Paradise, it appears, comes in the shape of a Salmon called Colin...

On arriving in Scarborough at 8.47pm on Sunday 28th feb, I was informed by my taxi driver that he was planning to take me to paradise before dropping me off. I must admit I was a little disappointed.... I didn't feel a thing. Paradise, It transpired was a narrow street situated in Scarborough's old town. Proturbed by my lack of response the first time, he pointed it out as we reached it, by which point I couldn't muster up a giggle without faking, so I left him hanging. Attempt number three followed a very uncomfortable silence consisting of my guilt at not engaging with this legendary funny man and his determination to make my sides split. He informed me I could now tell my mother that I'd been to paradise. With a taxi driver. Whom I'd never met....(you can insert your own version of 'ba doom doom, ching' in here) I felt the rare sensation of fight or flight at being pinned into the back seat of a car with this stick of comedy dynamite, but decided that neither were suitable. I thought I'd try out some 'acting' instead. Bear in mind that this is not something I take lightly. I conjured up the most convincing belly laugh I may have ever produced. The man was placated and I was overwhelmed (by my talent, his bloodymindedness and the scent of car freshner) and exhausted. However, This humbling experience posed great concern for me on the eve of day one of the two week SANM Artworks! Residency. Do they teach this strange comedic performance style here? And exactly how much acting would I be required to do?

Admittedly, Over the course of the first couple of days there appeared to be a few potential scholars from the taxi cab comedy club but by day 4, and following a particularly gruelling 3 hour performance task, the notion that merely being watched by someone constitutes a performance, started to sink in. It was a seminal process and the turning point for our ensemble. We were developing a shared sensibility. An understanding that performing isn't necessarily about being in the spotlight or in the centre of the space. That the smallest, seemingly unnoticeable moments can pull focus in a fruitful way and that the integrity of the work is more important than it's individual components parts.

Back to the Bob hope of Scarbs. Now it strikes me that his act lacked a little je ne sais quoi. Yes he was wearing a particularly bright bow tie and yes he made a fine attempt at comic timing (even if it was by default in leaving space for me to laugh) What he lacked however, was theatricality. There was no structure, no atmosphere. There was no build up. And despite having promised to take me to paradise, no intimacy. How disappointed I was that the nearest I got was a close up of his fake gnashers gleaming at me through the rear view mirror. Thankfully the same could not be said of our performers. Moments of lingering eye contact, of purposefully uncomfortable awkwardness, of patience and stillness and a two line pay-off to a solo performance of complete silence and isolation. Determination was distilled and supped appreciatively (without 3 attempts, bloody mindedness and a fake belly laugh). Our performers were disciplined and reserved and didn't chase the laugh. They subtly comanded it... a bit like the Lynx effect: one skoosh and the scent slowly but surely fills the nostrils of those within a thousand mile radius, like it or not.

Paradise, it appears, comes in the shape of a salmon called Colin, who entered our space in a freezer bag and exited in 3 tins but did, however, touch the hearts of many.

Home from home, the BAC

So we spent a little R+D time at Lavender Hill last week. For those of you who are out of the loop and suppose Lavender Hill is an idyllic retreat in the suburbs for over worked artists such as ourselves, and that R+D stands for 'Rest + De-stress' then you would be wrong. Lavender Hill is the street which houses BAC (Battersea Arts Centre) in Wandsworth, LAHNDAHN TAHN (colloquial speak for the City of London ....Oh do keep up. I can't hang around for the aged amongst you to get on the train of NOW with the rest of us...tsk tsp)

We arrived in sunny LAHNDAHN and found ourselves in the hub of BAC somewhat left to our own devices. We were given a rehearsal space in which we would house ourselves for the few days we were in residence and after at least... pfff... I'd say 10 minutes, we had asked for another one. Now this may seem as though we are difficult to please, old and grumpy, but I can assure you that despite those things being true, we also realised very quickly that the set up for our new work in development 'Third Person (Redux)' needs a lot of table space and potentially some projection distance. The fact that I had just turned 29 and was being invited to produce work in a space entitled 'Old Producing Office' was at no point the issue and point of departure... honest.



We were very quickly offered another space which was more than adequate spatially. The 'Members' Library'. Yes. It was much more suitable and made us feel... well, like members of the cool ship BAC! It was large with beautiful wooden floors and perfect for the new direction the work seems to be taking.



Shortly after we had unloaded all of the necessary Proto- gubbins in the space, we were escorted to our humble abode, aptly named 'Ladies Retiring Room'. Hmmm. As you can imagine I was in no way taking any of the age references to heart and felt the need to document it merely as a big jape which we could all look back at and laugh about later. Ha. Ha. Ha...



