Chapter 42: The School of Hard Knocks

It was our last lesson of four on flying trapeze at Circus Space this week, and I was standing on top of the platform with my hands crossed over on the bar, the first in the group about to try out a new move called The Turnaround.  As the name indicates, this is where you turn round while in a swing.  Not rocket science, the turning unfurls automatically from the hands overlapping, and the body twisting to correct.  The thing about learning on a petit volant (as opposed to the larger, grand volant) is that being smaller,  the swing is shorter and things move quickly. There is not much margin for error. So I stepped off the platform, and before I knew it, was then spinning round and slamming my thighs into the platform on the return swing.  At speed. Slamming my ego in the process.

It had been a day for hard knocks.  There had been a workshop at RichMix in the morning called "The Actor's Body" with Argentine clowns/mime artists Julia Muzio and Jorge Costa from the previous post.  A workshop for performers, I signed up to it out of curiosity, both excited by the idea of learning a new language (the body's) and at the same time feeling an imposter. I'm not a performer, after all, just a writer with exhibitionist tendencies...

The workshop was, well, more physical than I expected. We started with warm up stretches familiar from yoga and Circus Space, but the moment we got onto the practical exercises it felt as though that magic carpet had been whipped from under my feet, and I was floored.  I struggled with simple exercises like keeping pace with the group shoulder to shoulder, being always a couple of steps behind. Then, squatting down to lift up an imaginary weight there was an audible "riiiiippppp" as my stretch jeans gave way, revealing half my arse to the elements. Well, I reflected, this is a clown class after all. But it was less amusing having to peel off my long baggy top and tie it round my waist to cover up. It left me in just the tight vest-top underneath, you see, and while I guess boobs among clowns are de rigeur, feeling like something straight out of a Benny Hill show is just not my bag. 

So by the time it came to one of the main improv exercises, involving reacting to your partner's movements in front of the rest of the class, I was silently dying. We'd already been sniffing each other like dogs in a practice run, now we had an audience. There were moments when it felt like our movements and responses generated a spontaneous narrative, and I can appreciate relishing the sheer joy of physical expression. I get why Julia's acting mentor would describe the actor as "un animal de placer" (an animal of pleasure - woof!). And I can see how when it clicks, the body can becomes a dynamic and responsive storyteller. Still, by the end of those interminable five minutes, despite (or maybe because of) having thrown myself completely into the exercise I felt so exposed I literally curled up into a foetal position, willing Julia and Jorge to call time. 

After that, moving on to learning about the art of the stage slap, the punch and the kick was child's play. And by that I don't mean it was straightforward or easy, but simply that we let rip and enjoyed ourselves, lost in the moment. It was also a sheer delight to see Julia and Jorge give demonstrations, as these guys are experienced virtuosos of timing and comedy. We practiced (re)creating credible reactions, playing around with the timings of response through anticipation or delay, exaggeration or restraint. It was fascinating, and I look at stage fights now  in a whole new light, having seen several subsequently in the CASA Latin American theatre festival. It was also painful, for while there was no contact on the strike itself, feigning contact often involved tumbling on hard wooden floors, leaving me with a numb buttock, and a swollen palm. But it didn't register. There was an easy energy with my next partner, and it really felt as though we were clowning around.  We laughed a lot. A relief and a joy after the sheer intensity of the previous exercise. 

The aerial class that evening also ended on a high, as we finished up with doing the familiar jarré, or hox (see video below). This is the move where you end up hanging by your knees, then letting go with your hands so you automatically fall, though I need to work on the dismount.  (Note to self: look up to the catcher when reaching out the hands, straighten the legs, bring the ankles together and point those toes).   I'm learning in circus, as in life, that there is a real art to letting go and falling. It's hard work, and you set yourself up for knocks along the way, knocks that bring with them moments of excruciating vulnerability, but boy is it worth it.  

   

Chapter 41: CASA Festival - Clowning around in "Come Visit Argentina"

"So, what are we going to do again this afternoon Mum?" The kids faces fall, their father's already resigned, as I explain to them we are off to watch a couple of Argentine clowns talk about their country. In Spanish. With subtitles. "No really" I insist "Trust me, you'll love it." And then I cross my fingers and bribe them with an ice-cream in the foyer of RichMix in Shoreditch.

