Chapter 252: Water Silhouettes at Ensemble Festival

One of the joys of circus and the outdoor arts is that it is full of people who are committed to the world around them, and are often so bonkers they maybe should be committed. I jest. But I do think the disruptors in society are the ones who stick their necks out artistically and wake people up. Whether it’s through cattle bells or spectacles where you wonder what on earth is going to happen...

A case in point was Water Silhouettes, by another Catalan company (see chapter 250 on Domte - click here), Teatro en Movimiento Callejerx, a promenade performance reflecting on water, contamination and drought in a city that is right now experiencing unprecedented levels of each. It is set in a dystopian world of discordant music, where three figures appear like aliens, their heads in a suffocation of empty water bottles collected in netting like a bulbous cloud, royal blue T-shirts and bright pink shiny leggings. With the dock as their backdrop, a bright blue sky dotted with cumulus clouds, and the teleférico cables and passing cabins behind them, it was both visually arresting and uncanny.

The creatures moved in alien ways, legs outstretched, the odd unpredictable fall into the splits, wandering in and out of the crowd. A soundscape of alarms and urgency accompanied them via a giant soundbox pushed by a fourth member of the company, effectively invisible. The passing cabins of the teleférico added something to the futuristic landscape, going up and down behind them. Then came the divining rods, with diamond-shaped gems on the ends, accompanied by a shamanic female voice, a siren call co-ordinating their movement. Seeking water, seeking answers, who knew?

We followed them along to a square where there was a water dispenser. There were two phallic towers and pylons in the background, bright pink fences in the foreground, a multitude of pink legs, and then the heads were finally removed. There was a play with the fountain. Not much water, just a little was collected in a bottle, then out was unfurled a length, maybe 20 metres long, of royal-blue diaphanous fabric, accompanied by a testimony, an invocation of Mother Earth, well, Mother Sea.

I recognised the calling on Yemayá, the Cuban and Yoruba ocean patron, mi santa (see post 249 on Myths - click here), and another I didn't recognise. I asked afterwards and think it was Chalchiuhtlicue, the Aztec goddess of freshwater. There were personal accounts from different English speakers about the importance of their local waterways and the changes they had observed, as we were then invited to carry the river of chiffon and process along to the other end of the Dock. It was a wonderful moment, the gauze acting as a filter over the Thames, as though signalling the potential for freshwater colour overlaying the murky reality of a contaminated waterway.

It brought back two distinct memories. The first was when I had joined Dutch friends at Chatham, sailing up the Thames to dock at St Katharine’s, and I will never forget being hit by the smell of excrement as we passed through the Thames Barrier, which lingered for a good thirty minutes. The second was six months later, when I joined friends from the open-water swimming group the Blue Tits to swim at daybreak one December morning at Teddington Lock for a Surfers Against Sewage promo shoot. The joy of floating downstream with friends as the sun rose, clambering out for cake and coffee, combined with the sobering reality of watching the necessary checks on water levels being carried out before we could even get in.

Here, under the tissue-like membrane of the river, it felt like we were all shouldering both the responsibility and the camaraderie of caring for our water spaces, ever more precious in this succession of heatwaves. We processed the length of the Docks to where Domte (again, click here) had been showing earlier, ironically where the guy in a neon yellow T-shirt behind me would later end up being selected as a volunteer with another yoke to bear.

I loved hearing the kids around me and their delight at being under the cover, as if in some impromptu, makeshift den. Meanwhile, the voices continued over the speakers like a stream of consciousness. We set down the river and then sat on it as the performance continued. One of the plastic bottles poured out the driest of dirt onto a paving stone, while a child was invited to water the roots of a tree behind us with the remnants of water collected from the dispenser earlier, a beautiful moment that also served to emphasise the scarcity. The bottle heads now lay on the floor, like fishermen’s nets made of rubbish, and another performer in a hazmat suit came over to shake them out. A few scattered out towards the crowd and we rolled them back in turn. 

The sirens blared alongside the performers’ own ululating calls of alarm. A whole cloud of royal-blue smoke billowed out, enveloping us, and I was surprised to find that it neither irritated nor suffocated me. For a moment, though, it transported me back to Valencia as a student, legging it from the police lobbing tear gas at those of us on Calle Ruzafa, there to show solidarity against a wave of anti-immigration protests. It was unnerving. Again, that is the function of performance, to trigger emotions and create collective memory.

And so at the end, as the banner unfurled “Water has memory” I found myself reflecting on how the past has a funny way of resurfacing when you least expect it.

And it’s a funny old world because afterwards, chatting to the director Ximena, it turned out that she was Chilean, and that my flatmate from my Valencia days (see previous post) had been her university theatre professor in Valparaiso, and knew her well. Valencia was where my world really blew open, both in terms of my appreciation for the performing arts and my engagement with social issues. Looking back, I think that was part of the journey that ultimately led me to my love and appreciation of circus and outdoor arts.

“There is no such thing as coincidence, Lucy,” said my acupuncturist the other day as he removed the last pin. But like those water seekers with their divining rods, I think we all seek some reassuring meaning to make sense of a world that is increasingly heading on a catastrophic course.

The following week, my stomach dropped when I saw a particularly striking photograph of the fires in Valencia, smoke pouring out from behind the Palau de les Arts. There had been smoke in the air when I was paddling there literally a fortnight before, at 3 in the morning, thick with mascletà firecrackers, normally the preserve of Fallas, set off in celebration of Valencian Ferran Torres scoring the winning goal for Spain in the World Cup final.

What struck me most was that the cloud in the image was remarkably similar to the shot I had taken of the blue smoke formation in Water Silhouettes. Water has memory indeed, but also, art, in this instance, carried a prophecy.  

Versión en español

Una de las cosas que más me gustan del circo y de las artes al aire libre es que está lleno de gente comprometida con el mundo que la rodea. Creo que los inconformistas de la sociedad son quienes se arriesgan artísticamente y consiguen despertar a los demás. Ya sea con cencerros o con espectáculos que te dejan pensando, pero ¿qué está pasando aquí...?

Un buen ejemplo fue Siluetas de Agua, de otra compañía catalana (véase el post sobre Domte, capítulo 250), Teatro en Movimiento Callejerx, un espectáculo itinerante que reflexiona sobre el agua, la contaminación y la sequía en una ciudad que está viviendo ahora mismo niveles sin precedentes de cada una de ellas. Está ambientado en un mundo distópico de música disonante, donde aparecen tres figuras como extraterrestres, con las cabezas atrapadas en una especie de nube asfixiante de botellas de agua vacías, recogidas en una red, y con camisetas azul royal y brillantes leggings rosa intenso. Con el muelle como telón de fondo, un cielo azul brillante salpicado de cúmulos y los cables del teleférico y sus cabinas pasando detrás, el conjunto resultaba a la vez visualmente impactante e inquietante.

Las criaturas se movían de formas alienígenas, con las piernas extendidas, alguna caída imprevisible que acababa en un split, entrando y saliendo del público. Un paisaje sonoro de alarmas y urgencia las acompañaba a través de un enorme altavoz que empujaba una cuarta persona de la compañía, prácticamente inadvertida para el público. Las cabinas del teleférico que subían y bajaban detrás de las criaturas añadían algo al paisaje futurista. Después aparecieron las varillas de zahorí, con piedras en forma de diamante en los extremos, acompañadas por la voz femenina de una especie de chamana, una llamada de sirena que coordinaba sus movimientos. Buscando agua, buscando respuestas, quién sabe.

Los seguimos hasta una plaza donde había dos rascacielos fálicos y, al fondo, torres de alta tensión. En primer plano, una multitud de piernas rosas, y detrás de ellas, las vallas de color rosa intenso. Finalmente, les quitaron las cabezas. Hubo un juego con la fuente. No había mucha agua, apenas se recogió un poco en una botella, y entonces se desplegó una tela diáfana de color azul royal, quizá de unos 20 metros de largo, acompañada por un testimonio, una invocación a la Madre Tierra, bueno, a la Madre Mar.   

Reconocí la invocación a Yemayá, la patrona cubana y yoruba del océano, mi santa (véase el post 249 sobre Myths - aquí), y hubo otra que no reconocí. Pregunté después y creo que era Chalchiuhtlicue, la diosa azteca del agua dulce. Hubo testimonios personales de distintos angloparlantes sobre la importancia de sus vías fluviales locales y los cambios que habían observado, mientras nos invitaban a llevar aquel río de gasa y avanzar en procesión hasta el otro extremo del Dock. Fue un momento maravilloso, la gasa actuando como un filtro sobre el Támesis, como si señalara la posibilidad de que el agua dulce aportara color a la realidad turbia de un cauce contaminado.

