Chapter 243: The Tao of Glass

A paper hat becomes a boat on a river. Conical light is framed by three rings, each smaller than the last: three levels of consciousness. Tao of Glass is Phelim McDermott's decades-long love letter to Philip Glass, part memoir, part meditation, tracing his creative life as a director and performer alongside Glass's music and, underneath it all, the spirit of the Tao Te Ching: the questions that circle rather than resolve, the idea that the way forward is often the way back, that beauty can be found in the liminal spaces and golden stitching between imperfect fragments.

It was the circularity of it all that stayed with me longest. The revolving stage. A quiet nod to the first Glass album purchased, and to vinyl itself: round and round, the needle finding the groove. Causality and connection drawn as a spiral rather than a line. Mortality, too, not as an ending but as a helix, memories overlapping and doubling back on themselves, the same phrase returning in a different octave.

While the narrative arc centres on an elemental hero worship and father and son dynamic, I felt something else moving underneath it. I thought of the women whose vision had shaped this world without necessarily taking centre stage: director Kirsty Housley, who helped shape Phelim's fragments of memory, dream and story into a coherent whole, not an easy task I imagine, to direct a director; costume and set designer Fly Davis, who gives physical form to the show's circular logic, allowing objects, performers and ideas to return transformed; and puppet-maker Lyndie Wright, who created the wondrous boy puppet that her daughter Sarah, the puppetry director, and her team brought so vividly to life. A theatre made, in no small part, by women working quietly at its centre.

If you love Glass, or have ever asked a real question about the creative process, or about the meaning of life itself, this is the show, the signpost, the Way. Glass's son Ridley is quoted as describing the music of Glass as "calm and dangerous", and that is exactly the undertow of the piece itself. It drags you under quietly, before depositing you back on the shore of your own consciousness.

"Find out what the rules are, and then break them," says Sean Kempton, which is funny, as I'll be seeing him later today at Jacksons Lane in Kook Ensemble's SAND. So I'm breaking a few rules of my own here, jumping out of the chronology of this circus journey, with half a dozen posts still unwritten about recent circus shenanigans, to talk about last night instead.

I went on opening night, then went back for the press-night encore. Because Once is never enough.

Theatres are often haunted. I have felt that first-hand over the years. But what about the ghosts the audience brings with them? That was the question I found myself turning over as Phelim McDermott began reminiscing about his own theatrical ghosts, from Albert Finney to Laurence Olivier to the spectres of unfinished business, of the show that never got made.

I brought my own ghost with me: the memory of Akhnaten, the opera through which I first discovered Philip Glass's music, thanks to this very circus journey and Gandini Juggling's involvement (working back from this post on the link between Akhnaten and Stranger Things, Chapter 227, click here). During lockdown, I watched it obsessively, several times at least, on the LA Opera app, alongside Satyagraha, the other opera Glass and Phelim made together, about the life of Gandhi. Jugglers annotating the music with balls of varying sizes in one; puppets weaving a different kind of magic in the other. The same collaboration finding new shapes each time. And I think my take on the evening was informed not a little by the hero worship of this double act across both operas.

I thought, too, of Matilda Leyser, Phelim's wife, who trained as a trapeze artist. The work she directed, "Me, Mother" at the Roundhouse, Chapter 142, click here (again, the round!), gathered testimonies from circus artists who had had, or were about to have, children. With three young children of my own at the time, hearing the description of a performer's first post-natal experience on the aerial rope after giving birth left a deep impression of the resilience, tenacity, sheer expertise of circus strongwomen.

And then there is my niece, the set designer Fly Davis. Her mother Jenny, my sister, came to live with us when I was ten, so Fly and I grew up under the same roof, more like sisters than aunt and niece, closer in age to each other than I am to Jenny. I remember when Fly flew to New York seven years ago to workshop this piece with Philip and Phelim (I'm not on first-name terms with either of them, it is just easier!). She talked me through the idea of reaching into the world of someone in a coma through music: the reverse of Awakenings. When my own mother was later placed in a medically induced coma and we were told to say our goodbyes, that thought gave me real comfort. Afterwards, Mum spoke of a tunnel, of voices welcoming her, and of her insistence that she needed to go back to look after my father. What about us, Mum? We need you too. But it was Dad she came back for. He lived to a hundred. That concept about music reaching in, well it inspired me that last summer with Dad, to put the roof down on the Mini, load my harp into the back and drive down to play to him by his bedside in the sitting room. He drifted in and out of consciousness, but I like to think that somewhere in him, ever the April Fool, the idea of his most wayward daughter of six, la fille mal gardée, strumming him towards St Peter's gates, would have appealed to his sense of humour. 

