Fin

I'm up in Scotland directing students in street theatre again and loving it again. As I'm out of what is now my usual Sunday routine with my boyfriend I have time for pootling and old pursuits and found myself reading through my blog and enjoying happy memories from Lecoq.

This year street theatre involves the students as old style convicts chained up in groups of three. We have four sets of three and then four guards chasing them and all the obvious amusing antics that follow. If you're in the Dundee area this week they'll be performing outside Borders on city quay at 11, 12, 1 and 2. I think it could be quite good. Cautiously confident and all that.

I directed a different lot of students this summer returning to my pre-Lecoq routes and doing a Shakespeare - All's Well That Ends Well, which was much more fun than I was expecting. In fact since leaving Lecoq I've done an awful lot more acting than directing, though as avid readers of this blog (ha ha) will know that is largely by choice.

I am now turning a corner and going off in another direction so I think it's time to end writing this and perhaps to start another blog on another subject. Reading back over it I am reminded how much pleasure it gave me to write and it is I think a good discipline.

Anyhow, if anyone does end up reading this I expect that they will be people googling for info on Lecoq, perhaps before applying to go. If that is you and you're wondering whether or not it's a good idea I have this to say. Go. It was the best two years of my life.

Theatre du Soleil: Stage de Fevrier 2009

So for someone who is supposed to be growing up and getting a sensible job it looks suspiciously like I am still smitten with the bug. But perhaps the least said eh... Suffice to say that I received a letter from the Theatre du Soleil on Xmas eve when I got back from a gorgeous few days in the countryside near Leeds. It invited me to come and interview/audition for a two week stage in February. I had a little while of wondering, but very quickly knew that it was something that I would never forgive myself if I didn't go for.

Going for it involved coming to Paris twice, firstly for an interview and then again for an audition and very happily I was excepted and am in the middle of the stage.

Though perhaps masterclass would be a better description. It is immense. There are 420 people altogether, 110+ of whom are auditors and only allowed to watch and the other 300 like me. I think about 1000 people applied. The last of these stages was six years ago, and of course it is an extraordinary company.

When I describe it to my boyfriend he says it sounds like a cult, and it does sometimes feel rather like a cult. There are lots of very strict rules, about what you wear (no green - bad luck), turning up on time, not walking on the stage (you have to go around it). Most of them are common sense. But there's a fierce austerity about how they are enforced. Each day a list goes up for people to volunteer themselves to help clean up. I did the toilets on the first day to get it out of the way and made friends with the lovely P***.

For some reason I am finding it completely exhausting. Probably because it largely entails sitting on a hard bench for hours on end listening to french. Or concentrating on what's going on on stage. Every day last week I was exhausted and couldn't wait to fall into bed.

I think back fondly to my class of 33 at Lecoq and am amused by how we grumbled about it being too big. And if the teachers at Lecoq could be harsh they were kindergarden compared to Madame Mnouchkine. Whoa. There's no limit to the length of her tongue, though she tends to be searingly accurate. And it's not only she who is amazing, but her company of actors, especially the amazing Lucio who is gobsmackingly lithe and with an endlessly brilliant imagination.

We started on Monday by coming up with ideas for an improvisation based on the terror of the stage. She worked with different groups. Mine she hated and stopped very quickly, scolded sharply and sent us back to the benches. Then we moved onto chorus work to music led by the choreyfee, almost always a member of the company, though occasionally someone from the stagieres with vareying success. She was very insistent that it shouldn't be dance. It was a sort of rhythmic improvisation which could (and did) go off onto all sorts of wild paths and ended up with more than one chorus on stage. Everyone had a go at doing that, so it took about 3 days to do.

We ended with the theme - dictators - to be used in it's widest possible sense. We got into groups again and came up with an idea to improvise. It needs the scenario, the people and their etat, the state they're in.

I am finding it amazing and agonizing, frustrating, fantastic and above all exhausting. I am scared and excited about the coming week.

In a dark time, the eye begins to see

It's been a strange week. The financial world is crashing. How many people are worrying about savings? Lives feel destroyed. The world is turned on it's head.

And I have been grouchy all week about my own petty misfortunes. Misfortune is really too strong a word. I'm temping in a job on reception for £8.50 an hour. Shit money. There are times when it's quite busy and fun and times when it's completely quiet. In the times it's quiet on the best kind of reception job you're allowed to read a book. Those are the very best, but usually it's tacitly understood that it's ok to browse the internet. For me at the moment that would mean flat hunting, updating my CV and working on job applications. In this job, pettily you're not allowed to. I've asked for work to do, but there isn't any.

I'm finding strategies, trying to teach myself to use excel and powerpoint and doing bits of writing under the phone message pad, but it's soul destroying.

