These are stills from the first work-in-progress of my new show, ‘Superheroines I Have Known & Loved’. The show was written and performed by Delia Remy and myself, and directed by Hetain Patel. It featured music scored by Amy May, and played by the May Ensemble. We previewed at Rich Mix on Dec 5th 2015, and will develop the full show to tour in 2015.
This is a commission from performance poetry organisation Apples and Snakes. I was asked to make a response to the first World War, as part of the centenary of the war in 2014.
Though there’s still a faint smile crease in Penelope’s cheeks, she can no longer speak. She hasn’t got long to live; had a good innings. Reached a ton. Lost her husband to World War One.
Kimberley sits by her great grandmother’s hospital bed, bored. She’s got better things to do. Looks at Penelope, her silver curls of hair, eyes watery blue. Her skin pinpricks Kimberley’s curiosity; frail and papery, like the bark of a birch tree, but above the wrist there are whorls, like colourless bruises, or inkless tattoos.
“Not long left, eh, nan?”
Barbed wire whispers from her dad: “Kimberley! Don’t be so bloody rude!”
Kimberley shrugs, and turns on the six o’clock news. Same old, same old; someone called Saddam just invaded Kuwait, and the USA is in a panic. Kimberley puts her Walkman on to escape, throwing shapes in her head to a pirated tape of Public Enemy’s ‘Fear Of A Black Planet’. She slips out the door, crosses the ward, heading for a fag outside Guy’s hospital. Lights up at the foot of a memorial to those who lost their lives between 1914 – 18. Stubs out her fag; in her ears, her hero Chuck D screams “We gotta fight the powers that be”. She stares up at the arch with disdain. Her eyes see a crumbling invocation of an old, weak, dying nation, whose coffers were filled through exploitation. To Kimberley, what these commemorations actually say is “Britain Rules The Waves”; monuments to yesterday, used by the powers that be to keep people dumb and enslaved, doing whatever their government says. She scrawls ‘Fuck War’ on the wall, her marker pen mightier than the sword. Turns round to see an old man staring. He’s furious at what she’s done, but also scared.
He’s got a mole the size of a small coin in the centre of his brow, like a third eye.
“Got a problem?” hisses Kimberley. He shuffles away, and she shouts, “And don’t you fucking look back, alright?”
A boy, hardly yet a man, a mole the size of a small coin in the centre of his brow, like a third eye, stands shivering in a trench, covered in freezing mud. By now. he’s gotten used to the stench – overflowing latrines, rotting feet – but he still hasn’t gotten used to the corpses, or to the blood.
Other things give him the creeps. Rats; big, hairy, fat beasts that run across his face when he’s trying to sleep; and lice, which bed themselves in every seam and every crease. And then there is fear. Fear pervades all. It soaks into his boots from the freezing water underfoot; it crumbles into his fingers, like these bastard walls. Fear of death; fear of not dying, and instead staring down at what will be left; ravaged limbs. Perhaps the loss of feeling in his hands. He fears the command which asks him to go over the top, stumbling into No Man’s Land.
A man kneels down next to the boy, unzips a flask, pours him a tot of rum, which instantly warms him up. “It’s not the end of the world, is it, son?” The man flashes a grin. The boy smiles back at the terrible joke; something inside him gives in. From that moment on, the two become friends. And together, they will eventually play a part in shaping history; but it won’t be the battle they are decorated for, which the one that survives will remember; instead, it will be the camaraderie.
For the two begin to tell each other stories. They cling to each other through the tales they tell. Facts, fictions and fabrications weave together like the threads of a banishing spell, which keep them protected from bullets and shells, rain and cold. The older tells the younger about where he’s going to go when he gets out of this hellhole; tells him of the life he’s got back at home. He describes leaving New Street train station, waving his kids and his missus goodbye; recalls the tears in his wife Penelope’s eyes.
When the young man returns from war, two years older, decorated soldier, he visits Penelope to express his lament, and speak of the love embedded in the stories told between men.
