Category Archives: Words at work

Colourblind casting, Australian theatre and Australianness

There are some conversations I’ve been having recently about Australian theatre and Australian stories. They have been daring and forthright, possibly dangerous. They have been challenging, probing and necessary. And I thought it was time to open these ideas up to a wider audience. So here it is.

Australian theatre is the theatre of White Australia. 

A dangerous thing to say, but give me a moment here. More specifically, Australian theatre is the theatre that is allowed to exist by White Australia. Foreign stories, even if the stories are written here, don’t seem to count. The emphasis is on what is here, what has “always” been here and what “Australians” want to see on stage. But let’s be honest. 

Australians in general don’t go to the theatre. Time and again if you go to the theatre you will see the same faces. The same people everywhere. You don’t see average Joe, or Jo. You see the directors (with free tickets), you see the same critics over and over again (with free tickets) and people that can afford to buy the expensive tickets. And just to be clear, all of the tickets are expensive. Main stage and independent theatre. I have no remedy for this, I am merely observing it. All theatre tickets in this country cost a huge amount of money. Or at least in Sydney. I’m not certain about everywhere else, but I do know I’ve never been to the Adelaide fringe festival because I could only afford to see one show – and where’s the point in that?

The arts in this country don’t exist. Almost. There are pockets of art, pieces of performance, slivers of sublime out of body experiences that you could never experience anywhere else. But when you go into a main stage theatre (having paid $50 or more for the privilege) and come out disappointed because you could not connect on a basic, human level with any of the actors on stage, you know something is going wrong. 

Ahh, but the production values are high! I hear you say. The production values should never get in the way of a story, and the actors should never be kept away from the audience. The fourth wall exists. We all know it exists. Do we all need to engage in a perverse form of Brechtian alienation, where the aim of the game is for everyone to think about the production values, rather than become so engaged in the world of the characters that they lose themselves in that life for two hours? Or four? Or six? If you’re asking an audience to sit through six hours of theatre, surely you will give them a way of connecting to the piece, rather than showing off how much of your budget you can waste on things falling from the ceiling, or flying actors or perfectly trained animals? 

No theatrical performance should be about the production values. If that’s the aim, put the art in a gallery, so we don’t get confused. In performance – in theatre – the focus should be on the connection the audience has with actors. Any set or lighting should be lifting the performance, not being the performance. What happened to backdrop? 

And this is why I love black box theatre. It takes us back to basics. It forces a connection. No, force is the wrong word. It aids a connection. It also shows flaws. If the actor isn’t strong enough, or the guidance of the director isn’t strong enough, we know. We just know. Pub theatre in London is fantastic for that because there’s a black box theatre, four or five actors, and four or five voices that have to carry the weight of the show using their bodies, their voices and their story. 

Which leads me to colourblind casting. I can’t stand it. I may benefit from it (I haven’t to date, but I’m sure I may in future), but I hate it. The concept that directors or producers are forced – and yes, that is the correct word here – forced to employ artists from different ethnic backgrounds to fulfil a quota makes me shudder. I of all people understand the need or desire for more ethnic variation within casts and within the arts industry, but the forcing of artistic hands should not be the reason. And in the same vein, stating that you are ethnically neutral, or making a point of saying that you are considering all ethnicities makes it all the more poignant when you call tens or hundreds of people in – wasting your time and theirs – when you know that you have no desire to cast them and are fulfilling said quota again. 

There is no, or very little, ethnic theatre in Australia. And it’s not surprising – why write for ethnicities that leave the country because there’s no work for them? Artists trained here leave. They leave because there is no work, they leave because there is no money, and they leave because there is no recognition for what they spent a long time honing their abilities to do. 

And why did I say this was a dangerous post to be writing? Because it will lead to either people saying I am whinging – which it is their prorogative to believe I am doing – or it will lead to others vehemently disagreeing to stand up for their country – which is fine – or it will lead to them agreeing with me – but saying there is nothing that can be done about it. 

