Observing the First Crocus

A small yellow flame here, a faint purple spark there... Acres of green mud, glazed with brown and black water. Skeletal trees; a gaze of blue sky; mutterings of wind. 'I'm here', it says. 'I'm here and I'm yellow and gold and purple and white... I am the song of Spring. Sing me.'

Vision and Articulation

Preparing for the 2014 Graduate Festival at Goldsmiths, Vision and Articulation, a number of tangential issues arise.

The need for continuing visualisation of my verse drama as the final moments play out in my imagination. In my mind, I am there simultaneously in the stage space with the characters and also in the audience looking, watching, feeling... It always amazes me how much an audience can change and transform as it engages with the play and this has to be taken into account when writing.

The vision of the weather... In London, this morning the weather segues through three seasons: bitterly cold winter; blue-sky spring and sunshine; autumnal darkness and gale-force winds. Kaleidoscopic changes every fifteen minutes. Right now: it's early spring. Daffodils emerge through the earth, bluebells not far behind. Snowdrops, aconites and purple hellebore enjoy the faint warmth of the dazzling low sun.

Articulating the findings of my research. Having just upgraded to PhD level, the challenge is to continue to articulate the vision of new insights into dramatic texts i.e. where and how spirituality may be found in them and to articulate this further in two practice-as-research dramas. It's fun and it's exciting and it's very hard painstaking work and I can't say any more here except to articulate - obliquely - the challenge. All energies must go into embodying the vision.

Missing Dates

Dates which go astray, or appear wrong, or are given mistakenly: so that we never quite know where we are or are meant to be...Missing dates...

The death of a friend which is reported unbidden: a date unnoticed, we were doing other things, never thought of it at all, but is today's news. Then is yesterday's: food for thought, contemplation, a sense of the mystery of life and time...

Deadlines which, misreported, loom like ghosts, phantoms which never were: no need to be kept, urgency postponed, put on hold, put back a week, or a month, or forever. Until a new date takes its place: shining, pristine, with that challenging smile.

Not the dates we eat, although some are swallowed whole, but the dates we recognise and note, perhaps in a diary, a letter or a sudden email. Plump with promise, then withered with time and disappearing from consciousness like a new tune.

The Snow Spider

Tristan Bates Theatre, London

The Snow Spider, adapted from Jenny Nimmo’s children’s novel by Delyth Jones and James Lark, and presented by the Io Theatre Company, is a ‘total theatre’ concoction, meshing physical theatre, music, song and text effortlessly and imaginatively. Gwyn Griffiths (Joey Hickman) is given a peculiar group of presents on his ninth birthday, each carrying a profound symbolic meaning. The play shows what he encounters as he engages with the deeper implications of each and how his engagement impacts on family and neighbours in this rural community in darkest Wales. Each present is like a portal to another world.

There is magic in the air: his grandmother, Nain (Anne-Marie Piazza, in commanding form) is a teller of tales and a wannabe witch. A running joke is that every spell she casts fails to work. Or does it? Throughout the piece there is the unsettling weaving of the magical within the everyday, in the action as much as in the dialogue. Day to day living is interwoven with archetypal transformative moments and strange visitings.

Gwyn’s kaleidoscope is metaphorical of the play’s structure: shifting patterns merging colourfully into the next. Sometimes the thread of the story gets lost amid all the singing and the musicianship, not to mention rather too many storms for my liking, but the virtuosic ability of the gifted ensemble cast is never in doubt in the clever way they conjure these up through voice, movement and sound.

The snow spider itself seems to be the threshold guardian to that other world where, it seems, Gwyn’s sister Bethan disappeared four years earlier on a mountain walk. The play is a study of the effects of the web of grief on a simple tight-knit community and what might be considered to be a few desperate ways out of it. I was reminded of Synge’s Riders to the Sea at one point but the play has much stronger echoes of J.M. Barrie’s Mary Rose, leitmotifs from Celtic folklore, a dash of African voodoo and even a sprinkling of Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

Delyth Jones directs a rather sprawling script with finesse and imaginative delicacy and James Lark supplies atmospheric and discordant music. For me, the play would have been even more engaging had there been no interval and a more compact, focused version played through in one act. The ensemble work is faultless and Joey Hickman is a winning and believable Gwyn. Helena Gullan shines as Eirlys who may or may not be Bethan brought back to unearthly life. Philip Benjamin shows much versatility as the Dad and a threatening old-style schoolmaster. The school and playground scenes are hilarious and horribly recognisable. Nearly everyone, I think, plays a musical instrument and Anneke Hodnett on the harp produces some very other-worldly sounds in keeping with the play’s shadow-land of dream and reality.

Designer Florence Hazard has created a cluttered set emblematic of stuff caught up in a spider’s web. It is fascinating to see how the cast deploy every prop as the story unfolds and, indeed, create new ones with what’s on hand. I particularly liked the sparkling snow spider which seems to scuttle here there and everywhere.  Overall, an evening of theatrical magic: innovative and dark.

4 stars

Whats Peen Seen

New Year dynamics

New Year dynamics, not resolutions. Already the year is moving forward, carrying me on a massive forward-moving social tsunami...

I'm not sure what concept of time this ties in with: a ramped-up version of Bergson's duree, perhaps? But I am living it, that's for sure: a presentation on the 8th January at Goldsmiths, another on the 1st March at Warwick. And, in between, the much-awaited and prepared-for viva on the 23rd January. As I journey, there has to be ongoing attention to another thesis chapter, all ten thousand words of it; the development of two play texts, one in verse, another in prose; and preparations for a reading and eventual production of the verse drama in July. (It's practice-as-research, don't you know?)

With all this there is copious reading, visits to the British library, Senate House, Goldsmiths. All of which means greater selectivity: the dropping of unnecessary or peripheral commitments, or at least managing them better in the time available. And finding moments to be still, those precious islands in the stream...

A dynamics of choice, a feeling for what is more vital, more pressing.