Penelope opens the door and smiles. Silver curls of hair, watery blue eyes. He notices the skin on her hands; frail and papery, like the bark of a birch tree. Above the wrist there are whorls, like colourless bruises, or inkless tattoos. She offers him a cup of tea; nods sagely, tight lipped, as he unveils his memories. She looks relieved. He takes his leave.
As she shuts the door behind him, Penelope sighs; sits on the staircase and cries, bereft. Runs a finger over the burns in her arm, made by her husband in a drink-fuelled rage before he left. Surface wounds retained from her own war, but perhaps the least of the damage she sustained; far worse are the feelings of self-hatred, inadequacy and shame which pervade her delicate frame like his open handed slaps and – when he was really pissed – his closed fists.
Things aren’t always as clear-cut as they’re made out to be. People we cite as heroic are also fallible, filled with very human flaws; cowardice, bitterness, tyranny, guilt. Sometimes we shield our eyes, for fear of seeing what secrets lie inside the heroes we have built.
At New Street Station, she waved him goodbye, amidst thousands of women saying farewell to their men, perhaps for the last time. She wanted to look like she was crying. She fingered an onion in her pocket, to make her eyes wet.
Kimberley toys with a locket, strung around her neck.
She’s been wearing it for a while; it belonged to her great grandmother, Penelope, who died years ago, when Kimberley was still a kid, a rebel without a pause, all anti-this and anti-that and militant rap and sharpened claws. Now she finds herself walking the same streets which as a youth, she used to tag with a marker pen, and a ‘Fuck you’ attitude. She’s been walking for hours, which she likes to do whenever she’s upset; she’s just left Eddies’s flat, and he’s in the worst state she’s seen yet.
Who could have predicted that when she was older, Kimberley, once bitter, sour, fighting the power, would fall in love with a soldier?
Things weren’t going to be run of the mill if your lover was called Eddie Khan. Born a Muslim, served the British army; campaigns included Kosovo and Afghanistan. Still, they made a good team. He didn’t tell her the nightmares he’d seen, and she didn’t share the stuff of her dreams. But two years ago, Eddie returned home a ghost; relieved of his post midway through the second Iraq war, due to the traumas he suffered on tour, in particular one nightmare he’d seen.
At first, he lived with Kimberley. Periods of depression, paranoia, anxiety. Couldn’t get a job. Started to sink. Over the years, he’d left his religion behind and learnt to drink. Alcohol exacerbated the monkeys in Eddie’s head. He drenched the sheets with cold sweats. Kimberley would sleep in a different bed; it’s tiring looking after someone who’s depressed. After three or four tins, he’d stare; a look which left her feeling scared. One night he grabbed her by the neck. Kimberley moved out. She loved Eddie, but wasn’t about to become a victim of his crap. He needed help, and she promised him that, but from the safety of a nearby flat.
Today, Eddie Khan is a mess. Four in the afternoon and still hasn’t got dressed. He’s raving about how the government won’t support him. They trained him to kill, he says, but as soon as he became a civvy, he ceased to become important. Kimberley leaves – he is struggling, alone, irate. Now she’s on a long walk, trying to get her head straight. She finds herself at the foot of a memorial to war. She looks at the statues of soldiers, captured and frozen in time. She starts to cry. In her is triggered a grief for those caught in a battle with no choice but to fight. Those who struggle with the things they’ve seen. Eddie Khan. Penelope. Those who sacrifice their lives, in service of their fellow men.
We must remember the terrible things we’ve done in the past – so we do not do them again. We must forgive – but not forget. Allow the past to serve as a reminder. In every action we make, every single thing we do – can we be kinder?
An old man stands next to Kimberley. He sees her crying. Worries that if he interferes, she might tell him to go away; he takes the risk anyway. He puts her hand on her shoulder gently, and this is what he has to say;
“It’s ok, love. It’s ok.”
At 7.30am there is a knock at my door which wakes me from slumber and reverie, which is odd. I live in a gated complex; it is unusual for me to receive visitors at any time. I don’t get up out of bed; I slept at 4am, having been struck by the urge to work until the early hours of the morning; never deny the muse.
