Who would have believed it? Three weeks holidaying in Scotland and no rain. Well, a couple of times it did rain, but we were en route for our ferries so it didn't stop play. Scotland in late May/ June was truly magnificent. On the Solway Coast, in the South we stayed at a caravan park that had been awarded a David Bellamy gold star. Set in woodland, the Hawthorn trees were in full bloom, looking as if a giant had poured double cream from a pitcher all over the woodland. Or, as I heard one child ask his mother,'Is that a snow tree?'
This area is called the Scottish Riviera, and with its pretty villages and beaches it's easy to see why. It's a very undiscovered part of the country. Most people head north after Gretna Green. It's worth turning left and spending a few days strolling along the coastal paths and through the forests and woodland. The towns are uncrowded. Kirkcudbright (Kir-coo-bri) is our favourite. People are very friendly, the stone cottages with vaulted alleyways leading to pretty gardens are charming. Its good light encourages artists to settle and exhibit there.
Driving north through Dumfries and Galloway and then Ayrshire, we took the ferry from Ardhossan to the Isle of Arran, where we ate kippers for breakfast and had a view over Holy Island, where there is a centre for world peace. Unfortunately, the winds were too strong for the wee ferry, so instead we walked to the cave, where Robert the Bruce was said to have had an encounter with a spider, which inspired him to carry on his campaign to free Scotland from English reign.
Arran is said to be Scotland in miniature, with rich lowland pastures in the South and intimidating mountains in the North. It is quite wealthy and as one of the nearer islands to Glasgow has a lot of visitors. From Arran we took the ferry from Lochanza in the North to Claonaig on Kyntyre. Driving down to Carradale in Mid Kintyre we were able to view the mountains of Arran in late evening light from the opposite shore. Set against the mauvey-pink rhododendrons that dominate Kintyre's landscape, the scene was magical.
We stayed in a log cabin, that was somewhat dog-eared but in a great location- a holiday park set just behind a long sandy beach with forest walks. There I made a basic mistake, wearing three quarter length trousers on a forest walk. I counted 24 love bites from the mighty midge-and that was just on my right leg between foot and calf. Must be something about the plumpness of a female calf that midges go wild for. Rhys didn't have a single bite. Then, he was completely covered up. Repellent must be in short supply and expensive, because someone nicked my leaky one, left by the car during another walk. Midges love hot humid places and are pretty rampant from June to August. We bought midge masks-mine in pink and Rhys's in black, that look like see-through balaclavas. The sort of thing Michael Jackson made his children wear on visits to the zoo in New York. On a guided walk through the gardens at Inverewe in the North West Highland the whole group was wearing midge masks. We looked like we were at some kind of weird gathering of the clans.
We did the obligatory homage to the Mull of Kinytre, made famous by Paul Macartney and Wings, but after a few miles of one-track roads on the edge of a cliff with mist rolling in, we headed back to the safety of our log cabin.
Carradale is a great place to island hop and we hopped over to the little island of Gigha (Gee-ya), twenty minutes from Tayinloan in mid Kintyre. It's owned by its tiny community, seems fairly prosperous and has the beautiful gardens of Achamore. This part of Scotland, the West coast and Hebridean islands are washed by the warm waters of the Atlantic Gulf Stream, so there are many gardens donated by hard-up Lairds or their descendents to the National Trust of Scotland(NTS) and open to the public. The NTS has reciprocal arrangements with the National Trust of England and Wales, so if you're a Welsh member who thinks (like us) it's hardly worth the annual subscription because of the paucity of properties and gardens in Wales, it's worth being a member to take advantage of these Scottish paradises. Unfortunatel, Achamore isn't NTS.
From Kennacraig, a little further north on Kintyre, we made the two hour trip to the Island of Islay(Isla) -The Whisky Isle. There are at least seven distilleries making single malts and blended varieties from raw materials supplied from the mainland and using local peat in the maltings to produce the characteristic smoky elixir. Distilleries give guided tours and tastings for brands such as Laphroaig (Prince Charles' favourite apparently-not that I'm interested), Lagavulin, Caol(Cil) Ila. In late May there's a whisky festival, much loved by Italians,Germans, Americans and Swedes. Our landlady said it's a wild time to come. And we just missed it.
From Kintyre we drove ten hours up to the North West Highlands. At Ballachulish between Oban and Fort William we accidently managed to get behind the Olympic torch procession. The crowd thinking we were part of the support team, I guess, cheered us on with their Coca-Cola and Samsung drum kits. It was a relief to lose them at Fort William. There's only so much regal waving a couple in a Kia Rio can do, and concentrate on the driving.
We stayed in Aultbea in a lodge with a wonderful view of Loch Ewe and the spiky range of the Torridon mountains. Loch Ewe was a top secret place in WW11. It was the mustering HQ for the Arctic Convoys taking supplies to Russia. My uncle was on one of those convoys and I'm keen to learn more. Sadly, he died before I had the chance to ask the right questions.
We walked around lochs, more gardens, cycled, and walked to a lighthouse. We got a lift back with an ex-army couple, who'd been travelling for two years in their souped up jeep with their cat. I'm not a great fan of cats, to say the least. I sat frozen in the passenger seat in case the cat should take a walk over my back and attempt to sit on my lap. If I screamed our driver might topple over the cliff. Thankfully, the cat and I behaved ourselves.
Wednesday, 20 June 2012
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
CAMILLE O SULLIVAN'S 'CHANGELING'
Saturday night at the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama, and Irish-French performer Camille O Sullivan descended the staircase in a sparkly 'Red Riding Hood' cloak to sound bites from darker fairy stories. Through the narrative songs of Jacque Brel, Nick Cave, Bob Dylan,Tom Waits and others, she took her audience on an emotional journey to her surreal world decked out in rosy lights and inhabited by a glowing rabbit lampstand, a discarded horse head, hanging ball gowns, a wind up bird in a cage, Tom Waits in a suitcase, and a dusty book of spells. And her band,'The Singing Bird' of course.
The Daily Telegraph wrote,'When she sings it's as though her breath is soaked in paraffin;one spark,and the whole room would ignite.'
