Chapter 8: Learning the ropes

"So, has anyone done rope, or had any sort of climbing experience before?" asked the instructor.  I keep very quiet.  I can, on occasion.   Manage expectations - lesson learned from accountancy days.

Whether you are doing the first level of aerial skills, acrobalance or equilibrium at the National Centre for Circus Arts in Hoxton, the 12 week course is split into three four-week rotations. This means for aerial that you work your way round rope, static trapeze and flying trapeze, while Anne's acrobalance group rotate around handstands, tumbling and acrobalance. For equilibrists it's the unicycle, tightrope and walking on a ball.

Rope was the least appealing of the aerial trio to me.  Rope burns.  That's the lesson that lingers.  On pole you wear as little as possible to maximise grip, on rope you cover up to minimise the friction, but it still digs into you.  It's painful. Now, I am aware of existence of the noble art of rope bondage, but I never thought I'd be one to get kicks out of tying myself in knots.   Rope, the circus art, is a slippery skill, however much sticky resin you rub into your hands to grip.  If you don't get the balance right you can just end up swinging around wildly.   Less Tarzan, more trussed-up turkey.  You think, what the hell am I doing here?  This is ridiculous.  I just can't get the hang of it.  Never will.  And then you do.  There is a swing from utter desolation to pure elation.  Challenging boundaries, pushing frontiers, whatever your level, that's the beauty of it.   And, like pole, the joy of the community - encouraging each other, celebrating each little victory.

Chapter 7 - Kiss of the Spider Woman

We were scrabbling around for loose change when the collection came round in the school service, in church, this morning.  "There goes my last quid" said the friend next to me.  "That'll be the widow's mite" I quipped.  Widow.  Black widow.  Kiss of the Spider Woman.  Sideshow in a travelling circus?  Next blog theme...?

I am fascinated by the figure of the black widow or Spider Woman, daughters of Tolkien's Shelob, or Aragog in Harry Potter.   Descendents of the Medusa archetype, spin-offs you could say.   The serpent-headed lady whose gaze will turn you to stone, or the spider-lady who immobilises you in her web.  Same difference.  It strikes me that the process of blogging and tweeting is rather like throwing out a web, to see what catches.

Manuel Puig's Kiss of the Spider Woman is stunning.  Banned in the 70s, released again in the 80s, I came across it in the 90s, and it doesn't age. Set against the back-drop of the Argentine military dictatorship it concerns the intimate relationship between Valentín, the self-declared macho Marxist and his gay cell-mate, Molina stuck in a prison in Buenos Aires.  They escape the relentless threat of torture hanging over them through talking.  Valentín discusses his past and his hopes for a better future, all power to the people, while Molina spins another tale. He recounts scenes from old films in such detail and so vividly  that slowly but surely, Valentín is drawn into his web of fantasy, reliving the glory days of bye-gone glamour.   Like journeying from Sing Sing to Shangri- La. It's a raw, tender and ultimately heart-breaking read.  

The novel opens with Molina's description of a scene from the 1940s film "Cat People".  We are invited to gaze at a beautiful girl, an artist, sketching a black panther at the zoo. There is obviously a connection between this beauty and the beast. The girl is, she believes, descended from a Serbian race of Cat People who transform into large cats when sexually aroused ...  Femme fatale. Film noir.  Classic.

As well as being made into a film, winning William Hurt an Oscar, Kiss of the Spider Woman was also a Broadway musical sensation, by the writers of Cabaret and Chicago, which conveniently dovetails with the singing bearded ladies from the previous chapter. Haven't listened to the soundtrack for years, but listening now to it on YouTube as I write, am reminded it has some killer tunes and lethal lyrics.  Blue bloods, Morphine Tango, Over the Wall ...

If all this talk of spiders freaks you out, I recommend Friendly Spider Programme at London Zoo.  Caitlin Moran was writing about it in The Times the other day, and a friend that has been on it as well says it works wonders.  I'm going to take the kids in the summer holidays.  And a sketchbook, of course.

(photo:  at Secret Cinema's screening of Casablanca)

Chapter 5 - The Magician

Birds by Bruce Mark

At the end of the magician's steel wand is a molten ball of glowing glass.  We gaze on, enchanted, as the glass warms, expands, cools, changes colour, adds layers, elongates and gradually takes shape.  The magician's name is Bruce Marks, and the dove magicked up in this instance is a vase that has a birdlike quality, deceptive in its simplicity.

It's Friday morning on Bermondsey Street.  Anne and I are at the Peter Leyton London Glassblowing Studio for a demonstration, though you'd half expect to be by a Venetian canal in a Murano glass factory, or in a villa-cum-workshop in the hills of Tuscany.  That's what I love about London, surprises in the most unlikely places.  The spell-binding performance lasts for an hour and a half from start to finish.  There is no interval.  As fellow glass-blower and narrator Louis Thompson explains, the process requires you to work constantly and consistently.  There can be no rest, no pause for a cup of tea or a sip of water.  Break the momentum, break the spell, break the glass.

Symbiosis (Grey) by Laura McKinley.