"Come Visit Argentina"/"Visite Argentina" is the work of Jorge Costa and Julia Muzio "on a mission to tell the rest of the world about the amazingness of the glorious and exotic Republic of Argentina, with its gauchos, steak and tango" (CASA programme). While I'm not sure the invitation would extend to Jeremy Clarkson right now, muppet of the moment last seen driving around Argentina in a Porsche number-plated H982 FLK (what the flk was he thinking?), as soon as we stepped over the threshold we felt right at home. Su CASA es mi casa, after all.   

And here's the thing, there's a bit of a history of Anglo-Argentine collaboration in clowning around. After all, the origins of Argentine national theatre - the gaucho (cowboy) drama - has its roots in the circus of Brighton-born clown, Frank Brown, in the 19th Century. He stopped off in Buenos Aires on tour one day, fell in love with the place and settled. His circus show reflected the love he had for the country, and cemented (adopted) national pride, by always ending with a story about the gauchos, complete with horse-tricks, singing and dancing. The gaucho drama then moved from big-top to theatre and evolved from there. Legend. I'll be sending a copy of his biography to Clarkson for Christmas.    

"Come Visit Argentina" was introduced and interspersed with pre-recorded video messages from the most-illustrious (ie. hapless) itinerant Minister of Tourism for the itinerant country, with his chain-smoking secretary as foil, introducing the couple in various guises of Argentine cliché. The waiters, the folk-dancers, the maté-sipping gaucho and his china, and the tango-dancers. In each incarnation the comedy was physical and slapstick, lots of clouts and tumbles, and this non-verbal cartoon language of thwack, bang, wallop was an instant hit with the children. Phew. They said they loved it all, but one of the highlights for them were the waiters juggling their trays, then turning them into Mickey Mouse ears, and the stunt tumbling down the whole flight of auditorium stairs. For the adults there was the comedy of sexual politics - the gaucho taming his wild stallion, the tango dancer showing us the dance step The Mare as she is reined in by her partner (but not for long). For Spanish speakers there were the linguist plays on words and Argentinisms (ché, vos cachís, no?) to enjoy. For my husband and I the tangueros reminded us of our own comic attempts many moons ago to learn the dance (we both like to lead, we quickly discovered!), and flying around the dance-floor. Not always intentionally. 

As with Friday night, and the Chilean company Caldo con Enjundia in the previous post, it was the physical energy, presence and chemistry between the performers that kept the momentum going and attention riveted. There was never a dull moment, and laughter throughout. I had not originally intended to bring the toddler (and nor by default, my husband, the babysitter) but a chance encounter with Julia on the festival's opening night, when her own toddler had pulled me by the finger in search of grapes, assured me that mine would be welcome, and have a playmate to boot. And so there she was, laughing and clapping all the way, and then after the show, the music still playing, an impromptu disco ensued with her new found best friend. Now that's what I call building bridges for the future. 

Oh, and as a postscript, it turned out that an old Spanish friend staying for the festival, had the winning ticket for the raffle afterwards. The prize is a meal for two at a local Argentine restaurant, and while the kids are at school tomorrow he is very kindly taking me and his surrogate grand-daughter (the toddler) out for lunch. Olé! Lots to digest, my bombilla of maté is calling ...

Chapter 40: CASA Latin American Theatre Festival - The Sand Settlers

I love a bit of boxing. Jab, jab, duck, right hook, left upper-cut, schwing. Give me a pair of boxing gloves and a mark, and I'm off. Punching out life's little niggles. It's been a bit of a revelation actually, to discover a hidden strength. So, I rather fell in love with this image on Shoreditch High Street last night, behind the fence of lover's locks, as we were winging our way to RichMix and the opening night of CASA, the Latin American Theatre Festival. I was with a friend over from Spain, off to see a play called "Población Arenera" - The Sand Settlers - by Chilean theatre company Caldo con Enjundia.  