I'd been lucky enough to see her show, 'Changeling' at the Edinburgh Festival last year where it was a sell out. Her Cardiff gig came towards the end of a long tour that clearly had affected her voice, giving it more rawness than I'd remembered. She jumped around the stage like a rabbit, a tiger, a pussy cat, meiowing to her audience while removing layers of her black lacy outfit once hidden beneath her red cloak. And she sang! Songs with stories that intrigued, puzzled, moved,challenged,amused, saddened, and entertained. 'Art songs' exploring the seedier side of life, desolation in love, politics,sexuality, life's degenerates, a celebration of madness and vulerability.
Her show is on tour til June1, For further information about this amazing performer and wonderful singer see www.camilleosullivan.com.
The Daily Telegraph wrote,'When she sings it's as though her breath is soaked in paraffin;one spark,and the whole room would ignite.'
I'd been lucky enough to see her show, 'Changeling' at the Edinburgh Festival last year where it was a sell out. Her Cardiff gig came towards the end of a long tour that clearly had affected her voice, giving it more rawness than I'd remembered. She jumped around the stage like a rabbit, a tiger, a pussy cat, meiowing to her audience while removing layers of her black lacy outfit once hidden beneath her red cloak. And she sang! Songs with stories that intrigued, puzzled, moved,challenged,amused, saddened, and entertained. 'Art songs' exploring the seedier side of life, desolation in love, politics,sexuality, life's degenerates, a celebration of madness and vulerability.
Her show is on tour til June1, For further information about this amazing performer and wonderful singer see www.camilleosullivan.com.
Saturday, 28 April 2012
JOHN PIPER & THE IRANIANS
It's probably a first- John Piper and the Iranians together in one sentence. They came together for us last weekend in visiting two separate exhibitions. John Piper, known most famously for his massive stained glass window at Coventry Cathedral, also painted the mountains of Wales. The National Museum currently has an exhibition of these paintings on show until May 13. His use of light is sometimes compared to Turner. After seeing the explosion of colour and light through his window the previous weekend, most of these paintings appear dull and drab in comparison. After a failed first marriage, he married a Welsh woman and lived in North Wales and Pembrokeshire but painted landscapes in Mid Wales too. The paintings of the North Wales landscape are more interesting- full of weather and atmosphere, high rocky edifices plunging into deep black pools. Splashes of light thrill the eye and the imagination as you walk around the room.
The Ffotogallery in Penarth currently has a 'must see' exhibition on until May 12. Entitled.'Bi Nam' it is the first show in the UK representing the work of a group of contemporary Iranian photographers. The photographic and video content explore the cultural and social life of modern Iran with an emphasis on religion, gender and identity. At the preview the staff had run out of time to put the names of the photographers by their work and in the catalogue photographers' gender was not mentioned. As most of the work focused on women's experience and this show is about identity, it would have been interesting to have known the artists' gender. Do men portray Iranian women in this exhibition differently from the way women portray themselves? I would have liked to have some insight. The photos and video are very beautiful. There's a lovely series of women's faces from their noses to their necks, with the focus on the knot of their scarf and the hollow of their neck. I also really enjoyed a video of a woman dressing to go to market as we follow her around her home, and then as if the camera is a child holding onto her coat tail, we follow her around the market as she shops. But many of the photos left me feeling sad-images of loneliness, of empty days locked in the house, women as prisoners in their own homes, observers of life outside.
The Ffotogallery in Penarth currently has a 'must see' exhibition on until May 12. Entitled.'Bi Nam' it is the first show in the UK representing the work of a group of contemporary Iranian photographers. The photographic and video content explore the cultural and social life of modern Iran with an emphasis on religion, gender and identity. At the preview the staff had run out of time to put the names of the photographers by their work and in the catalogue photographers' gender was not mentioned. As most of the work focused on women's experience and this show is about identity, it would have been interesting to have known the artists' gender. Do men portray Iranian women in this exhibition differently from the way women portray themselves? I would have liked to have some insight. The photos and video are very beautiful. There's a lovely series of women's faces from their noses to their necks, with the focus on the knot of their scarf and the hollow of their neck. I also really enjoyed a video of a woman dressing to go to market as we follow her around her home, and then as if the camera is a child holding onto her coat tail, we follow her around the market as she shops. But many of the photos left me feeling sad-images of loneliness, of empty days locked in the house, women as prisoners in their own homes, observers of life outside.
Sunday, 22 April 2012
CLYTEMNESTRA
Last night we saw a new adaptation of the Greek classic, 'Clytemnestra' at the Sherman Theatre. The adaptation is by Gwyneth Lewis, who was the National Poet of Wales 2005-06. Her words are in English and Welsh on the front of the Wales Millenium Centre in six-foot-high letters,'In these stones horizons sing'. It is rumoured to be the largest poem in the world.
Gwyneth's poetry sings through the play set in the near future in a world where oil has run out and the world fights for food. Agamemnon sacrifices his daughter, Iphigenia to his barbaric new allies. With the anger and grief of a mother betrayed, Clytemnestra seeks revenge. She is plagued by the 'Furies'-described in the programme as,
' the ancient psychic force that demands avenging family murder. These figures have a primitive relationship with language, respond to impulse' ... 'the beat before rational thought'. . . 'but gain embodiment and change the more they are listened to. They start as pre-linguistic and prefigurative and as the revenge idea develops, they come to resemble fully formed characters. When a character assents to them, they give that character a superhuman drive. They're the precursors and sponsors of poetic language.'
Unfortunately, these moaning, crawling, rolling, licking creatures, for me, became a distraction and irritation from the central characters, whose actors displayed their angst, doubts and impulses brilliantly without the need for the 'Furies' vampire-like excesses. I wonder if this was an interpretation in the direction of Amy Hodge rather than Gwyneth Lewis's writing.
Jaye Griffiths is absolutely compelling as Clytemnestra. I couldn't take my eyes of her on stage. There are great performances by the whole ensemble. The futuristic multi-levelled set by designer, Takis, is superb- located in an abattoir with props that double for the family home, and lit dramatically by lighting designer, Lee Curran.