Me trajo dos recuerdos distintos. El primero fue cuando me uní a unos amigos holandeses en Chatham, navegando por el Támesis hasta atracar en St Katharine’s, y nunca olvidaré el olor a excrementos que nos golpeó al pasar por la barrera del Támesis y que permaneció durante unos buenos treinta minutos. El segundo fue seis meses después, cuando me uní a unos amigos del grupo de natación en aguas abiertas Blue Tits para nadar al amanecer una mañana de diciembre en Teddington Lock, para una sesión promocional de Surfers Against Sewage. La alegría de dejarnos llevar río abajo con amigos mientras salía el sol, salir del agua para tomar un café y comer tarta casera, se combinaba con la sobria realidad de ver cómo se hacían primero los controles necesarios del nivel del agua antes de que pudiéramos siquiera meternos.

Aquí, bajo aquella membrana de tela que era el río, sentí que todos compartíamos tanto la responsabilidad como la camaradería de cuidar nuestros espacios acuáticos, cada vez más preciados en esta sucesión de olas de calor. Recorrimos todo el Dock hasta donde había estado actuando Domte (capítulo 250 otra vez), irónicamente el mismo lugar donde el hombre de camiseta amarillo neón que tenía detrás acabaría siendo elegido como voluntario para cargar con otro yugo.

Me encantó escuchar a los niños que tenía alrededor y su alegría de estar bajo aquella cubierta, como si fuera una especie de guarida improvisada. Mientras tanto, las voces continuaban por los altavoces como un torrente de conciencia. Al llegar, dejamos el río en el suelo y luego nos sentamos sobre él mientras continuaba el espectáculo. Una de las botellas de plástico vertió la tierra más seca sobre una losa, mientras invitaban a un niño a regar las raíces de un árbol que había detrás de nosotros con los restos de agua que se habían recogido antes del dispensador, un momento precioso que servía también para subrayar la escasez. Las cabezas de las botellas yacían ahora en el suelo, como redes de pescadores hechas de basura, y otra persona de la compañía, con un traje de materiales peligrosos, se acercó para sacudirlas. Algunas se dispersaron hacia el público y nosotros las fuimos haciendo rodar de vuelta.

Las sirenas sonaron junto a los propios aullidos de alarma de quienes actuaban. Una enorme nube de humo azul royal salió de golpe y nos envolvió, y me sorprendió comprobar que ni me irritaba ni me asfixiaba. Por un momento, sin embargo, me transportó de vuelta a Valencia, cuando era estudiante, corriendo para escapar de la policía que lanzaba gases lacrimógenos contra quienes estábamos en la calle Ruzafa, allí para mostrar nuestra solidaridad contra una oleada de protestas antiinmigración. Fue inquietante. Una vez más, esa es la función del espectáculo, provocar emociones y crear memoria colectiva.

Y así, al final, mientras se desplegaba la pancarta con las palabras “Water has memory”, me encontré reflexionando sobre cómo el pasado tiene una curiosa manera de reaparecer cuando menos te lo esperas.

Y es que el mundo es muy curioso porque después, charlando Ximena, a cargo de la dirección, descubrí que era de Chile, y que mi compañera de piso de aquellos tiempos en Valencia (véase el post anterior) había sido su profesora de teatro en la universidad de Valparaíso, y que se conocían bien. Valencia fue donde mi mundo realmente se abrió de par en par, tanto en mi relación con las artes escénicas como en mi compromiso con las cuestiones sociales. Mirándolo ahora en retrospectiva, creo que aquello formó parte del camino que finalmente me llevó a mi amor y aprecio por el circo y las artes al aire libre.

“No existe tal cosa como la coincidencia, Lucy”, me dijo el otro día mi acupuntor mientras me quitaba la última aguja. Pero, como aquellos buscadores de agua con sus varillas de zahorí, creo que todos buscamos algún significado reconfortante que nos ayude a dar sentido a un mundo que parece dirigirse cada vez más hacia un rumbo catastrófico.

La semana siguiente se me cayó el alma a los pies cuando vi una fotografía especialmente impactante de los incendios de Valencia, con el humo saliendo por detrás del Palau de les Arts. Había habido humo en el aire cuando estuve allí remando, apenas una quincena antes, a las tres de la madrugada, con el aire cargado del humo de los petardos de la mascletà, normalmente reservados para las Fallas, lanzados para celebrar que el valenciano Ferran Torres, el Guapo, había marcado el gol de la victoria de España en la final del Mundial.

Lo que más me llamó la atención fue que la nube de la fotografía era extraordinariamente parecida a la imagen que yo había tomado de la formación de humo azul en Siluetas de Agua. El agua tiene memoria, sin duda, pero también el arte, en este caso, llevaba consigo una profecía.

EQUIPO ARTÍSTICO

DIRECCIÓN/DRAMATURGIA

Ximena Cañas Abell

INTERPRETACIÓN

Sophie Nuñez

Anna García Parès

Ximena Cañas

UNIVERSO SONOR

Joan Cot

Gaia Leandra

DISEÑO INTEGRAL

Lucía Valenzuela Chacaltana

ASESORIA ARTÍSTICA

Sergi Estebanell

ASESORIA EN SOSTENIBILIDAD

Joan Vendrell

PRODUCCIÓN

Lara Renard y Alba Saura

Versió en català

Una de les coses que més m’agraden del circ i de les arts a l’aire lliure és que està ple de gent compromesa amb el món que l’envolta. Crec que els inconformistes de la societat són els qui s’arrisquen artísticament i aconsegueixen despertar els altres. Ja sigui amb esquellots o amb espectacles que et deixen pensant, però què està passant aquí...?

Un bon exemple va ser Siluetas de Agua, d’una altra companyia catalana (vegeu el post sobre Domte, capítol 250), Teatro en Movimiento Callejerx, un espectacle itinerant que reflexiona sobre l’aigua, la contaminació i la sequera en una ciutat que està vivint ara mateix nivells sense precedents de totes tres coses. Està ambientat en un món distòpic de música dissonant, on apareixen tres figures com extraterrestres, amb els caps atrapats en una mena de núvol asfixiant d’ampolles d’aigua buides, recollides en una xarxa, i amb samarretes blau reial i brillants leggings de color rosa intens. Amb el moll com a teló de fons, un cel blau brillant esquitxat de cúmuls i els cables del telefèric i les seves cabines passant per darrere, el conjunt resultava alhora visualment impactant i inquietant.

Les criatures es movien de formes alienígenes, amb les cames esteses, alguna caiguda imprevisible que acabava en un split, entrant i sortint del públic. Un paisatge sonor d’alarmes i urgència les acompanyava a través d’un enorme altaveu que empenyia una quarta persona de la companyia, pràcticament inadvertida per al públic. Les cabines del telefèric que pujaven i baixaven darrere de les criatures afegien alguna cosa al paisatge futurista. Després van aparèixer les varetes de saurí, amb pedres en forma de diamant als extrems, acompanyades per la veu femenina d’una mena de xamana, una crida de sirena que coordinava els seus moviments. Buscant aigua, buscant respostes, qui sap.

Les vam seguir fins a una plaça on hi havia dos gratacels fàl·lics i, al fons, torres d’alta tensió. En primer pla, una multitud de cames roses, i darrere d’elles, les tanques de color rosa intens. Finalment, els van treure els caps. Hi va haver un joc amb la font. No hi havia gaire aigua, tot just se’n va recollir una mica en una ampolla, i aleshores es va desplegar una tela diàfana de color blau reial, potser d’uns 20 metres de llarg, acompanyada per un testimoni, una invocació a la Mare Terra, bé, a la Mare Mar.

Vaig reconèixer la invocació a Yemayá, la patrona cubana i ioruba de l’oceà, la meva santa (vegeu el post 249 sobre Myths - aquí), i n’hi va haver una altra que no vaig reconèixer. Ho vaig preguntar després i crec que era Chalchiuhtlicue, la deessa asteca de l’aigua dolça. Hi va haver testimonis personals de diferents angloparlants sobre la importància dels seus cursos d’aigua locals i els canvis que hi havien observat, mentre ens convidaven a portar aquell riu de gasa i avançar en processó fins a l’altre extrem del Dock. Va ser un moment meravellós, la gasa actuant com un filtre sobre el Tàmesi, com si assenyalés la possibilitat que l’aigua dolça aportés color a la realitat tèrbola d’un curs d’aigua contaminat.

Em va portar dos records diferents. El primer va ser quan em vaig unir a uns amics holandesos a Chatham, navegant pel Tàmesi fins a atracar a St Katharine’s, i mai no oblidaré l’olor d’excrements que ens va colpejar en passar per la barrera del Tàmesi i que va persistir durant ben bé trenta minuts. El segon va ser sis mesos després, quan em vaig unir a uns amics del grup de natació en aigües obertes Blue Tits per nedar a trenc d’alba un matí de desembre a Teddington Lock, per a una sessió promocional de Surfers Against Sewage. L’alegria de deixar-nos portar riu avall amb amics mentre sortia el sol, sortir de l’aigua per prendre un cafè i menjar pastís casolà, es combinava amb la sòbria realitat de veure com es feien primer els controls necessaris del nivell de l’aigua abans que ni tan sols poguéssim entrar-hi.