Photo:  Casa Festival 2014 website (click here)

Based on the true story in 1940s of a rising star in boxing, Charolo, from a shanty town in Santiago. Paper-boy by day, "The Golden Hand" is the hope of a community that is society's own punching bag. The play is a tender portrait of his friendship with his trainer, Don Tan, who is just about keeping himself on the wagon, a sort of Chilean Del-Boy, my son.  And also that of Don Tan's relationship with Marta, who he has rescued from the clutches of an abusive pimp.  Marta is a tour de force, by turns a flirtatious, girlish, fierce, well-meaning, nagging, scream of a fish-wife, with the carnality of a Wife of Bath.  Their quick-fire banter is a delight. The rest of the cast play an array of colourful characters, from generic amigos to a one-eyed barman on the never-never, a factory boss, a bureaucratic receptionist, a pregnant protestor, leering football club officials and a Brothel Madam.   The characters in the play are highly stylised through costume and pronounced make-up, yet real, authentic and affecting. Throughout, there is the blind troubadour, a virtuoso on guitar, accompanying with seering live music.  

As the security forces move in on the eve of the settlement's tenth anniversary, Charolo becomes the spokesman for the community facing eviction, but he is punching above his weight. After a menacing interview with the divinely Machiavellian Cardinal, pruning his flower pot, clip, clip, clip, he is disappeared, and the rest of the community dispersed.

I cannot capture the whole play here, but hope this gives you an indication at least, of the hilarity, the poignancy, the energy and the physical chemistry between the entire cast.  Each member of Caldo con Enjundia is superb, and I don't say that lightly. "Caldo" can translate as a broth, or soup, and "Enjundia" literally means well a sort of meaty substance (metaphorically, and literally it is animal fat), and this theatre company really is a melting pot of talent, serving up food for thought. So, if you get a chance to go to RichMix - it's on today, Saturday, at 2.30pm (with Q&A afterwards) and at 5pm tomorrow. And there are sub-titles.  

Chapter 39: Séquence 8 at Sadlers Wells - A Fusion of Friends

"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.” 

C. G. Jung

Well that sparks me off.  It’s the quote that the Québecois-based company 7 doigts de la main use on their website to introduce the show Séquence 8, and it applies as much to the chemistry these performers have with the audience as that between each other. 

From the word go the performers engaged the audience, and that rapport is key to their success:   “The performer cannot exist without the audience” they declare at the beginning. They thought of us and we loved them for it.   One of the highlights for the children was the surreal quiz thrown out to the audience: what is Max’s mood?  Sad? Angry? Happy? ... Purple? or What is your name?  ... is the right answer!  Each correct answer would result in a bell being rung at the top of the pole.  The comedy lay in how the top of the pole was reached.  Another highlight was Eric Bates' sublimely dextrous juggling of the cigar-boxes, and the ensuing hilarity as they morphed into super-sized versions. 

Colin Davis, the compere, was superb, stellar in his trumpet playing, sonorous in his singing, he was moving, he was funny, he made us laugh, even empathising with our bladder control, crossing our legs waiting for the approaching interval. And he was cute in that preppy Canadian way (well, reminiscent of the ones I used to date anyway!). That’s what I love about the circus - the boys are beautiful, the girls are strong. Plenty there to admire.  And if you were sitting in the front row and caught their eye you may have got a kiss to boot. 

Speaking of bonding, I appreciated the use of black sticky tape (easy tiger!), used to place targets and landing points for acrobats in rehearsals, to create a cat’s cradle spun round the performers, connecting them. Using such a prop reinforced the fact that their circus training is the glue that sticks them together.  And it breaks eventually, as needs must.  There were empty frames hanging on the backdrop, as if to indicate that the portraits had materialised into the performers on stage.  The aerial hoop then became a frame for a portrait in motion, or a mirror capturing the reflected movements of the performers. 

A moment that caught me was where three performers stripped off layers of clothing, until they were left standing there in all their underwear.  A couple were clearly more comfortable in their own skin than the third, and yet he was willing to own that insecurity, because you can among friends.  The joy of friendship is that you can bare all and find acceptance just as you are.  To me, that was an act of courage.  With the emphasis on coeur.

At at the heart of it all, then, was this circle of friends, using their relationship with each other as a springboard for their performance, the jaw-dropping back-flips on the bendy board (the Russian barre) a case in point.  Friendship is a fine balancing act, an exercise in trust, and not for nothing was one of the tracks Tunng's "Bullets".  Forget knife-throwers, this circus of friendship is all about catching bullets in your teeth.  

