Charles Chemin Has Been Training to Lead Watermill His Whole Life

Last month, the Watermill Center in Water Mill, New York, announced that Charles Chemin would serve as its new artistic director. The announcement follows the death of Watermill’s legendary founder Robert Wilson last summer, and it was difficult to picture what the institution would look like without the legendary director and playwright. Chemin steps into big shoes, but seems particularly well-suited to fill them, as a protégé and longtime collaborator of Wilson’s. Observer caught up with him to hear about his experience with Wilson and plans for his new job.

Your history with Robert Wilson was long and remarkable. Could you explain why the two of you used to bark at each other like dogs? In what other unique ways did the two of you communicate?

I have known Bob Wilson since I was born. In the months before I could speak, he would sometimes call home, ask my parents to talk to me, bark over the phone, and I would answer by barking back. This non-verbal communication could take a while. It was pure playfulness and an escape from rationality. A common practice in Wilson’s world. We often used it in our collaboration, with a similar purpose, during the rehearsal process while co-directing works together, and even on-stage once while performing together. Sometimes, it was simply about making the moment more special or rerouting the attention. Sometimes it had a more precise purpose, like to de-escalate a disagreement, express doubt or encourage a bolder approach. A lot of his communication with his collaborators was non-verbal. His silence was as revealing as words, and not only by the negative. In most cases, it was a constructive silence. One could grasp a lot of meaning in it. We also used the eyes. Bob and I were usually understanding each other’s thoughts by sharing a glance. And then, either one of us would simply say “I get it,” with a mischievous smile.

You grew up in a deeply creative household—your father is an actor and director, your mother a costume designer and your sisters became a painter and an opera soloist. Was there ever a moment you considered doing something outside the arts, or was it inevitable?

I thought about doing other kinds of work, but it was always somehow linked to the arts. I didn’t try very hard to escape. More seriously, I owe my parents a lot. While being modest, they offered us an incredible exposure to groundbreaking artists, whether they were famous or completely unknown. They brought us to museums, theatres and operas. We sometimes traveled to see an exhibition in another country. We had no TV for a good part of our childhood and mostly watched artists’ movies. My father taught me a lot about theater, and I worked hard with him. I was 10 years old when I went to the Watermill Center for the first time. I stayed there for a while, without any family, working with Bob Wilson and other great professionals on a new production. Thinking about it now, I find my parents incredibly free-spirited. They allowed me to live an experience that most parents would have feared.

In 2015, you directed the world premiere of an opera at Cuba’s unfinished National Art Schools, using the actual buildings as scenery. You’ve staged work at Columbia University for the Performa Biennial, Avignon Opera and Théâtre de la Ville. What are the challenges and rewards of programming somewhere unconventional, like Watermill?

I’ve always been interested in the impact of the frame on a work. When I was 21 years old, I was performing in the French national company, Comédie-Française, and at the same time, I was enjoying performing in alternative spaces or working as a lighting technician on tour. As a director, I had the opportunity to work in conventional theatres and play with the incredible possibilities that well-funded institutions bring. But in-situ explorations also shaped me. They allowed me to question the form and theatrical vocabulary in a deeper way. This is what we offer at the Watermill Center: a laboratory where artists can immerse in a stimulating, singular environment and create the works that they would not, or could not, have created in a conventional space. It is also very interesting to bring works that existed in theatres or museums and witness their growth or anamorphosis at Watermill. Often, we welcome the first steps of works that will be created in more conventional places afterward. It’s like building free-standing bridges, so that the forms find their truth, regardless of the context.

You just completed Wilson’s unfinished production Seven Solitudes at the National Kaunas Drama Theatre in Lithuania—a piece you’ve described as being shaped by the experience of standing beside a departing companion. How did you navigate the line between honoring Wilson’s vision and asserting your own direction? When did you know you were making a Charles Chemin decision versus a Robert Wilson decision?

We started Seven Solitudes together with Bob Wilson and a precious team of long-time collaborators. As always, he began with images, references and making drawings, while I was diving into the concepts stemming from the text materials. By the time we started the first short stage of rehearsals, he knew that his days were numbered, and yet he doubled his efforts to initiate this first sketch for the piece, as a gesture projected beyond death, like an artistic testament. I sat next to him, knowing that he would not see the creation of the work, and without the possibility of sharing it with my colleagues. Once he passed away, I reoriented my adaptation of Milosz’s texts and continued the direction, with the aim to render tribute to Wilson’s poetic definition of theatre and reinvention of the relation to space and time, which found an incredible echo within Milosz’s poetic and metaphysical texts.