Aquí, sota aquella membrana de tela que era el riu, vaig sentir que tots compartíem tant la responsabilitat com la camaraderia de tenir cura dels nostres espais aquàtics, cada vegada més preuats en aquesta successió d’onades de calor. Vam recórrer tot el Dock fins allà on havia estat actuant Domte (capítol 250, un altre cop), irònicament el mateix lloc on l’home de samarreta groc neó que tenia darrere acabaria sent escollit com a voluntari per carregar amb un altre jou.

Em va encantar escoltar els nens que tenia al voltant i la seva alegria d’estar sota aquella coberta, com si fos una mena de cau improvisat. Mentrestant, les veus continuaven pels altaveus com un torrent de consciència. En arribar, vam deixar el riu a terra i després ens hi vam asseure a sobre mentre continuava l’espectacle. Una de les ampolles de plàstic va abocar la terra més seca sobre una llosa, mentre convidaven un nen a regar les arrels d’un arbre que hi havia darrere nostre amb les restes d’aigua que s’havien recollit abans del dispensador, un moment preciós que també servia per subratllar l’escassetat. Els caps de les ampolles jeien ara a terra, com xarxes de pescadors fetes d’escombraries, i una altra persona de la companyia, amb un vestit per a materials perillosos, es va acostar per sacsejar-les. Algunes es van escampar cap al públic i nosaltres les vam anar fent rodolar de tornada.

Les sirenes van sonar al costat dels propis udols d’alarma de qui actuava. Un enorme núvol de fum blau reial va sortir de cop i ens va embolcallar, i em va sorprendre comprovar que ni m’irritava ni m’ofegava. Per un moment, però, em va transportar de nou a València, quan era estudiant, corrent per escapar de la policia que llançava gasos lacrimògens contra els qui érem al carrer de Ruzafa, allà per mostrar la nostra solidaritat contra una onada de protestes antiimmigració. Va ser inquietant. Un cop més, aquesta és la funció de l’espectacle: provocar emocions i crear memòria col·lectiva.

I així, al final, mentre es desplegava la pancarta amb les paraules “Water has memory”, em vaig trobar reflexionant sobre com el passat té una manera ben curiosa de reaparèixer quan menys t’ho esperes.

I és que el món és ben curiós perquè després, xerrant amb Ximena, Ximena, a càrrec de la direcció, ere de Xile, i que la meva companya de pis d’aquells temps a València (vegeu el post anterior) havia estat la seva professora de teatre a la universitat de Valparaíso, i que es coneixien bé. València va ser on el meu món realment es va obrir de bat a bat, tant en la meva relació amb les arts escèniques com en el meu compromís amb les qüestions socials. Mirant-ho ara en retrospectiva, crec que allò va formar part del camí que finalment em va portar al meu amor i apreciació pel circ i les arts a l’aire lliure.

“No existeix tal cosa com la coincidència, Lucy”, em va dir l’altre dia el meu acupuntor mentre em treia l’última agulla. Però, com aquells buscadors d’aigua amb les seves varetes de saurí, crec que tots busquem algun significat reconfortant que ens ajudi a donar sentit a un món que sembla dirigir-se cada vegada més cap a un rumb catastròfic.

La setmana següent se’m va caure l’ànima als peus quan vaig veure una fotografia especialment impactant dels incendis de València, amb el fum sortint per darrere del Palau de les Arts. Hi havia hagut fum a l’aire quan hi havia estat remant, tot just una quinzena abans, a les tres de la matinada, amb l’aire carregat del fum dels petards de la mascletà, normalment reservats per a les Falles, llançats per celebrar que el valencià Ferran Torres, el Guapo, havia marcat el gol de la victòria d’Espanya a la final del Mundial.

El que més em va cridar l’atenció va ser que el núvol de la fotografia era extraordinàriament semblant a la imatge que jo havia fet de la formació de fum blau a Siluetas de Agua. L’aigua té memòria, sens dubte, però també l’art, en aquest cas, portava amb ell una profecia.

Chapter 251: Brainfools’ Balance at Ensembles Festival

Thirty years ago I rocked up in Valencia with just a backpack and booked myself into a hostel. I didn't know a soul. I was in my third year abroad at university, signed up for a few courses  and stopped a girl on campus to ask for directions. "It's my birthday," she said. "Come to the cafeteria and meet all my friends."

Later, at the notice board, looking for accommodation, a Swiss girl and a Chilean girl approached from different angles at the same time. "Shall we find something together?" And so we did, picking up instantly on an advert up for a flat for three. "Call Angelita" it read, so we did, from a phone-box outside. There were no shortages of angels that year.

Returning a few weeks ago for a reunion and to watch the Spain v Argentina World Cup final, I ended up getting a pair of wings tattooed on my wrist in a local market. A reminder of those who lift each other up, and of never forgetting what it is like to turn up in a foreign country and find welcome and support, acutely aware that it is not always the case.

So, a few days later, watching the story of a friendship unfold between two fictional refugees, played by Toffy Paulweber and Jared Shanks, balancing each other out, was really beautiful. 

Brainfools' Balance is set in an English bunker during the Second World War. A radio transmission early on, along with the clothes and braces, signals the period, as does the 1940s music. Ah, I loved the range of music. It was so much part of the character of the piece, shifting the mood and the relationship between them, from the German ballad to the Parisian feel and notes of jazz. I came away wanting the playlist. What follows is a wonderfully inventive blend of partner acrobatics, juggling and equilibristic work, with an imaginative use of planks, kegs and bottles that gives the whole thing a pub vibe in which I feel very much at home, sipping my beer in the glorious sunshine.

It's superb skill, but also just plain funny, the experimentation of finding out what happens when... Toffy makes a rola bola out of a champagne bottle and a piece of wood. How does it not crack? Meanwhile Jared sets up on an oversized version with a keg and plank behind. Dear lord, I really have a horror of rola bola, the thought of the bottom shooting out from underneath, and while the focus and micro-adjustments show the effort and precision, still they make it look so easy.

Then there is the bottle balancing, the first time I've seen that live. Extraordinary, the way Toffy eases his weight across when they are on the floor, and then has to ramp it up a notch. On go the bottles onto a platform at height, and on go the heels. It's incredibly risky and really touching in the way Jared leads Toffy up to the point where he is standing on yet another platform, balanced on top of the bottles.

The blond over-plaits in his hair, with a middle parting, add to the wartime-chic glamour, set against Jared's, dead-pan, dark hair held back in a ponytail and his handlebar moustache. I loved the duality of their energies, the different qualities they brought in counterbalance. There was something there that reminded me of the relationship between Molina and Valentín in Manuel Puig's Kiss of the Spider Woman (see Chapter 7 - click here), and I was interested to find later I was not the only one to read that in the dynamics too.

While the precarious balancing acts held the tension and the flow of juggling was hypnotic, the acro was superb too. The balance needed there, whether using props or simply each other, was so much fun to watch, like when they counterweight each other atop a keg, or the showstopping moment when Toffy balances on top of Jared's head on a single foot. I liked the moments of downtime too, the pauses where they each sit on the end of a plank, legs dangling. I liked the surprise of a radio blowing up. Impossible skill matched by genius innovation. There is a wonderful familiarity and trust there that has developed out of a real life friendship, meeting through circus in the UK and growing together in that journey, a community that holds each other in more ways than one. 

At the end, when they were tidying away after the show, one of the bottles dropped. A timely reminder that these bottles are as delicate as they look, and of the extraordinary skill required to make them hang in the balance. I wondered if they could use my empty beer bottle. Probably.

Brainfools have a Circus Scratch night up next at Woolwich Works on Friday 25 September. Click here for more info and trailer - www.woolwich.works

See website: www.brainfools.com

Chapter 250: Domte and Cía Nacho Flores at Ensemble Festival

Summer in the City. One of the joys of London for me is the way you can stumble across something that suddenly brings a whole bunch of strangers together. The outdoor arts are brilliant for that, and Ensemble Festival, organised by Certain Blacks, is a wonderful example. It is a thoughtful and thought-provoking riot of circus, theatre and dance that has been taking place at London’s Royal Docks since 2019.

Getting there was an eye-opener in itself. My first time on the Elizabeth Line, and then emerging onto the Docks in the sunshine, felt like arriving in another world. Having been reeling from the end of term, it was now sinking in that the summer holidays were stretching out ahead, with time to just be. I had no idea what I was going to see or even quite where to go, so after a couple of detours I was delighted to spot the festival flag, with the Thames sparkling behind it like a mirage.

I sat down at the first performance I came across. It was quite a good way in. A couple of volunteers had been roped in, literally, to tow the reins of a precarious wooden balancing act, on top of which a performer was straddled, balancing as though on an ox. The yoke they were carrying made me think of that, as did the sheer weightiness of the structure. And then I recognised in an instant, with a rush of joy,  that it was Cía (Compañía) Nacho Flores and Domte, a show I had first come across on Instagram, on the feed of the Yarmouth festival, and had been really interested in seeing.