Nevertheless, the rude awakening punctuated one of those dreams we have which feels so deliciously rich and poignant at the time of waking, but which begins to decay in the light of the day; this morning, I was afforded the opportunity to reflect upon that dream.
I love dreaming. I am fascinated by the imagery the sleeping mind conjures; fantastical narratives are born, of elastic duration, in a nebulous space that is the most subjective of experiences.
I have been pig-headed enough, in my life, to create a lifestyle where dreaming, play and creativity take centre stage. Often I consider this frivolous; a luxury my parents and relatives could not afford. Many would baulk at my choices, for who can afford the time to roll around in the cumulo-substrata of their dreams? For me, this is the realm of the artist.
An artist is a fascinating leaf on the human tree, with its broad spectrum of experience. All of us are valuable nodes, in this crazy-ass experiment we call humanity. The litter-picker; the bean counter; and, indeed, the dreamer. What is the role of the artist, if not to fully give herself over to the imagination, to immerse herself in dreams?
Last night, I watched a brilliant TED talk by one of my favourite musicians, Nitin Sawhney, in which he lightly touched upon the dance of chance across which artists often happenstance, by reflecting on a conversation between two schools of thought, if you will; East and West. He compared classical music traditions; Indian (emerging from an oral tradition, with a subjective, interpretive structure, relying on spontaneous creativity and uncertainty) and European (written tradition, a set structure and composition, and relying on certainty).
The talk began with Sawnhey reflecting on the meeting between two giants of the mind, Tagore and Einstein (Rabindranath Tagore is less known to Westerners. A polymath, he is perhaps most popular for his songs, poetry and literature. Despite being ardently anti-nationalist, he inadvertently penned songs which were adopted as national anthems by India and Bangladesh, but his polymathematics extended to the field of philosophy, sustainability, human rights, and many other fields. What I perhaps adore most about him is that despite being a Nobel laureate, his poems and songs can be recited by pretty much every single one of the 250 million odd Bengali speakers on the planet alive today; his work translates to the common people.)
According to Sawhney’s illuminating talk, scientists like Einstein – a talented violin player himself – had no sway with the mathematics of chance and whim. Not for him the flighty creativity of Beethoven; instead, he preferred the clinical ouevre of Mozart. To Einstein, the world was ordered, and his job was to to uncover that order, or symmetry. He had little time for flights of fancy. I doubt he would have given much time over to consider his dreams. Whom amongst us would?!
The 1930’s, when Tagore and Einstein had their famous meeting, also gave rise to the psychoanalytic movement in Vienna, down to the work of two brilliant men, Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung.
In his documentary “The Power Of Nightmares“, film maker Adam Curtis suggests that the worlds of marketing and advertising, which has had such a remarkable effect on the world we live in today, was a direct result of Freud’s work.
The soft science of psychology is in its infancy. The advent of MRI brain scans will push the science on immeasurably in the next century, but before we learnt to see inside the brain, we could only postulate how it worked; hence the pseudo-science of psychoanalysis (which still has so many advocates, despite its inaccuracies, flights of fancy and – at £60 per session weekly for at least a year – expensive navel gazing).
Of course, both Freud and Jung – firm peers and colleagues at one point – were fascinated by the realm of dream; you might infer that much of their work centred on that indeterminate world where time becomes plastic, fantastic, elastic; a world where we humans, with our love of stories and storytellers, collude as both performer and rapt audience in the most weird and wonderful arena of the unloosed mind. Ridley Scott’s ‘Bladerunner’ was based on a Philip K Dick novel with a delightful name: ‘Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?’
It’s going to be a while before science gets to grips with dreaming. Let’s hope that scientists of the future will be more creative in their approach.
(My favourite neuroscientist on the planet is David Eagleman, a man who seems determined to use his laboratory in ways which might be considered highly creative. We’re used to science breaking things down into smaller and smaller, quantifiable components; Eagleman, however, is a big thinker; he is interested in the vast amounts we don’t know yet, not the tiny amount we do, and speaks eloquently about the role of creativity in science. It’s a burgeoning field; this year I was lucky enough to make acquaintance with the brilliant Dan Glaser. Dan specialises in creating bridges between science and art. Currently director of the Science Gallery, this autumn Dan became the first scientist to judge the Man Booker Prize. He’s been involved with the Body of Songs, a collection of songs inspired by the body’s organs, by the likes of Ghostpoet and Bat For Lashes.