I used my iPhone too, playing his old favourites on Spotify: Louis Armstrong, Fats Waller, Sinatra. We went from "When the Saints" to "My Way", but when Sinatra began, "And now, the end is near", I flinched. Too close to the bone.Some Piaf instead, Dad? He surfaced, opened his eyes."Pardon?" he quipped, rolling a Gallic rrr, without missing a beat. And so we moved on to "Je ne regrette rien". Earlier this year, with Mum, it was another sister who played to her Scottish roots with St Andrew's tunes and Highland reels and in the process, I am sure, conjuring the ghost of a smile. So you see, even before I sat down at Soho Place, this helix of a show had already embedded itself in the DNA of our family psyche.

I also carried into the theatre the weight of having just said goodbye to a job I loved, teaching languages in a secondary school. After six years in the state sector, I had taken my final bow. It had not been an easy decision. I have never been happier in a job: the diversity and energy of my students, the camaraderie of my colleagues. But it had taken its toll on my health, coming on the back of spinal surgery last year and my mother's death earlier this year. Her funeral took place the day before a milestone birthday I had always imagined spending with her. And so I did, in a way, rehearsing her eulogy instead. I mention this not for sympathy, but as context for what came next.

I had planned to see the play with my sister, my niece and my Glass-loving best friend Carolyn, with whom I had seen Akhnaten all those years ago. But over the following fortnight, momentum built. I mentioned it at a colleague's retirement party, as she prepared to move into her own next chapter. Then there was another friend from the science department, with whom I had bonded further over a book called The Physics of Jazz. A teacher from the music department. My harp teacher and her daughter. A career-changing friend I had met while speaking at a Now Teach conference. My qi gong partner and her husband, Park Run volunteer friends, and those made through my children. In short, the creative and the curious. Finally, I persuaded my husband too.

In no time, we were a party of sixteen, meeting in the downstairs bar before processing together to the front row of the first balcony on opening night. I had history with this world, and still had no idea what to expect. The first surprise was how much I laughed.

I had never seen Phelim in person. He was a bomb of warmth and energy, immediately responsive to the audience, who felt instantly at ease calling things out. My husband offered a supportive heckle within the first five minutes. I'm glad he thought better of "Show us your pee-pee", although you need to see the show to understand that it was not entirely gratuitous.

Phelim took it all in his stride, entirely in his element, carrying us through the ebb and flow of his creative life: the serendipity of Glass and, poignantly, Maurice Sendak and the show that never was.

But this was never simply a double act between two giants of their respective creative worlds.

The puppeteers, introduced as Sarah, Janet and Vic, conjured up a spell of shadow play, animating sheets of music and transforming an inverted kettle into a genie. Then there was the wonder of a puppet of a young boy, representing in turn a fictional storybook child, Phelim as a child and Phelim's son Ridley. Fresh from an afternoon with Fly's two young boys, juggling ping-pong balls in a Soho Airbnb, as a great-aunt does, I found that puppet took on another resonance and I wondered what my niece saw as she watched him come to life. I wondered too what it must be like for Matilda, watching her own son represented on stage.

The puppeteers were invisible behind their craft and utterly present within it, each carrying a thread of Phelim's life story, while the musicians riffed and responded alongside them, the Glass river and source feeding all. And then there was the set, the foil. As a friend put it afterwards, "It really sucks you into the story, to the point that you don't notice it's doing it. Then you think about it and realise the story would not have worked in the same way without it."

What I had not fully appreciated until talking afterwards with Kasia, who played violin, was quite how stressful it must have been for the musicians. There was so much to hold in mind at once, weaving around a revolving stage, never missing a cue. Yet it looked entirely effortless, fluid, as though the music were carrying the performers rather than the other way around. The lighting did the same work quietly. Colin Grenfell's design never announced itself, and together the different elements kept circling back to the question beneath everything.