Domte is an extraordinary exercise in using physics to create spectacle. The structure grows piece by piece, a feat of engineering requiring precision and the mind of a juggler, while the audience is held on a knife edge of delight because, clearly, at any moment, the whole thing could come crashing down. There is a constant play between dominance and vulnerability. But tension alone isn't what carries it.

Nacho Flores has a wild energy about him, unbridled and magnetic, a meeting of the shamanic and the Quixotic. He hurls non-verbal exclamations around, whether of enthusiasm or instruction, with a kind of extraordinary generosity, giving everything to the audience. Alongside him, Roc Saler provides evocative live music, sometimes ambulant on accordion, sometimes seated in front of a range of inventive percussive instruments. It feels earthy and instinctive, almost as though he were making the music out of the materials around him. The music then dialogues with the action, responsive and alert, amplifying the mood as it shifts from whimsical to poetic to downright comic.

The philosophy of the construction reminded me of seeing the legendary Sanddorn act, now a Cirque du Soleil staple, performed by the daughter of its creator, Maedir Eugster, at the Edinburgh Fringe years ago (click here), where Marula used intense concentration to build a gravity-defying sculpture out of 13 delicate palm leaf ribs and a single feather. Flores' creation also reminded me of the mobile imaginings of Calder's universe and the art of circus (see Chapter 135 - click here)

While the creation hung in the balance, as we all do, there was something incredibly infectious and liberating about the performance. And that is where the audience participation comes in. It is a key dynamic throughout, but ramps up with the involvement of two volunteers, and Nacho has the eye of a practised clown for picking people and filtering their energy. Their natural hesitation, their growing confidence and the spontaneity of it all mean that they are woven into the show rather than simply brought on stage. It is brilliant.

The performance riffs on its situation in a public space to explore collaboration, and we all go on the journey together. So much so, and this really made me laugh, that the young French girl sitting next to me refused to budge, deaf to her mother's increasingly urgent entreaties that her father and brother had been waiting for them at the restaurant for the past twenty minutes. Tant pis! She was not going to be moved by anything other than what was happening right in front of her.

At the end, spoiler alert?, Nacho gets his whip out. One well-placed crack and the whole edifice comes tumbling down. It worked brilliantly, a triumphant wake-up call, and somehow the perfect ending to a performance that has spent its time balancing control against chaos, and individual power against collective effort.

I went over to say hello afterwards. I had just got back from an impromptu trip to Valencia to catch up with friends I've known for thirty years, and to watch the Spain v Argentina football final together, and these guys are Catalan. Then, back in London, only the night before I had been cracking my own whip at a friend's fancy dress party, channelling those Head First Acrobat vibes (Chapter 241 - click here), while my husband had gone as Indiana Jones. That had also brought the house down. So we clearly had a lot in common!

I loved meeting Nacho's daughter, roughly the same age as the young audience member I'd been sitting next to. She was so bright, curious and completely engaged. When Roc raised a quizzical eyebrow at my reference to Don Quixote, I wondered whether I was in danger of reducing everything to cultural stereotypes, and decidedly not Catalan ones at that. But I do maintain that there is something distinctly Golden Age about Nacho's costume and the tilt of a windmill in the structure, albeit more bullish in its energy, with something of the myth and the minotaur about it.

Coming halfway through the first time meant I had missed the whole build-up, so I went back for their second performance at the end of the day to catch it from the beginning. By then I was wandering around with a limoncello on ice and feeling quite in another world when I saw Nacho and Roc processing towards the public space, cow bells jangling, and followed along a fair distance behind, just taking in the spectacle.

I met a lovely girl standing behind her boyfriend, who insisted I take the seat, for which my back was sincerely grateful. They were part of a very chatty group and I wondered what had brought them along, only to find out it was mention on Instagram from one of those "gems of London" style influencers. It only occurs to me now that I should have asked for the handle! On the other side of me was a guy in a wheelchair with his carer. At one point Nacho had us all, Mexican-wave style, tickling the chin of the person to our right in turn. It says something about his energy that we simply followed, overcoming that split-second inward squirm, and then all fell about laughing.

It was a really beautiful moment of connection, and perhaps the best expression of what outdoor performance can do. 

Versión en español

Verano en la ciudad. Una de las cosas que más me gustan de Londres es esa manera que tiene la ciudad de hacerte tropezar con algo que, de repente, consigue reunir a un montón de desconocidos. Las artes al aire libre son estupendas para eso, y el Ensemble Festival, organizado por Certain Blacks, es un magnífico ejemplo: un estallido tan divertido como sugerente de circo, teatro y danza que se celebra en los Royal Docks de Londres desde 2019.

Llegar hasta allí fue toda una experiencia. Era la primera vez que cogía la Elizabeth Line y, al salir al sol y encontrarme frente a los Docks, tuve la sensación de haber llegado a otro mundo. Después de las últimas semanas del trimestre, ahora empezaba a asimilar que las vacaciones de verano se extendían ante mí, con tiempo simplemente para estar. No tenía ni idea de lo que iba a ver ni siquiera de dónde tenía que ir, así que, después de un par de desvíos, me alegré muchísimo al divisar la bandera del festival, con el Támesis brillando detrás como un espejismo.

Me senté ante la primera actuación que encontré. Y resultó ser una manera bastante buena de llegar a ella. Habían reclutado a un par de voluntarios, literalmente tirando de las riendas de una precaria estructura de madera para equilibrarse, sobre la que un artista iba sentado a horcajadas, balanceándose como si estuviera sobre un buey. El yugo que llevaba me hizo pensar en ello, al igual que el enorme peso de toda la estructura. Y entonces lo reconocí al instante, con una oleada de alegría: era Cía (Compañía) Nacho Flores y Domte, un espectáculo que había descubierto por primera vez en Instagram, en el perfil del festival de Yarmouth, y que me había llamado muchísimo la atención.

Domte es un ejercicio extraordinario de utilización de la física para crear espectáculo. La estructura va creciendo pieza a pieza, en una proeza de ingeniería que exige precisión y la mente de un malabarista, mientras el público permanece al borde del asiento, encantado y expectante porque, claramente, en cualquier momento todo podría venirse abajo. Hay un juego constante entre dominación y vulnerabilidad. Pero la tensión por sí sola no es lo que sostiene el espectáculo.

Nacho Flores tiene una energía desbordante, indómita y magnética, una mezcla de lo chamánico y lo quijotesco. Lanza exclamaciones no verbales a diestro y siniestro, ya sean de entusiasmo o de instrucciones, con una generosidad extraordinaria, entregándose por completo al público. A su lado, Roc Saler aporta una música en directo evocadora, a veces desplazándose con el acordeón, otras sentado ante una colección de ingeniosos instrumentos de percusión. Tiene algo terrenal e instintivo, casi como si estuviera creando la música a partir de los materiales que tiene a su alrededor. La música dialoga con la acción, respondiendo a ella con atención y agilidad, y amplifica el ambiente a medida que este pasa de lo caprichoso a lo poético y, finalmente, a lo francamente cómico.

La filosofía de la construcción me recordó a haber visto hace años en el Fringe de Edimburgo el legendario número de Sanddorn, ahora convertido en un clásico del Cirque du Soleil, interpretado por la hija de su creador, Maedir Eugster (véase aquí el capítulo), donde Marula utilizaba una concentración intensa para construir una escultura que desafiaba la gravedad con 13 delicadas varillas de hoja de palma y una sola pluma. La creación de Flores también me recordó a las imaginaciones móviles del universo de Calder y al arte del circo (véase el capítulo 135 ).

Mientras la creación permanecía en equilibrio, como todos nosotros, había algo increíblemente contagioso y liberador en la actuación. Y ahí es donde entra la participación del público. Es una dinámica fundamental durante todo el espectáculo, pero alcanza un nuevo nivel con la intervención de dos voluntarios, y Nacho tiene el ojo de un clown experimentado para elegir a las personas adecuadas y canalizar su energía. Su vacilación inicial, la confianza que van adquiriendo y toda la espontaneidad hacen que queden integrados en el espectáculo, en lugar de limitarse a subir al escenario. Es fantástico.

La actuación juega con el hecho de encontrarse en un espacio público para explorar la colaboración, y todos emprendemos el viaje juntos. Tanto es así que, y esto me hizo reír muchísimo, la joven francesa que estaba sentada a mi lado se negó a moverse, haciendo oídos sordos a las cada vez más urgentes súplicas de su madre, que le recordaba que su padre y su hermano llevaban veinte minutos esperándolas en el restaurante. Tant pis! No había nada que pudiera apartarla de lo que estaba sucediendo justo delante de ella.

Al final, ¿spoiler alert? Nacho saca el látigo. Un chasquido perfectamente colocado y toda la estructura se viene abajo. Funcionó de maravilla, como un triunfal toque de atención, y de alguna manera fue el final perfecto para una actuación que había pasado todo el tiempo equilibrando el control con el caos, y el poder individual con el esfuerzo colectivo.

