On to a New Canvas

Rachel Rosenthal chats amiably with her assistant and collaborator on her latest work, “Ur-Boor,” then turns to begin rehearsal in her Westside storefront studio. Right off the bat she lets out a primal scream so piercing that eardrums are ringing throughout the room.

She’s on. And for the next hour or so, there’s no stopping her. It’s hardly a rehearsal, it’s more like a straight-through performance. But that’s just the way she is: full throttle until she stops.

For two weekends, beginning Friday, Rosenthal will be in high gear once more, this time at downtown’s Los Angeles Theatre Center. Her latest work, “Ur-Boor,” is a multimedia piece that sports an elaborate set, a first for the artist. The piece is about etiquette--how people treat one another as well as the world around them. And like most of her work, it is also about Rachel Rosenthal. But there’s an added poignancy this time, because, she says, this will be her last solo performance work. After the L.A. run of “Ur-Boor,” plus a stop in Toronto and possibly New York, Rosenthal plans to retire from the stage to try something new.

At 73, this veteran of the international avant-garde, this doyenne of performance art and the women’s movement has decided she just wants to paint.

Rosenthal hardly looks like someone who intends to stop living at full tilt; her virtually unwrinkled face and signature bald pate accentuate the ageless-genderless appearance she’s cultivated for decades. Her energy doesn’t appear to be waning, either, as she dances and prances lithely throughout the run-through, defying her age.

Artistically, Rosenthal has long cultivated a kind of dual persona--fierce feminist and delicate effete. Her work sometimes is seductive, but is also often a bit scary--in your face and defiant.

Most of all, though, Rosenthal always seems to know what she wants, and it is her self-awareness that may be her most intriguing quality these days. During the staging, she steps out of her role at one point and directly addresses her imaginary audience. “I don’t even want to do this piece. I’ve paid my dues! I have no ideas left. No good body. No good voice. . . . I want to be a normal person who goes to the cafe for tea and crumpets every now and then.”

Is she serious?

Upstairs in her quiet loft-like apartment, Rosenthal gives one of her many pets a caress, then settles in to talk about what’s really going on. “I always enjoy being on stage, but I don’t enjoy all the stuff around it anymore,” she says. “I really didn’t particularly enjoy working on this piece, it was like pulling teeth. All my life I’ve gone from one thing to another, stayed with one thing as long as I was happy with it, then moved on to something else, and it’s time to do something else.”

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Rosenthal has had a knack for being present at some of the most exciting moments in recent artistic history. Having escaped the Nazi invasion of her native France as a teenager, Rosenthal immigrated to New York, where she attended the now-famous High School of Music and Art. She subsequently divided her early career between Paris and New York, working with some of the leading figures in European avant-garde theater and dance. In Manhattan, she danced in Merce Cunningham’s junior company just as he was becoming known, which led to friendships with Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg before hardly anyone had heard of them.

In 1955, for reasons both personal and professional--her father had died and she needed new challenges--Rosenthal moved to L.A. to be near her mother. She initially worked at the Pasadena Playhouse, but soon after founded Instant Theater, a company whose work was entirely improvisational. By the early 1970s, she was seminal in the development of performance art, which in L.A. overlapped considerably with feminists finding their own voices. Since then she’s maintained a strong presence as a monologuist, bridging theater and dance, while at the same time working with a company of young performers.

Along the way she’s toured her work--all of which she researches and writes herself--and has taught extensively in workshops. Rosenthal has also been known to pen many a letter to publications, often standing up for animal rights or speaking out on any topic that matters to her.

Clearly, withdrawal is not something you would expect from Rosenthal. Nevertheless, she says, it is time to try.

“I’ve worked very, very, very hard for many, many decades. I don’t think that I’ve ever really stopped and taken vacations or done anything except work. Even reading has always been research for the pieces. Rarely have I let myself read a novel just for fun.

“I’m in my early 70s, I still have a lot of good years left, and I want to have some fun. I want to do the things that I haven’t done because there was never any space or time for it.”

Primary on her agenda is learning how to paint, a solitary activity--the opposite of her life as a performer. Fellow artists have counseled her that it won’t be easy.

“June Wayne says that I’ll be running screaming from the studio in an hour,” Rosenthal says with a laugh, while insisting she’s going to make a go of it.

“I’ve always had a fetish about painters and painting, and I love seeing good painting. I’m a good drawer, I’ve done sculpture, I’ve done illustration. It’s just the painting part that eluded me. I’ve always been good at all these other things and not painting.

“Maybe it will be a hobby, but I’m doing it very seriously. I want to give myself several months to just play and allow myself to do silly work that’s not very good or whatever, and just find my way. And see if I have the temperament, which is not certain. And see if I’m enjoying myself, which is important, and see if I’m coming up with stuff that I think is important.

“I just want to give myself a chance to explore another part of me. If it doesn’t work out, I can always come out of retirement and say, ‘I’m back for my next solo!’ ”

Rosenthal laughs heartily, then adds. “‘If you’ll have me!’ Why not?”

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* Rachel Rosenthal performs “Ur-Boor” at the L.A. Theatre Center, Bradley Auditorium, 514 S. Spring St., downtown. 8 p.m. Friday-Saturday and June 23-24. $10. (213) 485-1681.