One might say that if Freud and Jung could be considered scientists (and psychoanalysis is indeed a branch of the soft science of psychology, but let’s not forget the fact that at the turn of last century, phrenology was taken pretty seriously), then their laboratories were subject to subjectivity of the highest order.
Though their methodologies seem a little archaic now (heaven forbid anyone who would today put themselves through the kind of “Tell me about your mother” couch therapy, so popular amongst the good and the great of 1930′s Vienna), Jung was definitely a sharp thinker, whose later meanderings saw him become fascinated by different models of thinking, specifically Chinese; he loved the I Ching, which is such a wonderful playground of metaphor for those who don’t like to think straight. Indeed, Jung’s world of archetypes was dominated by myth and dream; The writer Alan Moore calls this shapeless world, from which we grasp our ideas, as idea space. I’m not sure what Neil Gaiman calls it – in the Sandman series, he imagines a very Jungian world called The Dreaming – but he certainly draws from this amorphous pool, to create his stories.
Look – I’m going to be honest. Despite all these ideas, spewing forth from my head in some kind of thought-blancmange, I’m not the sharpest tool in the box. My clevererer friends often bat their lashes at me in that condescending way one does when listening to kids who spout crap in their efforts to figure things out. I guess all I’m saying is that I want science to get to grips with dreams; I want to dig around in the earwax of that underworld with a scientific probe; I want to dive into that space inbetween, in an effort to penetrate what I’m convinced – in my blissful ignorance – lies somewhere outside of my mind, in a yet undiscovered place, somewhere outside of relative time and space.
“O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space—were it not that I have bad dreams.” – Hamlet
And by the way – here’s my morning’s dream...
Shot on a budget of £63.73, Edwin Van Durfelwenkel’s breakthrough film was a strange tale which began with a woman who learnt to listen to her lover’s dreams by inserting her tongue into his ear as he slept.
The tongue became a storehouse of dreams, and soon began to develop its own desires, fed by the nightly fantasies cooked up in the backwater nether-synapses of the woman’s lover. One night, as the woman made herself a midnight snack (bacon and maple syrup on waffles), the tongue grabbed hold of the knife she had inadvertently placed in her mouth, and cut itself off, upon which it ran out of the house; waited patiently until first light; then caught a train to Whitstable, whereupon it stood forlornly by the rollicking waves, until a plan of action formed.
For the next six years, the tongue lived the life of Reilly on a seaside resort in Trinidad and Tobago, earning money from stocks invested in the country’s large supply of bitumen (primarily used in the construction of autobahns) until it fell in love with a handsome young gigolo, whose ulterior motive was to use his fleshy counterpart to procure a visa to a land where sheer stockings were considered the norm amongst a certain class of lady;
The denouement involved the kidnapping of Formula One asshole Bernie Ecclestone, whose subsequent brainwashing allowed his billions of millions to be divested into research and development of 100% biodegradable everything.
A young Fifi LaTrident starred as the tongue, and soon after the accolades poured on her saw the procurement of her role as a Higgs Boson molecule in the box office smash, Atom Heart Eats the Revenge of the Heisenberg Principle.
(a spoken word piece which employs the cheap trick of rhyme to entertain)
Eight hours of daylight here, on the shortest day of the year.
The air is crisp, cold. The sky is bright, blue, clear – not quite the deep azure hues common to a Scandinavian atmosphere, but still unique, rarified. Edge closer to the equator and the sky pales, as it becomes wide.
I get on my bike to make the most the day; as soon as it gets dark I tend to hibernate. We’re still animals, I guess. My best friend bleeds to the moon, and a lack of sunlight tends to make both of us depressed.
I cycle along the canal. It must be freezing on the barges. Two years ago, all the wood went missing on park benches in a particularly cold snap. I can imagine boat people’s guilt at damage to public property, before acquiescing to frozen synapses, crying “Fuck it. It’s bitter!” and pulling out their axes.