Anyway, our shared bedroom was tucked away at the top of the building, far from the hub of day to day activity. It felt like a secret gang hut, much like I might imagine the attic space in Home Alone Two would have been (you know the one in the Opera House, where the Irish Pigeon Lady [and relative of mine own] resided) were it decorated in a kitsch adorable fashion and had it a beacon of light such as the dome of the Great Hall at BAC to light your way to the toilet late at night. And sans pigeons of course.



Now despite our illuminated gang hut hide out being far from civilisation, we had a very interesting encounter on our last night. As you may or may not know, the Grand Hall at BAC can be hired for private functions, and there was one hell of a bash happen' last Sunday night! Clad in our scabby jeans and unwashed t-shirts (well, I was anyway) we responded to the knock on our door with an element of confusion, for not only had someone taken the trouble to track us down, but there were 20 of them! All of varying ages dressed in white satin gowns with hats, the like of which I have not seen out with the context of a posh kitchen... say, Jamie Olivers' par example. Not satisfied with our explanation that this really wasn't the toilet and really was a gang hut, sorry, bedroom, they wanted to see for themselves. Forcefully. Now, share and share a like I say, but having adorned our doorstep with popcorn and jambolia there were liberties being taken and a plan needed to be hatched amongst team proto. We needed food. Badly. There were a hundred curious chefs outside and they did not want to feed us, they just wanted in. The plan was hatched... we would leave via the back door, swing on to Lavender Hill and make like fish to the chip shop. We would return with greased goods and the chefs would lose interest and go home at a civilised time of approximately 10pm. Just in time for a last game of trivial persuit or a last round of the 'Fifty- Nifty United States' song we are somewhat taken with at the moment. NOT THE CASE! They were waiting, bare-foot, popcorn at the ready... We sat up quite late listening to the thumps and bumps and screams and "Oh ma days!!!" (closest interpretation I can think of is, uhm, "Oh my goodness gracious me!!!" said with an air of complete incomprehension of the events that are unfolding) Not even the globe of light from the dome can suppress my need to go to the toilet in the middle of the night but I held it in like some sort of wee smuggler... until about 6am when I awoke to complete silence and a belief that the coast was clear.

No Chefs. No hats. No gowns. No fear. Just chicken in the toilet. And the shower room. And my toilet bag. And a happy happy cat-in residence.

We may never find out exactly what happened that evening but I can assure all, these legendary urban tales will out-live us all! Which is interesting, because Third Person (Redux) has taken a hand brake turn in to the territory of decay and memory and... I can't divulge much more I'm afraid but it is most certainly a relevant link I am making!

To sum up our stay at BAC, we had a wonderful and fruitful time. We were treated with great kindness and we made some interesting discoveries creatively.We had some interesting visits from some chefs, from artists, from some cleaners, with a few visits from pluto the kitty who is permanently in residence there which was nice. This does however beg the question, where did BAC get all the cash to have someone doing a life-long performance dressed in a tiny cat costume in their building?

The Fest

The month of August is marked on my calendar with big fat red felt tip pen. "Edinburgh Festival". Hmmmmm. This is mainly a reminder to myself that during August, Edinburgh is as good as water logged and to be avoided at all costs. Jazz hands, musicals of varying caliber, men swallowing all number of inanimate objects (usually sharp or on fire) with the passing of enough flyers to mutilate a sizeable rainforest, I must admit it holds little allure for me. However my one saving grace has, for the last two years in particular, been the good ship FOREST FRINGE.

For those of you who have had the misfortune to have missed this treasure chest of performative gems, I humbly apologise as I have clearly failed in my duty to guide you away from the insufficient 'star system', beyond the flyer happy volunteers and allowed you to spend hard earned mula in a land where theatrical accomplishment rests on the affluence of some and the grim financial misfortune of others...

...Truly sorry 'bout that...so,

things to know for your future fest experiences as follows: Forest Fringe. A bit like a squat (but it serves vegan food) Run on a voluntary basis (so you're likely to find the kind of work there that has been borne out of blood, sweat, tears and sheer determination... unfunded, raw and honest) steered at the helm by the good captains Andy Field and Debbie Pearson and operating at satellite venues throughout Edinburgh (so you're always within spitting distance of some free and interesting work).

This years' offerings included some interesting new writing from Chris Thorpe, Little Bulb Theatre (who had everyone all aglow with 'Crocosmia' last year) presenting 'Sporadical' and a collaboration with Tim Nunn saw me perform a 15 minute work-in-progress both at Forest itself and the Mock Turtle, St, Mary Street.