But it is the ending of the play that really takes your breadth away. Agamemnon, played by Nick Ross, is murdered in a revenge attack by Clytemnestra, who is clearly turned on and become insane by the blood letting. In the light we see Agamemnon hanging from the ceiling on a chain, bound and suspended by his feet like a slaughtered animal. As the rest of the action played out and minutes past, I began to worry about all that blood rushing to his head. At the curtain call he didn't appear straight away. The other actors kept looking over their shoulders for him. I don't know if it was done deliberately, but it worked. The whole audience giggled nervously and sighed with relief when he eventually appeared to take his place and great applause.
Gwyneth's poetry sings through the play set in the near future in a world where oil has run out and the world fights for food. Agamemnon sacrifices his daughter, Iphigenia to his barbaric new allies. With the anger and grief of a mother betrayed, Clytemnestra seeks revenge. She is plagued by the 'Furies'-described in the programme as,
' the ancient psychic force that demands avenging family murder. These figures have a primitive relationship with language, respond to impulse' ... 'the beat before rational thought'. . . 'but gain embodiment and change the more they are listened to. They start as pre-linguistic and prefigurative and as the revenge idea develops, they come to resemble fully formed characters. When a character assents to them, they give that character a superhuman drive. They're the precursors and sponsors of poetic language.'
Unfortunately, these moaning, crawling, rolling, licking creatures, for me, became a distraction and irritation from the central characters, whose actors displayed their angst, doubts and impulses brilliantly without the need for the 'Furies' vampire-like excesses. I wonder if this was an interpretation in the direction of Amy Hodge rather than Gwyneth Lewis's writing.
Jaye Griffiths is absolutely compelling as Clytemnestra. I couldn't take my eyes of her on stage. There are great performances by the whole ensemble. The futuristic multi-levelled set by designer, Takis, is superb- located in an abattoir with props that double for the family home, and lit dramatically by lighting designer, Lee Curran.
But it is the ending of the play that really takes your breadth away. Agamemnon, played by Nick Ross, is murdered in a revenge attack by Clytemnestra, who is clearly turned on and become insane by the blood letting. In the light we see Agamemnon hanging from the ceiling on a chain, bound and suspended by his feet like a slaughtered animal. As the rest of the action played out and minutes past, I began to worry about all that blood rushing to his head. At the curtain call he didn't appear straight away. The other actors kept looking over their shoulders for him. I don't know if it was done deliberately, but it worked. The whole audience giggled nervously and sighed with relief when he eventually appeared to take his place and great applause.
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
THE FATHER & OTHER DRAMAS
On Saturday we went up to Coventry to see a new version of Strindberg's play, 'The Father' by Laurie Slade at the Belgrade Theatre. I met Laurie on an Arvon writing course in November 2010 and was keen to see his play and give support along with several other ex-Arvonites.
The play explores the claustrophobia of a long marriage and the power struggles and trust issues that go with it. Laurie wanted to bring something fresh and dynamic to the original and he is very successful in doing this. Tension builds from the opening scene, it never palls and the ending is shocking. Joe Harmston directs an excellent team of actors, many RSC old hands. Joe Dixon plays the Captain and Katy Stephens his wife, Laura. In the programme he says,"My acid test is 'will people leave the theatre with questions?'...I hope people will leave arguing about how they feel about what they've seen." The ex-Arvonites certainly did that. At the Bella Pasta we chewed over the nature of madness, fidelity, seduction and sex in the relationship, the use of an only child to play out power struggles, the expected roles of husband and wife in the 1880's, and the role of Laura in the Captain's descent into an eventual mental breakdown.
As if we hadn't had enough drama for one night, at 3.30am we were sleeping soundly at our Premier Inn when we were awoken suddenly by a high pitched screeching drone. I bolted out of bed, thinking it was the TV and Rhys fumbled about looking for the on/off button. It wasn't the TV. It was the fire alarm. I grabbed Rhys's shirt and he got up on the bed waving it madly underneath the ceiling alarm as if he were trying to tame smoke from burning bacon in our kitchen. No luck. Still semi-comatose we opened the hotel door of our room to see guests in various states of undress marching resolutely towards the staircase. I don't normally wear anything in bed, but luckily on this occasion I was wearing a shorty nightdress bought at the time of my hip replacement. With some difficulty I pulled on my only footwear- laced ankle booties and grabbed my priorities- denture, handbag and mobile phone. Rhys put on a pair of trousers and out we trooped; into a crystal cold night to join a hundred or so others shivering in their nightclothes or quilted jackets depending on their foresight. No information and no staff visible.
The following morning we found out that it had been someone smoking in their room. One member of staff had been trying to wake a party of profoundly deaf while the other dealt with the culprit. No staff available to deal with the rest of us. The culprit's punishment? A lifetime ban from Premier Inns. Our reward? The guarantee of a full refund when you don't get a good night's sleep. Bingo!
With all these visuals in mind, it was apt that Pontardawe Script Cafe's speaker this month was Elen Bowman on 'Thinking in Pictures'. Elen is a RADA and Stanislavsky trained actress and director and has advised The Royal Court Theatre on the Russian's methodology. She is directing The Tempest with Teater Genedlaethol (The Welsh language National Theatre of Wales) later this year. She work-shopped a play, 'Mrs Pink Power Ranger' by a new member, Geraint Desmond, and helped us consider how to build the visual world of our play through the characters. A stimulating evening.
The play explores the claustrophobia of a long marriage and the power struggles and trust issues that go with it. Laurie wanted to bring something fresh and dynamic to the original and he is very successful in doing this. Tension builds from the opening scene, it never palls and the ending is shocking. Joe Harmston directs an excellent team of actors, many RSC old hands. Joe Dixon plays the Captain and Katy Stephens his wife, Laura. In the programme he says,"My acid test is 'will people leave the theatre with questions?'...I hope people will leave arguing about how they feel about what they've seen." The ex-Arvonites certainly did that. At the Bella Pasta we chewed over the nature of madness, fidelity, seduction and sex in the relationship, the use of an only child to play out power struggles, the expected roles of husband and wife in the 1880's, and the role of Laura in the Captain's descent into an eventual mental breakdown.