Después fui a saludarles. Acababa de volver de un viaje improvisado a Valencia para reencontrarme con amigos a los que conozco desde hace treinta años y ver juntos la final de fútbol entre España y Argentina, y estos chicos son catalanes. Y luego, ya de vuelta en Londres, justo la noche anterior había estado haciendo restallar mi propio látigo en la fiesta de disfraces de un amigo, en plan Head First Acrobat (Capítulo 241), mientras mi marido había ido disfrazado de Indiana Jones. Aquello también había hecho que la casa se viniera abajo. Así que, claramente, teníamos bastante en común.

Me encantó conocer a la hija de Nacho, más o menos de la misma edad que la joven espectadora que había estado sentada a mi lado. Era despierta, curiosa y estaba completamente involucrada en todo lo que ocurría. Cuando Roc arqueó una ceja, perplejo, ante mi referencia a Don Quijote, me pregunté si corría el riesgo de reducirlo todo a estereotipos culturales, y encima estereotipos decididamente no catalanes. Pero sigo pensando que hay algo claramente propio del Siglo de Oro en el vestuario de Nacho y en la inclinación de un molino de viento dentro de la estructura, aunque aquí con una energía más taurina, algo del mito y del minotauro.

Como había llegado cuando la actuación ya estaba empezada, me había perdido todo el proceso de construcción, así que volví para su segunda actuación, al final del día, para verla desde el principio. Para entonces paseaba por allí con un limoncello con hielo en la mano y sintiéndome ya bastante en otro mundo cuando vi a Nacho y Roc avanzando en procesión hacia el espacio donde estaba el público, con los cencerros tintineando, y los seguí a cierta distancia, simplemente dejándome llevar por el espectáculo.

Conocí a una chica encantadora que estaba de pie detrás de su novio, y ella insistió en que yo ocupara su sitio, por lo que mi espalda se lo agradeció sinceramente. Formaban parte de un grupo muy animado y charlatán, y me pregunté qué les habría llevado hasta allí, hasta que descubrí que habían visto el espectáculo mencionado en Instagram por uno de esos influencers del estilo «joyas de Londres». Solo ahora se me ocurre que debería haberles preguntado cuál era su cuenta. Al otro lado de mí había un hombre en silla de ruedas con su cuidador. En un momento dado, Nacho consiguió que todos, como en una ola mexicana, fuéramos haciendo cosquillas en la barbilla de la persona que teníamos a nuestra derecha, uno tras otro. Dice mucho de su energía que simplemente nos dejáramos llevar, superando ese instante de incomodidad, para acabar todos riéndonos a carcajadas.

Fue un momento realmente hermoso de conexión, y quizá la mejor expresión de lo que puede conseguir una actuación al aire libre.

Versió en català

Estiu a la ciutat. Una de les coses que més m’agraden de Londres és aquesta manera que té la ciutat de fer-te topar amb alguna cosa que, de sobte, aconsegueix reunir un munt de desconeguts. Les arts a l’aire lliure són fantàstiques per a això, i l’Ensemble Festival, organitzat per Certain Blacks, n’és un magnífic exemple: un esclat tan divertit com suggeridor de circ, teatre i dansa que se celebra als Royal Docks de Londres des del 2019.

Arribar-hi ja va ser tota una experiència. Era la primera vegada que agafava l’Elizabeth Line i, en sortir al sol i trobar-me davant dels Docks, vaig tenir la sensació d’haver arribat a un altre món. Després de les últimes setmanes del trimestre, ara començava a assimilar que les vacances d’estiu s’estenien davant meu, amb temps simplement per ser. No tenia ni idea de què veuria ni tan sols d’on havia d’anar, així que, després d’un parell de desviaments, em va fer molta il·lusió veure la bandera del festival, amb el Tàmesi brillant al darrere com un miratge.

Em vaig asseure davant de la primera actuació que vaig trobar. I va resultar ser una manera força bona d’entrar-hi. Havien reclutat un parell de voluntaris, literalment estirant les regnes d’una precària estructura de fusta que servia per mantenir l’equilibri, damunt la qual un artista anava assegut a cavall, balancejant-se com si fos damunt d’un bou. El jou que portava em va fer pensar en això, igual que el pes enorme de tota l’estructura. I llavors ho vaig reconèixer a l’instant, amb una onada d’alegria: era la Cía (Compañía) Nacho Flores i Domte, un espectacle que havia descobert per primera vegada a Instagram, al perfil del festival de Yarmouth, i que m’havia cridat molt l’atenció.

Domte és un exercici extraordinari d’utilització de la física per crear espectacle. L’estructura va creixent peça a peça, en una proesa d’enginyeria que exigeix precisió i la ment d’un malabarista, mentre el públic es manté a la vora del seient, encantat i expectant perquè, clarament, en qualsevol moment tot podria venir-se’n avall. Hi ha un joc constant entre dominació i vulnerabilitat. Però la tensió, per si sola, no és el que sosté l’espectacle.

Nacho Flores té una energia desbordant, indòmita i magnètica, una barreja d’allò xamànic i d’allò quixotesc. Llança exclamacions no verbals a tort i a dret, ja siguin d’entusiasme o d’instrucció, amb una generositat extraordinària, entregant-se completament al públic. Al seu costat, Roc Saler aporta una música en directe evocadora, de vegades desplaçant-se amb l’acordió, d’altres assegut davant d’una col·lecció d’enginyosos instruments de percussió. Té alguna cosa terrenal i instintiva, gairebé com si estigués creant la música a partir dels materials que té al seu voltant. La música dialoga amb l’acció, hi respon amb atenció i agilitat, i amplifica l’ambient a mesura que aquest passa del capriciós al poètic i, finalment, al francament còmic.

La filosofia de la construcció em va fer pensar en el fet d’haver vist fa anys al Fringe d’Edimburg el llegendari número de Sanddorn, ara convertit en un clàssic del Cirque du Soleil, interpretat per la filla del seu creador, Maedir Eugster (vegeu aquí el capítol), on Marula utilitzava una concentració intensa per construir una escultura que desafiava la gravetat amb 13 delicades varetes de fulla de palmera i una sola ploma. La creació de Flores també em va fer pensar en les imaginacions mòbils de l’univers de Calder i en l’art del circ (vegeu el capítol 135).

Mentre la creació es mantenia en equilibri, com tots nosaltres, hi havia alguna cosa increïblement contagiosa i alliberadora en l’actuació. I és aquí on entra la participació del públic. És una dinàmica fonamental durant tot l’espectacle, però assoleix un nou nivell amb la intervenció de dos voluntaris, i Nacho té l’ull d’un clown experimentat per triar les persones adequades i canalitzar-ne l’energia. La seva vacil·lació inicial, la confiança que van adquirint i tota l’espontaneïtat fan que quedin integrats en l’espectacle, en lloc de limitar-se a pujar a l’escenari. És fantàstic.

L’actuació juga amb el fet de trobar-se en un espai públic per explorar la col·laboració, i tots emprenem el viatge junts. Tant és així que, i això em va fer riure molt, la jove francesa que seia al meu costat es va negar a moure’s, fent oïdes sordes a les súpliques cada vegada més urgents de la seva mare, que li recordava que el seu pare i el seu germà feia vint minuts que les esperaven al restaurant. Tant pis! No hi havia res que pogués apartar-la del que estava passant just davant seu.

Al final, spoiler alert? Nacho treu el fuet. Un espetec perfectament col·locat i tota l’estructura se’n va en orris. Va funcionar de meravella, com un triomfal toc d’atenció, i d’alguna manera va ser el final perfecte per a una actuació que havia passat tota l’estona equilibrant el control amb el caos, i el poder individual amb l’esforç col·lectiu.

Després vaig anar a saludar-los. Acabava de tornar d’un viatge improvisat a València per retrobar-me amb amics que conec des de fa trenta anys i veure junts la final de futbol entre Espanya i l’Argentina, i aquests nois són catalans. I després, ja de tornada a Londres, just la nit anterior havia estat fent espetegar el meu propi fuet a la festa de disfresses d’un amic, fent de Head First Acrobat (Capítol 241), mentre el meu marit havia anat disfressat d’Indiana Jones. Allò també havia fet caure la casa. Així que, clarament, teníem força coses en comú!

Em va encantar conèixer la filla del Nacho, més o menys de la mateixa edat que la jove espectadora que havia estat asseguda al meu costat. Era desperta, curiosa i estava completament implicada en tot el que passava. Quan Roc va arquejar una cella, perplex, davant la meva referència a Don Quixot, em vaig preguntar si corria el risc de reduir-ho tot a estereotips culturals, i a sobre estereotips decididament no catalans. Però continuo pensant que hi ha alguna cosa clarament pròpia del Segle d’Or en el vestuari del Nacho i en la inclinació d’un molí de vent dins de l’estructura, encara que aquí amb una energia més taurina, una mica del mite i del minotaure.