I don’t have answers. I never claimed to have answers. I have questions, I have observations but I have no answers. According to my research in social psychology, one in ten Australians believe that immigrants are a threat to Australian traditional values, and yet 83% (from memory) believe that racism is a problem in the country. More than that believe there is a way to stop it. Positive discrimination in the form of colourblind casting seems to me not to be the way forward (what a sentence). It is not something that works. You can end up with the wrong artists for the job based on the need to fill a quota. And from the outside, and this is highly socially disapproved of, it also seems to be the case in jobs where the discrimination act is in place. Grants and special jobs that are set aside for Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islanders seem to be the same. Why are they not set aside for all ethnic groups? It seems a misplacement of fairness. How many generations will pass before this is adjusted again? And no, I don’t think it’s just here. It’s the same for American Indians in North America. Do African Americans get anything like that? Am I seriously missing out on something? And I’ll be honest. If something were offered to me purely because I am of African American descent, I would feel insulted. Am I not capable of standing on my own feet? My mother is a consulting civil engineer that emigrated from London, where she would have been a director of the company she worked for in Canary Wharf if she had stayed. She has won awards for being a Black Woman in a White Man’s world. To her, she’s just working. Working hard. I am extremely proud of her. She moved from Guyana, the essentially third world country in South America that my family is from, went to a school in which she was the only black person, went to university, raised two kids and worked to get us out of a low socio-economic status to an upper middle class one. If she can do it, surely there isn’t that tough a boundary for everyone else.

Again, I have no answers. Only questions and a burning desire for evolution. 

Thoughts from moving windows

We’re all people. As in, each individual person is many people. I noticed the other day that people close to me actually look different when they’re just with me as opposed to when they’re with a group of people. Interestingly enough, those people are all industry based, so it almost makes sense. I think it’s a way for us to keep our sanity and our privacy about certain things.

But if that’s the case, what do we see when we observe people on the train that are sitting alone? Do they have their ‘public’ face on? When you look around a train, is what you’re seeing a face that everyone should be seeing? When you’re alone, your face is at its most relaxed, because you’re free. You’re free to be you, to think what you think and not fear someone reading it, analyzing it, experiencing you. So on a train, is it like your bedroom?

I know I’ve had times where I’ve cried on a train alone. And I guess, from that experience, I can say that it’s both. I had moments where I was crying uncontrollably because I couldn’t help it, but then would remember to check myself and pull it back in, before the whole process starts again. But mine is only one experience, and there are many times I’ve been entirely unguarded on the train, as well as times where it’s been a place to relax and just be.

When people are looking out of a window, what are they looking at? What are they seeing? I know that what I’m seeing isn’t necessarily what I’m looking at. When you get lost in thought, what are you seeing then? The eyes track the surroundings… You can see the tracking. They don’t necessarily glaze, but the thoughts don’t necessarily correspond to that physical movement. Or does it? I guess it must. It’s fully ‘in’ our body. It’s a reaction. But is the thought a reaction to the movement, or the movement a reaction to the thought? And when you look at two trees next to each other, are you looking at trees, or at you and your partner snuggling?do you see your house, or your family or your job or air? Do you see the air flowing through them? Do you contemplate what the air is doing to the branches and equate it with your own steadfastness or relaxed sense of ease? When you look at a sunset, do you see death approaching?

I haven’t been so inspired to write for a while. Throw someone a stimulus ‘A View From Moving Windows’ and questions just pour out. So many questions. So many suppositions and guesses and incorrect assumptions. It runs for 5 more performances at Riverside Theatres in Parramatta. Catch the train down, come and see it. You’ll see what I mean. And if you can’t bring a friend, come alone and look out the window. It’s your own preshow movie.

A View From Moving Windows

A View From Inside Moving Windows

I catch the train a lot. A lot of it is my life. I live in the Blue Mountains, work in the city and act/produce/direct/assist everywhere. So when I saw the scene Augusta had sent me for ‘A View From Moving Windows’, I knew that world. The world of could be’s, of just missed and maybe I shoulds.

This has been a confronting piece to create. Getting the final script a week before opening night, pulling together as an ensemble a week before opening night and creating entire choreographed dance routines in the equivalent of about half a day has been confronting. And all of us, I think I’m right in saying, have been confronted. But that’s had a double effect. One was to make me panic gently about whether I’ll remember to shimmy here, or groove there. Another effect was to bring us as a cast together. Very quickly, very intensely.