This evening I saw a room in a houseshare in Archway which I really should have taken because it's a great deal financially, but the idea of going back to that kind of grotty student living is so depressing after my beautiful studio in Paris.

In my parents kitchen this evening the phone rang. My dad answered. Someone called Abdul on the phone wanting to speak to my mum who was lying, hairless from the chemo (breast cancer) on the sofa. 'Oh you speak to him, I can't' she tells my dad who hates speaking to anyone on the phone, even his own brothers.

So I took the phone, ready to get rid of the intruder to say no to whatever he wanted politely, but firmly.

Adbul said that my mum had donated money a couple of years ago to his charity which supported Iranian people who had been tortured. Could he speak to her? I told him no, that she was ill at the moment and we were looking after her. Oh dear, he said, nothing serious I hope. Cancer I said, flinging the word like a weapon at him.

We'll pray for her, he said. Tell her that we'll all pray for her. And you are a good daughter to be looking after her.

All I had heard was a foreign name. A money chasing call breaking into our cosy kitchen. After I put the phone down I realise what I had heard was another person who had probably been through things I cannot possibly imagine, asking for money for people which I take for granted.

I have been complaining all week because I'm not earning as much money as I feel I should, because the rooms I'm looking at aren't as large or as nice as I feel I deserve. What do I really deserve? What does he, or the people on whose behalf he was calling really deserve.

A window of answers seemed to open up to me, for a brief moment. I hope I can hold onto it. How lucky I am, warm, safe, full, surrounded by love and endless possibility.

When I heard my mum had cancer I decided it was time to grow up and stop behaving like a teenager. Time to put childish dreams aside and earn my own living, get a proper job. Which is what has lead me to disgruntled temping and job applications.

I don't know quite where I'm going at the moment. I really hope to be able to find something I can believe in. But I hope I can keep my mind open, or open it further than it seems to be at the moment, and to count my blessing here and now and as they are.

(By the way, the quote is Roethke.)

The Glebe

Before I went to Lecoq I was teaching drama regularly at a school where the students have a range of reasons for not being in the mainstream school system. Part of my reason in going to study at Lecoq was to learn new ideas and exercises to put into practice with these children and teenagers. While there, though having a brilliant time myself, I did wonder whether the stuff we were doing would be far too complicated to ever be of any use to them and in our teaching.
So I was delighted last week to really see what I learned in France being put into practice teaching autistic children King Lear. We design our games and sections of text very carefully, of course. We talked a lot about how we would present Gloucester having his eyes gouged out. Not exactly the thing to show them or have them acting out. In the end we used the chorus in reaction idea. We had the scene 'happening' behind a screen and the kids watched and reacted to it. We started off with reacting to something happening behind the screen, but they could choose whatever they wanted and the others had to guess what it was, so for example seeing a puppy and Harry, brilliantly, seeing a girl naked in the shower.
With a different,non autistic group I did the 'emotional chairs' exercise that we did at the end of the first year with Paola. Very structured, works really nicely. And countless other of the things I learned, both specifically and more generally are finding their way from the 10eme to West Wickham near Croydon. As some of the students would say, 'nice'.

Arts Council Cuts and actors demos

The Arts Council sent out letters shortly before Christmas announcing large and sometimes even complete cuts to about 187 arts organisations including a complete cut for the newly refurbished Exeter Northcott, the Bush, The Orange Tree, The scarborough Student Drama Festival, The London Bubble, Eastern Angles, Compass, The Drill Hall, Queer Up North... the list goes on endlessly. These are just the names I know and that spring to mind.

There was unusual and perhaps unprecidented uproar in the arts community. At a meeting organised by Equity (the actors union) at the Young Vic Theatre with Peter Hewitt, then head of the Arts Council the great and the good got up and made angry speeches and the meeting ended in a vote of no confidence in the arts council.

I wasn't able to go to that meeting, but did attend a masked demonstration about how the cuts had been implemented, so suddenly, sometimes relying on incorrect information, without enough time to appeal and without the reason for the cuts being openly available to the organisations that had been cut.

The idea of this demo was that we would all stand, stock-still and slient for 15 minutes to protest. Of course actors being actors there was quite of lot of standing still and then noticing someone they knew, whipping off the mask and cries of 'hello darling!' and moving around the crowd to find people you knew and have a chat.

The final result is that some places have been reprieved including the bush, the orange tree, and the Northcott and others have been given a year's grace- eastern angles,the student drama festival (which I went to as a student many years ago and thought was fantastic).

Anyway there we are. I am asking lots of questions about the place for arts in our society. I so love theatre, but I worry about it too. Is it more fun for us or audiences, sometimes I think, sometimes.

Here are some pictures from the demo....

