This one is for you

I found out about 90 minutes ago that my best friend's father has died. I knew it was coming and yet I am shaken. She's miles away and I cannot be there for her. Rationally I know there is nothing I could do even if I were. Her life has changed forever.

And the beautiful sychronicity of life is that today is my father's birthday. And I am shaken.

Today Jimmy Saville, who lived in Leeds and had a house in Scarborough where she and I met, had his coffin on display today ahead of his funeral in Scarborough tomorrow. And I am shaken.

Next Friday I will be performing in The Queen's Hotel in Leeds where Jimmy Saville's coffin was on display today. And I am shaken.

The show I made and will be performing in is about grieving. And I am shaken.

Death is everywhere. It touches every life. It is the only certainty we will ever face. And I am shaken.

This post is long overdue...

I must have started this some time in the week of the 22 August and it is now November. It is so long ago that I have no idea why I hesitated to post it at the time. Hmmm... Anyway. For all four of my followers - here it is!

Making The Reservation - we're in week two now so perhaps this post is long overdue. The deed is almost done. Tomorrow is the last day of rehearsals for now...

But it's been good, really good. Not easy but good. The piece has changed dramaticially since we scratched it at ARC and at Sunday Lunch Club in July. Many of the themes remain and the heart of the piece while having shifted is still an investigation in to grief, the sufferers of and the suffering from grief.

Will I still be dressed as an Elephant? Maybe, maybe not. Will I spend hours crying in a bathroom... No. Thankfully. I'm really not sure my throat could withstand it. Then again, I may not be 'in' it at all.

It will be a repectful and tender performance for one person at a time which I hope people will love. I am immensly proud to have been a part of it.

Flying solo...

It's not a new concept. In many ways I have been going solo for a long time. I'm just usually doing it with other people.

I know I'm not making much sense. What else in new?

It's just that I'm trying to get away from the day job, the daily grind. Especially now that my daily grind has nothing to do with what I know best. Theatre. So, how do I change that? I have already begun a little light freelancing for Theatre in the Mill and every week this is like a breath of fresh air. They are such passionate, creative and, dare I say, eccentric people. Just the kind of people I want to be working with. I'm also making The Reservation with Ellie in my 'spare' time.

These are the things that make me feel alive and so I'd like to do more. Of both if I can. More freelance work for theatres and theatre makers, more performance work with gorgeous, wildly creative people like Ellie and Pete.

The CV's (all three of them!) are up to date, the portfolio is being updated... And so begins the long and, I imagine, painful road of applying and applying for jobs, meeting people, networking and looking very hard to find that work which I so badly want.

Wish me luck.

Feeling scent-imental

I am endlessly fascinated by the link between the senses and memory. No doubt someone cleverer than I has written much on the subject.

I started to think about the links between music and memory last year with a performance action called Memory Jukebox where I put my music library on shuffle and as pertinent songs came up I tried to draw or scribe the related memory and send it to the person included in it - the action of their reading it becoming a kind of remote performance. It is something I have considered revisiting but I think the idea needs work. The driving force behind it remains with me however as I am rarely without my iPod and the soundtrack to my life. It is the specifity that always surprises me. The detail of the memories invoked and the emotional impact of almost reliving the moment.

Scent is much the same, and brings me back to the inspiration for this post. I am on a train to Bridlington to see family. At Selby station I was hit by the strong smell of turps and was immediately reminded of the boy I had my first 'proper' kiss with. Adrian Deveril was two years older than me and I was 13, hopelessly innocent and a little scared by his attention. The day in question his friends announced he intended to ask me out and were to take me to him. So of course I ran away and hid. In the art room where I got black paint on my brand new ski-jacket. I was gripped with a brand new fear now. My Mum was going to KILL me! So some bright spark suggested we wash it with turps. Which is exactly what we were doing when the boys found me.

The paint never came off and the smell of turps lingered for much of our 2 month relationship. Therefore turps equals Adrian.

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A virtual protest

I am not much of a drawer but this is my pitiful attempt at a #virtualprotest banner.

Uploaded to http://virtualprotest.org.uk/ in a show of solidarity for those who went to London today in an attempt to have their voices heard regarding the frightening cuts this government are imposing, across the board, that will have a detrimental effect on the future of our country and hit the poorest the hardest.

These are the things I fear the most for but I appreciate that the emergency services, local goverment and the NHS have also been hit hard and we must not give up fighting for any of them.

Hunting the elephant

Three days spent 'hunting the elephant' in the gorgeous (but freezing cold) shop units in the Corn Exchange with Ellie, a costume designer, a scenographer and another performer/video artist. The joining of four spaces allowed us to play with proximity and distance. Framing and reflections of self. Hidden and revealed. Public and private grief.

How do we share what we feel? And what is appropriate?

We are getting closer to discovering the frame for our investigation and a way of bringing the elephant out in to the open.

Next step - trying a different kind of space and see what that reveals.

I can't wait to see what we find.

The author of this post is responsible for this post

I saw The Author by Tim Crouch on Friday. Four nights ago and I still can't stop thinking about it. Which is good. I haven't been quite so interrupted by a piece of theatre in a long time.

I am unsettled.

I thought I was prepared. I knew a little about this play with no action. I knew I would be confronted, challenged and prompted to think about my place in it. I feared it would be more direct and in my face. I was anxious before I arrived. I knew that people had walked out. But were they plants? All of them? I knew the performers would be seated amongst us. What I could never have predicted is my reaction to the performance.

I was so removed. Uncomfortable, fearful but somewhat removed from the words (they're only words right?) for the majority of the show. Fascinated by the audience seated opposite me, by the artist (and director) in my eyeline waiting for him to speak (which he did not) who was watching us (me?) and the unfolding drama.

I won't reveal the conclusion but I will say that it was shocking. Perhaps I was extra shocked being wrenched from my comfortable distance? And I felt guilty. Even as I was watching The Author saying the words I knew to be un(real)true, I felt guilty. Could I have stopped this? Really? It's a play, right? I wanted to get my money's worth. Don't we all? We want to hear the story, from beginning to the gruesome end. That is the point. Not our fault. So the author's then?

Hmmm... interesting. Still thinking.