As if we hadn't had enough drama for one night, at 3.30am we were sleeping soundly at our Premier Inn when we were awoken suddenly by a high pitched screeching drone. I bolted out of bed, thinking it was the TV and Rhys fumbled about looking for the on/off button. It wasn't the TV. It was the fire alarm. I grabbed Rhys's shirt and he got up on the bed waving it madly underneath the ceiling alarm as if he were trying to tame smoke from burning bacon in our kitchen. No luck. Still semi-comatose we opened the hotel door of our room to see guests in various states of undress marching resolutely towards the staircase. I don't normally wear anything in bed, but luckily on this occasion I was wearing a shorty nightdress bought at the time of my hip replacement. With some difficulty I pulled on my only footwear- laced ankle booties and grabbed my priorities- denture, handbag and mobile phone. Rhys put on a pair of trousers and out we trooped; into a crystal cold night to join a hundred or so others shivering in their nightclothes or quilted jackets depending on their foresight. No information and no staff visible.
The following morning we found out that it had been someone smoking in their room. One member of staff had been trying to wake a party of profoundly deaf while the other dealt with the culprit. No staff available to deal with the rest of us. The culprit's punishment? A lifetime ban from Premier Inns. Our reward? The guarantee of a full refund when you don't get a good night's sleep. Bingo!
With all these visuals in mind, it was apt that Pontardawe Script Cafe's speaker this month was Elen Bowman on 'Thinking in Pictures'. Elen is a RADA and Stanislavsky trained actress and director and has advised The Royal Court Theatre on the Russian's methodology. She is directing The Tempest with Teater Genedlaethol (The Welsh language National Theatre of Wales) later this year. She work-shopped a play, 'Mrs Pink Power Ranger' by a new member, Geraint Desmond, and helped us consider how to build the visual world of our play through the characters. A stimulating evening.
Sunday, 1 April 2012
'SORRY' IN PONTARDAWE & OTHER SORRIES
This week we launched our joint exhibition of art work and poetry,'Sorry I don't eat fish' on the theme of climate change and a celebration of the natural world at Pontardawe Arts Centre with a wine reception and an open mike poetry session. About 50 people attended and a number of poets read their work. Two people sang, one of whom had composed and written a song himself. Some poets had produced work at a workshop led by Susan Richardson, Eco-Poet with Radio 4's 'Saturday Live' and organised by Awel Aman Tawe for a competition on the theme of climate change to be judged by Carol Ann Duffy, the British Poet Laureate. Profits on sales of Rhys's work will be donated to the trust representing families affected by the Gleision Colliery disaster. On the evening we made about 150 pounds on prints and catalogues and are hoping that this amount will increase by the end of the exhibition, the 20th of April 2012. If you are interested in buying an original the Arts Centre can offer Collectorplan, an interest-free credit service to help people buy contemporary art and craft in Wales. Originals range from 100-200 pounds.
Other events at Pontardawe in March included attendance at a scriptwriting weekend workshop organised by Script Cafe and led by Louise Osborn on issue-based playwriting. Louise is a very experienced writer and director, who I first met over twenty years ago when she was an actor with Theatre Powys. She inspired me to start writing a new play that I'd been thinking about for some time, its working title, 'Crisis of Confidence' a love story set in Tent City during the' Occupy London' protests this winter. The first five minutes were read at Script Cafe's open mike session and I had helpful feedback. 'Mess up the Mess', a youth theatre group joined us to read their own and our plays. Some of our members had written pieces especially for younger people. Their involvement was refreshing and we hope to invite them back again sometime soon.
The Sherman Theatre in Cardiff re-opened after renovations. There's a clinical new entrance hall that needed filling. The Artistic team invited writers on their data base to submit plays no longer than a page to decorate the walls. I submitted five plays but after some searching I could only find one laminated and left on a table for easy reading. Plays are strung from bars on ribbons resembling fly-catching paper, way out of reading sight unless you're a stilt walker. Others are printed in pale orange and green and pasted on pillars. A good idea to promote playwriting but in presentation appears tacky and somewhat dismissive of our efforts. One new bonus is that 'Writers nights' offer concessions on ticket prices and a free drink. It's the team's plan to pick their favourite plays-on-a-page and paste them on their website.
However, we did see three very good plays there in the past month. Pity that the renovations didn't run to more comfy seats in the smaller theatre but that didn't stop us enjoying Greg Cullen's new play 'Muscle'. I first met Greg when he worked as writer with Theatre Powys and did some work with Spectacle Theatre. 'Muscle' has an all male cast and through a series of personal stories tells us with great energy, pathos and humour what it's like to be a man.
Kate Tempest's debut play,'Wasted', is the story of three old friends coming to terms with loss, love and struggling to find meaning in life. Much of the action was rapped to an exhilarating score. This young performance poet, rapper and playwright is a talent to watch. The Paines Plough production was excellent.
The third production in the comfortable larger theatre was absolutely outstanding. 'Lovesong', by Abi Morgan with Sian Phillips in a leading role, tells the story of an older couple reflecting on their younger lives together. It is one of the most moving plays I've seen for a long time. There was a lot of sniffing going on in the audience. It is beautifully written and produced with clever surprises, such as a disappearance through the double bed, the actors reappearing out of the fridge or the wardrobe, and the old couple and their younger selves dancing around each other with poise and elegance.
The only disappointment was Peter Gill's adaptation of Chekhov's, 'A Provincial Life.' It was so boring that we left at the interval.
On Friday night Rhys sang with his 'singing for the natural voice' group at an event to raise money for Water Aid, led by their tutor, Laura Bradshaw. This sorry goes to the penny whistle players who may have been distracted by the laughter from the back of the hall as my friend and I did a French and Saunders type impersonation of Irish dancing. Or as one woman said, 'You remind me of Morecambe and Wise.' I really must lay off that Taffy Cider.