'Subject to change' created something close to the heart of Proto-type Theater. Future plans see us develop a project which allows the inhabitants of a chosen city to reinvent, revisit re-imagine their surroundings through live interaction, suggested narrative and remote instruction. 'Home Sweet Home' saw a town emerge as each participant was asked to create their own imagined/ preferred domestic bliss from paper. A flimsy, architectural crucible developed throughout a shop floor, asking potential homeowners to visit the letting agency housed on site and find their own plot on which to build.

The rivalry between East and West has long been notorious, so it comes as no surprise that Glasgow would want to make it's presence known at Edinburgh's big birthday bash! The Arches toddled on through to the burgh and took up pride of place at St Stephen's Church, unleashing the mother of all theatrical events, Nic Green's 'Trilogy'. The work itself was accomplished (in content and duration.. two and three quarter hours long, what a beast!) but what struck me most was the ever growing community of women who showed their support for the project. Trilogy interrogates the notion of what it is to be a woman in the 21st century, exploring past perceptions of what 'feminism' was/is and confronting the need to show the female body in its many glorious forms, namely demonstrated in a choreographic ensemble of said bodies. Naked. Jumping. Glorious and unbridled.

I participated in Trilogy (part one) last year at the Green Room in Manchester. It involved being naked with a bunch of women, most of whom I'd never met, and moving my body in ways I could only have hoped to avoid catching sight of in a mirror, but in front of an audience. It was terrifying, namely because as a naked body I couldn't shut off the fear of doing this in public, and as a performer I felt I should be able to attempt to perform anything. A difficult dichotomy to contend with, which is why I found it remarkably refreshing that producers from well known venues like The Arches and of reputable pieces of work were prepared to engage in each and every one of the 20 Edinburgh performances, or show resolute solidarity by uniting naked to sing in chorus 'Jerusalem' at the end of each performance.

The support network met during the touring practices of Proto-type Theater, were extended in Edinburgh, and an overwhelming sense of solidarity in the realms of experimental theatre was created. Backstreets, alleyways, shop fronts and the forest... Fight through the masses, refuse (most) flyers. learn from your previous mistakes.. avoid paying to see good work.

All in all, August circled is August experienced. Over and out.

Day Five- Nothing Left to Lose

So today we reached the final provocation, 'Nothing Left to Lose' in which Rachel introduced us to elements of random performance making, incorporating pre-determined rules and the element of chance.

Dice, poker chips and playing cards determined choices of timing methods (egg timers, song length, kettles boiling, holding your breath), dynamic (slow, fast, small, loud) and the use of random text selection, to develop material.

Much to our amusement the notion of 'live rolling' was introduced, allowing the audience to determine developments out with the performers' control, adding a chaotic strain to the outcome.

More performers were invited to the mix, developing the complexity of the rules with each addition. This was very interesting to watch, as your attention was split between wanting to watch the performers deal with the tasks but also trying to keep up to speed with the constraints of the many rules!

And with a small extract of rehearsed text we soon realised how much fun could be had by free rolling the dynamics and how material could be changed... Mr roboto and Wes and Gil as their former selves proved quite amusing!

Yet another string to the bow of Lost in Summer, 'Nothing Left to Lose' felt like an apt point of departure for our participants, offering a culmination and development of the idea of time-based performance and game play.

We look forward to the work which has been evoked by the provocations and we shall undoubtedly revel in our shared sensibility of having experienced loss this week.

Summer School Day One

Day one

So today was the first day of the Proto-type Theater Summer School and it was an extremely productive one. Following a brief tour of the Storey building (our usual place of work, but the home of the Summer School for the next week) we got to work on learning about loss which we have experienced as individuals.

We learned of memories lost, loss of personal objects, loss of time, a lack of loss and being lost for words... twice.

We thought it best to throw everyone in at the deep end to begin with. So after some fine home-baked goods prepared by our in-house chef (one Mr Peter S Petralia) we divided our new family in to pairs and sent them in to dedicated spaces, already decked out in particular themes, in anticipation of their arrival.

Firstly there was a party room which, to the disappointment of Lucy and David on their arrival, found the party finished, and the wine close behind.

There was a blow-up bed, a camera and a bathmat in which Krissie and Jacob managed to avoid the obvious.

There was an office space filled with paper, post-its, blue-tac and string, out of which was born a hybrid gallery-performance piece.

And finally there was a bare space containing a microphone, a key board and a stage light, which saw the unearthing of some architectural jewels in the Storey Building which no one knew about…

Following the sharing of work we followed our favoured form of critical response, opening up areas for possible development and the occasional revelation.

And in turn, this was followed swiftly by a trip to the public house situated closest to The Storey building to engage in consuming some scran (that’s ‘food’ in Scottish) and some well earned alcohol!