The Richness of Simplicity: “Poor Theatre” as a Resource for Theater Education

Creative Use of Everyday Objects

We live in an age that readily equates an abundance of resources with the quality of the result: more technology, more materials, more effects, greater effectiveness.

That is not necessarily true.

Tools can enrich the work, but they can also take the place of action. When a set already shows everything, a costume completely defines the character, and an effect tells the audience what to feel, there is less for the actor to create.

When, instead, the number of elements is reduced, the body, voice, imagination, and relationship must take responsibility for the scene.

This is why my approach to theater education draws an important principle from “Poor Theatre.” This does not mean imitating Grotowski or transferring a method created for professional actors into educational workshops. It means using reduction as a pedagogical choice.

What “Poor Theatre” Really Means

The term “Poor Theatre” was introduced by Ludwik Flaszen to describe certain aspects of Jerzy Grotowski’s theater practice and later became central to the research collected in Towards a Poor Theatre.

“Poor” does not mean badly made, lacking ideas, or necessarily without money. It refers to a process of reduction: removing what is not essential in order to restore to the center what theater cannot do without—the actor, the spectator, and what happens between them.

Sets, costumes, music, lighting, and objects are not enemies to be eliminated on principle. But they cease to be a spectacle in themselves and gain value only when they take part in the action.

A single object can perform different functions and help create entire worlds. Not because it possesses anything magical, but because the actor’s actions transform it before the spectator’s eyes.

“Poor Theatre” is therefore not an excuse for a lack of resources. It demands rigor: every element present must be necessary.

From Professional Research to the Educational Workshop

Grotowski’s work emerged from a radical form of research intended for professional actors. It cannot simply be transferred to a workshop with children, teenagers, or adults.

The pedagogical principle I draw from it is simpler: remove what distracts so that every participant can discover what they can create through the body, voice, imagination, and relationship.

With children in particular, this work must not become a demand that they reveal their inner world or talk about things they do not want to share. Self-discovery emerges from experience: carrying out an action, making a decision, entering into a relationship, and observing what happens.

The principle applies at every age. The tasks and complexity of the process change, but creative responsibility does not.

When participants cannot rely on a costume to define the character or a set to explain the location, they must find within their own work the tools needed to make the situation clear.

Confidence does not grow because someone tells participants that they are creative. It grows when they discover that one of their actions can change the scene, create an image, and produce a response in others.

Creating Is an Action Verb

With a sheet of paper, a balloon, or a chair, I have built creative processes lasting many sessions and even entire performances.

This happens because, as I often repeat in my workshops:

“Creating is an action verb, not merely a matter of thought.”

It is not enough to decide that a chair represents a horse, a boat, or a throne. You have to act on that object in such a way that others can recognize the transformation too.

The actor’s way of approaching it, the weight of the body, the rhythm, and the relationship with the space and the other actors must all change. The idea has to become visible.

Limited resources open up possibilities, but the workshop leader must know how to frame the right task and resist the temptation to suggest a solution immediately.

The same principle applies when working with a text. There is no single way to speak or perform a line. By changing the intention, rhythm, person being addressed, posture, or relationship, we change both its meaning and its effect.

This work develops the habit of moving beyond the first solution and testing alternatives in practice. It does not merely declare that we should be creative; it puts creativity into action.

From Information to Emotion

Grotowski also began from the observation that theater cannot compete technologically with film and television.

This does not mean that screens are incapable of conveying emotion. Cinema can move us deeply. The difference lies in the nature of the encounter.

In theater, actor and spectator share the same space and the same time. The audience’s presence affects the event, even when no one says a word. The actor cannot separate what they do from the live relationship with those watching.

In my work, I summarize it this way:

“Audiences do not want information; they want emotion.”

An actor can explain perfectly well that their character is frightened, in love, or angry. But information alone is not enough to make the audience experience that condition.

The actor must transform it into action: into a way of looking, breathing, speaking, moving, and responding. Emotion is not announced; it takes shape in the relationship.

A Stripped-Back Scene Is No Less Truthful

Reality concerns what is actually happening. Truth concerns the genuine response that a situation—even an invented one—produces in those who experience it and those who watch it.

A chair remains a chair. But it can become a throne if the way the actor approaches it, sits on it, and looks at others makes a relationship of power clear.

The spectator does not believe that the object has actually been transformed. But they recognize the truth of the theatrical situation.

This shift is pedagogically valuable. Children and teenagers often tend to explain what a character is feeling instead of making it visible through action.

A stripped-back scene immediately exposes this difficulty. If the action is unclear, there is no external element that can take its place. The student must search for a more precise expressive form.

The Discipline of the Essential

Working with limited resources also has practical value. It makes the workshop less dependent on well-equipped facilities, expensive materials, and traditional theater spaces.

A classroom, library, gym, or empty room can become a place of creation.

Simplicity does not automatically make an activity inclusive: inclusion depends on the workshop leader’s ability to observe people and adapt the activities. Placing participants rather than equipment at the center, however, makes it possible to build the work around their actual expressive possibilities.

“Poor Theatre” does not forgive superficiality. The fewer elements there are, the greater the responsibility carried by every gesture, word, object, and relationship.

Integrating this principle into workshops does not mean turning scarcity into an absolute value. It means choosing what is necessary and removing whatever does the actor’s work for them.

An empty stage is not poor because something is missing. It becomes rich when the actions of those who cross it generate images, relationships, and emotions.

The question is simple: What can we create with who we are and what we have?

The answer is not explained. It is built onstage.