Other events at Pontardawe in March included attendance at a scriptwriting weekend workshop organised by Script Cafe and led by Louise Osborn on issue-based playwriting. Louise is a very experienced writer and director, who I first met over twenty years ago when she was an actor with Theatre Powys. She inspired me to start writing a new play that I'd been thinking about for some time, its working title, 'Crisis of Confidence' a love story set in Tent City during the' Occupy London' protests this winter. The first five minutes were read at Script Cafe's open mike session and I had helpful feedback. 'Mess up the Mess', a youth theatre group joined us to read their own and our plays. Some of our members had written pieces especially for younger people. Their involvement was refreshing and we hope to invite them back again sometime soon.
The Sherman Theatre in Cardiff re-opened after renovations. There's a clinical new entrance hall that needed filling. The Artistic team invited writers on their data base to submit plays no longer than a page to decorate the walls. I submitted five plays but after some searching I could only find one laminated and left on a table for easy reading. Plays are strung from bars on ribbons resembling fly-catching paper, way out of reading sight unless you're a stilt walker. Others are printed in pale orange and green and pasted on pillars. A good idea to promote playwriting but in presentation appears tacky and somewhat dismissive of our efforts. One new bonus is that 'Writers nights' offer concessions on ticket prices and a free drink. It's the team's plan to pick their favourite plays-on-a-page and paste them on their website.
However, we did see three very good plays there in the past month. Pity that the renovations didn't run to more comfy seats in the smaller theatre but that didn't stop us enjoying Greg Cullen's new play 'Muscle'. I first met Greg when he worked as writer with Theatre Powys and did some work with Spectacle Theatre. 'Muscle' has an all male cast and through a series of personal stories tells us with great energy, pathos and humour what it's like to be a man.
Kate Tempest's debut play,'Wasted', is the story of three old friends coming to terms with loss, love and struggling to find meaning in life. Much of the action was rapped to an exhilarating score. This young performance poet, rapper and playwright is a talent to watch. The Paines Plough production was excellent.
The third production in the comfortable larger theatre was absolutely outstanding. 'Lovesong', by Abi Morgan with Sian Phillips in a leading role, tells the story of an older couple reflecting on their younger lives together. It is one of the most moving plays I've seen for a long time. There was a lot of sniffing going on in the audience. It is beautifully written and produced with clever surprises, such as a disappearance through the double bed, the actors reappearing out of the fridge or the wardrobe, and the old couple and their younger selves dancing around each other with poise and elegance.
The only disappointment was Peter Gill's adaptation of Chekhov's, 'A Provincial Life.' It was so boring that we left at the interval.
On Friday night Rhys sang with his 'singing for the natural voice' group at an event to raise money for Water Aid, led by their tutor, Laura Bradshaw. This sorry goes to the penny whistle players who may have been distracted by the laughter from the back of the hall as my friend and I did a French and Saunders type impersonation of Irish dancing. Or as one woman said, 'You remind me of Morecambe and Wise.' I really must lay off that Taffy Cider.
Sunday, 26 February 2012
'BUT IS IT ART?'
This was the title of a lecture we attended today run by The Celtic Learners Network, a private initiative set up by a small group to complement what's provided by the local authority's adult education classes and the national museum service. We'd just got back from a few days in London, visiting visual art exhibitions and theatre performances, so the timing was perfect. Mair Jones, a young art historian took us back to where contemporary art began; at the invention of photography.
Artists looked for different subject matter-the challenge was to create something that a photograph couldn't. We journeyed superficially through Impressionism, Post Impressionism, Expressionism, Cubism and made a pit stop in 1910 with Marcel Duchamp, who she dubbed 'The Godfather of Conceptual Art'. He placed 'found objects' in galleries to shock the establishment and challenge their perception of what is art. His 'Fountain'(a urinal) being one of his found pieces, possibly pulled off the wall of the gallery's toilet wall or one waiting to be found in a builder's yard. The craft of making was less important than the idea behind it, which presumably was his need to pee while waiting for visitors to his launch.
Then the Surrealists took the question forward, reversing our expectations and incorporating their dreams and fantasies. Art becomes more of a puzzle. Merit Oppenheim's tea cup, saucer and spoon created in animal fur-made for a rabbit to drink from, perhaps? Frida Kahlo, my favourite painter took up the challenge and expressed what it was like to be her- a Mexican woman, who'd had a series of mishaps in her life-a terrible accident, several miscarriages and not least, a passionate painful marriage to Diego Rivera.
The baton was passed to Jackson Pollock, an Abstract Expressionist, with a love of swirling and dancing while throwing paint at a canvas. So although those paintings look random . .. He passed the question onto the Pop Artists, who used everyday images from the media, who passed it on to the Fluxus Movement, performance artists who used their own bodies and invited others to take part in the action. Yoko Ono invited John Lennon into her gallery to walk up a ladder and read a tiny message on the ceiling, that said,'Yes'. The rest is art history. Joseph Beuys felt strongly about the Vietnam war and locked himself and a Coyote dog in a room in New York for three days. Nobody asked the dog and there were no disclaimers.
They threw the question over to Arte Povera, who used their own blood, sweat and tears, displayed in plastic to express their political ideology. The question transformed itself into, 'Does art have to be permanent?' Artists built installations that could be site specific or be recreated easily somewhere else. They consist of multi-art forms and use technology. So called ephemeral pieces were usually filmed, kind of defeating the objective. But who wants to destroy their own creation, especially when so much thought has gone into it? So to Tracy Emin's 'Unmade bed', whose title I used in a play about an art teacher in the 1960s working in Rhondda. Not that far from Tracy's concept and expression of a weekend in her wretched life in 1998. She was already an established artist, part of Blair's Brit Art movement nurtured by Charles Saatchi, and that helped her work gain credibility- and a market. It wasn't work you could put on your wall at home though, was it? Although it did make us look at our own unmade beds differently - could you make money from your own life detritus?
Onwards and upwards. The question marched through the dangerous mountainous and white water terrain of issues: globalisation, national identity, gender, technology, the environment, shock and awe. Are any subjects taboo for the question,'But is it art?' In 1997 Saatchi lent his collection to the Royal Academy in an exhibition entitled, 'Sensation'. Marcus Harvey's piece, 'Myra Hindley'; a huge painting of her police mug-shot created from tiny hand prints of children, seemed to set the limit in the public eye of how far an artist could go in being creative and earn a living. Or some pimp curator or art dealer to make a profit.
