Chapter 135: Calder's Universe and the Art of Circus

Calder's Universe
Photo: www.astrofella.wordpress.com

It was Einstein’s birthday the other day, and I felt like shouting Eureka! Here is something to celebrate! For if ever there is a figure who incarnates circus as a state of mind it is Einstein, in the flexibility of his thinking and generosity of a spirit open to the wonder of life and the limitless possibilities. I was struck again by this connection a few days later when at the Tate Modern, standing in front of “Calder’s Universe” a mechanical mobile, in front of whose cycle of 90 rotations Einstein once spent 45 minutes standing and observing. The art that derives from the motion is "kinetic", though sadly I am unable to appreciate that dimemsion as the piece is now too fragile to be allowed to move. But although the two balls threaded through the wire are now static, suspended in time and space, still I am transported by the wonder of Einstein’s perspective. Did the motion of the spheres that held his gaze still for so long inspire a deeply complex philosophical reverie, or encourage his mind simply to play? Isn’t it a combination of the two that leads to the most exciting discoveries? I experience a frisson.  Relatively speaking, Einstein and I are inhabiting the same space for a moment and it feels like a portal to another realm has opened up. Unheimlich. Uncanny. Another example of the circus zeitgeist. 

Aerialist. c.1926-31
Photo: Alexander Calder Performing Sculpture p.98

Alexander Calder was a sculptor with a passion for the mechanics of circus. Born to artist parents, he was fascinated by the way things worked and originally went into engineering before a spectacular sunset called him to study art instead. After graduation, he paid the bills drawing sketches for circus giants Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey, but “it wasn’t the daringness of the performers nor the trick and gimmick, it was the fantastic balance in motion that the performer exhibited” that fascinated him, along with the workings of the rigging and pullies that made the impossible possible. Calder began fashioning his vision out of wires. The simplicity of Calder’s sculptures is what grabs me, and Room 3 is where the circus is at, marrying his love of sawdust and mechanics. The way Calder can use a wiggle to suggest a hand or the impression of a limb captures the essence of circus. “Embodying the vitality of dancers or acrobat Calder’s sculptures were performers in their own right”.  I admire the bawdy as well as the beauty in his work, like the family of acrobats "The Brass Family" displaying their naked frame along with their naked strength, the cheeky impressions of the father's pubic hair, and the mother's breasts arguing with gravity, making me chuckle. And then there is the ebullient  Josephine Baker (mentioned in the previous post on clowning), designed to wiggle and jiggle with conical breasts that, as the guide points out, prefigure Madonna's own fashion, herself not adverse to a spot of clowning around (again, see previous post). I loved the detail, like the umbrella of the tightwire walkers, the animals and the scenes set, and returned later to sketch out my own impression (pictured below). There is also a video screened of "Cirque Calder", which established his reputation, a miniature circus that Calder used to carry around and would show to small groups, in performances that could last up to a couple of hours. 

But the circus thread, albeit a metal one, is not limited to Room 3, instead running through the whole exhibition. Fascinated by the abstract art of the likes of Piet Mondrian, Calder brought shapes into a play of balance and motion that just shouldn't work, but somehow it does. Marcel Duchamps called this "mobile" art, a French word that denotes "motive" as much as "motion". And what is the motive? Making the impossible possible, no? How very circus. 

The delicate balance of reed-like shapes with a feather at the bottom in "Snow Flurry 2" reminded me of the legendary Sandhorn act performed by Marula in Cirque Rigolo (see post on "Wings In My Heart" at the Edinburgh Fringe - click here) and more recently by her elder sister Lara Rigolo in Cirque de Soleil's Amaluna. I see red balls suspended like clown noses, ready to bounce into other objects when you are least expecting it - at least they would have originally - and Calder loved the randomness and unpredictability of the movement. A moment of slapstick is captured on the audio guide when Sartre describes how one of the shimmering sculptures that had stopped moving, sprung to life in a breeze and caught him unawares, rather like a clown's clout. Calder would often engineer the breezes, leaving doors ajar if the inherent draughtiness of his studio wasn't doing the trick. Calder worked with sound that resulted from these collisions, incorporating gongs into certain pieces, and was able to transcribe, improvise and actually stage orchestral music that responded to the chance movements in his mobile art. Like Picasso, he designed for theatre on occasion, not as a backdrop or window-dressing, but rather, ideally, as a central component of the performance. Ahead of his time. Ultimately the sheer optimism and joy in Calder's work, ever responsive to its environment and a vision of modernity, conjures up a sense of wonder and thrill that for me is what circus as a state of mind is all about. 