But today’s not so bad; the wind bites. It’s nothing if, like me, you’ve discovered the joy of tights. I pass through the trees, now naked except for the most tenacious of leaves, in Victoria Park; cut back on the canal through to Broadway Market.
Every second dude I pass has got a full length bush on his face. Under my breath, I exhale, ‘Cunt’. I imagine cutting off their beards with a pair of garden shears, under the auspices of the Beard Liberation Front. “BLO!”
A second later I regret the violence in my thought flow, and reflect upon the paradox of gentrification. We created the beast and then we fed it. We’re all a part of making it happen, but no one wants to take the credit.
I’m visiting friends in their studios. I bump into Mariko Montpetit in the lift. Japanese heritage, Canadian born, London for twenty years or so.
I pop into see Loonie and Chris. She’s Korean and he’s Irish. Both writers – he’s famous, writes illustrated books for kids. I love the way that she’s picked up the Dublin mannerisms of her man, which bleed through her Korean accent; when she likes something, she says, ‘Deadly’, or sometimes ‘Grand!’
Niko and Catia have popped round with their new-born child, all of six weeks. She’s Italian, he’s Greek. She’s on maternity leave, a psychotherapist from Great Ormond Street; he’s a film maker, and has carved himself out a nice little niche; he’s the go-to goy for bar mitzvah films (his crew are documenting three Yiddish rights of passage as we speak).
This is London. Mix up, mash up, ever since the eighties, but even more so lately; the schools I teach in hardly have any English-born white kids at all, and I celebrate that fact with hardly suppressed glee; when those kids come of age, they will have bypassed the struggles with identity that befit the modern nation, as we come to terms with the benefits of migration; the pros of globalization. An ever expanding tribe; just in time, for empathy towards those across the great divide will need to be running high, when millions start to die from the shit we’re pumping into the chain of supply.
The five of us shoot the shit. We haven’t caught up in a while. All of us hustling, struggling, building; funny how life changes when your friends start having children. Pop into see more friends next door; Indigo is with Ananda, his best friend. They’re in the middle of a chemistry experiment. They met when they were collecting awards for films they made; Jesus. Ananda is ten, Indigo is eight! I get out of there quick smart; I want to catch the last of daylight in the park.
The sun sets in the sky like a low hanging fruit, grasped by finger-like clouds. I navigate through crowds, making their way to a winter wonderland; hear someone call my name. An old friend I haven’t seen in a while – London-born Polak, Pete.
We shoot the breeze as buildings flame orange and peach. He points out that we’re next to a sewer, pumping all of North London’s effluence to the sea. We chat about a future where everything humans make – all of our waste – has no negative impact upon either the environment, or humanity. We reflect on the fact that we won’t be around; Pete muses, “Such is the human condition.” Instead, we’ll be witness to a generation coming to terms with everything our species has gained, and paradoxically the damage we’ve caused, through the economics of exploitation and competition.
We stop for a drink in a pop up bar in Hackney Wick. Pete sips a half pint of London ale; I drink mulled cider, made from pears. The sky’s now tinged with precious metal streaks.
While I suggest that home is situated in the moments people share, Pete argues that we are most at home in the languages we fluently speak.
As a writer, I have been trying to explore new forms throughout my career; I’m excited by taking risks with form and media. As such, I’ve looked to publish my words through music, film and in performance. The Tapestries below in this blog are an early attempt at digital storytelling. One of the stories I used in the recent work in progress of my new show ‘Superheroines I Have Known & Loved’, and also as a Tapestry (below on this blog), was that of a story called Saffron; I include it here as text.
Though, in my opinion, the piece works better when performed as spoken word (we juxtaposed it with music well recently, and I’ll be looking to record the piece as audio and video in the next month, which I hope to incorporate into a form of digital storytelling).
