In the rehearsal of the "Piero Gabrielli" Theater Workshop, we discover something remarkable: in theater, differences can coexist and become a resource. Limits can transform into creative possibility—exactly as the brilliant modern fabulist Gianni Rodari understood:
I'm pacing the hallway, thinking how long it's been since I last set foot inside a school. I'm on the top floor of a comprehensive institute on via Madonna dell'Orto in the Trastevere neighborhood. In a few minutes, I'll step into the "rehearsal room" to watch an integrated theater workshop.
From outside it looks like any other classroom—but the sounds coming from it suggest something closer to a gym. I hear footsteps on creaky parquet echoing through a large space. Now those footsteps are moving to the rhythm of piano music. Someone is dancing, someone is playing. I can't help myself—I peek inside.
Sound becomes image. The room is vast, with dark walls and a brown parquet floor. Afternoon sunlight pours in through tall windows. It's not a theater, not a classroom, not a gymnasium. Perhaps it's all three at once.
Those footsteps belong to Roberto Gandini, the workshop's director and artistic coordinator. I'd spoken with him just minutes before. He moves with ease, rehearsing a choreography, extraordinarily graceful. (How I envied him!) I'd expected something different—an intellectual type, maybe glasses, scarf, hat. Isn't that what we imagine a theater director to be?
Then a noisy bunch of kids in gym clothes arrives and greets him. Roberto's voice is clear and strong, commanding respect. The young people arrange themselves in parallel lines. They begin warm-up exercises and coordination drills alongside him. These are essential for learning choreography, but more than that: they teach the body's expressive possibilities, the way movement sends messages and creates connection with others.
The kids are energetic and focused. When they rehearse a choreography for the nth time, they're thrilled. Roberto asks them to invent their own ending—arms open to receive the audience's applause. And here they really let loose.
Several young people with disabilities are part of the group, each supported by a teacher (also in gym clothes) who works through the exercises alongside them. One boy in particular catches my attention. He seems distracted, but he's constantly looking around, spots me—and during the break, he doesn't miss the chance to ask: "How old are you?"—and whenever he can, he edges away from his teacher to move closer to one of his classmates.
After a break, they gather again. This time everyone sits in a circle. Roberto tells them two stories. The circle creates harmony; everyone sits the same distance from the center. The young people need to know the stories well, so they're asked to repeat them. But Roberto also encourages them to add new elements, to suggest different settings. With the group's help, he sketches out a rough scene breakdown.
He chooses protagonists: a female lead for one group, a male for the other. The same story will have two different perspectives.
The circle dissolves. Split into two groups, with help from the teachers and two assistants, the young people divide the parts and begin improvising the scenes. There's tremendous energy. The room takes on a new look; the curtains are drawn, spotlights illuminate one section—a stage appears. They begin, and the kids' improvisations are wonderfully inventive.
By letting them improvise freely, Roberto can identify individual strengths and sensitivities—crucial for casting. Each person feels truly seen and can rise to the challenge.
Throughout the rehearsal, I noticed something crucial: the young people with disabilities are part of the whole. There's no special treatment, no pity, no condescension. Theater, by its nature and its rules, is inherently inclusive. It's a creative tool that, properly guided, highlights and celebrates what each person can do. As Roberto says, a person with a disability carries an urgency—a profound need to express themselves, because they're full of available emotion. Theater as an art form seeks connection; it requires an other.
The audience knows this. They know they're necessary, that their presence matters. When a person with a disability takes the stage, it shifts something comfortable and makes the performance richer. There's a special bond with the audience, a unity forged in that exact moment. The possibility of error awakens in the audience a feeling of connection. As Roberto explains: "I say, cheat! From a mistake, from a moment of doubt, you invent. You improvise and something new comes out." On stage, limitation becomes creative opportunity—the springboard for something genuinely original.
Laura Nardini, 2008