"Britain's happiest exhibition*" is now in its final weeks, until 3 April, catch it while you can.

"Gamma" 1947 - Postcard from Tate Modern

* As per poster advertisement on tube, quoting the Financial Times.

Chapter 134: The Gift of Clowning

"Clowning is a radical reinterpretation of the world: to chose joy and dare to hope in the face of despair"

Sonia Norris in "Women and Circus" www.circusnow.org

The gift arrived in the post in the nick of time. A grey sweatshirt with the words in black "Winging It". Well, that made me laugh, because that is how life works sometimes, isn't it? Take a running leap, catch that thermal and then glide. But sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes I take that leap and fall flat on my face. The secret to clowning, as I learned in the workshop a couple of weeks ago, lies in going with that spiral and then, crucially, picking yourself up again. 

Photo: Butzi the Lion Tamer

The workshop was a full-time five day course at The Poor School in Kings Cross, a continuation and deepening of our three evening workshop with Ira Seidenstein back in November, exploring Ira's methodology to release creativity through improv and clowning (click here for Chapter 114 - Clowning Around). This time it was led by Johannes Alinnhac, aka "Butzi", Ira's Parisian protégé.  I had my work cut out from the start. I hadn't done the homework prior to the course, I had to miss the first two days to boot, and am well aware of the awkwardness ahead having a body that works, but no clue how to use it. Let's call the whole thing off, I thought, and willed the organiser Christopher Howell, and Butzi, to take me up on that offer. But these guys are magicians by trade, they know all the tricks, and I'm a lousy escapologist. So it was that on Wednesday morning I was squashed onto the Northern Line at rush hour, watching the video of Butzi explaining to me the core mechanics we would be doing, which is a sequence, around 10-15 minutes long, of very physical exercises that we practiced twice a day to get into the flow. It was a "serious" video, yet I was laughing because Butzi has that way about him, and some of the manoeuvres he was demonstrating would be pure comedy when I attempt them. Here's to "winging it"!

The class dynamics were similar to last time round and it was easy to slip into place. We warmed up moving to music. I loved that. I heard echoes of Paris in the strains of Django Reinhardt, but then the playlist moved on and that accent slipped away. 

Photo: Core mechanics exercises with Butzi

After our warm ups came our exercises where improv arose from shape, movement and sounds that emerged organically, through different prompts. Many of the exercises were new and I quickly learned, after daydreaming my way through listening to the instructions at one point, that "winging it" was not an option. Funnily enough, it turned out when your teacher's profession is to read other people, they are quite wise to bullshitters, however much you think you have covered your tracks by hiding behind others! 

What was becoming more and more apparent to me was how all these exercises were designed to teach precision and purpose in physical language, and draw particular focus to the use of hands and knees. The exercises were straightforward in theory, but for me they were a real challenge and outside of my comfort zone. As my English teacher at school once explained to a friend, if there was a lake with people playing a game in the centre, she would be the one with the ball, and I would be on shore, observing the rules before jumping in. Twenty years on and I still squirmed when catapulted onto centre stage. Throw in a sea of faces watching (a whole half a dozen, imagine that!) and I, for one, was then pitching around in a tsunami of self-consciousness. Still, it's credit to Butzi as a teacher, and the supportive dynamics of the group as a whole, that soon I was actually volunteering to go first. 

Photo: www.newyorker.com

Some exercises go surprisingly well. Highlights for me included acting out a scene from Waiting For Godot, and a piece of free-clowning where we ended up burying a hamster...?! Both were with a partner, and there was a sense of reciprocal play that I enjoyed. I liked the exercise when we were invited to imitate a clown we have seen, and were allowed to talk as well. I leapt to my feet and relived Tweedy the Clown's latest (mis)adventures in Cirque Beserk (see Chapter 131 - click here), although, it has to be said, I relied more on my storytelling skills rather than physical impersonation to communicate. Still, I felt alive and was having fun, and that's what the audience picked up on. My favourite moment though, was the practice of handstands and cartwheels across the room. In my preparation I had the air of a seasoned gymnast, and then proceed to bunnyhop my way across the floor, inadvertently the best bit of comedy I served up on the course! 

