pause
I think about when we started reading things out loud at the Attic: we were doing it for our own pleasure but also because no one takes dramatic readings seriously anymore Because we needed to keep active Test potential material Do previews for upcoming productions - but, we were also trying to provide a pause; a capsule just a step out of regular time, some kind of insulation or covering to take you through the trudge with less friction. Ambitious, perhaps, but then... why not?
'Entertainment' is a bigger word than people think.
I don't know the Purpose of Art. I can't articulate it comprehensively because 'Art' is a big word. (I know it's only three letters but it's starts with a capital, and if three letters make a big word, it's worth paying attention to.) I love it because it indulges me, and there is much I find through this indulgence. The world is made up of a number of things so vast that we can't consciously hold it in our minds. Things happen and don't unhappen and there is no replay. There is no slowing down. Your pet passes away, a grandparent falls down in the bath, your sibling wins the spelling-bee, terrorists attack Bombay, your mother cooks a meal after an age, your boss is a dick, your best friend breaks your favourite toy, Chelsea finally goes under, you win the spelling-bee, whatever. Things happen and don't unhappen and you assimilate them on-the-go.
My uncle once told me about a brilliant friend he had: his articulation was legendary, and frightening; he could express himself so precisely, it was terrifying. It made you uncomfortable because perhaps his level of articulation would presume (or prove) a certain distance from the feeling expressed: if he felt miserably happy and expressed it precisely, then did he really feel it as acutely as he described it? This is certainly one extreme to think about.
But sometimes I feel the other extreme is what most of us rapidly approach in ourselves: where we feel things and can't express them. We're bombarded by the world on what to think, feel, do about significant things. Sometimes nothing really significant happens and we're bombarded with information and advice again - some kind of signal that we're supposed to recognise this as significant, historical, blah. I think, many times we're compelled to react immediately - like, a failure or refusal to react is a sign of wanting - but often an immediate reaction is what prevents a 'significant' reaction. Sometimes it's like being woken up violently at night and then stumbling about in the dark trying to put things right.
And perhaps we're all moving at different velocities to the turning of the Earth, unable by design to wrap our heads around ourselves. I have this strange image of turning my head to look at my back and finding the hollow men the stuffed men headpiece filled with straw dried voices whispering.
What I need... is a pause.
Just a space to breathe. And be. And be stable. To let the roiling waters settle. Theatre is an unusual laboratory: in a laboratory, experiments can be controlled and replayed, but not in Theatre. However, it is a living space where feeling, being, thinking can be explored. It's like watching a whole world grow and die within a few hours, and though it is an experience, it isn't real life - for a particular value of real - because it might ressurrect.
I watched a performance on Monday called Could I Just Draw Your Attention to the Brevity of Life? choreographed by Philippe Saire. There's a lot to be said about the show, but I want to talk about one moment in the whole episode. A dancer came on holding a large mirrorball. They'd lit the stage in such a way that the lights didn't hit the mirrorball, didn't cause that little explosion of stars on every wall. The dancer stood there, in silence, waiting for something to happen; and we waited with her. After the played-out awkwardness of waiting, she did a little dance, and finally brought the ball down, supported on the incline of her right leg and stopped... and the lights hit the ball and there was the explosion. And, she didn't play with it, didn't spin the ball around, make it dance and stun the audience. She just held it there, with the reflection of the ball reaching out to every wall.
I think about another recent experience I had, watching a movie this time called Waitress. It's a very good movie and I liked it very much but I'm ambivalent about the ending; not the ending itself, but rather the way it's presented. The colours are brighter, more solid - fiercer in a quiet ordered way - the world saturated with gaiety and happiness. I wondered if the moment was real, and N remarked that perhaps by being somewhat almost hyper-real, it was real. I mean, after all stories tell you that sometimes life can be this good, good things can happen, miracles are commonplace. Sometimes the bad relents.
Like in Monster's Ball when Billy Bob Thornton and Halle Berry sit on the steps at the end of the movie and eat ice-cream. You're wondering what's going to happen, because there are no walls between them anymore, and that can be frightening given who they are to each other. And then, the music changes, and her expression changes, and you know everything is going to be alright. It's a moment. A happy thought that spills out of the screen. But there's a moment just before this moment - a moment inside a moment almost - where everything is on a hinge, fragile. And we hold our breath, before we breathe again.
Here are a few songs that've been playing in my head:
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