I am very honored to be here today as a representative of the School of Theater and the College of Fine Arts. Today I want to talk about something very personal what it means to be an artist for me.

Several years ago while I was on sabbatical in Berlin I spent almost 5 months working on a production of Jean Paul Sartre's Dirty Hands. Written in 1948, the action takes place in Yugoslavia, during the early years of WW II. The play examines the events surrounding a political assassination, and probes the psychological and existential underpinnings of the associated power struggle. Our production began with a collection of materials: newspapers, political speeches, philosophical texts, anything that might pertain to the socio-economic and/or political environment of the piece. In this case among the materials supplied were a series of psychological studies of very young trauma victims from the 1993/4 Bosnian crisis.

The interviews were heart-wrenching. Stories of children who had watched family members being mutilated, raped, burned, dismembered. One study dealt with a guilt ridden boy who at age three had betrayed his father by identifying a photo of him in exchange for a chocolate bar. The boy's father was decapitated. On the spot. In front of the screaming child.

These particular children were at least receiving some sort of counseling. Others weren't. And during the Balkan crisis of the 1940's , when Sartre was writing Dirty Hands and when Yugoslavia's current leaders were children such counseling just was not available.

As it turned out, these contemporary case studies informed our production of Dirty Hands in some very fundamental ways. During the rehearsal process each of the actors adopted the childhood experiences of one of these damaged children and incorporated this psychological profile into their character. Next each character identified those moments in the script when seemingly unmotivated anger triggered seemingly irrational behavior. At these points, portions of the actual psychological interviews were inserted into the text so that disjointed fragments of these horrific childhood memories seemed to erupt from the subconscious.

The result was indescribable. The seemingly irrational became part of a cycle of retribution, vengeance, violence. You have to remember that history in the Balkans repeats itself more or less every generation. For me, Understanding that the Yugoslav neighbors who had lived and worked side by side peacefully for 40 years might carry such unresolved emotional scars offered me a moment of insight. INSIGHT into the to me hitherto un-understandable phenomenon of the un-ending blood feud. This production allowed me to stand in the other person's shoes and at least imagine his moment of madness, his sudden blind hatred. I had gained new INSIGHT. Insight into the unbearable weight of the accumulated psychological baggage which accompanies generations of bloodshed.

Sadly I found I could now understand how easily one demonic leader like Milosovic -- could fan the flames of ancient feuds simply by pushing the right psychological buttons.

I've thought much about that production of Dirty Hands during the past year as I watched the Mid East Peace process collapse, and again during the past 10 days as I tried to think thru the unthinkable. I find myself wondering whether the extremist jihad training programs exploit similar unresolved childhood traumas in attracting recruits, and training "holy" warriors.

Insight. It may do nothing to change a set political agenda. But it is a necessary first step towards breaking the cycle of retribution. A first step to understanding and empathy. In deeply troubled times it is no accident that the Arts are often the first ambassadors of Peace -- because they offer insight, promote understanding, heal the soul and bridge troubled waters.

Last July, while violence swelled along the West Bank a small group of artists in Chicago were building such bridges. When conductor, Daniel Barenboim, raised his baton on the two cataclysmic chords that begin the "Eroica" Symphony the performance was about more than Beethoven's music. Barenboim is the musical director of the Chicago Symphony and the orchestra in question consisted of a special group of gifted Israeli, Palestinian, Jordanian, Lebanese, Egyptian and other Mideast students.

Barenboim had brought these young Israeli and Arab musicians to Chicago with two main objectives. The first was for them to study music at the highest level. The second was for them to achieve the kind of inter-personal harmony that comes from playing orchestral and chamber music together in a democratic atmosphere. Barenboim had, whenever possible, paired an Arab student with an Israeli on each orchestra stand. Music-stand mates from warring nations shared smokes during rehearsal breaks and drinks at the end of the work day. The performance symbolized the cultural bonds that can unite nations separated by centuries of political hatred, intolerance and ignorance. And the young musicians took home and shared with their peers, something more important than their advanced musical training -- they carried with them greater understanding and tolerance for one another.

One student remarked, only half-jokingly, that if Ariel Sharon and Yasser Arafat could have sat down together to play Mozart the Mideast would be an infinitely more peaceful place.

Music is a particularly good vehicle for getting people to come to know each other as people because it functions without incendiary rhetoric and political postulating. For the same reason Ballet companies have traditionally been among the first ambassadors of Peace between warring nations. The visual arts at least in this country also have a long history of building bridges over troubled waters.