I’ve never worked with Damian before. He’s a lovely, very talented actor and I feel honored to be working with him. To be honest, I am honored to be working with everyone in the piece, to be associated with them as individuals and one of them as a cast. Gus did a beautiful job in casting everyone, and to paraphrase, has brought together some of the nicest actors in Sydney (and we didn’t prove her wrong). We’ve become a family in four days. The first time we were all in a room together was the final dance rehearsal on Monday, four days before opening night. Now, as I write, it is Saturday, and we’re…I’m already sentimental about how short this run will be. It’s so rare to have such a large extended family of people you know you relate to, who are all in the same terrifying boat, who know what the job is, take the notes and act on them. It’s rare to feel you’re on a par with everyone, and yet learn something new every day – about yourself, about them, about the art you’re creating every day, about humanity.

A piece about trains from the perspective of someone catching a lift to a train as I type – I have been tweeting a lot. Things I see, things I hear. Observations… Things that I wouldn’t have thought were interesting but are suddenly fascinating. I used to take my Mac on the train and watch movies or tv episodes or read a book. Now I look out the window and ponder, or observe and dream. I’m doing a lot of train dreaming right now. and there’s a family of kangaroos I look out for now.

The Hiding Place – in hiding

The last… Eight months… Have been fast, painful, slow and hectic, and a whole new understanding of the arts from a new perspective that I haven’t had since I joined the industry.

At the beginning of the year I was asked to co-produce The Hiding Place, and as I write, I’m sitting on a train headed toward the theatre for the first preview. Kendall must be terrified. I hope she’s not stressing too much. I’m later than I wanted to be.

But anyway, this new perspective. It’s a strange one. Being in the industry without feeling like I’m in it. That’s where I’ve been this year. At the end of last year, I was very tired. So tired, in fact, that by late February, I had what the doctors could only describe as ‘Chronic Fatigue’. I have since changed doctors, and my current one refuses to give me that title, because she doesn’t like to give in to not knowing what’s wrong with me.

The result of this fatigue is that I haven’t been able to perform for the most part, or have had to be very careful what I accept, and how long it plays for. I also haven’t been able to see performances for the most part because by 5pm, I’m exhausted, and more often than not need a nap in the middle of the day. It’s limiting, and made me feel helpless and pathetic.
Putting all that aside, it’s left me with a lack of inspiration, especially in the light of also reading a bachelor of psychology (which I do love).

So I’m going to the preview tonight of The Hiding Place, at ATYP, and I’ll take the next day off because I will be exhausted (and need to finish my uni assignments). More than that, I will revel in watching the art and the listening to the glorious words, and soak in the glory of knowing I have done something to help this production.

And on Saturday, I’ll brush my little Afro, put on a pretty dress and go back to that theatre for opening night. And if I’m really lucky, I’ll bounce (or crawl) into another performance later in the run. Probably a matinee. And I hope to see you there.

2012 – From illness to Hiding Places to Platforms to Chance to Happenstance and all sorts of business and psychology

As I sit here on this crisp, frankly beautiful Anzac morning, cancelling meetings and appointments left right and center trying to heal my bacteria ridden body (probably a form of spiteful payback for not having more than a week’s rest at one time in 2011), I realise that we’re already a quarter of the way through 2012 and that things are changing, as they do with startling regularity, it seems.