So many friends I know went to see the show, albeit at different times, and there has been a huge buzz afterwards, both on-line and in the playground.  So much so that it has felt as though this shared, communal experience has created its own connection.  So here’s to the alchemy of friendship.  Pure gold. 

Note:  You can find the Séquence 8 playlist on YouTube (click here)

Photo credits:  The Grimaldi Forum (click here)

Chapter 37: Space to Rehearse - A Life Less Simple

"They're apparently such delicate, fragile creatures, these petunias, but they have a terrible resistance."

Tennessee Williams, "The Case of the Crushed Petunias"

This week I went with a couple of friends back to Jackson's Lane to see a one-act piece, a cabaret musical, called "The Liberation of Colette Simple".  Staging the musical was the brainchild of the unstoppable force that is Nathalie Carrington, who owned the title role.  It is based on a Tennesse Williams'  "The Case of a Crushed Petunias", billed as a lyrical fantasty, where an act of vandalism shocks Mrs Simple out of her straightforward Stepford existence and propels her beyond the safety of her shop's four shop and double row of petunias to Life outside in all its rich complexities.  We hope.  The ending is ambivalent.   For Lynn Gardner's review in The Guardian of "this plucky experiment... that brings together a multiplicity of distinctive voices" (and, I would add, accents) click here.


This is Spatfeather Theatre's first production, and the fact that Jacksons Lane is supporting this fledgeling company, doesn't surprise me. Over summer its "Transmission" programme (click here) has supported the development of the works-in-progress of six circus theatre companies, giving them the space of a week-long residency, and I am incredibly grateful for the opportunity to have seen four of them in action. I have seen StumbleDance Circus explore the psychology of climate change, Circumference examine the intimacy and fragility of relationships, Inverted look at the calculation of space as a real balancing act and You Need Me, children's storytellers, combining puppetry and a triplet on trapeze to chart the fortunes of a disappearing circus.  It is incredibly exciting to see a project in development, and to hear the artists discuss their ideas and describe its potential. As luck would have it, there was a question and answer session in the bar following Colette Simple as well.  

These are experiences I value as a stay-at-home mother with a thirst for conversation beyond pushchairs and playgrounds.  Although the playground is where it all starts, a fact that was brought home to me this week when my son was describing a game of hoops he and some mates had been inventing as they went along.   Working out the rules together, exploring the boundaries, and pushing them, as free spirits do. A chance conversation on Twitter with poet Paul Cree brought home this point. 

Check out Paul Cree on soundcloud (click here)

I had started following Paul recently when a tour of the Battersea Arts Centre had reminded me of the superb 1-to-1 theatre London Stories there last year. Paul was one of about 30 performers who had a two-minute story.  His rhythmic pace transported me to a Millwall match, and finally, football, the vibe, I got it. So looking him up on Twitter I was chuffed to see (if gutted to miss) that he has been in a double-bill A Tale from the Bedsit and 3 Mile Radius with Talia Randall at RichMix. Talia (listen to her on soundcloud click here) came onto my radar back in spring through her collaboration with aerial rope specialist Maddie McGowan funnily enough, now part of the Stumble project, in a much-lauded performance called "Expectation" at the Roundhouse's CircusFest in Spring.

Talia Randall and Maddie McGowan in Expectation at CircusFest, The Roundhouse

Anyway,  Paul's mention on Twitter of a boy on a bus busy writing his homework, with a "Go on son", made me think of encouraging my own son scribbling away, while also prompting my counter-recollection of skiving homework and forging my mother's signature to sign it off while on my school bus.   I was eventually caught out by a fiercely strong Southern Irish nun, Sr Jospeph-Clare.  Who luckily also had a sense of humour.  I was 7 or 8 at the time. Still, being at a convent school there was a lingering touch of guilt involved, the vestiges of which have now been evaporated thanks to Paul's unwitting absolution, remarking that it's the ones that don't try it (on) that worry him.  And that's the point about life, isn't it?  Skiving, surviving, pushing buttons, challenging limits, seeing what works and, when you fall flat on your face, dusting yourself off and learning from it.  