Photo: Madonna via adamwithane/Instagram

The lowlights and struggles brought up plenty of questions. Was I listening? Not just to instructions, but to cues my partners were giving, or to situations that my own movements were opening up. And if you handed a gift to your partner - whether an imaginary glass of water or a custard pie - did you make it clear what it is before passing it over? Another question I found myself asking was: am I likeable? Ouch! You see, there is this sense that if the audience "likes" you, they will follow you anywhere. Of course, first you need to have a good conceit of yourself, and utter faith in what you are doing. It forced me to confront how insecure I am on a number of levels, as a woman, as a mother, feeling like each day I am dropping balls, and that's tough. Mums clowning around, now there's a zeitgeist, as featured recently in www.mylondonpassion.com: On parrots, gorillas and women's day, and incarnated by Madonna riding in on a tricycle in her "Tears of a Clown" concert in Melbourne last night (click here for article at www.vulture.com). A few times, flying solo, instead of soaring, I looked down, lost heart and bombed. I self-sabotaged. I gave up, too caught up in the fear of not completely getting the rules of the game to enjoy the gift of clowning around in the moment. But the joy was that I was in a safe and supportive environment where I was allowed to fail, and then try again. Butzi asked us at one point to write three 

words on our arm, words that would be our mantra going forward. Mine read: Commit To Play. Therein lies the real present. 

Butzi, Christopher, Stella, Robert, Angelo, Amanda and Ira, thank you all.

Further links:

On The Seidenstein Method:
For more information on The Seidenstein Method of creativity through clowning see www.iraseid.com. Ira has posted a wealth of videos on YouTube, ranging from demonstrations of practical exercises, discussion of theory and videos of the late and greats to study.

The February event is on Facebook as "Creativity, Improv and Clown Workshop: The Seidenstein Method" where you will find the wonderful video Butzi made that captures the energy and essence of the week.

If you are interested in the next workshop, contact Christopher Howell and join the ISAAC London Group on Facebook.

On Female Clowns:

Back in January, I managed to slip into the second half of La Soirée, the cabaret on Southbank. One of my prime motivations was to see the female clown Mooky Cornish, because, quite frankly, I don't see many around. While I missed Mooky's main act, I caught enough of her vibe and humour to want to see more. Funnily enough, in her article on "Women and Circus" Sonia Norris cites Mooky as her all time favourite female clown. You can read the full article at www.circusnow.org/women-circus-clowning-with-sonia-norris (click here).

As highlighted in the comments at the bottom, Ira discusses women clowning as well as contemporary clowning and the crossover between clowning and acting in his video "The Three Illusions". Click here to access video.

Also check out the 102 videos uploaded featuring performances from women clowns at www.youtube.com (click here for direct link)

You can see actress, clown and musician Flloyd Kennedy in a one-woman show directed by Ira Seidenstein called Yes, Because: "a journey through the seven ages of woman, through sonnets, songs and stories". The show will be at The Lantern Theatre, in Liverpool, on 1st April, auspicious timing! Click here for more details: www.thundersmouththeatre.com/yes-because

On Magic:

Butzi's website: www.butzi-magic.com

Christopher Howell: www.christopherhowell.net

The Magic Circle: www.themagiccircle.co.uk

Chapter 133: Mother's Day, Gandini Juggling and Circus Everywhere

Well, it was Mother's Day yesterday and I started the morning fighting back the tears. I've been feeling rotten recently. Thrown by a lurgy of shakes and shivers, the fever broke last week while watching in bed Complicite's Simon McBurney in "The Encounter" (click here), streamed live from the Barbican. It was such a surreally vivid experience I wondered if I hadn't inadvertently taken half a ton of peyote and was on some sort of Carlos Castenada transformative journey. I'm not ill now, just worn out by it all and have dropped a number of balls in the process. A card to my own mother, in her 80s, being one of them. Lucky you're one of six, isn't it? She pointed out to me, with typical Scots pragmatism. My son was first out of bed in our house, surprising me with a beautiful handmade card featuring a Big Top, and a rainbow of juggling balls, the highest one golden, a nod to the children's book "The Clown of God". This (originally French) folktale, rewritten and stunningly illustrated by Tomie de Paolo, tells the story of a juggler in medieval Italy who's ultimate gift to the Christ child is his final performance, and thinking of it always sets me off. Meanwhile my own clown was off out the door at 8.30am for the second full day of rehearsals in his school play, understandably reluctant, as all he wanted was to be at home with us.