The first is that there’s a new art space in Sydney. A beautiful, colour perfect for visual artists, space perfect for rehearsal, hopefully soon to be editing perfect for film, workshop perfect for skill enhancing and child friendly art space in Sydney. It’s called Arts Platform and it’s Sama Ky Balson’s baby. My little niece, I believe. She’s beautiful. Currently being renovated to glory, she’s 100 square metres of rehearsal space and 30 metres of office space waiting to happen. Well, actually, not waiting to happen. Happening. There’s an initiative running at the moment, to get her looking beautiful again (because babies are expensive), where anyone can donate an hour of their time for an hour’s worth of free time in the space when she’s all neat and tidy. The best thing, I think, about that, isn’t just the free time in the space (which all artists can do with), and not just the fact that you can do what you’ve always wanted to – test a new idea, play, read, roll around on the floor and giggle – it’s also the fact that if you paint a little section of wall, you’ll always know that you painted that little section of wall. And with the free space, you could possibly have a showing to exhibit that little section of wall and everyone can admire it and say “oooh”.
But yeah. Arts Platform. There are not enough spaces in Sydney, not enough affordable spaces, and not enough spaces full stop, really. Having looked around for somewhere to hold readings, rehearsals and just meetings, it’s intriguing that there aren’t more spaces in general for such a thriving arts industry. Or one that SHOULD be thriving much more than it is.

My life course seems to be taking a turn from purely acting (as it did last year) and purely working on stage to working in film, production and administration. It’s an intriguing and fascinating turn, one that is leading from finding public liability at top speed to sourcing crew members, from directors of photography to gaffers (if you happen to know a gaffer that works for food, I’m very much in need of one), from fundraisers to funding. So many projects. Considering I decided that this year would not be as full as the previous one, it appears to almost be full. I will, exams permitting, be attending the CRACK theatre festival later this year, and am very much looking forward to just soaking in the culture from somewhere other than behind my computer, so watch this space (well, not this one, the one that comes during the festival, I suppose).

Somehow, and I’m not sure how, I have become a target for film and production. I enjoy it, because I enjoy seeing creativity in all its forms, but still, how this has happened is a baffling concept. It’s exciting, because as of last year, I had experienced all the aspects of theatre, so working for a time in various roles in film and seeing the way different people work is fascinating.

Chance is the first film project I’ll be working on as Assistant director. It’s a student piece, Georgie Dothanh’s first piece. She’s the director and producer and she has big ideas. Hopefully we’ll be able to bring them into play and make them beautiful. The piece is funny, a little skewed, and quite sweet, in a strange way. The locations will be beautiful, and she’s using the stunning Canon 7D, which I have to confess I have a very soft spot for, since it was the camera used to shoot “How to Lose Sight” at the end of last year. Just in talks about the call sheets and shooting sequence, I realised I also seem to have a soft spot for lighting. The light we’re getting now, moving from autumn to winter is this beautiful warm blue tinted…thing. I’m not a lighting designer, I have no light training and can’t explain it technically, so bear with me. It’s different from the light we get during summer. There’s more white to it, less yellow. Cooler, I suppose. Stark. Perfect for chiaroscuro, with sharp lines, bleak emotions and harsh words. Not that there are vast amounts of them inChance, but if I were going to shoot a drama, it would definitely be in winter if I didn’t want to be altering the light quality.

Happenstance – now that is an interesting piece. Coming from more seasoned director Edward Plowright, and writer Alistair Brown, I’ll be Assistant Director on that piece too. Talking about light, he’s looking at delving into a film noir style – again, fabulous idea that is all about controlling exactly what we see and how we see it. It’s about the expressions and the way they show on the face, the curves and occasional sharp lines of the body. The shades of grey. The shades of grey. Because in film noir, it’s not black and white. And that’s an incredible comment to be making, especially on a piece like this. It’s witty and clear. Well written and deeply thought out. I look forward to both pieces.

If it weren’t enough to be working on two short films, I’m co-producing a new play by Kendall Feaver, directed by Kai Raisbeck called The Hiding Place. It’s based around the idea of a young woman that, due to her grandmother, believes she is ten, and what happens when she is found by a young man. I won’t give more details here, but I will give a trailer:

2011: A thankless task that should be undertaken with extreme caution if not paid.