Her name was Saffron. She was lush. From lash to blush, with bee sting lips you screamed to kiss, her voice buttery, sweet liquorice, dark honey – gyal was crisp. A witches brew. A kind of blue. A darker hue. A velvet sheen more commonly seen in kings and queens of Eritrea. Sand dunes rippled and spooned in her triple dip; a sliver of a Shiva moon tucked into birds nest hair. She dressed her “irregular” body type however-the-focaccia she liked, be it bowler hats, baseball caps, silk tights, or the snakeskin boots in which she loved to dance. She was a buffalo girl in a buffalo stance.
And despite her chocolate skin, her hair was ninja, touched with a tinge of the ginger.
Called Saffron on account of her red top. She was the sun; a matchstick. And the name stuck. She carried it with her through all of her days, heart ablaze, fiery mane cradled by the same rays that once saw Icarus tumbling down from the sky, for daring to fly without listening first.
And like that mythical son, she too was filled with unquenchable thirst from a tender age, which saw her drink books, forgo TV, and even leave her family, for she was intent on learning, and they were content as they were. Spending her life as a caged bird, filled with the burning that emerges if your yearnings rage unheard; this was never gonna be good enough for her; and so aged sixteen she scarpered. Got on a bus out of town; call it a magic carpet.
Over the course of her migration, developed an awareness of her status as an an immigrant, learning to straddle that gulf which lies in between songs of experience , and those of innocence. At first she was galled, wounded, appalled at the names she was called. Painted lady. Witch. Black bird. Dyke. Ginger bitch. Such is the power of words; such is the nature of spite, fear, jealousy, disdain and anger. They crawl under the skin, a cancer eating us from within.
Ah, Saffron. If only you could have had known at that tender age that what we focus on grows. That sometimes, all of us feel alone. That each of us struggles under the burden of troubles which even the people who love us know nothing about.
That though some things in life are indeed bittersweet, you were the heart of a beetroot, beat of a drum, drum of a stick, pick of the catch, star attraction of that travelling circus of freaks proud… proud of the idiosyncracies which them apart from the crowd.
Saffy built a thorny fence around her tender molten centre; necking pills to dull the senses, weekends spent on whisky benders. She’d consider it a success if evenings out ended with her getting laid. But often she’d lie in her bed, curled up and afraid, scribbling love letters to herself on her arm with a blade. Endorphins coursed with every cut. With each puncture wound, she deflated, turmoil escaping her skin in a gaseous breath, a slice of enlightenment rising from the ashes of every self-inflicted little death.
One downcast day – the sky a concrete slab, a single shade of grey – a bolt of lightning lanced the boil that housed her pain.
That was the day her daddy left without saying goodbye.
She choked on the words which stuck in her throat when her family wrote that her leaving was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Stricken with remorse at the loss of his daughter, Jack had slowly slipped away, consumed by entropy and decay, until a final, fatal, heart attack.
Saffron and Jack cut were magnets. Put them together and they’d repel. Neither realised that what they despised in each other, they nurtured in themselves. She questioned why he couldn’t be more loving; he dismissed her as judgmental and stubborn. She tolerated him at a distance; the odd phone call at Christmas, or Father’s Day; but she loved him with the passion that one can hate a man, so her heart split apart when she heard he had passed away.
And so, on the evening before his cremation, took a swig of vodka from the bottle as libation, poured a drop to the earth to wet the teeth of the ancients, and caught a bus back home.
It was the month of October and the sky groaned. Trees mourned to the breeze, their leaves on fire, blazing. Blushing. Peach and plum, cherry and ruby, auburn, gold. Suburbs set alight, in a prelude to the night of Halloween, when the veil between angels and demons is diaphanous, gossamer, thin as a dream.
Saffy stood on the verge of a familiar threshold. Surprised that it still fit, she turned the key in the lock of her family home. A prickling of skin. The past came flooding in. She felt all of her yesterdays unfold. Climbing the stairs, she passed pictures on the wall. Her first day at school, pig tails, big smile, dressed in a pressed uniform. A Polaroid of her learning to walk. On a windswept beach, her in a mock fur coat, hugging Jack’s leg, freezing cold.
First floor; she passed her parent’s bedroom, and then hers. She rested her hand on the knob of the door, but as she started to turn it, changed her mind. There was something to be done before; someone else she’d come home to find.