Where does the vision come from?

Where does the music?

The river runs through it, the answer came. A stream of consciousness in which all things connect through deep democracy. The rings again, layer upon layer. A circus of light between consensual reality, dreamland and essence: at once the source and the flow, the genus and the genius of the whole thing. We were swept away.

Afterwards, in the foyer, a friend who had come alone found me, and we simply held on to each other. It was the longest hug I think I have ever given in a theatre. Later, on press night, I watched a critic rise to his feet for the standing ovation. "Write that down in your notebook," Phelim had told him earlier, with a mischievous smile.

And so we all did, in our own way: making a mental note, taking a picture with the mind's camera.

This post, like the evening itself, hasn't quite settled into a single clean line. It's my broken vase, and I'm just in the process of sticking it together with glue, kintsugi style. In circus, I reckon that golden lacquer is what's known as an outside eye. I wish I had one.

Chapter 242: Once, Encore.

Once, there was a love song. Glen Hansard wrote the musical, performed in the film, and has died in a motorbike accident this week. My heart froze. His music, what a gift he gave, he was. The covers now pouring out of Falling, Slowly, on Instagram in tribute. See the first tribute I came across, which was how I found out, by Garron Noone @garron_music. 

Once, in Valencian days of old, I went on a motorbike ride, no helmet, several vodka-fantas to the wind, my arms tight around a crush taking me for a spin, trying to counterbalance (pretty dangerous, I learned fast to lean in!) as we zoomed horizontally round corners at break-neck speed. My best friend was furious. In part at the risk, in part because he observed I never held him like that when on the back of his scooter.

Once does that to you. Takes you on a trip down memory lane of all the lovers that could have been, but weren't, because girl-code, or friend-code, won out.

I had been following Hansard's music for years, ever since the Commitments came out at sixth form, and I would have the music on play, reading my way through the world of Roddy Doyle thanks to my then boyfriend. But there was something about the timing of this film too. The young mother whose husband is working overseas and befriends a busker nursing a broken heart. She brings joy, a lightness, a gentle friendship and a musical partnership develops, but ultimately she stays with her husband.

In a funny old way it is the story of this blog. The fleeting moment of creative connection with a young musician who gifted me a CD of his love songs (not about me, I hasten to add, but I still blushed). The joy of feeling plugged in to that energy, and the need to find an outlet for my own spark, before risking a fire that would burn down my own home, well, that's what led me into the arms of circus.

And in the period of transition, closing one door, to open the next, Once, the Musical came to the West End. I was feeling very raw at the time and found healing through the story and the music. That's the power of the arts. I was not alone. Later I went back with my brother and his wife for an encore, and we ended up on stage at the bar, fully immersed.

I'd just whipped out my phone to search out a couple of lunatic affirmations I had saved on Instagram when I was caught out by the notice of Hansard's death. The news ripped away the scrolling. And then this week, I found myself wondering at all the other people, the histories and herstories, Glen Hansard's music has touched over the years. My daughter and I were lying on the grass in a clearing on the Common gazing up at the extraordinarily low and large Buck Moon, moving into Aquarius, a herald of upheaval, a jolt for old shapes to give way to new ones. We reminisced about our sailing days when we would lie on the trampoline at the bow of La Cigale and look up at Orion's Belt on ocean crossings. Here now, we could make out the constellation Lyra in the night sky, the one where Orpheus' harp meets aerial hoop.

A question formed, in the words of Mary Oliver. I asked my daughter, dear one,

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" Her answer is hers to keep. Mine is to share: I'm going to write my heart out...

The Irish Creative Collective is bringing together An Evening for Glen Hansard at The Regent, Islington, on Sunday 2nd August from 6pm. The evening is in aid of the Simon Community, living and working with London's homeless, a charity he very much supported. Entry is free and there is an opportunity for donations, collected throughout the night. https://www.simoncommunity.org.uk/

Chapter 241: Return of THE GODZ

So here we were, my husband and I in the box, if not The Box, for an afternoon of boylesque comedy acrobatics. I’d already had quite a ride. London was in a heatwave and there I was, in a flimsy dress on the back of a bike, hearing my mother’s voice as clearly as when I was 18, warning me that my skimpy French-supermarket sundress would attract the wrong sort of attention.

