo musician who sits within the scaffolding structure in her own sectioned off chamber. She alone, regardless of any ongoing action is captivating - a rock band contained in one person. Her voice, drums and supercool electric guitar (for which I'm always a sucker) elevate and fine tune every song the cast bursts into.
Knowing nothing of the context of this production, I am increasingly impressed at the casting as well as the makeup & costume departments.
The ‘actors’ really look the part, it is tough to imagine them as anything else. . Their tattoos are perfectly faded and some characters even missing her front teeth.
In a scene where each of the group describes their tattoos, one reveals an Eiffel tower. Always having dreamed of coming to Paris and she tells us she cannot believe this is how she finally made it here. The whole audience (Parisians of course) finally let loose in a grand wave of applause and whoops. A note of Vive le France never goes amiss.
In another scene - the trans woman describes the events which lead to her incarceration. After having her teeth knocked out by a pimp, she phoned the police - who, instead of help, arrested her instead.
The end of the show was marked by 5 rounds of standing ovation, a personal first for me, who usually thinks even 3 is overkill. I was touched when the first row of spectators ran up to the stage to hug the players. This supported the suspicion that the cast must be more than just actors.
Leaving Theatre de la Ville with a smile on my face, I picked up the flyer for the first time having some context to what I’ve just seen. Los días afuera / The Days Out There is the part fiction, part documentary & part musical second chapter of REAS — an ongoing project by Lola Arias.
Walking into a play with absolutely no context was a refreshing experience. How often do we read a program, book a ticket, arrive at the theatre full of anticipation, only to leave wishing we hadn’t bothered? Los días afuera was a spontaneous and accidental joy —an experience worth having.
Despite missing the date of my original ticket due to an unexpected encounter with Argentinian prisons (great quote, no context), I was still determined to see Fossilia. With only a three-day run as part of the Lithuanian Cultural Season in Paris, today was my final chance. Over text, I explained my blunder to a friend who had worked on the production, detailing the incompetence that left me scrambling for a ticket to tonight's show. Fortunately, she sympathised and offered me one of her pre-reserved spots. Her message read: “Meet me at 7:45 at Théâtre de la Ville MONTMARTRE ;)”
At 7:45 sharp, I was outside the correct Theatre de la Ville, where I was bestowed with my ticket as well as advice to find the seat with the best view of the screen for subtitles. Set in Lithuania, the primary language used in Fossilia is Lithuanian.
Seat with a view of the screen attained, I sit back, relax and face the stage. Seven thoracic vertebrae stare back. Resembling a distant cousin of Ron Mueck’s Mass, the skeletal forms although shocking, contain a haunting beauty.
A vast white wave of a board provides a backdrop for the rest of a set, this I presume to be the greatly anticipated subtitle provider. The floor underneath the screen has been covered by a reflective material, a kind of shadow, its sheen creating the appearance of a pool of water centre stage. Part of the set, a water fountain front left reminds me I am thirsty, and as I wonder if I could grab a drink without anyone seeing, I notice the final element. Amidst the vertebrae lies an enigmatic mass—a soft and pale abstract form, resembling the severed trunk of a tree.
All in all, even ahead of any action a sombre mood is set, a clue to the subject matter to come.
The show begins with a video projected onto the screen. A young man films himself, speaking (in English!) saying that he doesn't know where this story begins.
For the reader's discretion, everything following this video is the result of my interpretation between the French subtitles, the Lithuanian dialogue, and further research I did following watching the show. I apologise in advance for any factual errors in minutia.
Set in present day Lithuania , we are introduced to a nuclear family. We recognise the young man as the same from the initial video, his sister who around the same age, and their parents. Unremarkable family life is disturbed when an old family relic is brought to light by a physicist. After years seemingly by accident a jar containing somewhat of a diary.
No ordinary heirloom, the unearthed pages contain blood-chilling entries by a now deceased aunt tracing her time exile in Siberia during the Ussr.
Over the course of the play, we follow the family coming to terms with their past.
Fossilia brings to light the generational divides between descendants. The father wrestles with the painful relic of his aunt’s exile, while his children, who know only peace, push for answers. I felt a strong familiarity with the generational dynamics, remembering my grandmother's reticence in recalling her mother’s survival of concentration camps. The struggle to comprehend such a history—one full of loss yet marked by resilience—felt universal, transcending borders and language. It felt as if the story of Fossilia is as much about Lithuania’s collective memory as it was a reminder of the stories still unfolding across places like Ukraine, where old wounds resurface as new ones are created daily.
While the family dynamics unravel, the historian leading the study remains firm in her belief — it is crucial for this artefact to be shared, the memoirs must be published for the sake of young Lithuanians of today. While intimately detailed, the diary gives details of a very common shared history, tracing back to Russian domination when some 130,000 Lithuanians were expelled to the harsh Siberian climates.
Reliving the movements of their aunt's train journey to Siberia, the cast turns in synchrony to the reading of the. Aside from this particularly chilling scene the subtle unexaggerated intimacy in witnessing the family processing. The piece is punctuated with recognisable montage of the actors, their faces, bodies and movement magnified on screen a thousand of their true size. At other times, the screen is abstract, setting a tone of pause and reflection, in aesthetic pinks and diffused reflected light.
The theatre piece is based on the life and works of physicist Dalia Grinkevičiūtė, whose own memoir asserts the importance of young Lithuanians knowing the horrors of their history in order to understand the importance of an open and democratic society.
This story echoed many others I've heard and some I’ve lived, tracing back to my own Ukrainian heritage. It evoked memories of stories left unsaid and generational trauma that lingers in silence, a pain that resonates as powerfully across Lithuanian as it does Ukrainian borders.
Approaching the third year of the Russian invasion of Ukraine, this message rings true with an increasing resonance. Of Ukrainian origin, even aside from the aforementioned great-grandmother, I can attest that even a soviet past leaves a generational trauma of poverty, misery, famine on a nation's people. Aside from my personal sentiments,
addressing uncomfortable pasts is an issue of global context. In Ukraine, Palestine and those others who do not make the ‘western’ media cut, old wounds are reopened as there are new generations of people traumatised every day, hour and second.
The urgency of these stories—the need to unearth them, to confront them, to pass them down—is more apparent than ever as we witness similar invasions, fears, and losses. At a time when history risks repeating itself, plays like Fossilia serve as both a reminder and a warning: the past is not gone; it is part of us. The echoes of exile, displacement, and suffering have not faded. And while the play ended without the standing ovations of the night before, its impact stayed, heavy with the recognition that, for some histories, silence can be as telling as applause.
In the end, my detour through Los Días Afuera and journey to Fossilia became two distinct but equally powerful encounters with storytelling. Los Días Afuera brought warmth, resilience, and humour to life’s hardships, inviting the audience to let go of pretences and embrace the raw energy of personal histories transformed through song and dance. Fossilia, in its quieter, more introspective way, called forth the weight of inherited memory, urging us to confront the darker legacies that shape us. Together, these performances highlighted the universal struggle to remember and reconcile with the past—be it individual or collective. Through laughter and tears, each play reminded me of the brutal strength of the human spirit, and the importance of sharing these stories through conversation, art or any manner we know how.