Curtain up! The performer takes the stage. Straightaway a relationship exists between his body and the space in which he moves. Perhaps he's coming along the centre line from way upstage to the front as a mighty ruler, as a conqueror, or as blind Oedipus as he taps out his path with his broken sceptre. Or he's emerging swiftly from the wings as a servant, a conspirator, or a surprise guest. Or he appears backstage right, crossing the stage diagonally as a messenger or a man about to plead a suit before his sovereign. In all these cases, the relationship between his body and the space is already part and parcel of the events being depicted.

However, the performer's body does not just enter into a relationship with the stage space, but also with all the other bodies and objects that are in it. And thus a tiny universe is created that obeys the same laws as the universe itself with its orbiting planets and galaxies. This stage universe, too, knows attraction and repulsion, gravity and centrifugal forces, tension and release. And in the magical space of the stage, even supernova explosions can occur, as can black holes that swallow up everything. Even invisible dark matter can be felt in the ‘aura’ of a performer – something no one can define, but that draws everyone under its spell. This bodily phenomenon, however, has its own boundaries: in the spoken theatre, these boundaries are some 25 metres across, in the opera roughly 32 metres. And auditoriums should respect these boundaries, too. After all, you can't fall in love at a great distance, and this is precisely what should happen in the theatre: the audience has to fall in love with the performers. In opera, this little stage universe has yet another dimension: the music. Whoever wants to be a master of this small universe would do well to follow rules derived from those of the Big One. And indeed, such rules exist.