‘It’s going to be an arena theatre. The audience all round. Nearly all round. Imagine it, comrades!’ Meyerhold grew more and more excited, ruffling up his forest of hair, striding to and fro, now doubling up, now flinging his head back and swinging round. ‘On the opening night we’ll have Othello. The stage completely bare except for a huge carpet stretching right across it in only one colour. Bright crimson. What? Green? You see, Zina thinks it would be better green. She’s not quite right, but so much the better. A huge dark-green carpet stretching right across the arena without a single wrinkle, dazzlingly lighted from above by all the floodlights; and in the centre of the carpet — no! Not in the centre, just a little off centre, somewhere near centre – a small . . .’ He made a pause and, screwing up his face in delight, held out his hand, as though holding in his long, Paganini-like fingers something aethereally light, small, magical ‘And in the middle of this brightly lit green . . .’ he opened his fingers, ‘something absolutely minute but startlingly visible from the farthest corner of the hall – a lace handkerchief with a small strawberry embroidered on one corner. Nothing else! That is Othello. That is the real, the essential Shakespeare. Brilliantly simple, isn't it?’