As I look at the sonnets plastered on my wall, slowly filling with notes (very slowly filling with notes), I look back on 2011 with a certain grateful fondness. A sort of “that was supposed to be endured because I needed to know, but now it’s over. Phew”. I loved 2011. I loved it because it was a year for me to explore the arts industry – especially the independent scene that I have impossibly, hopelessly fallen in love with – a year to figure out what I wanted, what I enjoyed, and what I could make a living from, if I gained more experience and knowledge. It was a time for doing the learning I couldn’t have done as an amateur artist before acting school – I wrote, performed and sang then, too – and it was a time for doing the learning actors are actively persuaded from taking on, because it draws them away from their “true calling” on stage, TV or film. Well, I’ve never been one to follow the crowd purely because there is one. I’ve attempted to perform in every aspect in theatre this year, and this is what I have noticed:

Independent theatre is highly unnoticed in it’s beauty and daring.

Playwrights don’t receive enough help from the government or other artists (though Augusta Supple is working diligently to change this with Towards a Writers Theatre).

There aren’t enough younger producers.

The world is slow to change its beliefs regarding gender.

Artists are willing to work for a lot less than they should be.

Writing is as much a part of me as my right arm is a part of me (and possibly more useful)

Rumi is an incredible poet that should be a part of everyone’s lives.

Hybrid theatre is an untapped beauty.

Blow up dolls are surprisingly good actors.

This is not an exhaustive list.

I have, I think, performed every role in the theatre this year. Working through the not-at-all complete list, I aided the producers of three plays, managed the stage of two, wrote one, performed five, assisted the director on one, devised one, lit one, operated and called one, controlled the use of weaponry for one, used weaponry for one. I’ve been pushed, pulled, kissed, ignored, cried on, supported, raised, taught, broken and put back together, moulded and shaped into something I don’t even recognise as the actor I was at this time last year.

I’m pleased. I set out last year to learn everything I could about theatre. It’s a medium I love, a medium that thrills me and connects with me in a deep and fulfilling way.

I like to think I succeeded. Or began to succeed.

I know now that I love to stage manage, in fact I believe I have the mentality for it, but that it’s a thankless task that should only be undertaken with extreme caution if not paid.

I know now that I am willing and able to learn to be a producer, because there are not enough producers because it’s a thankless task that should only be undertaken with extreme caution if not paid. (On that note, I shall be commencing a Bachelor of Arts/Bachelor of Business double degree this year – the better to understand the business side of the industry)

I know now that light on a performance space as much as the space itself, is another character in the performance, and can either help or hinder what we wish to see. It can bring a piece to life, or destroy it completely. Again (you know it), technical work is a thankless task that should be undertaken with extreme caution if not paid.

I know now that directors all have their methods, and while they may not know what the outcome will be, they always have an idea, and it’s the idea that sustains them through all the rehearsals they feel haven’t changed the piece, and all the meetings with the producer that remind them how little time and money they can really use. It’s a thankless task, and should be undertaken with extreme caution if not paid.

I know now that writers do not communicate with each other enough. I know that they hide their work because they fear something that is a part of them becoming destroyed by the world of commercialism (not really. They fear a part of them being destroyed by themselves). I know that I have not read enough new plays this year, but I have read enough to see that there is incredible potential that is untapped in the industry. I know now that writing is something you must yearn to do, and be fearless about, otherwise you lose the ideals you started with in the first place, like the gossamer strings of a web as a spider builds. The writer’s job is to build the world without anyone noticing that it has been built. It is a thankless task, and should be undertaken with extreme caution if not paid.

I know now that actors are intensely passionate about what they want, what they know and what they don’t. I know that they want to be involved with a process rather than told what to say and where to stand. I know that they have ideas too. I know that they are not puppets, they are living, feeling, breathing creatures that are as creative as all the above. I know that a good actor is a smart actor. I know that acting is a sport that needs training. I know that training comes in many forms and I know very very many incredible unknown actors. I know that I am an actor. But I also know that I am not an actor. I am an artist, and in this industry, I am aware that there are more artists than actors. It is a thankless task that should be undertaken with extreme caution if not paid.

This is the industry I live in. And guess what? Very little (if any) of it is paid. But all these people come together to create something amazing. Day after day a writer, director, producer, designer, manager has ideas. They have ideas.

Ideas.

And I can’t begin to tell you how much I love this. Ideas, when shared, bring an incredible oneness to humanity. Sport is another way of seeing this oneness. Religion. Dance. Music. Love. This drawing together of people from so many different experiences that we can’t comprehend how many ways in which the same task could be done.