At some point in the creation process, it became clear that there was only a certain extent to which I could fill the frame that he had left. Because there is only one Robert Wilson, some of the work I’d do would be a sort of imitation of his style, which inevitably would end up being a pale copy. Wilson often surprised us collaborators, the audience and even himself, by confronting and transcending his own iconic style. He has also often liked being surprised by what I could bring to his works.

Therefore, I started to impact his form with more personal and singular aspects, like counterpoints, which brought the work to be a form of dialogue between his work and my particular approach. The decisions in making a hybrid work of that sort were very natural to me. They were activated by my understanding and admiration for what Wilson brought to the world, while being nourished by my reaction to his work and reflection on art in general, my age, our times, the evolution of approaches and renewal of forms.

I feel lucky. To prolong a 42-year-long, almost filial relation and 33 years of work companionship in a form of artistic dialogue beyond death is a chance that very few people get. This piece is Wilson’s ultimate artistic gesture offered to the world, and it is also the artistic gesture that we, as long-time collaborators, offered him.

Could that answer be applicable to questions about the future of Watermill?

This dialogue is totally applicable to Watermill. We will continue to highlight Robert Wilson’s unique vision, but also the openness that Watermill carries. This openness is the motor of a renewal that will ensure that our path to artistic creation remains vibrant. For this, I am inspired by the reinvention that Wilson regularly conducted in his work and practice. The dialogue between diversity and singularity, in all forms, will serve as a compass, as well as the dialogue between next generations and groundbreaking figures. Of course, there is a sadness that comes with such a profound loss. But this is a moment I want us to hold with both tenderness and celebration. We owe that to Bob, to Watermill, to our alumni and to the generations of artists still to come.

Wilson chose you for this role before his passing last August. What were those conversations like? Was there a formal moment where the succession was discussed, or was it more of a gradual understanding between you?

There was a gradual understanding over several years, punctuated by several formal discussions, more and more precise in the last months. For many years, we functioned with complementarity, in the theater like at Watermill. He was a very strong figure and there was no ambiguity about his leadership. But over the last years, he shared more responsibilities and enriched his vision with several collaborators. For example, he was not as imperious in creating his famous lighting design in the last years, but relied much more than in the past on another lighting designer. Similarly, our work relation was rich and complex. I would construct the concepts for the works with him, the dramaturgy of the direction and a lot on the actors’ direction. There was a continuity of a similar nature with the Summer Program when I took charge of its artistic direction.

You co-directed and served as dramaturg on more than 20 Wilson productions, and then directed Wilson himself in Krapp’s Last Tape. What was that like?

Krapp’s Last Tape was a pretty unique experience, symptomatic of something that happened in a few works: playing Wilson younger. In rehearsals, I was on-stage playing his part, so that he could direct me in place of him. In the final stretch, we exchanged, and I had to direct him, from the perspective of playing the role. The younger was then driving the elder. Like in an infinite loop between two generations, that echoed Beckett’s play incredibly well, as we toured this work for nearly 10 years. In each city of the world we went to, in Asia, South America, the United States, all over Europe, I had to play him again, with his make-up, wig, costume, a fake belly, and then exchange again. It was also an extraordinary learning experience to direct him in this work, where he had to learn and execute precise moves, recite text aloud, impersonate a character, even if an abstract one, be consistent and convincing every night. It was a challenge and it took me a few cities to find my path to directing him and obtain something strong from him. It reinforced our trust and connection.

Since 2020, you’ve been artistic director of Watermill’s International Summer Program. This residency brings 20 artists from diverse disciplines together each July and August. What’s the most fun part about that aspect of your job?

Taking charge of the Summer Program was a beautiful evolution of my relationship with Watermill. I deal with fewer logistical tasks now, but I still dive into the artistic part of the Summer Program with a lot of pleasure. With the help of several advisors, and out of many applicants, I selected a group of artists, close to 30 now. They come to Watermill for a month and create works individually and together that we present at our summer festival, alongside more established guest artists. It is like a curation of possibilities. It is so different every year. We imagine the links across artistic fields, age differences, nationalities, cultures, levels of achievement, and lay out possibilities for them to create works together, and they still always surprise us by inventing new forms and collaborations that we didn’t expect. It is the most rewarding feeling: we are only creating possibilities, and these artists find their freedom no matter what. Their works are strikingly original, and the artistic friendships formed at Watermill will last many years for some of them.

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