And to be honest, this week, I've felt like a crushed petunia, petal.  At my father-in-law's funeral at the weekend, I found that each new mourning carries the remembrance and accumulative weight of previous losses.  And I've been seeing death everywhere, the hearse in rehearse even.  It's like the  first-time pregnant Mum, who will suddenly find herself clocking all the varieties of pushchairs in the supermarket aislse, or a Harry Potter muggle starting Hogwarts who finds a whole new world, hitherto invisible, revealing itself. But like the petunias, I too have this "terrible resistance". My vantablack (click here) mood has found expression and renewed my harp-playing. Ironically, focussing on a piece called "Habanera Gris" ("Grey Habanera") by Alfredo Rolando Ortiz, my mood is lightening. Together my son and I have taken up the 100 day challenge, practicing our own musical instrument every day, for an achievable five minutes at least.  And what happens when those 100 days are up?  Well, we'll see where it gets us, and then start all over again...  

This is ultimately what I'm aiming for:

Chapter 36: Back at Circus Space? Good Grief!

After the school run this morning, kids deposited at various locations, I stumbled out of the car dropping the remnants of my coffee everywhere, a baby's bottle, a satin negligee and half a packet of smoked salmon.  I wasn't expecting a welcoming committee of dustbin men on the doorstep.   Heaven knows what they made of the sight.  What can you do but laugh?  One of them picked up the cup, binned it, nudged me  and said "Maybe tired, but doing fine." Or was that damn fine?! Welcome to my world. 

It's been one of those weeks where you just keep your head above water and do your best to keep your sense of humour.  It started on a high, a mother and daughter trip to Chessington (yes, that's how I get my kicks) with dear friends, where the object of the exercise seemed to get as wet as possible. And we got soaked. The highlight, rollercoasters aside, was an encounter feeding the lorakeets who descended immediately on me, maybe identifying a fellow aerialist - birds of a feather?! Not often I get a load of birds fighting over me anyway.   It was uncanny. Then we got home to the news that my father-in-law had died, and suddenly I was reminded that birds have ever been regarded as messengers of the underworld, and it seemed somehow fitting.

"Balada de la Estrella" by Gabriela Mistral
(see translation below)

Alzheimer's is a bugger, there are no two ways about it.  In many ways you make your goodbyes as soon as the sentence is passed, and I am not grieving from the release from that indignity.  But I am mourning the gentle widower who, learning that his son had asked for my hand, took me aside one Easter, and gave me the bracelet he had once given to his wife for their anniversary. We shared a love Spanish and had many a conversation on Latin American poetry, music and Buenos Aires - a city I have yet to visit, but was one of his favourite haunts.

We all find our ways to cope too.  Mine has not been writing, funnily enough, but engaging in activities where my mind can't wander, and has to stay in the moment.  That is where circus comes into its own, and I am so glad term-time started up again at Circus Space this week, with so many friendly faces. I signed up for the beginners course again before finding out I'd been passed for the next stage, so am now doing two classes back-to-back in the evening. I love the familiarity of repeating the course where you rotate round rope, static and flying trapeze, and as luck would have it, I'm starting on my favourite rotation, flying. There is something about a swinging trapeze that lifts the spirit high.   Somehow even the fear stepping off the platform has simply evaporated, and my confidence has soared as a result.  But, keeping it real and stepping out of the comfort zone, I am also doing the next level class on static as well. Nobody warned me there would be rope (my nemesis) to climb too!  That's a good thing though.  There is pain involved, but I'm finding a certain release in moving on. 

 StarSong 

by Chilean poet Gabriela Mistral

translation found on google books (click here)

Star, I'm sad.

Tell me if you ever 

saw so sad a soul.

"I know one sadder."

Star, I'm all alone. 

Tell my soul if there are

any others like her.

"Yes" sings the star.

Look how I'm crying.

What woman ever wore

such a cloak of tears?

"One weeps more."

Tell me if you know her,

the lonely one, the griever,

tell me, is she near?

"It's I, the dream-weaver

I whose light

has turned to tears."

Chapter 34: Boylexe - Man, I Feel Like a Woman ...

  

About last night...