This is what I shall be taking into 2012. Ideas.

I will be sharing my writing, directing, performing skills, and giving as much as I can to producing. I will be producing and directing my own work, Inside/Out, because I would like to learn more about directing and producing work without destroying someone else’s writing. I will be rearranging sonnets and creating new work for as many people as I can. I will be offering my services as an opinion writer to other writers, to other performers, to as many people as may want them.

I’m not a master of anything. I can only give an opinion, a humble and rash and emotive opinion of what I see and how I see it. I read a piece of script and have a reaction to it. That is all. A performer, a writer can only do so much alone. So I want any writers that read this, and any friends of writers that read this to know that if you need someone that will cast no judgement on your work, simply offer an opinion: “You’re not alone. I’m here. And while I may not have the answers, sometimes it’s just nice to hear someone tell you what they think.”

I’ve said on many occasions that I love words. I love the way they sound, the way they taste and the way they smell. I touch them with my tongue, with body parts – when I’m signing, I touch them with my hands and eyes, when I’m blind, I touch them with my ears. Beyond touch, I love the way that a word order can be entirely new. I love that humans have developed this incredible way of taking random words and putting one after another after another to create something that only they could have imagined. Only they could have written those words in whatever state they were in at the time. Just as a thousand different actors would have a thousand different reactions to the same six words “to be or not to be”, a thousand writers with a common story would write it a thousand different ways.

It is a force to be reckoned with.

A thousand minds – a thousand thousand minds – and this is the one that creates.

It’s mind boggling. And stunningly beautiful.

Thank you 2011.

Traditional Fijian dance

Last night I saw a performance. I am currently in Fiji during wet season and it doesn’t change the magnificent sense of beauty I get from this place. The country has beautiful people, beautiful land and incredible smells, tastes, textures and culture. This is what I experienced last night. Culture. I saw some traditional dance. What really intrigued me was not that they were all perfectly on pointe, or that their energy was incredibly high, or that they were perfectly in time with each other, because they weren’t. What was absolutely amazing was the sense of ensemble I got from them. The performance I saw was paid, just like any theatrical experience, and yet it looked like a close knit family just coming together for a party. And this was beautiful. It made me consider how there can be “divas” in the industry, how they can feel like they’re hard done by because they’re not the best, or in front, or they don’t have their solo moment, or they’re moment is taken away from them because a kid cries in the third row. These were just a close-knit community sharing their culture. They had traditional spear dances and fan dances, and I could see that they truly loved the movements they were making with their hands, feet, bodies. They were proud of their heritage, their group. It was not perfect, and yet it was perfect. When the young Fijian children started to join in, aware of most of the moves, but not all, I could see the grace and precision with which they made seemingly simple motions, and how the children were still learning, but would one day be every bit as precise, because they were learning for the love of it, for the love of the country and the people. You could see that this seven-year-old girl understood the reason for each of the hand gestures she made, or the reason her head bobbed from side to side. The timing may have been out, the harmonies “untidy”, but the senses were awoken in so many different ways that they added to the charm of the performance. The fantastic thing was that the dance was both heightened, and yet entirely naturalistic. The ideas being portrayed were explored using heightened movement, and yet it was a naturalistic view of the Fijian people as a whole.

 

It’s almost impossible to describe, and yet I’m sure you understand what I mean.

Traditional Fijian Dancing

The traditional spear dance

The Ugly One – a somewhat confused response

On Saturday night I saw the closing performance of “The Ugly One”. As I am gearing up to work in the world of direction next year, I was lucky enough also to assist the producer, Arts Radar, on the show. I helped from the marketing perspective, sending out internet page listings, getting everyone involved in ticket prizes and the like.  Opening night came and went. Since I was working on “How to lose sight”, I didn’t get to see this at the beginning of the run, and therefore had read both the play and some of the reviews about the piece. It also didn’t help that I had to sneak in five minutes late. How? I’d been advertising the show and its times for the last month…I don’t know. I’m impressed sometimes by my own foolishness…

But the play. The play’s the thing.