Com que havia arribat quan l’actuació ja havia començat, m’havia perdut tot el procés de construcció, així que vaig tornar per a la seva segona actuació, al final del dia, per veure-la des del principi. Aleshores passejava per allà amb un limoncello amb gel a la mà i em sentia ja força en un altre món quan vaig veure el Nacho i el Roc avançant en processó cap a l’espai on hi havia el públic, amb els esquellots dringant, i els vaig seguir a certa distància, simplement deixant-me portar per l’espectacle.

Vaig conèixer una noia encantadora que estava dreta darrere del seu xicot, i ella va insistir que jo ocupés el seu lloc, cosa que la meva esquena va agrair sincerament. Formaven part d’un grup molt animat i xerraire, i em vaig preguntar què els havia portat fins allà, fins que vaig descobrir que havien vist l’espectacle esmentat a Instagram per un d’aquells influencers de l’estil «joies de Londres». Només ara se m’acut que li hauria d’haver demanat el nom del compte! A l’altra banda tenia un home en cadira de rodes amb el seu cuidador. En un moment donat, el Nacho va aconseguir que tots, com en una onada mexicana, anéssim fent pessigolles a la barbeta de la persona que teníem a la nostra dreta, l’un darrere l’altre. Diu molt de la seva energia que simplement ens hi deixéssim portar, superant aquell instant d’incomoditat, per acabar tots rient a cor què vols.

Va ser un moment realment preciós de connexió, i potser la millor expressió del que pot aconseguir una actuació a l’aire lliure.

Chapter 249: A Date with Carlos Acosta: Myths and Modern Masters

A last-minute family holiday to Belgium, staying with cousins and finding circus everywhere, whether eating ice cream in the garden of an École de Clown or having an impromptu diabolo lesson. Life is full of surprises, but the next trick was getting home. The first flight was cancelled, then the replacement the following day was cancelled too, so we jumped on a Eurostar because I had a date with Carlos Acosta...

Here's the thing. I've been teaching Spanish at secondary school for six years, and sharing the biopic of Acosta's life Yuli has always been a highlight because of what it can inspire. Take this year, a student's face lit up at the scene where Acosta's father says prayers to his santo. I paused the film. "Is there something you want to share?" "Miss, it's Yoruba, my parents speak it." And he translated for the class, sharing his own Yoruba heritage and discovering a new connection to Cuban Santería, something he could take then home with him. I carry all my students with me. So, yes, I was going to move mountains to get home in time to see Carlos Acosta and to witness a journey that has been inspiring me, and them, for years. Myths and Modern Masters promised an eclectic programme with something for everyone, from classical ballet to contemporary dance, Cuban strut and joie de vivre.

I first saw Acosta's semi-autobiographical fusion of dance in Tocororo, when it smashed the Sadler's Wells box office in 2003, the year I got married, just as I was embarking on postgraduate research in Cuban theatre. What a gift. The following year I met Acosta en passant at the Royal Court, during a week of Cuban play sharings (see previous post). The year after that my son was born, and on my parents' VCR I watched their recording of the BBC screening of La Fille Mal Gardée, with Acosta dancing opposite Argentine ballerina Marianela Nuñez as Lise, and Will Tuckett playing the eccentric Widow Simone. I've always particularly loved The Clog Dance, a beautiful lesson in clowning. Years later, during lockdown, I posted a clip on Instagram to describe the experience of juggling home education with three kids. We had the video of the ballet on repeat ever after. I still have the tape. The following year my husband and I made it to the Royal Opera House, with my parents, to see the ballet, with another cast. A couple tapped Mum on the shoulder "So, is this your Wayward Daughter then?!"

So when Myths and Modern Masters came onto my radar, it felt like yet another siren call. I still hesitated, though, and by the time I made up my mind there was only one ticket left in the stalls, none in the circle above. That decided me. I wanted to be in that space again, transported back to those moments when my parents were still next to me. I just wanted to sit with them again.

So when it was announced on the Eurostar on the way back that the train would be held at Lille because the station was being evacuated, I tugged at the mermaid and sea shell around my neck. Yemayá, mother goddess of the ocean and my patron “santa”, as decreed by the conch shells thrown for me once in Havana, had got us safely round the world on our boat, La Cigale, accompanied by her dolphin messengers. She would not let me down now. And she didn't. I made it home in time for a 12-minute power nap and a quick shower and change before heading into town.

The journey itself can be half the fun. So, en route to Covent Garden, I took a detour through a passageway bedecked in lights that twinkled at me. A passer-by insisted a photo wouldn't do and gave me sashay instructions for a video. I felt a bit like a colt finding her feet, and arrived at the Opera House in a playful mood, taking a glass of bubbles out onto the balcony. In for a penny, in for a pound.

There I gravitated towards a table with an older woman, also on her own, and we got chatting. She had made an epic effort to be there too, travelling down from Swansea for the day. She had three children, all grown up, and was here with her husband's blessing, if not his presence. She had never seen Carlos Acosta live before, drawn by the online videos people had shared and by his reputation. She knew an awful lot more than me, and we met up at both intervals, where she shared even more insights.

First up was The Moor's Pavane, a whole ballet compressed into a single act. I hadn't read the programme (no space in my clutch for glasses), and learned from my new friend afterwards that it was loosely based on Othello, featuring dancers from Birmingham Royal Ballet, which Carlos directs. It was a ballet about the dynamics between recognisable archetypes: Acosta as the proud Husband with a wandering eye in rich burgundy; Beatrice Parma the innocent Beloved in pure white, floating a handkerchief of surrender; Max Maslen's best Friend; and, a whispering snake in gold, the apparent voice of reason, less Iago than a traitorous ego taking the reins of Othello's id. Miki Mizutani was the bedazzling scarlet Seductress. I picked up on the Shakespearean undertones, at least, in the baroque music and the initial quartet formation. But it was modern too. José Limón choreographed the dance in 1949, and I later learned from Max, aka Iago, whom I met outside the stage door, that a consultant from the José Limón Foundation had flown over from Boston to work with the cast.

I was simply transported by the sumptuousness of the colour against a monochrome backdrop. No scenery necessary: the movement spoke for itself. Tease, torture, abandonment. The whole human tragedy of illicit desire played out through synchronicity. Each pair, each gender. Two sides of a coin, yet each mirroring the other. I was struck by the physicality of it all. That's a daft thing to say, I know. Maybe what I mean is the impossible physicality of it all. The grace, the range of movement, the precision seared itself into my mind's camera, frame by frame.

The Second Act opened with an excerpt from The Nutcracker. Clara was a delight as she took in the gifts presented by the Sugar Plum Fairy, all grace, breeze, lightness and fun. I loved the variety of the programme. Mum would have loved this, I thought.

It brought back a memory of watching The Nutcracker with my parents at our local Chichester Festival Theatre, and from there came the thought that I'd just had my last Christmas in Petersfield with her. No more. In next to no time I felt punched in the chest, breathless, my eyes welling up, as they are now as I write this. Each time I think I should be prepared, but nothing quite prepares you. The grief crashes over me, but at the same time comes a huge wave of reassurance as I feel their presence and company so acutely. I was glad to be on my own in the dark, able simply to soak up the bittersweet beauty of it all.

I was grateful too for the change of tempo as the dancers donned wooden-soled sandals for a Cuban take on The Clog Dance, without the clowning, which snapped me into another mood. By the end of the act, as the young girl jumped into Acosta's arms, my heart was jumping for joy again. Even more so when I learned afterwards from my well-informed friend that the girl was Acosta's own 14-year-old daughter, Aila Acosta Holland, the same age as my stage-embracing youngest. I stopped short of making any further comparison. That way madness lies...

A classical pairing followed next, Diana and Acteon, with Katherine Ochoa and Yasiel Hodelín Bello. Oh, that was funny. As Acteon took to the stage in a super-mini leather hunting kilt, there was a collective and audible gasp from the audience. I was laughing too, as it reminded me of Cal Harris playing Hercules in Head First Acrobats' Godz (see Chapter 241) on stage at Sadler's Wells earlier this summer. But that quickly segued into marvel at the height and spread of the leaps and bounds, showcasing the virtuoso talent and chemistry between the couple. No wonder some people I later spoke to had assumed that was Acosta as Acteon. Pas de deux. Pas de soucis. As with The Moor's Pavane, it felt like an entire ballet condensed.

After that came the most emotionally charged piece of the evening for me, in the intimacy of its dynamics. Nosotros. Us. Carlos Acosta and Amisaday Naara (pictured above, in rehearsal) portrayed the frustrations, miscommunications and coincidences that push and pull romantic love. It was tender, it was poignant, and the muted tones and creative use of lighting cast a spell over the audience. The intimacy was tangible.

I needed a double espresso after that. Well, I had wanted something stronger, but they don't serve espresso martinis at the bar.

Coffee in hand, flicking through the programme, I woke up to the fact that the last act, Rooster, was not an excerpt from a farmyard scene in La Fille Mal Gardée, as I had assumed way back when, but a chance for young Cuban cockerels to strut their stuff to the Rolling Stones.