So in thinking about the art shows we'd seen in London this week: David Hockney, Grayson Perry, David Shrigley, Jeremy Deller, Adrian Wisniewski, Chihuly, et al in Cork St, community artists mapping the changes on Hackney life of the forthcoming Olympics, and performances: Lorca's' House of Bernarda Alba', set in Iran, and Sofi Oksannen's' Purge', set in Soviet occupied Estonia in the 1950s. All can be described as Art. What's the criteria then, the yardstick to use in critiquing contemporary art to know if what you're seeing is excellent, good, bad, or just the Emperor's new clothes? Can we rely on the judgement of the curator or media reviewer to be our enlightened guide?
Grayson Perry in his quirky exhibition at the British Museum, 'The Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman', tells us at the beginning not to look for meaning there. Yet it is art full of meaning and self expression. And ideas. I felt changed by the experience. This is his summing up.
'Craftsmanship is often equated with precision. I feel it is more important to have a long and sympathetic relationship with materials. A relaxed humble, ever curious love of stuff is central to my idea of being an artist. An important quality of great art of the past was the pure skill in the artist's use of materials. In celebrating craftsmanship, I also salute artists, well most of them.'
Artists looked for different subject matter-the challenge was to create something that a photograph couldn't. We journeyed superficially through Impressionism, Post Impressionism, Expressionism, Cubism and made a pit stop in 1910 with Marcel Duchamp, who she dubbed 'The Godfather of Conceptual Art'. He placed 'found objects' in galleries to shock the establishment and challenge their perception of what is art. His 'Fountain'(a urinal) being one of his found pieces, possibly pulled off the wall of the gallery's toilet wall or one waiting to be found in a builder's yard. The craft of making was less important than the idea behind it, which presumably was his need to pee while waiting for visitors to his launch.
Then the Surrealists took the question forward, reversing our expectations and incorporating their dreams and fantasies. Art becomes more of a puzzle. Merit Oppenheim's tea cup, saucer and spoon created in animal fur-made for a rabbit to drink from, perhaps? Frida Kahlo, my favourite painter took up the challenge and expressed what it was like to be her- a Mexican woman, who'd had a series of mishaps in her life-a terrible accident, several miscarriages and not least, a passionate painful marriage to Diego Rivera.
The baton was passed to Jackson Pollock, an Abstract Expressionist, with a love of swirling and dancing while throwing paint at a canvas. So although those paintings look random . .. He passed the question onto the Pop Artists, who used everyday images from the media, who passed it on to the Fluxus Movement, performance artists who used their own bodies and invited others to take part in the action. Yoko Ono invited John Lennon into her gallery to walk up a ladder and read a tiny message on the ceiling, that said,'Yes'. The rest is art history. Joseph Beuys felt strongly about the Vietnam war and locked himself and a Coyote dog in a room in New York for three days. Nobody asked the dog and there were no disclaimers.
They threw the question over to Arte Povera, who used their own blood, sweat and tears, displayed in plastic to express their political ideology. The question transformed itself into, 'Does art have to be permanent?' Artists built installations that could be site specific or be recreated easily somewhere else. They consist of multi-art forms and use technology. So called ephemeral pieces were usually filmed, kind of defeating the objective. But who wants to destroy their own creation, especially when so much thought has gone into it? So to Tracy Emin's 'Unmade bed', whose title I used in a play about an art teacher in the 1960s working in Rhondda. Not that far from Tracy's concept and expression of a weekend in her wretched life in 1998. She was already an established artist, part of Blair's Brit Art movement nurtured by Charles Saatchi, and that helped her work gain credibility- and a market. It wasn't work you could put on your wall at home though, was it? Although it did make us look at our own unmade beds differently - could you make money from your own life detritus?
Onwards and upwards. The question marched through the dangerous mountainous and white water terrain of issues: globalisation, national identity, gender, technology, the environment, shock and awe. Are any subjects taboo for the question,'But is it art?' In 1997 Saatchi lent his collection to the Royal Academy in an exhibition entitled, 'Sensation'. Marcus Harvey's piece, 'Myra Hindley'; a huge painting of her police mug-shot created from tiny hand prints of children, seemed to set the limit in the public eye of how far an artist could go in being creative and earn a living. Or some pimp curator or art dealer to make a profit.
So in thinking about the art shows we'd seen in London this week: David Hockney, Grayson Perry, David Shrigley, Jeremy Deller, Adrian Wisniewski, Chihuly, et al in Cork St, community artists mapping the changes on Hackney life of the forthcoming Olympics, and performances: Lorca's' House of Bernarda Alba', set in Iran, and Sofi Oksannen's' Purge', set in Soviet occupied Estonia in the 1950s. All can be described as Art. What's the criteria then, the yardstick to use in critiquing contemporary art to know if what you're seeing is excellent, good, bad, or just the Emperor's new clothes? Can we rely on the judgement of the curator or media reviewer to be our enlightened guide?
Grayson Perry in his quirky exhibition at the British Museum, 'The Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman', tells us at the beginning not to look for meaning there. Yet it is art full of meaning and self expression. And ideas. I felt changed by the experience. This is his summing up.
'Craftsmanship is often equated with precision. I feel it is more important to have a long and sympathetic relationship with materials. A relaxed humble, ever curious love of stuff is central to my idea of being an artist. An important quality of great art of the past was the pure skill in the artist's use of materials. In celebrating craftsmanship, I also salute artists, well most of them.'
Thursday, 22 December 2011
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 14-SUMMING UP
We didn't get to say goodbye to the family as Rhys lost his passport getting off the plane and by the time he'd changed into warm clothes and found it, we missed them at the baggage pick-up. Pity, I would have liked to say 'thank you.' Each one of them contributed something to my holiday. Mostly positive. I think I may have been a bit too lairy for some, too eccentric for others, and kept Ainsley talking too long for others' liking by asking too many history questions. If it spoiled your holiday, I'm really sorry.