“Safer on a bike than walking, Mum!” I’d blithely replied back then, before speeding down a hill without brakes, momentarily distracted by another driver approaching a roundabout, then clipping a kerb and catapulting over the handlebars. Within the hour, I was in an ambulance winging its way to A&E, my summer written off. I looked like a circus side show, John Hurt's Elephant Man, people in the street momentarily curious, then turning away, faces a blend of horror, disgust and pity. I turned down offers of a skin graft. These scars, long since faded, told a story after all, and it was only reading Katherine Dunn's "Geek Love" years later, narrated by Olympia, an albino hunchback dwarf, that I punched the air. She got it. 

This time round, in the second half of life, I play it safe. The double-black-diamond ski slopes are a thing of the past. I have more to lose as a mother of three, albeit with one already fledged and another on the verge of university. The point is though, that I understand the adrenaline-fuelled clowning around: the rush of speed, flying through the air, intentional or otherwise, the thin line of balancing acts, all set against calculated risk. It also explains why, even with the safest of bikers, I still wince whenever we weave through traffic or approach a kerb.

Round the corner from the Peacock Theatre stood a giant globe of a map. I posed for a photo. “She’s got the whole world in her hands…” popped into my head, the happy-clappy melody of my school days, educated by Southern Irish nuns. I gave thanks to my guardian angel and St Christopher, not to mention my blessed husband, for arriving safely. Now, though, it was time to park my religion, so I thought, along with the bike, and embrace the divine comedy of Greek deities.

From our vantage point in the gods, I watched a group of friends in full-on togas take their seats in the stalls, in high spirits. Clearly repeat visitors, their arrival signalled that we were in for a feel-good, irreverent ride that leaves audiences coming back for more, whoever or whatever they fancy. Head First Acrobats came to the Peacock trailing serious pedigree too, with multiple Fringe World, Adelaide Fringe and Melbourne Fringe awards behind them. This crowd knew exactly what they had come for.

The curtain rose on a pose of statuesque buff Godz: Dionysos (AJ Saltalamacchia), Apollo (Thomas Gorham) and their cousin Hercules (Cal Harris), with Cupid (Liam Dummer) completing the original four. The cast has now expanded to include Matt Piva’s Hermes, adding another god to the mischief.

What followed was a torrent of circus skills: pyramid acrobalances, Hermes basing Apollo with Cupid perched on top in a three-high; Dionysos rotating around the bar table in a high-octane juggling sequence, a flow I loved; and then another, with Apollo pouring Hercules a cup of wine while holding a one-handed inversion on a stand.

Then Hercules, gratifyingly, got his whip out.

The play with expectation was part of the trick: he extinguished a candle with expert timing, then let the audience in on the sleight of hand that had made it look so impressive. There was knife throwing, with Dionysos hurling blades at Apollo, and chair stacking, Cupid crouching high above the stage before winging his way back down. Then came the most ridiculous ladder act, Hercules balancing on top of a freestanding ladder before, bloody hell, performing a handstand on it. No trick there, just sheer tradecraft, undercut by the comedy of a saboteur waiting in the wings to steal his thunder.

“But what was it all about, Mum?” my youngest asked afterwards. What’s the story, morning glory?

That really kicked in during the second half. Dust sheets covered the statuesque Godz, and in came Hercules with a feather duster to give them a spring clean. Move over, Ken Dodd’s giggle stick. You can imagine the innuendo and flossing that followed as each was revealed, in turn, to be stark bollock naked, clutching a circular gold tray to protect his modesty, the only time I shall use that word in connection with these guys.

The tray, that is.

Overhead, Zeus thundered his outrage at the Homerotic monkeying around between the cousins and delivered his verdict: Hercules was to be dragged off to Hades for punishment. Somewhere amid this divine chaos came Apollo's aerial turn on a single-point dance trapeze. His outfit suggested a Percy Jackson hooded street look crossed with a hint of S&M, while the head-balancing, spins, speed and choreography were out of this world.

