Digging for Bait.

My dad and I spent hours at low tide
searching for worms.
Special worms.
Nothing like the ones at home.
Worms straight out of science fiction,
worms from lurid, shouting posters,
worms from the pits of hell.
Evil worms.
They had thick black hairy skin
and their pulsating bodies
lay hidden beneath the sand.
They were right there
under your feet.
Waiting.

Each worm lay between a tiny wet circle
and a little swirling pile of sand.
It was my job to look for these,
my dad’s job to dig.
Fast.
As soon as the worm felt that sand move
it sensed danger,
and it tunneled downwards
in a race for its life.
Rippling muscles, fear,
soft sand and the incoming tide
were pitted against my dad’s skill.
The losers ended up
squirming in a dirty bucket,
guts spilling out,
dying by inches.
One more body among many.
A freak show for visiting children to stare at-
objects of disgust and loathing.
All dignity gone.

It was the razor clams
who I felt sorry for.
They were hard to catch.
Long and elegant.
Beautiful. Sharp. Fast.
They lay far out on the beach,
low down in the sand,
like a special secret.
Sometimes if I begged hard
my dad allowed me to take one from the bucket,
lay it down on the sand and watch.
Just when I had lost hope
a strong white tongue
would slip out from the end of the shell,
curl downwards,
and stroke the sand gently,
preparing a way.
Finally, in a sudden lunge
that made me feel like cheering,
the whole shell would rise in the air
and shoot downwards
in a rush of celebration.
Gone.
Each one a life saved.

Tracey Emin and William Blake in focus. Tate Liverpool. 10-03-17.

My Bed, Tracey Emin 1998, and Nebuchadnezzer, William Blake 1795-c1805

Tracey Emin and William Blake are an interesting pairing for an exhibition. Their work shares a keen sense of draughtmanship and the use of a strong dramatic line- Tracey Emin can draw quite beautifully, something which people who have not seen much of her work don’t always realise, and for Blake his ability as a draughtsman was at the core of his skill as a master printmaker. More than anything though it is the deeply personal, dramatic nature of their work that links them for me. Everything that Emin makes or draws is searingly honest and direct, straight from the heart, and when you look at Blake’s work you can see his demons being exorcised and driven straight onto the page. Blake had little recognition in his own lifetime, he was often thought of as mad, thanks to his headstong temperament and unconventional behaviour. He was a true visionary who went his own way and produced work that proved to be both ground breaking and influential. A true original. Tracey Emin has done the same in her career to date, attracting a lot of praise along with some criticism, particularly for work like My Bed, which she made in 1998.

Nebuchadnezzer, who lived from c.605-c.562 was the second king of the Babylonian empire, a powerful, warlike all conquering figure who enlarged the empire which he inherited from his father and embarked on great civic projects, temples, processional roads and bridges. Blake has chosen to show him in not in his pomp but in his later years, when he became a vulnerable elderly man, irrational and suspicious of even his family. This led to the break down of his empire in the years after his death. It is a powerful image in which we can still see the power and dignity of a once great ruler, reduced to an almost animal like state as he crawls along the ground, naked and unkempt. His hair is long and wild, dragging along the wet ground and his nails are uncut, making his hands and feet look like great clawed paws. We can still see the strength of his muscles and the bulging blood vessels but this strength is now achieving nothing. He stares out, wide eyed, unsure of where he is or what he is doing. It is an image of desperation, a cry for help.

Tracey Emin’s My Bed is also a cry for help from the year 1998, almost twenty years ago now. It records the moment when she looked at the wreckage of her bed, in effect the wreckage of her life, and realised I can make Art out of this. I can survive. I can grow. It records a turning point in her life. We are so used to seeing this work now that the bravery and originality of removing the object wholesale and placing it in a gallery, exactly as it was, as a record of the squalor and pain of that moment, is hard to appreciate. It is an object so powerful that even people who have little interest in Art will often have something to say about it. There are strong opinions and controversy, perhaps because there is no visible skill on show. “We could all do that”. Well perhaps we could……….. but we didn’t, did we? The power of that moment when Tracey Emin DID do that still resonates. Unless we are very lucky we have all had those desperate moments when life reached a turning point for us and this bed represents those moments. It was rock bottom for Emin. The only way was up. Her creativity would save her- just as it did William Blake. So long as they could continue to produce Art they could both survive.

Noel and Gertie. Frinton Summer Theatre at the Stephen Joseph Theatre. 20-04-17

Noel and Gertie, Sheridan Morley’s play based on the close working relationship between two of the biggest stars of their age, Noel Coward and Gertrude Lawrence, was a lovely, undemanding way to spend an afternoon at the Stephen Joseph, pay tribute to two great talents and wallow in nostalgia. Sheridan Morley knew his theatre- particularly the theatre of this period- and his show is a carefully selected tribute to the range of Noel Coward’s work. Coward was always known as “the master” and his writing could range from high emotion to sharp light comedy in a single scene without missing a beat, as well as being a gifted songwriter and performer. He could do it all. Gertrude Lawrence, one of the biggest stars of her age, both benefited from his genius and brought her own charm and talent to it which allowed his work to shine even more brightly. They had a close, sparky relationship from the day that they first met as child performers until Lawrence died far too early at the age of 54. This relationship is sketched out in between extracts from their stage performances and forms an engaging thread through the show.