You are my sunshine

Later that morning, my youngest curled up in my arms and sang a song from nursery - a rif of "You are my sunshine" where I become the best Mum in the world, and her sister seconded that. I welled up as my heart broke again with love for these children, for my mother, for the mother-in-law I never knew, for all those who have loved and lost or, worse, never known... and then notes of Spanish guitar music and a bolognese cooking wafted up from downstairs, thanks to my husband, and I came to, dried my cheeks and joined the party. Clearing the kitchen table for lunch a package fell down. My youngest was on it in an instant and opening it up - her 4th birthday is coming up on Wednesday, everything is a potential present! - and it turned out to be a red nose. I'd bought it as a fall-back if we ran short at the clowning workshop a couple of weeks before (post to follow!), but in the clutter hadn't noticed it arrive. Put it on Mummy! So there we were, after a deliciously comforting lunch, sitting on the rug, clowning around, and having fun. A while later, our energy spent and all ready for a nap, I log on quickly to Facebook to answer a couple of messages, and register an event at the British Museum that gets my heart pumping and mind buzzing again. 

It is Gandini Juggling. I have been reading recently about their participation in the current ENO production of Philip Glass opera Akhnaten*, and there are some wonderfully atmospheric photos circulating on their timeline and Twitter feed. I have been desperately trying to find an evening to see the opera, but this is the fortnight of school plays, spring concerts and other commitments, so I'm resigned to the fact that until JK Rowling magics up a genuine Hourglass TimeTurner, it is not possible to be in two places at once. This half hour performance was a matinee at the civilised time of 4pm though, and we could just about make it, if we got our skates on. It was not an excerpt from the opera itself but Millions of Years**, an ENO-led community project combining professionals and volunteers, that uses the music in an interpretative response to the themes of the opera: the passage of time, the legacies of what has been left and what we leave behind. What an appropriate reflection on Mother's Day, I thought, when we are meant to be celebrating the double-helices connecting generations.

We made it with five minutes to spare and found the place was packed. The great thing about having kids in tow though, is that you can weave your way through the crowd and sit on the floor at the front. The cardboard heads of an assortment of majestic Egyptian animals delighted my 7 year old daughter as she identified each in turn. Then came on the jugglers - I hadn't expected so many! In a piece, beautifully choreographed by juggler José Triguero, that underscored Egpytian ritual, the juggling counts draw out the beat of the music in a way that made me think back to McBurney's "The Encounter", where the Mayoruna tribe have their own rites to rewind time. I loved the lighting as well, accentuating the presence of the Sun God Ra, from the dawn of days. 

The choir were wonderful, in modern greys, sands and Nile blues, providing the People, the social commentary, carrying reverence through their voice to their hands. A trumpeter sounded from the balcony. Heavenly. As for Anthony Roth Costanzo (pictured), the countertenor who plays the title role in Akhnaten, his voice has such a sweet delicacy and power that I was moved beyond words, and he has all the centred grace and true authority of Pharaoh. As the choir crescendoed, an expanding nest of yellow balloons, each with a tiny light inside, was raised up and then released, spilling out over the crowd. My daughter, delighting in the juggling of blue plastic bags in the background, then excitedly recognised Bibi and Bichu take centre stage - last seen at Giffords Circus in summer - and whispered "So Mum, they are part of Gandini too? I knew they were the best!" Joined by more familiar faces, including the original Sean Gandini and Kati Ylä-Hokkala, time in this age of plastic whirred by to the spin of the red clubs, while infinity was invoked with the refrain "Thou shalt exist for millions of millions of years". It was a stunning spectacle, and what a setting in the British Museum. We left on a high, floating with all the joy of a yellow balloon, and as we walked back to the tube I clocked a restaurant called "Malabar Junction". Malabares means juggling in Spanish, and it did indeed feel like we had witnessed a crossroads where music, juggling and time itself came together in a heartbeat. I chuckled at the unexpected wonder of the day, and took a picture for posterity. 

*Akhnaten is running at the ENO until 18 March. Tickets are rapidly disappearing into the quicksands of time, for more information click here - www.eno.org/whats-on/akhnaten

**For further information on the performance of Millions of Years at The British Museum click here - www.britishmuseum.org/whats_on...MillionsOfYears. The information includes the extract below:

This performance is the culmination of a large-scale community project developed by English National Opera in collaboration with Improbable Theatre, Gandini, Brixton Youth Theatre, Raw Material, Streetwise Opera, The Sorrell Foundation, London Metropolitain University, University College London’s Petrie Museum and the British Museum.