But Hades, Zeus decided, was not punishment enough. It was time to take matters a step further and pack Hercules off to Christian Hell.

At this point, he was tormented by three flying nuns, Rihanna’s “S&M” blaring, no less. Someone in wardrobe has a sense of humour and the costumes, by designer Chelsea Angell, deserve their own mention too: equal parts glitter, camp and precision. Hermes, in a leather harness and shorts, blended parkour with poi-style hellfire spinning, and it was insane. The heat was certainly rising to a crescendo.

You possibly need to be a cradle Catholic with a particularly dark sense of humour to appreciate the full force of the final punishment. I shall leave that to your imagination. But it did take me back to a school trip to Germany as a teenager, when I got chatting to some Turkish lads in Bonn who found us free tickets to a nightclub. Of course, the teachers came along too, and Mother Bernadine’s wimple lighting up under the UV lights struck us all as the perfect clubbing gear, long before I saw footage of Berliners getting into the habit at the KitKatClub.

For the finale, Cupid performed the most beautiful airborne turn in Pleasers. In stature and style, he reminded me of my favourite boylesquer, Danny Ash. See Shhh! Cabaret, Chapter 151 - click here . My heart soared again. It felt inclusive and joyful, putting the elatory and aleatory into celebratory.

I only wish I had access to the playlist for the show. It rocked. They really should put one on Spotify. 

Along with the music, I wish I could remember all the jokes. But while you may forget what someone says, you will never forget how they make you feel. What I remember is my cheeks and belly aching from laughter, and the joy of my husband whooping it up in the audience as much as I was. GODZ is one of those shows that knows exactly who it is flirting with, yet somehow makes everyone in the room, regardless of their persuasion, feel like the target audience.

Afterwards, Hermes was in the foyer, ready for a photo op, and of course I caught his eye and jumped right in to have an arm around me, while my husband, no fan of playing photographer, stepped up and snapped us anyway. Hermes had done his job and delivered the message: the Godz were smiling and watching over me.

I left with a huge grin, feeling protected, energised and convinced that life did not get much better than this.

Outside, the world shone that bit more brightly, and my husband announced that we’d take the scenic route home. Being Pride month, there was rainbow bunting through the streets and the embassies were all flying their flags, with a particularly large banner outside the Spanish Embassy making me especially proud of the language I teach.

So here's to joy, inclusivity and sex appeal for all. The colours of my life, as Barnum might say, and the greatest show on Earth.

And now that Christopher Nolan’s own epic saga has landed in cinemas, IMAX and all, I’d say GODZ was the essential foreplay: a Bodyssey before the Odyssey, the gods misbehaving in the flesh long before Matt Damon starts his ten-year trip home.

Chapter 240: GODZ (Part 1) - Time to get Greece'd

Let's be clear: it had been my husband's idea initially to take me to a male revue for our wedding anniversary (see previous post). It was only a few days after that, though, that I twigged that Head First Acrobats were over in the UK at Sadler's Wells. Think Magic Mike, but with circus, the Wizards of Oz.

I first came across Head First Acrobats a while back in a life before sailing. Let's Circus needed help taking down their beautiful black and white circus tent (The Magpie - click here) in Chiswick, and I volunteered as a roustabout. I turned up, without a clue, to find Head First Acrobats Tom and Cal, strapping lads, lifting deadweight poles without breaking sweat. Fat lot of use I would be. But I had a lot of fun. Cal and I swapped notes on singer Frank Turner. He loves a bit of circus too, and at one of his pop up concerts in Brixton I'd arrived to find Cheryl doing the warm up act on flying pole (See "The Electric Pole Star and Frank Turner" - click here). An act I'd already booked her in for the following month in the cabaret I curated at Jacksons Lane (See "A pat on the ...Shhh! click here) . Back to the boys. Tom and Cal showed me how to crack a whip, and after numerous attempts slicing my back, I like to think I got the hang of it, with a satisfying pop. The sound it made reminded me of the mascleta, the sound crackers let off to mark festivities and Fallas in Valencia. Great craic. A couple of years later, sailing from France to Australia on board our catamaran La Cigale, our steering cable snapped on a hair-raising night sail past St Vincents in the Grenadines. We improvised for the next 12 hours, and I ended up whipping up and out a lasso to pull us in to dock in Rodney Bay, St Lucia. I thought of the HFA boys. Maybe the trick should have been recorded for an audition tape...