I'm still processing what this holiday means to me. I went to try and understand to what extent the socialist revolution had worked-is still working. I learnt that it's not communism or socialism in Cuba. It's Fidelism. Raul Castro, Fidel's brother was with him from the very start of the revolution and they fought along aside each other. There's a memorable photo in the Che Guevara museum, where a young Raul is looking up at Fidel given instructions or a speech, perhaps? I wondered what he might be thinking and feeling. Is he in awe or jealous? The emotions of a younger brother towards his older sibling are always complex. Ainsley said Raul is a very different character from Fidel but believes that before he takes any significant action he might ask himself, 'What would Fidel do?'
Fidel is sick and so are some of his friends. Chavez, in Venezuela for example, has cancer. The two countries have a special relationship. Venezuela sells oil cheaply to Cuba. What will happen after he dies? The Cuban economy has been through many ups and downs since the fall of the Berlin Wall. In Havana they learnt to use any piece of spare land to grow food. Russia's withdrawal as a reliable trade partner that previously bought Cuban sugar at inflated prices and sold industrial goods at knock down prices, is long gone. Obama promised an end to Guantanamo Bay and a review of the US trade embargo. Both still exist.
There is some easing of the absolute socialist state. It has started with small businesses aimed at the tourist industry with people renting out rooms and using their yards as restaurants. But it is creating a two-tier system. Those who work in the tourist industry and those who don't. Dual currencies perpetuate inequality of income and standard of living. Ainsley's view is that it is not politics that is the problem for Cuba. It's the mentality. If you're having everything provided, why work? The revolutionary woman at the Moncada Barracks told him,
'Our generation was lucky. They knew who the enemy was.'
A friend who's an astrologer told me before I left Gatwick that Mercury was in retrograde and this might mean problems with communication. Well, the Chinese bus we travelled on did break down on a couple of occasions. Not as reliable as the old Volvos. She said it could also mean that I would have insights and be inspired. I was certainly inspired by Cuba. I respect what the country has achieved in such a relatively short time. It has made its priorities the eradication of poverty, literacy, free education and healthcare and stuck with it. Nobody would appear to be starving or homeless, although undoubtedly there is still a lot of poverty. The only beggars we saw seemed to have disabilities or mental health problems and I didn't learn how the State takes care of the vulnerable. Housing and basic food are provided by the State but in the cities we saw overcrowding and a lack of maintenance. Then there's what most tourists go for- the sunshine, the rum, the music and the dancing.
'What about freedom of speech?' I hear you say. I put this to Ainsley when we were on our own and we had an interesting discussion on how you could still be creative, an independent thinker and discursive. You can in Cuba, but in private. In public it would be very difficult to air a dissident voice. With three political parties in Britain all speaking the same bland language, a massive deficit and the right to make a profit put above all other national objectives, are we in a position to gloat?
I enjoyed the group travel experience with Adventure Travel. Accommodation, food and travel was much better than I expected. I loved the warmth and protection of our Guide, who was so willing to go the extra mile to make us happy. I liked the banter and enjoyed the company of the family. No need to take any responsibility for making arrangements. However, I think you would have a much broader experience of the country if you were to travel independently.
'You have come to Cuba at an interesting time,' Ainsley told us. 'Things are changing fast.'
He was certainly right. If you can live with the guilt of the carbon emissions produced on a long haul flight or convince yourself of the benefits of carbon off-setting, don't wait! Visit Cuba now! It's a holiday of a life time. Well, it was for me.
I'm still processing what this holiday means to me. I went to try and understand to what extent the socialist revolution had worked-is still working. I learnt that it's not communism or socialism in Cuba. It's Fidelism. Raul Castro, Fidel's brother was with him from the very start of the revolution and they fought along aside each other. There's a memorable photo in the Che Guevara museum, where a young Raul is looking up at Fidel given instructions or a speech, perhaps? I wondered what he might be thinking and feeling. Is he in awe or jealous? The emotions of a younger brother towards his older sibling are always complex. Ainsley said Raul is a very different character from Fidel but believes that before he takes any significant action he might ask himself, 'What would Fidel do?'
Fidel is sick and so are some of his friends. Chavez, in Venezuela for example, has cancer. The two countries have a special relationship. Venezuela sells oil cheaply to Cuba. What will happen after he dies? The Cuban economy has been through many ups and downs since the fall of the Berlin Wall. In Havana they learnt to use any piece of spare land to grow food. Russia's withdrawal as a reliable trade partner that previously bought Cuban sugar at inflated prices and sold industrial goods at knock down prices, is long gone. Obama promised an end to Guantanamo Bay and a review of the US trade embargo. Both still exist.
There is some easing of the absolute socialist state. It has started with small businesses aimed at the tourist industry with people renting out rooms and using their yards as restaurants. But it is creating a two-tier system. Those who work in the tourist industry and those who don't. Dual currencies perpetuate inequality of income and standard of living. Ainsley's view is that it is not politics that is the problem for Cuba. It's the mentality. If you're having everything provided, why work? The revolutionary woman at the Moncada Barracks told him,
'Our generation was lucky. They knew who the enemy was.'
A friend who's an astrologer told me before I left Gatwick that Mercury was in retrograde and this might mean problems with communication. Well, the Chinese bus we travelled on did break down on a couple of occasions. Not as reliable as the old Volvos. She said it could also mean that I would have insights and be inspired. I was certainly inspired by Cuba. I respect what the country has achieved in such a relatively short time. It has made its priorities the eradication of poverty, literacy, free education and healthcare and stuck with it. Nobody would appear to be starving or homeless, although undoubtedly there is still a lot of poverty. The only beggars we saw seemed to have disabilities or mental health problems and I didn't learn how the State takes care of the vulnerable. Housing and basic food are provided by the State but in the cities we saw overcrowding and a lack of maintenance. Then there's what most tourists go for- the sunshine, the rum, the music and the dancing.
'What about freedom of speech?' I hear you say. I put this to Ainsley when we were on our own and we had an interesting discussion on how you could still be creative, an independent thinker and discursive. You can in Cuba, but in private. In public it would be very difficult to air a dissident voice. With three political parties in Britain all speaking the same bland language, a massive deficit and the right to make a profit put above all other national objectives, are we in a position to gloat?