She opened the hatch to the attic. Same as it ever was, bar a film of dust; static, born from the charge of memories untouched.
A lamp. Two armchairs. An ampl. Two fat wooden speakers. A pair of headphones; two turntables and a microphone. Each wall in the room stacked with records. Each disc a map of charcoal black, and every track a journey back towards that sacred place where music marries feeling to thought.
It was the one thing over which Saffy and her dad had never fought. It was him that introduced her to Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Curtis Mayfield, Michael Jackson, James Brown, and many more men she’d fallen in love with. You might say that they’d seduced her with their sound. Remember hearing your parent’s voice as a child, and how it made you feel at ease, how it calmed you down?
She thumbed through her father’s spells. Her heart began to race every time she pulled another memory of his face from the shelves. It was like holding her ear next to a sea shell; the smell of his aftershave, cool water drawn from a deep well. A half forgotten wave. A kiss. His stroking her hair. It was almost as if he was there, singing the song he’d sung to her as a child.
For hours, she retraced needle and stylus through dusty grooves of lacquered vinyl. That night, she travelled back through time and realized that she wasn’t alone.
As the music played, she cried and swayed in her father’s arms. She found him drowning in the sound of Sylvia Stryplin and Grace Jones; in Fontella Bass and Nina Simone.
Encoded in the static were patterns; bruises emphatically rendered by the musings of sirens who conjured the map of a territory she now began to recall. That night she discovered others whose lives had been scored with salt; others who’d feathered their arms with tiger stripes. In her father’s record racks she found a family who had, in their turn, been called bitches, birds, queers, nerds and other more insidious words.
Janis Joplyn, Joni Mitchell, Lauren Hill, Billie Holiday. Ani de Franco, Patti Smith, Alice Coltrane.
That night Saffy and her father re-acquainted themselves with outcastes, nasty girls, mistresses, hidden pearls;
And as she uncovered the bed-time lullabies which had taught her, as a child, to break free from the-tree-of-who-she-was-supposed-to-be, Saffron and her dad danced.
They rocked the bells to the break of dawn. They shook it like a Polaroid picture. They found the key to the part of their heart which unveils magic and mystery not only in love and in life, but also in loss and in grief;
For the passing of time teaches us so much. There is so much to learnt from living with pain. In watching our loved ones slowly slip away; in quietly sitting while daylight changes into dusk. When we die, we never really go away. Our love is transformed into sunlight and storms, and our memories charge the dust.
Last Friday, I presented a work in progress of a new piece of work ‘Superheroines I Have Known & Loved’ at Rich Mix in London.
Funded by the Arts Council, directed by Hetain Patel, featuring actress Delia Remy and a string quartet led by Amy May, the show was sold out.
As a work in progress, key to development for the future is listening to feedback from trusted others; A good (though heated) Q & A after the show was the beginning to this process.
All members of the audience received a book I published to accompany the show, which featured illustrations by Eugenia Loli.
One of the dilemmas surrounding the creative team was what to focus on, and to build the show around; should the show be for adults, or children? In the end, we reached a compromise which wasn’t perfect, but adequate for this stage in the process. The book was filled with children’s poetry, and the most well received parts of the show were spoken word pieces for adults, set to Amy’s brilliant score.
I look forward to speaking to many of the trusted friends who came to support the show, to receive their feedback on the presentation.
I am delighted to say that Arts Council England have awarded me a grant of £15,000 to fund the first period of development of my new show, ‘Superheroines I Have Known & Loved’.
A work in progress will be shown at Rich Mix in London on Dec 5th; purchase tickets here. It will be directed by Hetain Patel, and feature music from the May Ensemble, a fantastic string quartet led by Amy May.
The show deals with the difficult issue of gender. Though it has very adult themes, I will also be distributing a pamphlet of children’s poetry, illustrated by Laura Gomez Marin and designed by Raul San Mateo.
I will be mentored on the project by performance artist Bryony Kimmings, and the man behind Cinematic Orchestra, Jason Swinscoe.