I enjoyed it on the level I think it was supposed to be enjoyed. The performers were fantastic with incredible control over their bodies and admirable (I literally admire them) control over their voices, as well as a fondness for apples and oranges. The play was a satire about plastic surgery. I’d read it. I knew it was hilarious. It gave me questions about how comedy influences subject matter. Comedy is a fantastic vessel for getting across a story, or theme, or a confronting topic. I deliberately joke about my ethnicity all the time. Australians try to make a habit of deliberately noticing or not noticing that I’m black, so me joking about it brings it into the open and they find it easier to let go of. Plays written to bring a particular social issue to mind therefore need a very fine balance of comedy and seriousness to cut through the ideas and into the mind.  I’m not certain I got that with The Ugly One, and I’m also not certain if it was the direction or the script. As I say, I had read the script about a month and a half before I saw the performance, and there were laughs on every page. The whole thing was beautifully constructed, but I felt something missing in my viewing of the piece. I loved the way each joke was handled, I loved the obvious detailing of the space and the actors were fantastic but I guess what I was missing was the depth. And now I think about it, the piece was not based on subtext. It was based on obvious and blatant laughs because we ourselves recognize certain phrases being said that we may have said, or heard, or thought. The satire was well created in that way. But…I missed something. Perhaps I was trying to read too much into it, but I did miss something and I feel that it wasn’t enough as a result. I felt like the beautiful monologue at the end of the play should have made me cry. It doesn’t feel like “The Ugly One” should have been such a clear cut satire about beauty and plastic surgery. It could also have touched me deeper than it did. And that’s a shame. It was a masterly piece of theatre, but it didn’t make me think. Or maybe it did. Perhaps this was the point and I’ve just managed to play into Marius Von Mayenburg’s hands by pointing out deliberate shallowness of text and this frustration is a result of my desperation to see the depth in people.

And maybe it was just supposed to make me laugh.

It worked.

Why I spend so much time on Facebook / Connection

I have a real penchant for connection and connectability (which the dictionary says isn’t a real word. The definition is in the word, so I don’t mind). I have been lightly mocked for always having a presence on Facebook as a result of this, and it has only just struck me how important it is to me to see little flares of connection happening between people. Because I spend so much time with words, I see their potential, I see all their subtleties and I see their sounds. And by seeing their sounds I mean the deliberate choice of each word that people associate with the information they are trying to convey, the assonance, alliteration and rhythm of the words they use and the way they bounce off the page almost exactly the way the writer may have spoken it. It’s almost a sensation of being able to hear the writers talk as they write. Everyone’s voice is so superbly different, and each voice rings in its own way, has its own timbre, accent, inflection. Incorrect usage of a word becomes an idiosyncrasy, then a new definition, and a new language unto itself.

How could an artist spend time away from social media? The way in which we communicate with the world seems so different to the way we communicate with each other on a personal level, and yet in the same breath we are all quite comfortable with having entirely private conversations in the public domain, and the rest of the world is quite happy to accept its privacy. It’s along the same lines as a couple forgetting there are people around them while they kiss each other goodbye at a train station. The world around them dissolves as they are simply in each other for a moment. The difference, the incredible and sharp difference is that all the information passed between the two people is still there. So every conversation you have with someone on Facebook will be a snapshot of your life at that time. For good or ill. I am of the perspective that it is neither good nor bad. At this point in our understanding of technology, and our development as a species, this is the only way to be. This may change. People have private conversations on the public domain. I’m having one now. Both literally on facebook, but also with you. This is our private conversation. The thing is, it’s written on a public domain, therefore it is readable by all. Shared. Like ants in a colony. Shared knowledge, shared mentality. The idea that humans’ brains are developing in such a way that we don’t remember information any more – we remember where to get the information –  is fascinating.

And that is why I spend so much time on Facebook.