The show arrived in Scarborough as part of a short tour all the way from Frinton on Sea and found a perfect home in front of a mostly older matinee audience who loved it. It was performed with real delicacy and emotion by Ben Stock and Helen Powers who manage to bring two icons back to life. Helen Powers clear soprano voice is particularly beautiful and suits the style of that era perfectly- I loved Come the Wild Wild Weather. The extracts from the plays were a reminder of how much things have changed since Coward was writing. There is unashamed romanticism which we see very little of today and it was touchingly played and very well timed- not easy to do. The extract from Still Life, one of the plays from Tonight at Eight which deservedly went on to be expanded and become Brief Encounter was extremely well done and made me wish that I could see the two of them perform it all. The third member of the trio on stage, Jonathan Lee, who was both musical director and pianist provided some sensitive and witty accompaniment and kept everything moving. In short the show was a real treat, fast moving, witty and heartfelt.

The Winter’s Tale. Cheek by Jowl. Live relay from Silk Street Theatre, London. 19-04-17

Eleanor McLoughlin as Perdita. Production photograph by Johan Persson.

A Cheek by Jowl production is always full on and very theatrical, the company thrives on ideas and effects which can only be done in a live setting, using physical theatre and always prepared to take chances. Their production of Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale which was live streamed from Silk Street Theatre in London was no exception. I had some reservations- that almost always comes alongside risk taking- but overall it was an exciting and vibrant account of the play which resolved itself beautifully into harmony and forgiveness at the end.

There was no problem with Leontes sudden irrational jealousy in the opening scenes as it was made very clear by both the staging and by Orlando James fine performance that Leontes is suffering an episode of mental illness of some kind. He creates his wife’s infidelity in his own head and this is symbolised by having him create pictures of what he imagines by moving the bodies of Hermione and Polixenes into the compromising positions which he describes. It is a very effective device and Orlando James has extraordinary technical control as he does it while acting at a full pitch of emotion. His son Mamillius also has behaviour problems and Hermione’s quiet attempts to calm both of them- something that is obviously part of daily life in their household- are very telling. It really works, making sense of the difficult opening scenes and drawing us into a family that has been ready to implode for a long time. The first half zips along as we watch that implosion take place. Natalie Radmall- Quirke’s Hermione was especially strong and moving in the trial scene. It’s a gift of a scene for any actress and she made the most of it.

In the second half we were given a more decadent and wilful Bohemia than is usual. You could easily see why Florizel’s father was worried about his son leaving court to spend time there. There was danger, violence and licence at the sheep shearing celebration, these were not just well meaning homely peasants enjoying the simple life. There is always a dangerous side to Autolycus- the picker up of other people’s trifles- but in this production it spills over into brutality. While I liked Ryan Donaldson’s performance I wasn’t sure about that decision. I missed that open hearted freedom of Bohemia which is such a relief after the grey, irrational, claustrophobic court. Thankfully there was a wonderful Perdita, Eleanor McLoughlin, who had a strong, calm presence, absolutely believable as the daughter of Hermione.

The final scene where things are resolved and Hermione’s statue comes to life after all Leonte’s hope has gone and he has learned his lesson after long years of pain have passed was as magical as you could wish it to be. It was simply staged by candlelight, which is all it needs, and the reactions of all the company were true and heartfelt. The calm after the storm.

Declan Donnelan’s direction- particularly in those opening scenes- is masterly. It is always clear what he is aiming for and it never gets in the way of the performances. Cheek by Jowl has a long tradition of getting excellent young actors to work with them and it is easy to see why they would be attracted to the company. Nick Ormerod’s design is stark and simple, three raised wooden stage areas with wooden slatted drop down fronts behind an empty space. They are flexible enough to allow a variety of effects but there is nothing that isn’t needed- Edward Gordon Craig would have been proud. I have never seen the exit pursued by a bear done better.

It was a great treat to be given the chance to see the production by live relay without paying a penny. As ever I wish I could have been there but you can’t have everything.

Roots.

When I was a child
I scrambled along this same track,
my feet skimming these same roots.
I still know the footholds.
I was racing up my life,
eager to wear a new path
into adulthood,
longing to begin.

More than fifty years ago,
not quite a lifetime.

Each step was an adventure.
Grabbing hands,
curling toes
and silent shouts
forged a shortcut,
reaching out,
making an adventure
out of a long, dull trudge
up grey concrete steps,

More than fifty years ago,
in a different world.

Since then new young feet
have kept these roots visible,
as they climbed headlong
into their own lives,
kicking back the traces.
Each new generation has removed the earth,
saving them for the future,
and preserving the past.

It was more than fifty years ago,
but some things endure.

Written in Water.

I walk the edge of the sea,
watching the waves turn,
rolling out the minutes,
aligning the days,
singing the years.

My life has been written here,
my path freshly worn each day,
wiped clean by the tide.
My mark is made in shifting sand,
reflected in a shining sky,
blown out by the wind,
dampened by shivering grey fret.
A moment’s hubris.
It is for now.
It will not last.

Thoughts cast out
across the surface
of a floating world
lie for a moment,
then fade downwards.
Words unspoken, fears refuted,
joys concealed.
Lives lost in the darkness of the sea.
The sea which has heard everything
and says nothing.

I walk the edge of the sea,
rolling out the minutes,
aligning the days,
singing the years,
taking my time.

Here lies one whose name was writ in water. Feb 4th 1821.
John Keats epitaph.