Chapter 132: Turning 40 - Lucy Loves Passion

I was going to slip surreptitiously into my 40s, would you believe. No, seriously! All I asked for originally was a quiet lunch at home with Mum and Dad to myself (being the youngest of six), and my dear friend Kirsty, and then to cosy up with Xavier and the kids after school in the evening. But with a love of circus and street performance, laughter and passion, there have been a couple adventures on the way that having a big birthday has enabled, and turning 40 has gained its own momentum. The first you know about: my trip up to Bristol to ask Ken Dodd for a pie in the face at the Slapstick Festival (see Chapter 128: An Audience with Ken Dodd - click here), a clown’s pilgrimage that was the direct result of a workshop in November when his name cropped up, invoked in hallowed terms. 

The Mangoré Duo album: Latin Melodies
 (www.themangoreduo.wix.com/guitar - click here) 

The second was a party. You see, just before Christmas, dropping off my son at a choir rehearsal for a carol concert, I came across a couple of buskers playing Spanish classical guitar on the Kings Road. They were coming to the end of the set, their fingers numbed to the bone, too cold to play on, but I’d heard enough and my heart went out to them. Such music, you see, was a particular passion of mine in my 20s. Fresh from living in Spain, a regular at the annual flamenco festival at Sadlers Wells (still going), I had even bought a guitar from Macaris on Charing Cross Road, with the express desire to learn, but had to return it the following day when a wise friend pointed out I could ill-afford it. We were studying accountancy at the time, but she was much more adept at balancing the books, still a work in progress for me. Anyway, hearing this pair, Will and Benjamin from The Mangoré Duo, conjured up the spirit of Lorca, the blood red Andalusian moon, black lace mantillas, wild stallions*, dusky, oppressive heat, longing and lovers. Search them out - they have the most beautiful CD as well. On the spur of the moment I asked them if they would play at a party, they agreed, and an idea began to form. With Valentine’s hot on the heels of my birthday, I wanted to share on the love and stir things up. “Are you crazy?” said my son, when he heard the logistics I had in mind. But where better than our kitchen to pack in family and friends like cattle, with lashings of alcohol and paella to soak up the atmosphere, and enough space for a few improvised sevillanas to let rip the duende. 


The first Friday in Lent is possibly not the most auspicious day for such a fiesta, but then it also happened to be the feast day of St Julian, patron of circus performers and carnival. Who could ask for anything more?! Well, I did! The stage set, the guests were now invited to tread the boards in their own interpretation of the Latin Lover theme, and many were unrecognisable. We had masked moustachioed matadors, foxy Zorros, medieval troubadors with alluring codpieces, mysterious black widows, los cornudos, tourists off the Costa del Sol, my daughters in flamenco dress, my son in a Spanish football kit, Xavier resplendent in a translucent (and somewhat transparent!) golden traje de luces, yours truly in a burlesque steampunk gypsy affair… and even a flaming flamingo, olé! After such a night, the following day could have been a little flat, but on two hours sleep we were soon on our way to a tiny spa town in the Alps where my husband’s sister, and her Swiss family, have been going for years. Xavier on crutches *before* a ski holiday got a few laughs at the airport - as well as his fair share of admiration when we explained how it happened (see Chapter 117: Clowning on Ice - click here). For holiday reads, I took Enid Blyton’s Circus Collection for the kids, and Toni Morrison’s Jazz for me, a huge fan of Morrison’s Beloved, which we studied at school. Already on the plane journey Morrison's forward had my mind buzzing about jazz, as much as circus, being an avant-garde state of mind. I thought back to the trip with the kids to Matisse, who embraced both in his art (see Chapter 30: Matisse and the Art of Circus - click here), so you can imagine my amusement when we arrived at the hotel to find the picture (above right) hanging in the corridor right outside our room. What a welcome! I was glad I'd brought my juggling balls as well, when the latest challenge from Jon Udry came through, one that I am still working on...