Full of atoms

I see you. He leans out from behind the chair. Makes a face. A loud face. I see you. I hide. He hides. Do I have to see you? Do we have to talk? Do we have to do this thing? Now? Here? I just…
Look, truth be told, I’m just not really into you. She said that. She says that. Over and over and over. Doesn’t make it any less hot. Doesn’t make me want her less. Skin, grace, poise, aura – aura. Energy. Playful. She’s playful. That’s why I can hide. Right? She likes it when he hides. I hide.
So.
Yeah. I see you. He leans out, tickles you. He tickles you. Aren’t you ticklish? I tickle you now. Respond. React. Hello? Give me that, something. Give it to me. Give it to me. Give it to me. Can it be taken? Or must it be given? If it belongs to you in the first place, it only makes sense that you should be able to…
ONE should be able to take it back.
Take it back suggests it was yours – ones – to begin with.
Would one care for it back?
He hides behind the chair. What if I don’t want to give it back?
You can’t see me.
Audience. Yes, I know who you are. Exactly who you are. Does that scare you? Does it unnerve you, frighten you, send a chill down your spine?
It. You. It. I know who it. You. It. Are. Is.
There’s a machine in the desert – you’ll know about this – one should know about this – a machine that throws atoms together at incredible speeds so we can see what happens. I’m sure there’s more of a point to it, but primarily, we just want to see what happens. And there was a scare the other day because they thought there would be a black hole created and we all know what black holes do. They do what empty does.
Empty is hungry; hungry eats.
It eats and eats and eats and draws everything into itself until
Nothing is left. Until one is left with a sense of nothing.
But that’s kind of funny, because if a black hole is sucking everything into it, it’s both empty and full. It’s Nothing and Everything. And that’s my point.
What?
The point. Yes.
Everything and nothing. You see? I hide behind the chair – He hides behind the chair. Everything and nothing. You know I’m here, and yet you can’t see me, so I’m not. I’m Schrödinger’s cat. A lead box –
Attractive. She’s very
Soft. Soft skin. Smells delicious.
Tastes better.
A black hole. Empty. Empty pools of darkness.
I see you.
I just can’t get over you. That’s what she says. Everything and nothing.
You don’t think I can
See you.
If I can’t see you, you can’t see me.
I see you, though.
He sees you. He sees the audience.
I smell you. Your scent is latent on his tongue.
You smell delicious and sound devine.
You look…
A lead box. Security. Why get out of the black hole when we can feel safe in what we know?
Risk, danger.
Unexpected joy. Thrill. New things.
A spark. We just have that spark, I guess. Atoms. Atoms dancing with each other to create
What?
Something new. Something empty and yet wholesome.
A world of gaze. Gaze.
Gays
Looking. Looking? I gaze back. Truth and freedom and trust.
Get this thing off me.
No, it is you.
Get it off.
Don’t be silly.
Atoms thrown together. Throw the wrong ones, eat chocolate cake.
Always the same, always different. Think that’s an impossibility? No.
Touch me. Him. You. Touch. Choose. Choose. It’s not audience participation, you don’t have to fear.
It’s a reaction. Just a reaction. Following an impulse. A desire. Desire to do whatever you want to do. Whatever you want to. Not. Whatever I don’t know.
I’m an atom. An atom has an electrical charge. It wants another atom to join it. Live with it. Live in it. Touch now?
Do you ever feel empty? I don’t mean drained. Drained means you had something in you that you don’t have now. Empty. Devoid of everything? As if you never had anything to begin with: As if you’re waiting for something to come and fill you up.
Or not.
Empty chair? What if he sits in it? Filled chair, yes? Yes, he sits in an empty chair, fills it. But no.
No.
NO.
Incorrect. Absurd.
Atoms. Atoms linked together to form air, warmed by his body, knocked, jostled, touched by other atoms. The chair is too full. Too full for a human.
A whole human body.
Can you just touch me? Nothing fancy, just
Trying to remember that I’m here.
The atoms push him off. The chair looks empty. It is full.
It is one of a kind, and yet nothing special.
You’re nothing special. Unless I make you special?
Special atom. The black hole of my dreams. The nightmare I don’t remember having in the dark of night, in the subconscious me. The dead-time between sleep and waking.
The atoms.
The atoms.
Special atoms.
Empty.
Then full.
Dead-time. I touch you. He touches you in reflex. Reacting to –
Sorry? I missed that. What did you say?