That really took me back to time out in my twenties in Havana, being serenaded by guitarists strumming Silvio on the Malecón, and romanced with poetry under flamboyán trees by would-be lovers who needed to keep hold of their heartfelt poems in case things didn't work out and they were needed for the next conquest. I could more than hold my own, as could the female dancers here, watching the boys with sardonic smiles and serving up their own sass.

The music was banging and so were they. It was so much fun. It had all the colour of West Side Story, each Rooster wearing a shirt of a different colour, Carlos in flamboyant flamingo pink, the girls in black with flashes of crimson flaring out from the seams. A visual feast. I could just imagine Carlos, my age give or take, as a teenager living those songs out on those streets.

Cuba was where I learned to dance, and while I would have loved to have had the raw talent to really let rip like Carlos and Acosta Danza did. Still, at the time, it was simply a joy to be staying with a family in a country where the rhythm of everyday life keeps its own clave beat.

What a gift to be there for the final performance. The talismans had done their job and the theatre gods had worked their magic once again. ¡Aché!

Photo credit: Helen Maybanks click here for website: helenmaybanks.com

Chapter 248: Where Kindness Leads

 

"Miss, if you met Carlos Acosta on the street, would he recognise you?"

Ok, so here’s the deal. For the past six years, as a Spanish teacher, I’ve brought Carlos Acosta into my lessons as an example of a Spanish-speaking role model, and he never fails to hit the mark with my students. In the early days I was once criticised for it. Talking about ballet in an inner-city London state school was apparently elitist. I soon set the record straight on that score. How could a guy who came from a really tough background in Cuba and ended up the first Black Romeo on the grandest stages in Europe be anything other than inspirational? That feedback led me from showing the trailer about his life, Yuli, to buying the film and showing the whole damn thing to every Key Stage 4 class I taught. And it really hit home.

They also loved the fact that their teacher had met him once. Well, actually he had introduced himself to me, I tell them. At the time I was working as an interpreter for playwrights at the Royal Court, back in my 20s, while doing postgrad research into Cuban theatre at King’s College London. I’d had a ball all week, working in rehearsals as a bridge between playwrights, directors and cast. There was loads of downtime to hang out in the bar and on the smoker’s balcony, where there was a salsa workshop led by a playwright friend of mine, Cheddy. There was also a reading of a play by April De Angelis, with Carlos playing up the role of a young love interest for an older English tourist on holiday. It was very funny. They were brilliant.

On the last day there was a seminar in the Jerwood Upstairs on the future of Cuban theatre, chaired by theatre critic Susannah Clapp. Anyone who was anyone with links to Cuba or Cuban arts in London seemed to be there: directors, actors, interpreters, translators, Carlos Acosta. And then, five minutes before curtain up, Elyse Dodgson, the artistic director of the International Department, came up to me. “Lucy, we need an interpreter. You’re going up on stage too.”

My stomach dropped. That really was outside my comfort zone. Thank goodness it was such short notice and I didn’t have a chance to overthink it.

I was introduced to Susannah, and I’d just read her brilliant piece for the Observer. Even then theatre was struggling in the papers to get the coverage it deserved, let alone circus, and she’d woven the whole extensive feature into the travel section. Inspired! We chatted about my experience too, as a university student running off to Havana with a group of Catalan students for a Young Socialists' Congress, and how that led into theatre (a lot more fun!)... “You should turn your PhD into a book,” she said. I still have yet to do either, but that was kind of her, and buoyed me up.

And suddenly it was time. Keeping up with five passionate young playwrights, and their godfather, Gerardo Fulleda, an established Cuban playwright, was not an easy task. One in particular had a strong Matanzas accent that, had I not spent the week by their side already, would have done for me. It helped that by this point I knew them all really well. I kind of knew where they were going, what their views were. But there was no time for verbatim translation because that would risk interrupting the flow, so I often had to paraphrase, praying that my words were like an invisible sheet of glass giving a window into the life of Cuban artists and doing their eloquence justice.

Afterwards, at the bar, Carlos came over and introduced himself (that’s the part that buys me street cred with my students!). “Hi, I’m Carlos.” No introduction needed, I thought, more than a little starstruck. “I thought you had a really tough job to do and there were parts where you didn’t translate exactly, but you conveyed the essence. You did really well.” That kindness I have never forgotten.

Kindness is the easiest thing, another legend of a circus performer remarked the other day, as we laughed about a night in Worthing when, looking for a takeaway alone, I walked straight into the cast of Kin mid-celebratory meal, having just watched their show (click here). I tried to sneak back out, but too late, Charlie had spotted me and invited me to join them, so I did and had a blast. I think there is something about putting yourself out there regularly that helps you recognise those who are feeling vulnerable.

A little later that summer, I was invited back to the Royal Court to translate a play for one of the playwrights on a residency and, with the proceeds, instead of paying off living expenses I spent it on a metallic blue Bang & Olufsen banana phone, maybe sewing the seeds for a future clowning around in circus. The following year I went out to Cuba for the National Theatre Festival in Camagüey. Oh, the stories I have from there. Another whole book.

While out there, all anyone wanted to talk to me about, UK-related, was The Mousetrap. Probably because Fulleda’s theatre company were staging an interpretative response, with mouse masks. Well, London is more than The Mousetrap, I wanted to say when asked about the London scene, but the truth was that I didn’t really know what exactly, and this blog journey has, in part, been my response. To say to friends working in the performing arts abroad: you want to know what the cultural zeitgeist is here? It’s circus!

And a real highlight, over a decade later, when Cheddy came over, was going with him to see a piece of contemporary circus underneath Waterloo, part of the Vaults Festival. He loved it as much as I did.

Other wonderful memories too, so much laughter. Like the time, less mobile with young children, my husband had scooped up Fulleda and Cheddy from the Royal Court, along with another young playwright, Yunior, and brought them home for supper. We were up all night talking and the kids were delighted to find our visitors still there the following morning, fast asleep in the loft. I’m sure the feeling was mutual...

Poignant too. Omar, who had Fulleda and me round for supper, died of AIDS a few years later. He was gay, in a culture where being openly gay could be difficult. That has been very much in my mind at the moment, as Sadiq Ali’s company up at the Edinburgh Fringe has the show Tell Me (click here) which uses a blend of aerial arts and narrative to follow a woman navigating her way through HIV diagnosis, in a world shaped by prejudice, silence and misunderstanding. And I learned recently on a trip to Valencia that Fulleda had died earlier this year, around the same time as my mother. I always thought he'd be there, as and when I got back to Cuba.

Anyway, back to the original question from the students. Would Carlos Acosta remember me? "Honestly? No, he wouldn't have a clue..." I looked out at the sea of disappointed faces, ah Miss!, so I added "...but I reckon it would take me less than a minute to remind him!" They were happy with that. I love sharing where learning languages can take you. The adventures, and the inspiring people you meet. 

And yesterday I had my chance to find out, waiting backstage after the final performance of Acosta’s Myths and Modern Masters at the Royal Ballet. 

There was quite a crowd there to see him, and I had hung back, embarrassed again, fooling myself that I was just happy to soak up the vibe. But as the crowd thinned and I heard an escort flag to Carlos, “Three minutes,” I thought, here we go. A snapshot this time round of a kindness remembered, something for the kids too.

So yes, while I didn’t mention my role or that moment as such, I did mention the Royal Court and those days, and there was that flash of recognition and light with “Ah, sí!” I remembered it had been a special time for him too, a homesick ballet dancer living in a foreign country. “All Carlos wants is to hang out and go back to Cuba, all we want is to leave!”

And now his home is here, with his wife and three beautiful daughters, one of whom, Aila Acosta Holland, I had just been delighted to watch grace the stage as she danced the role of Clara in a captivating excerpt from The Nutcracker in Havana. My heart gave a jump for the whole family too.

Carlos Acosta has the creative hub of Acosta Danza now based in a building by Woolwich Works, a theatre that hosts a whole teaching programme for young people, as well as classes for all ages and abilities. Woolwich Works is where a summer of circus is happening thanks to new Artistic Director Adrian Berry, Artistic Director of Jacksons Lane and responsible for introducing me to a whole new world of circus, on stage and behind the scenes.

I’m heading over to Woolwich Works for the first time this week (see programme of circus and dance - click here), and it feels right that these worlds keep circling back to each other. Omar and Fulleda aren’t here anymore. Carlos is, and his legacy is just down the road.

It’s all part of life’s rich dance.

Chapter 247: Revel Pucks - Two for One!

My iPhone has just reminded me that it is five years to the day since I first saw Revel Pucks in a big top in Walthamstow Forest with Lucy. I remember our journey there. God knows where we got off, but there followed half an hour’s walk through meadows until we spied a big top, with Sam Goodburn (Shhh!) sitting on the roof, legs dangling. 