Circus everywhere

Leukebad is a small, family resort and where snow had been dumping down and the pistes were relatively empty. We booked our littlest into ski school, my son into lessons with his cousins, and with my husband out of action, my daughter and I booked in with a replacement instructor. Xavier told us he’d booked us in with a woman (not intentionally!) called Roma. I was surprised, for having read Enid Blyton the night before, we’d been introduced to Roma the Tiger Tamer, and he was most definitely a man. As we walked down the steps from the telecabine a poster boy for the Red Carpet ski school (literally, as it happens), greeted us with a broad smile. Marco, ah, the boys teacher, I thought relieved. Ah no, Madame, I’ve swapped with Roma and you’re with me. My son was delighted, even if Roma, a guy, was not a tiger tamer. He is a breakdancer too. Marco, as it turns out, was the owner of the ski school, where the byword is passion, and we were honoured. When not skiing, Marco spends half the year as a sailing instructor. As someone whose husband grew up on skis in the same mountains, and is himself a keen sailor, I found they had certain elements in common, in particular as both are following their dreams, they are very encouraging of others doing the same, however divergent the path.

Clowning everywhere

On the flight over I read newspaper columnist Melanie Reid on the four stages of learning - unconscious incompetence, when you are unaware how bad you are, conscious incompetence, when it is all too clear to you, conscious competence, when you start to make genuine progress, and unconscious competence, when you have worked so hard and practiced, it becomes second nature. I’m on the border of level two to three, in circus as much as skiing. In terms of technique, I learned from Marco to align my breathing with the flexion in the turns and appreciate the zen of skiing. I learned also that skiing has a lot in common with pole-dancing - at my level anyway. That is to say that I invariably feel more elegant and glamorous than I appear on video, and then I squirm with embarrassment. I learned that there is a time and a place to look ridiculous in snow plough, namely on a steep narrow black when your über-confident niece has skied off the edge of a cliff into the nets. Lying face down on the snow, hanging onto her for dear life with my sister-in-law, our sons having thrown themselves on our legs for counter-balance, was beyond terrifying. For my part, faith in my upper body strength, thanks to circus training, made the world of difference, and between us we managed to pull her up and out. All in one piece, the only pratfall was when I managed to trip over my own poles while slowing to a stop. Good preparation for the full-time clown course I am on for a week from tomorrow.

Back at the hotel that evening I learned that insanity is not necessarily doing something once, out of curiosity, but going back for more. So it happened that when with a hardy Canadian friend in the sauna, I found myself honour bound to follow her into the plunge pool in the snow outside, where hitherto I had only splashed on the steps, and plunge head first into the depths. So cold, I wondered for a moment if I could make it back to the steps and clamber out, but something else I’m learning, from skiing and circus alike, is that there are times when if you stop to think, the fear may literally paralyse you. You just have to go for it.

The last lesson learned was that if I fall asleep reading to my children Enid Blyton’s tales of Jimmy and Lotta’s adventures in Mr Galliano’s Big Top, of the wonder dog Lucky walking the tightrope and the horses marking time to the band’s music, I will wake up believing Giffords Circus (click here) has a place for us. Well, we can all dream! 

*Note: Speaking of flamenco stallions, check out the equestrian theatre of Bartabas coming to Sadlers Wells with his show Golgota 14-21 March (www.sadlerswells.com/whats-on/2016/bartabas-golgota - click here)

Chapter 131: Cirque Beserk

Roll up, roll up! The Big Top has arrived in the West End! Ever since seeing Zippos at Christmas at the Winter Wonderland with the kids (click here), I have been counting down the days to seeing the Zippos adult show. No, not that sort of adult show, love. There is an element of exotic dancing to be sure, complete with ripped torsos, sequins and feathers, but it's on at Sadlers Wells, not Madame Jojos! Cirque Beserk, as the tagline goes, is great for kids, and even better for grown ups. I went last night with my husband. After our clowning on ice episode before Christmas (click here), he has been laid up with a broken leg, but, while still on crutches, the cast came off last week and this was our first date night of the new year. It was rather romantic, my funny valentine to him, and great to see that Cirque Beserk rolled the red carpet out in our honour. OK, so it wasn't for us, it happened to be opening night and if I saw less circus and watched more television, I could tell you who's who. But there were plenty of paparazzi and VIPs enjoying having their photo taken with the buff, young performers, and I was enjoying the spectacle before the show had even begun! 

Sitting up in the dress circle, we had a wonderful view of the stage. Social media and photography are actively encouraged and we have some great footage to share, though nothing beats seeing the show live. With 35 performers and 30 circus skills on offer, listing them all risks sounding like a shopping list, but my goodness, we were totally swept away by the thrills and skills on offer. I loved the buccaneer vibe of the Timbuktu Tumblers from Kenya, their joy and humour shining through their acrobatics and flaming limbo. The latina in me loved the "bolas argentinas", the weights on the ends of the chords traditionally used by Argentine cowboys, the rhythm of the beat they crack on the floor reminding me of a flamenco dancer conjuring up the duende. And I was in awe again (after seeing them in Zippos) watching the spectacular Tropicana Troupe from Cuba, flying off a teeterboard through the air with staggering dexterity and aplomb.