Louis will be giving the next demonstration, though sadly we can't stay, nursery pick-up is calling.  In the meantime he answers any questions.

"Where are the women glass-blowers?" asks a male member of the audience.  It turns out the girl fronting the gallery is Laura McKinley, is another member of this magic circle.  And yes, it turns out women do blow as well as men.

So there you have it.  Much to learn.  Momentum and Commitment.
Good-will to all men.  And women.

Bottles by Louis Thompson

We float back down Bermondsey Street, rising high on the balls of our feet ...

Chapter 4 - Age and the Acrobat.

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,

"And your hair has become very white;

And yet you incessantly stand on your head—

Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,

"I feared it might injure the brain;

But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,

Why, I do it again and again."

You are old, Father William by Lewis Carroll

You can't teach an old dog new tricks ... can you?  I wonder.

Enter Rochelle Ford, who became a professional welder at 58, and whose life story is as inspirational as her art. 

Chapter 1 - A Circus Experience

Staying home, living day by day
May be safe, but it can't be duller.
Seeing things only black and gray
When the world is alive with color.
Doing just as your neighbors do
May be wise, but it ain't so clever.
Every man has a dream or two
Let 'em go and they're gone forever.

"Out There" Barnum, the Musical

At the end of Coronet Road in East London there is a square where an old electrical light station generates a new sort of energy.   A ring, a circlet, a circus space. The building is home to Circus Space, which was in the process of rebranding as the National Centre for Circus Arts - a more functional title, ah well.

On Saturday 8th March, 2014, a dozen of us, all girls, gathered outside ready (or not) for a  "Circus Experience" afternoon, where we would try our hand at flying trapeze, tight-rope, acrobalance and juggling. Nominally in honour of my birthday, but any excuse quite frankly. Actually it happened to be International Women's Day, and we were an assortment of nationalities.  There were friends from home, school, university, friends made locally through the kids, none from my accountancy days bar one male friend who had expressed an interest, then rapidly back-tracked when he discovered the ratio.  Not like him to turn down a hareem, but probably a wise move. 

We signed in only to discover there was an additional form to fill in that day.  A disclosure agreement.  The BBC were in filming for the afternoon as part of BBC Two's The Travel Show.  The fact that no-one at this point turned round and ran for the hills I think demonstrates the courage of these ladies.  We swallowed hard and carried on to the locker room.   

We arrived with everyone else in the main hall where ropes and silks hung from the celing, a flying trapeze set up at one end. After a couple of fun, and competitive!, warm-up games we split into four groups and rotated around the activities on offer.  

Juggling with Stefano was probably the weakest link for us all in terms of co-ordination.  Tightrope with Amy was a surprise -  the wire was so thick and easy to grip for starters. The star in our group was actually a giant of a guy who was as nimble and fleet of foot on the wire as a ten year old.  In no time at all he was doing the whole wire backwards.  Turns out it really was child's play for him. He credited his prowess to a "mis-spent" youth climbing trees and balancing on branches.  With a slight pang, I had visions of Swallows and Amazons, of treehouses and dam-building, and wondered if it wasn't time to move the kids out to the country-side. 

Acrobalance was an exercise in trust and working together.  Our instructor Kaveh was a ball of energy and fun, with the most indecently well-developed arm muscles its ever been my pleasure to grip.  In no time at all we were putting feet on thighs, bellies on feet, hands on shoulders and building human pyramids. 

When it came to trapeze, Leila our instructor explained the procedure simply and reassuringly. Standing at the top of the platform holding the bar, you don't jump off, you simply stretch out one foot, while the supporting leg bends,  "then, as though you are dipping your toe into a swimming pool, just let the momentum carry you forward". Glide don't jerk. Gallows sprang to mind.   When it is your turn, your brain will probably refuse to compute there is a safety line, held by the instructor, attached to the back of your harness.   No idea knows how the friends with vertigo managed.  But they did.  

To get moving, in my case, I focussed on the platform assistant Max. Max, Max, I have a nephew called Max. Where do you come from Max?  Barcelona.  Anda, muy bien, mol bé!  I used to live in Valencia.  Mind if I sing you the Valencian football anthem, Max?  I'm "brava" in Spanish. No, please go ahead.   Surprised he didn't shove me off the platform. Maybe he did. Moments later, anyway, I was flying, trying to listen to orders: Pike, legs back, up, up, UP, back pike, PIKE!  Sheer joy.  

Afterwards, we partied like Gatsby, slipping into our glad-rags with a 20s twist, heading to the Prohibition-styled Nightjar.  There the Yorkshire Punch and dry ice flowed out of the mouths of bronze owls onto chai teabags, steeping in vintage teacups, garnished with sprigs of lemon thyme.   The night was young, we felt. 

It occurs to me now that writing a blog is a bit like your first go on a trapeze.   You feel as though you are about to fall flat on your face. Having friends at your side is a huge support, though sometimes it helps to pretend no-one is watching, while at others, imagining an audience makes you braver, but at the end of the day you simply have to dip your toe in and let the momentum carry you forward.