Lucy was an Art and DT teacher I had met while training at a school in Camberwell, after spotting a fabulous display of student-made circus memorabilia and needing to find out more about the teacher behind it. Lucy was so much fun. Of course she was. It’s all in the name, right?! We hit it off instantly. But she is not either of the two Lucys mentioned in the previous post. As I said before, we are legion. Anyway, we have had all sorts of adventures over the years, but Revel Pucks was our first, and now our most recent, as we went back to see them in Walthamstow again last month.

This time we went with my daughter, a new friend from Parkrun volunteering, Maria, and an old university friend of mine, who made it down with his leg in plaster following a bouldering accident, bringing his children with him. Hats off to him. The girls and I found a shortcut this time: a bus from the Tube to virtually outside the tent. It was a close call, though. Lucy was running late and, in a scene somewhere between Amandaland and Challenge Anneka, I somehow persuaded the driver to hold the doors, to the amusement, I hope, of the other passengers.

The show was called A Glimmer Daze Gambit. I love the whimsy of Revel Pucks’ show names. Does founder Luke Hallgarten come up with them, adding word-juggling to his repertoire? I have never asked.The names conjure up a kind of Midsummer Night’s Dreaming, just the ticket for a big top in what feels like the middle of the countryside.This show centred on a pair of clowns who desperately wanted to join the circus. Audition notices had been posted all around the site reading: “Clowns Wanted”.

With the end of term, and my teaching job, in sight, I wondered for a moment whether they might have space for me. The last time a clown had posted a job advert, albeit tongue in cheek — “National Circus are looking for a Finance Manager. Do I know any accountants? Because I could use a pay rise…” — I had ended up with the job, after all.

But here there were two qualified clowns already in the running: Stella and Kit (Joy Powers & Aaron DeWitt), arriving with everything they needed packed into a suitcase and hoping to join the troupe. There were so many comedy tropes. I loved the different noises each time the suitcase opened, and half expected it to sprout legs and run off stage, a visual gag that Charlie Chaplin’s grandchildren, James Thierrée and his sister Aurélia, used to perform when they were part of their parents’ travelling circus.

There was so much magic and laughter in store: the tricks and turns of Iván Manzo & Morena Bispo hand to hand acrobatics, lights spirited like fire fireflies between performers as acrobats tumbled down from a three-high; Kit’s flowing juggling; a trike passing through a flaming arch; a balloon man bouncing around the stage. There were moments of sheer wonder: the aerialist Imani Vital on straps had a flow and joy that really had us all in a spin and later Annie Zita which is one of my favourite aerials to watch, I think, as it reminds us all of the inner child within and the joy of playground soaring. 

Then there was the Cradle, essentially a human trapeze, where a metal bar is replaced by a partner's grip (and chalk dust - imagine the sweat, that's what scares me!), turning a mechanical swing into a romance of flying muscle and teamwork between Agustina Estarli and Nahuel Bossi. I loved the inventiveness of Thorne Bailey & Florine Lord-Morin's duet between two Cyr wheels, one above the other, separated by a platform, with clever lighting bringing them into dialogue with each other. There were ridiculously outrageous turns on the teeterboard, the human seesaw flipboard, from Emily Lannigan and Sebastian Swain, which always freaks me out. The clowning duo as Stella and Kit took to the rola bola together -  I've never seen two people sharing such a tiny, unstable platform before - was as funny as it was cleverly choreographed. 

The speed of Ananya Wondemageng & Tizita Asfaw's roller-skating duet was as jaw-dropping as it was potentially neck breaking, the performers connected alternately by hands, feet and neck-straps. Then there was an act I hadn't seen before either, the Icarian Chair, performed by Seyfu Tesfay & Tariku Abu Ayele, where a human juggler turned his own feet into trampolines to launch, flip, and catch flying another acrobat mid-air, with zero margin for error. My favourite moment, in terms of sheer camaraderie, trust and joy, came when the whole cast managed to balance together atop a giant rola bola. Who thinks these things up? I loved it for its sense of community, fellowship and joy.

On the way home, we caught a bus driven by the very same driver. I think the other passengers were bemused by just how excited we were to see him again.

I had not fully appreciated that, the following month, I would be seeing a completely different Revel Pucks show with a new cast. I had thought it would do me good to see the same show again and write from fresher memories, but there you go. This time I went with friends who had joined me for Kook Ensemble at Jacksons Lane on the Friday. They had fallen so in love with SAND that I suggested they come back for more circus antics two days later.

It was Jon’s birthday, and he is a keen juggler himself. He once tried to teach me to juggle fire clubs. I was pretty pleased with my one-club trick. So back they came, because why not? This time I brought my other daughter, to keep things balanced.

The Wing Scuffle Spectacular took me back to the first Revel Pucks five years ago. It announced itself with the anarchic energy of Archaos, complete with a swinging chainsaw to be dodged. As with Glimmer, a clown sits at the centre of the narrative, but this time the story is about friendship and facing your fears. I remember Sam so well from five years ago in a white boiler suit and red cap, although the clown, Zora Eichenberger, is now female, something very much on my radar at the moment. But that is another story.And what a treat to see someone as much a legend on the unicycle as Sam, whether bouncing up and down steps or zooming around at a diagonal slant in an enchanting routine set to “Send in the Clowns”. As our clown grows in confidence in the story, so does her relationship with a toy lion, which races around the stage on a remote-controlled car and really comes alive. There were clearly repeat customers in the audience. We had only just taken our seats when a child a few places along shouted delightedly to his mum, “Look, I see the lion!” At that point it was tucked away, little more than a pre-performance shadow in the wings. Great spot.

It felt strange at first to see Revel Pucks inside a theatre rather than in the round beneath canvas, but it did not diminish the magic for a moment. The aerial work was superb, from silks to single-point dance trapeze. The teeterboard had more comedy this time, a narrative about Solene Haefeli facing fear (no, not today, thanks!) with her partners Gilles Thuegaz and Nathan Schnieder, along with the audience urging her on. 

Halfway through came the showstopper. Or so I thought. Once again, the cast clambered together onto a giant rola bola. This time, however, the platform was balanced atop a cylindrical object, like a giant double tyre, rather than a globe.That meant it would “only” wobble from side to side, rather than potentially shooting out in any direction, a fact for which I was rather grateful given that we were seated in the second row. It was still astonishing: a delicate balancing act dependent upon every performer making constant micro-adjustments in response to everyone else. But I was slightly nonplussed. I sneaked a glance at my watch. We were about 35 minutes in, just over half way, I would have thought. But was that the end? It had all been so clever that I would hardly have felt short-changed, but still, I had not expected time to fly quite that fast.

Of course it was not the end.

There was more clowning, more acrobatics and more showstopping. There was the awesome club juggling from Caio Sorana, playfully totally and not remotely a drag, set to RuPaul’s “Sissy That Walk”. And then came a dizzying finale on a piece of apparatus I had been aware of but had never seen used live before: a suspended spiral. Holly Downey's skill on it was mesmerisingly beautiful. The movement seemed simultaneously in motion and static, if that makes sense, like one of those trompe-l’œil images of never-ending staircases that appear to go up and down at the same time.That really was the showstopper. Beautiful.

Brava. Encore. Bravo tutti!

Afterwards, we decamped to the Boogaloo, a pub I first visited in August 2014, during a summer of R&D at Jacksons Lane, just as I was getting to know the theatre that was once a church.That brought back memories. So did the sign, beneath which my friend, a girl Sam, sanpped me for posterity, while sipping an Aperol Spritz. It summed up the warmth of this sun-shiney the summer perfectly, along with the words: “O Lord, make me pure, but not just yet.” Sunday worship at the shrine of fools.

Circus, it is so good to be back.

Cheers all!

A Glimmer Daze Gambit is at Deal from 6 to 16 August, Croydon from 20 to 23 August, and Brighton from 27 August to 6 September.

Teeterboard: Emily Lannigan and Sebastian Swain 

 Straps: Imani Vital 

 Bounce Juggling: Joy Powers & Aaron DeWitt, now Luke Hallgarten

 Hand to Hand: Berreta Duo (Iván Manzo & Morena Bispo) 

 Icarian Chair: Seyfu Tesfay & Tariku Abu Ayele

 Fire Hoop Motorbike: Full Company  

 Cloud Swing: Annie Zita 

 Rola Globe: Full Company 

 Rollerskating: Duo Royals (Ananya Wondemageng & Tizita Asfaw)

 Cyr Wheel: Thorne Bailey & Florine Lord-Morin

The Wing Scuffle Spectacular is at the Edinburgh Fringe from 8 to 29 August, in the Lafayette at Underbelly’s Circus Hub on the Meadows.

Holly Downey - Aerialist
Agustina Estarli - Cradle
Nahuel Bossi - Cradle
Caio Sorana - Juggler
Zora Eichenberger - Clown/Unicycle
Gilles Thuegaz - Teeterboard
Solene Haefeli - Teeterboard
Nathan Schnieder - Teeterboard

See www.revelpuckcircus.com/ourshows

And one last top tip: search out by show title their cracking playlists are on Spotify.

The dog days are over, and I’m feeling good.