... I think you get the picture.  Boylexe, and their sister company Burlexe, had come onto my Twitter radar over the past couple of months, thanks to the creation of LucyLovesCircus. Writing blogs that puts the personal on show, there was shared common ground, and the more I explored both their sites, the more excited I became about their brand of narrative burlesque and the use of the body to lay bare intimate storytelling.  And also, at the end of the day, I was looking forward to a night out having a giggle. That, for me, is at the heart of it. Burlesque literally means laughable after all (see The Polelogue) and the joke is always on us.   A space to tease (out) our desires, fantasies and foibles, and serve it up with a dash of sauce. 

So it was on Friday night I found myself sitting in a booth with half a dozen old friends,  enjoying the warm up act (pictured left), waiting for the show to begin. We're birds of a feather, I had joked with  Boylexe on Twitter, though not all of us are birds, but I’m sure we can lend them a feather or two.  That, there, is the art of tease, came the reply.  

There is something about a booth that secretes voyeurism,  Rear Window, springs to mind, courtesy of Hitched Cock in this instance.   Hidden in the shadows of the Shadow Lounge, we were in pole position for a bit of fun and frivolity, and having heard that the Edinburgh Fringe was one giant dick this year, quite frankly I was on catch up.  And that, there is the key to male burlesque at its peak. The (strip)tease and the tongue in cheek. 

Revenge is a dish best served up kohled.  

Master of Ceremonies for the evening was Reuben Kaye (pictured), bringing shades of Berlin Cabaret and Eddie Izzard to bear in inimitable Reubenesque style. The M.C.'s warning to rule-breakers, establishing the boundaries for audience interaction and respect for the artistes, clearly smacked of a challenge to certain inebriated ladies in the audience. These he deftly handled by, for instance, slapping  a tax on Miss Behaviour there, draining her rosé, "the coke of the middle classes" - he certainly had the nose for a vintage joke.  The timing of his delivery was tight as a butt of (in?) whisky and kept the show ticking along like a Clockwork Orange, and those who couldn't keep up, "google it". 

The black feather collar Reuben Kaye wore reminded me of the one I had seen recently on his fellow Australian, Dusty Limits. It also brought back memories of The Alchemic Order’s immersive promenade through the life of Dorian Gray last year.  The play is back again at the moment and I highly recommend:  click here.  They possess the chic-bones, verbal acuity and dry wit I’m Wilde about, and faux crow is so this season.  

River Hawkins, last year, in "The Picture of Dorian Gray"

The acts themselves were a variety of cabaret, and a frolic of names to bandy around: steamy Randolph Hott,  dreamy Esquire de Lune, The gentlemanly Mighty Moustache, iced cool Phil InGud, Viva la Diva Meth, and dear, put-upon Bobby Dee'vah.  Together they celebrated manhood in all its incarnations (with the emphasis on carne), from bulging biceps and the muscular masculine to boyish charm and the ultra-outré-feminine. There were tricks and turns, and monologues, some of which could have benefited from a little further stripping, enlisting the compere as copy editor, but credit to the performers who pulled them off with the same ease as their clothes. 

One of my favourites was The Mighty Moustache, the proper strong-man - you should see what happens when he gets to grips with a frying pan. So it was a real highlight of the evening to bump into him outside later and discover that he lives for the circus and is a pro in chinese pole and flying trapeze.  Sadly there was too much wrapping round the scaffolding poles opposite for him to demonstrate the perfect flag (it's all in the grip, again), but my goodness, Boylexe, what a catcher!  

The mix of cocktales served up by Boylexe was just the ticket - we laughed, we shared, we connected.  Afterwards, as recommended, we went to Balans, where my order of a porn star received a gratifyingly wry smile from the waiter. He must have heard that a thousand times before, but I'm learning it's all in the delivery. The espresso martinis meanwhile propelled us into the early hours, and then we de-camped, as it were, back to my kitchen table.  Well, that's what you do at our age. And maybe it is time to grow up.   I took issue the other day with being referred to as Madame, when I still feel like a young Mademoiselle.   In reality, going on for a decade now as a housewife and mother has turned me from la coquette to la moquette (moi?  a doormat? cue violin!), but give me the space, now and again, to don the smokey eyes and sequinned jumper, tousle that hair, and I feel fabulesque again.  So, about last night ...  guys and dolls, embrace your inner Madame Mojo and let rip, it's all in the best possible taste.  And company.   Cheers Boylexe!

 and Bottoms Up!