As I'm learning a few juggling tricks at the moment, hard enough with my hands, watching the French foot-juggler was completely mind boggling and a study in control and speed. As for the knife throwing, well the blazing knives contouring the body on a rotating wheel was something else - the fact that it was a Czech husband and wife act made me laugh (once it was safely over), for it takes trust and the concept of marital harmony to a whole new level! There were stunning hand-balance sequences, both on canes and stacks of chairs, an English aerialist in straps eliciting gasps at her spins and drops, and a Finnish duo combining extraordinary shapes and equilibrium in their handstand duet. I had been very much looking forward to the Mongolian archery act, which lived up to its exotic promise, delighting as the contortionist gracefully extricated herself from a glass jar to take aim with her feet - it was bang on target.  All this was framed by dancers and aerial ballet transitioning the main acts with grace and finesse, set to lively music with a Romany air. And what would a circus be without its clown holding it all together, despite ladders and bicycles collapsing left, right and centre.?! It was Tweedy, last seen at Giffords Circus (click here). I adore Tweedy because he has gentle comedy genius. Adults and children alike, he has us laughing with his unique blend of slapstick whether on unicycle, rolla bolla or slackline, and a variety of brilliant tricks up his sleeve, in his hat and down his trousers...

The finale was staggering, and a serious treat for my husband who loves his bikes. A motorcyclist in a globe of terror is a sight to behold. I have seen a little on Instagram via the feed of a virtual friend from Colombia, so I knew something of the form, but with a film uploaded, you know already they have survived. Watching The Lucius Team live is a different viewing experience. By the end of the first act there were two bikers in the globe, enough of a heart-attack, but for the grand finale there were four, and a girl in the centre - that's just insane!

Risk, I thought, the wonder of this show comes down to risk. Ever single element of this production contains significant risk, but it is lightly worn due to the hard work, experience and commitment clear in their preparation. This is a show that is slick, glossy, proud, but never smug. And living in multi-cultural London, I loved seeing circus folk hailing from travelling circuses all over the world, come together for one show. It's a microcosm for the way the world should work, a harmonious, exciting, vibrant exchange, full of love and welcoming all. Thank you Zippos and Cirque Beserk. Wonder-full. Bravo! Encore!

Chapter130: Svalbard: All Genius All Idiot

Photo: Ben Smith and Santi Ruiz
Kuba Jee Jelen at Jatka78 

All Genius All Idiot. Never has a show been better named. Crazy, anarchic and all over the place with high octane energy. Arriving just in time and taking one of the last seats at the very front, I felt I was at the brunt of a rollercoaster, along for the ride.

Svalbard are a young international company comprising four performers (Ben Smith, Santi Ruiz, John Simon Wiborn, Tom Brand) who met training at the DOCH, Stockholm's university of dance and circus. They’ve been together a couple of years, and when I first saw their pitch for this show at the circus marketplace Canvas (click here) in Spring, I remember wondering where on earth I’d begin if I was ever to write about them. Maybe with the start. A guy on a tiny platform atop a Chinese pole wearing a huge pair of antlers and a fur coat, playing a mandolin (not a ukelele or a banjo #amlearning). I liked the novelty, loved the music, and also the soundscape later playing with water, voice, and the squeal of a piglet lamp - surreal doesn’t quite cut it. 

It was like a piece of performance art crossed with a gig - there wasn’t a narrative, more a series of character presentations and interactions. The rutting stag, he of the antlers, was alpha dominant, letting rip under a fur coat his inner drag queen in diaphanous top, fishnets, and donning vertiginous perspex heels. The others conjured up a wolf pack, young, cute, sexy and wild, I could imagine them all spilling over into The Box afterwards and partying the night away, no holds barred, and could see how they would develop a cult following of guys and girls alike. It was like being back at uni in the grime, watching Garbage at the Corn Exchange.