But I keep missing Head First Acrobats shows. First at the Edinburgh Fringe, then at the Brisbane Fringe, when La Cigale was moored down the road on the Gold Coast. An Australian girlfriend, El, from another sailing family who we'd been sailing with since the Canaries, had offered to drive us both to see Elixir, HFA's anarchic zombie cabaret, but we had the kids on board and a family night in the offing, so for once I stayed put. If you can call 18 months at sea "staying put".

Then a couple of weeks ago, on the night of the World Cup when England v. Croatia, I hopped onto Instagram on a hydration break to see if anyone else was watching, as no-one else at home was, and I was looking for company. There I saw a story by artist Barbara @artbarbaralt, who was legging it back for the footie after watching GODZ, and was raving about it. I had come across Barbara thanks to a recent trip to Giffords Circus' Waterfield (see Chapter 233 - click here), and love her work, especially a recent series of watercolours that capture the essence of the show and performers. She was so enthusiastic and encouraging, that within minutes I was double-checking our calendar. There were only a few performances left, it was term time, school functions and all sorts so nope, zero evenings coincided. And then I spotted the Saturday matinee. My husband looked at me through narrowed eyes when I broached the subject. He knows my spending habits and that I would quite happily mortgage my soul for circus. Not so much careless, as carefree. "I've got this," I assured him. Cheapest tickets in the house, albeit restricted view, but I knew the Godz would smile, and so they did.

Preparation is key. The term at school was taking its toll on my back (following an operation I had last year to remove part of a bone digging into a nerve, not to mention a couple of herniated discs that didn't appreciate doing the Official Big Half with the school running club), which is why I've had to resign, limping through to the end of term. So I booked myself in for a restorative pre-emptive massage the day before. Time to get Greece'd was the tagline for the show, and was in part the inspiration to get oiled up. Floating out afterwards, a bright red and pink satin Zara dress in the window of a thrift shop caught my eye. A bargain! We were off to the Peacock Theatre, after all. Next stop Superdrug, to take the radioactive glare off my legs, yet to see the Valencian sun. A complete novice and in need of a helping hand, I was lucky to have one of my sisters on speed-dial to navigate the aisle of mousses, mitts and sprays. Sorted. Next a bit of height. Out came my old pair of tango heels. I may not be able to walk in heels right now, but I can certainly dance in them, and where better than Sadler's Wells?!

Dress zipped, legs out, heels on, off we went. Half the fun of going out with my Swiss francophone husband is the journey, riding pillion on the Vespa. Mais oui, ciao amore! We zoomed into town, though my heart lurched at Waterloo as police stopped us for a demonstration coming by. I could just make out the first two letters of a placard "Re...". Dear Godz. Reform. Farage. Bloody hell. Here we go. I steeled myself for the onslaught of Lairy Neanderthals. Only I didn't have my glasses on, and as they got closer, re-read "Remain" and my heart soared as wave after wave of Cheery Cosmopolitans marched past, to huge applause. The last time I had seen HFAs bringing down that tent was a week before the Brexit vote, when the idea we should ever leave Europe, our family, had been ridiculous, and a bubble of us thought we had it in the bag. There is still hope. Isn't there? As an erstwhile languages teacher seeing the knock-on impact on secondary schools of the closure of MFL department at Nottingham University, and the hundreds of impending redundancies in Humanities, including languages, at Exeter University, the jury is out. But good to see people speaking up and out.

At the theatre we took our seats. A box for three. The third seat, previously empty, was now filled, and I felt for the punter who clearly did not want to play gooseberry to a couple of lovebirds, and had his own interest in being there. So I took my husband by the hand and we moved up a level. To the gods. Les enfants du paradis, as the French call it. The side box up there we had to ourselves, and the view was superb. Restricted on paper, but no limits. And now, on to the show, watch this space ...