I enjoyed the group travel experience with Adventure Travel. Accommodation, food and travel was much better than I expected. I loved the warmth and protection of our Guide, who was so willing to go the extra mile to make us happy. I liked the banter and enjoyed the company of the family. No need to take any responsibility for making arrangements. However, I think you would have a much broader experience of the country if you were to travel independently.
'You have come to Cuba at an interesting time,' Ainsley told us. 'Things are changing fast.'
He was certainly right. If you can live with the guilt of the carbon emissions produced on a long haul flight or convince yourself of the benefits of carbon off-setting, don't wait! Visit Cuba now! It's a holiday of a life time. Well, it was for me.
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 13
We were coming towards the end of the holiday, spending two nights in Baracoa on the south-east coast and then flying from Holguin, the area of copper and cobalt mines, several hours north on roads so potholed you might think it was a war zone, ending with two final nights in Havana.
Some of the family had been disappointed that too much time had been spent listening to history in the Sierra Maestra. Some of the men would have preferred to have spent the time scaling the highest point from where the rebel radio had broadcast. For some, the whole trip had lacked any physical challenge. At Baracoa there was a chance to do another walk or you could go shopping. Rhys went off in a truck for the walk and I went off on the bus to the town.
In the past couple of days we had passed by Guantanamo Bay naval base and heard how in 1902-4 the Americans had managed to secure their bit of Cuba in case they ever needed to use it. Our last stop Santiago de Cuba, apart from the extraordinary Moncada Barracks experience, had been disappointing, full of motor bikes and choking pollution. Seeing the fort and the lighthouse at night had been really special though.
Baracoa is a lovely little country town with a chilled feeling. The main form of transport is horse and cart or rickshaw bicycle. It has the best music and Casa de la Trova we'd visited. Unfortunately, two members of family had fallen out. It had taken much longer than I thought but was bound to happen. We still managed to party.
I wandered around on my own. I could see why the renegade sneaked off from the group for a cigarette and a wander when he could. You get to meet local people that way. Being in a tour does set up a barricade of opportunity in this respect. In most of the towns we visited there was very little in the government shops. Cubans have ration cards for basics; rice, beans, cooking oil etc. There are two currencies in Cuba: the national currency and the convertible currency. There are 24 national pesos to one convertible peso and about 70 convertible pesos to the pound sterling. Locals are paid in national pesos. Tourists use convertible pesos. Those Cubans in the tourist industry are paid in national pesos but get tips in convertibles. Consequently, there is an inequality of income based on working in the tourist industry or not. Doctors and lawyers earn less than tourist guides.
We had wondered how some Cubans seem so well dressed, when there's so little to buy in the shops. Family and friends abroad send clothes and there must be a black market, although we heard very little about how it might operate. I was touched when I went into a book shop, looking for Cuban poetry in translation, that the woman at the counter took me into the back of the shop and whispered to me, asking if I had a pen she could have. On the back streets of Baracoa I saw some more fashionable T shirts and trousers for sale. Further down the street I managed to have a CD made of downloaded Cuban songs for 3 convertible pesos. A woman asked me if I needed a room and a man tried to thrust a live chicken at me. Perhaps he thought I wanted to take part in some Voodoo ritual. The Catholic Church is stronger since the Pope's visit at the end of the 90s but African religion still lives.
Baracoa town wasn't the place to buy a fridge magnet or a Che Guevara cap. That would have to wait 'til the covered market in Havana.
Some of the family had been disappointed that too much time had been spent listening to history in the Sierra Maestra. Some of the men would have preferred to have spent the time scaling the highest point from where the rebel radio had broadcast. For some, the whole trip had lacked any physical challenge. At Baracoa there was a chance to do another walk or you could go shopping. Rhys went off in a truck for the walk and I went off on the bus to the town.
In the past couple of days we had passed by Guantanamo Bay naval base and heard how in 1902-4 the Americans had managed to secure their bit of Cuba in case they ever needed to use it. Our last stop Santiago de Cuba, apart from the extraordinary Moncada Barracks experience, had been disappointing, full of motor bikes and choking pollution. Seeing the fort and the lighthouse at night had been really special though.
Baracoa is a lovely little country town with a chilled feeling. The main form of transport is horse and cart or rickshaw bicycle. It has the best music and Casa de la Trova we'd visited. Unfortunately, two members of family had fallen out. It had taken much longer than I thought but was bound to happen. We still managed to party.
I wandered around on my own. I could see why the renegade sneaked off from the group for a cigarette and a wander when he could. You get to meet local people that way. Being in a tour does set up a barricade of opportunity in this respect. In most of the towns we visited there was very little in the government shops. Cubans have ration cards for basics; rice, beans, cooking oil etc. There are two currencies in Cuba: the national currency and the convertible currency. There are 24 national pesos to one convertible peso and about 70 convertible pesos to the pound sterling. Locals are paid in national pesos. Tourists use convertible pesos. Those Cubans in the tourist industry are paid in national pesos but get tips in convertibles. Consequently, there is an inequality of income based on working in the tourist industry or not. Doctors and lawyers earn less than tourist guides.
We had wondered how some Cubans seem so well dressed, when there's so little to buy in the shops. Family and friends abroad send clothes and there must be a black market, although we heard very little about how it might operate. I was touched when I went into a book shop, looking for Cuban poetry in translation, that the woman at the counter took me into the back of the shop and whispered to me, asking if I had a pen she could have. On the back streets of Baracoa I saw some more fashionable T shirts and trousers for sale. Further down the street I managed to have a CD made of downloaded Cuban songs for 3 convertible pesos. A woman asked me if I needed a room and a man tried to thrust a live chicken at me. Perhaps he thought I wanted to take part in some Voodoo ritual. The Catholic Church is stronger since the Pope's visit at the end of the 90s but African religion still lives.
Baracoa town wasn't the place to buy a fridge magnet or a Che Guevara cap. That would have to wait 'til the covered market in Havana.
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