Last winter, while I was designing a show at the Pasadena Playhouse, and combing the less desirable streets of Los Angeles with the Playhouse prop buyer, I was struck by the enormous number of murals in the city. . . . Many of them are magnificent cultural monuments. Most were created by at-risk kids, ethnic minorities, and community activists, who took to the walls of housing projects, shops, parks and schools to depict their history and bring their messages of social injustice to the ruling classes. The first citywide, mural program was actually started by organizing opposing gang members and graffitists and channeling their energy into painting murals.

Closer to home I note that the School of Film is presenting a Series called Common Ground which emphasizes the common humanity shared by people in conflict and demonstrates the power of film and media to promote conflict resolution.

That, too, is how I see my job. As an artist, I strive to hold the mirror up to nature in such a way as to reflect back compelling insights into who we are, where we are headed, and maybe where we should be headed. As an educator I try to instill in my students an understanding for the potential power of our art and the commitment to use it wisely.

This year I have begun my graduate design sequence by assigning the Oresteia, by Aeschylus. For those of you who don't remember, it is a trilogy written back in around 450 BC. But the work is frighteningly contemporary, fearfully relevant.

Come with me to the Theater. Imagine, if you will, that you are going to see a production of the Oresteia. You walk into the theater and see a bare stage. The floor is painted white. So is the back wall with its large door. Is this the court yard of Agamemnon's palace? You suppose so. The first characters you see are dressed in beautiful garments from long ago and far away. You sit back comfortably to take in the classic verse as the chorus tells of ancient horrors, murdered children, and sacrificed daughters -- the tragic background of the house of Atreus. But then the victorious army enters. Their clothes are not beautiful. They are clearly an army returning from ten long years of war: dirty, sweaty, battle weary. Some are injured. The soldier's track dirt all over the clean white floor. Clytemnestra orders a long red carpet to be laid down over the mud. She lures her husband into the palace professing her love and loyalty for him. Then there are screams. When Clytemnestra comes back out her hands and gown are dripping in blood. She has, she tells us, avenged her virgin daughter's sacrifice. Her bloody footprints stagger across the stage. A pool of blood proclaims the dreadful deed.

Intermission.

You come back into the theater. The mud and blood are still there. Now there is barbed wire cordoning off the stage. And soldiers patrol the entrances to the palace. Perhaps the solders are wearing combat boots and carry machine guns. You are not so comfortable.

In this play Orestes comes back to avenge his father's murder. Apparently at the behest of the god Apollo he murders his mother, Clytemnestra, and her husband Aegisthus.

Orestes emerges, soaked with blood and crazed with guilt. Perhaps he desperately smears his bloody hands on the white walls. Is he vainly trying to wipe away generations of blood? Now, the very walls are weeping blood.

Another intermission.

You are coming back for the rarely performed third play, the Eumenides. The stage is caked with dried blood and Orestes, still covered with blood and holding a bloody sword, is kneeling in the position of a suppliant.

In this play we find that a chorus of ancient vengeful gods, the Furies, have been tormenting Orestes. They demand vengeance blood vengeance. Matricide cannot go unpunished. The gods are invoked on both sides. Apollo supports Orestes and the goddess Athena appears to judge the case. After hearing preliminary testimony, Athena decides to establish a court of 12 jurors to hear the evidence and render a verdict. The trial concludes with Athena casting the tie-breaking vote which pardons Orestes. The Athenians cheer. The Furies are stunned and swear to avenge themselves. They curse Athens, and vow terror on all the land. The conflict has escalated. It appears that the dreadful cycle of vengeance will continue. All Athens will be punished for harboring Orestes and standing by Athena.

But this is Art, not Life. Art can do better. Does the playwright, Aeschylus himself, jump up onto the stage from the audience shouting: No! Stop! That doesn't work! It can't end like that! Standing on the blood stained stage does he himself direct the ensuing negotiations? Is he the one who pleads for justice not vengeance? Are the Police barriers removed as the former Furies enter? Do the two opposing choruses greet one another? Do they join hands? Or light candles and share a moment of silence before joining together in the task of cleansing and renewal? Do they remove the tangled barbed wire from the stage together? Do they together power wash away the generations worth of crusted blood? Is the stage once again gleaming white as all begin singing the final hymn:."There shall be peace forever between these people."

Would that life were as simple as art. Would we could powerwash away the blood in the middle east or in NY. and Washington.

Once when former Dean of the College of Fine Arts, Henry Lin, was consulting a famous surgeon because of heart trouble, the surgeon kept addressing him as Dr. Lin. When Henry protested that he wasn't a Dr. just an MFA., the surgeon replied. Yes, you are a doctor. I have seen your work and it is beautiful. I am a Dr. because I heal the body. You are a Dr. because you heal the spirit."

This, I believe is the sacred task of the artist.