One of my favourite points was the use of masks on the back of the heads, and clothes back to front to reverse the bodies, so beautifully done. The sequences on Chinese pole were mesmerising from the word go, opening with the use of a body as an elevator to give another a lift down. Later, a precarious striptease on the top of the pole released a cloud of shimmering gold confetti as the trousers whipped off to reveal a pair of pink speedos. Point? No clue, it was just pure joy. I loved the stunning, exhilarating turns on rope, experiencing the thrill of the drop and the grace of movement that translated into acrobatic dance and hand-to-hand elements, even if I still wince at the body-slamming and the abandon with which they surfed the stage, nutters. Registering a strapped ankle I reflected that it's savage what they put their bodies through, but Svalbard are clearly having fun and want to get the party started. By the end, I could hardly bear to watch as they climbed on each others shoulders, my stomach lurched, and then the one on the top reached out and tapped the neon Svalbard sign on, both pointless and brilliant at the same time. All Genius All Idiot. Indeed. 

Check out their website: www.svalbardcompany.com

Update: Catch at Edinburgh Fringe 2017. Book tickets here: https://tickets.edfringe.com/whats-on/all-genius-all-idiot

Chapter 129: Aneckxander

Photo:www.alexandervantournhout.be

On my way to trapeze class this evening, my mind buzzing with thoughts of circus, I walked passed a poster for the musical of "Mrs Henderson Presents" and registered the tagline: "For the show to go on, the clothes must come off...". Ha! I thought, that could have been written for Aneckxander, and smiled. 

I nearly missed Aneckxander at Jacksons Lane, the work of performer Alexander Vantournhout and dramaturg Bauke Lievens, part of the London International Mime Festival. The promo shot, as you can see, was the back view of a bald, naked man in boxing gloves and weighted platform shoes mid-way through an acrobatic turn. It looked brutal, uncomfortable, and abstract. There was a clear crossover with contemporary dance, and, unschooled in that language, I thought I would be in danger of switching off.  Why did I go then? Because it was recommended by someone I rate, and because anyone who lays claim to a circus spirit must, by rights, step outside their comfort zone. I shudder now to think what I would have otherwise missed - simply the most beautiful, raw, touching, sensitive reflection on the body, well, specifically Alexander’s body, in all it’s glorious limitations, vulnerabilities and possibilities. 

Alexander Vantournhout has a neck. A rather long neck, as he was once told, and from this he has drawn out a narrative that explores, through every muscle and fibre of his being, the ambivalence that any artist experiences towards exposure. Actually, it couldn't have been better timed for a blogger struggling with being increasingly on display, each post revealing a little more of my quirks, eccentricities and desires, a tall poppy blushing red. We take our seats, the performance begins and something isn't right. It's Vantournhout - he's wearing clothes! Do I experience a moment of relief? It's gone in a flash, as are the clothes, whipped off in a cheeky sleight of hand that wouldn't have been out of place in Mrs Henderson's Windmill, and now we are confronted with Vantournhout’s extraordinary body. It has an alien quality, you can imagine it uncurling from a foetal position, curious, exploratory, innocent, unselfconscious, ripe for the study. I, in turn, am fascinated, observing every twitch and ripple of this latter day Virtruvian Man (apparently Vantournhout also does cyr wheel), a face by turn radiant with joy or tinged with a tragic air of an angel whose wings have been clipped. Watching the strange forms into which Vantournhout can contort, is not dissimilar to the experience of reading Katherine Dunn's weird and wonderful Geek Love, a novel that challenges our notions of freakish and normal. 

There is a simple melody - I found the music quite haunting - that Vantournhout records on a keyboard, and then interprets through his body while it replays. Patterns repeat and Vantournhout plays with our expectations, as we anticipate painful body slams or searing drops into splits. He then alters and fine tunes the arrangement. It is exquisitely done, and there was a mathematical precision to the lines and shapes he made that reminded me of elements of Gandini’s self-reflexive Meta (click here). There were laugh-out-loud funny moments, grotesque at points, like when Vantournhout pulls out an impossibly long (fake) tongue further and further, and, in tandem, toys with his willy in a game of fort-da reciprocity. But there were points of almost unbearable poignancy too. For me, maybe because of the experience of clowning I’m accumulating, the most bittersweet moment was when Vantournhout donned a clown’s ruff. I felt a stab of pain for this naked Pierrot, drawn to his tender, elastic fragility, that both strips away and underpins his superhuman strength. There is no end to the performance, no crash bang wallop finale. Vantourhout carries on, pottering around on stage, as the audience drifts out. I would have liked to stay in gentle companionship, but the tug of family life was pulling me home. What was he without our gaze? I wondered. Did he simple cease to be? Stunning.