All you need is love

I am quite fascinated by Sarkozy and Carla Bruni. He seemed like such a hard nut and first we had him crying when his wife left him and trying to woo her back like a big girls blouse and now he is romancing the beautiful, talented, intelligent Bruni. They are engaged, no less.

What is his secret? Evidently not charm or looks. He certainly didn't deal with the riots in 2005 very charmingly. How attractive power obviously is. All I need to do is become Prime Minister and the world and Johnny Depp will be at my feet. Though look how badly that worked for Ségolène Royal. And I suspect Hilary Clinton won't fair much better. And then of course the car crash Thatcher.

Poor Ségolène was damned if she did and damned if she didn't. She couldn't not be pretty and feminine, (I would suggest) in France and be taken seriously, and she couldn't be pretty and feminine without the jibes about her policies lacking seriousness.

Most of the French people I've talked to even if it was a little shamefacedly didn't think she could match up to the job and had a lot of faith in what Sarkozy the sledgehammer would come up with. I wonder if that faith is now shaken in the light of all his loveidoveiness.

On the other hand, I can never see people in love without feeling a mixture of jealousy and gladness. Long live love, that's what I say, however it comes.

Devoted and Disgruntled 3: What are you doing about theatre?

I've just spent the most fantastic weekend I've had in ages. I feel more alive and invigorated and happy than I have done in some time.

This weekend has been the third annual Devoted and Disgruntled meeting. It's an open meeting for anyone who wants to come and talk about theatre, what they like, hate are frustrated by, what to change, what to keep the same.

It works on an open something or other plan. Anyone is able to propose a topic to discuss. Whoever wants to turns up to discuss it. The slots are set at an hour and a half but there is no compunction for them to last that long. They last as long as they last. They can finish early or continue on late. People can get up and leave at any point they want to, and did and without any feeling that it was somehow a bad thing to do.

It was completely democratic and egalitarian, largely because at no point did anyone have to stand up and say who they were, where they worked or what they'd done, though people could if they wanted too. It was strange to suddenly realise that you were sitting next to and discuss with a well known theatre critic, the head of theatre at the arts council or someone who ran a rep theatre. But that didn't matter, because everyone's opnion was equally valid.

I went in feeling a bit low. I want to make theatre, but I also want to be able to afford to live independently and go on holiday and at the moment I can't see how that is possible. I don't have any direct answers to how I'm going to do that, but somehow it matters less and I'm not quite sure why.

And what was so energising was all the passion in the room, people who love hugely varying theatre, except Lee who says he doesn't. I am going to start compiling a list of suggestions for him.

Taking stock

So, another new year and it's taking stock time. Looking back over the what was and towards the what will be, or the hopes of what will be.

For the first time ever I was brave enough to stay in and see the new year in alone and am delighted to say that it was just as peaceful and centre-ing as one could wish. (And lovely and cheap too.)

I'm trying to write a play, which is the thing I like best that I'm attempting to do at the moment, but I don't want to jinx it by saying too much about it. My biggest aim with it is to finish it. To write it all the way through without too much self-censorship.

I went and saw 'Chatroom/Citizenship' at the RNT this evening as inspiration, and was quite inspired. This (trying to write) makes me want to go and see and read as many plays as I can get my hands on.

The year had quite a nice finish to it. I was doing a project at the Globe with some very nice people. So good on two counts. The people and the place.

And the place is extraordinary. You may have heard people waffle about how inspiring it is. Everything you've heard is true. It is a real work of art, wooden ('this wooden O'), open to the elements, brightly painted. I was lucky enough to be in the group working the main stage and I LOVED it. Unfortunately it's made me want to work at the Globe. Unfortunate because I try not to desire things I don't think can happen. Ah Shakespeare, ah the globe, ah well.

Anyhow I had a good time and here are some photos.

Lots of plans and schemes for the new year - a scratch at BAC, a play at the CPT in April, bits and pieces of teaching etc etc. I want a bit more shape to it all, direction.

To infinity and beyond!

Not wanting to give the impression that my body is almost entirely falling apart, but tonight I went and had an MRI scan to try and get to the bottom of the wierd symphony of snap, crackle and pop that has been dancing inside my ears for nearly a year and a half now. It is to say the very least, amazingly irritating.

I had rather hoped when I was diagnosed with the thyroid thing that they would be linked and the ear popping would magically stop with the tiredness, depression and mad weight gain. No such luck. So off I went to St Helier Hosptial for my MRI scan this evening, again with an amazement and awareness of how lucky I am to live in a country where, when there is something wrong with me, I go to the doctors and am sent for expensive scans and given medicine for free.

I was rather excited by the whole prospect. It is now clear to me that I've watched far too many episodes of House. I am strangely addicted to it. That and Location, Location, Location. The housing one is more understandable - the huge desire to have a place of my own. But House is rather formulaic, though Hugh Laurie is very funny.

Anyway, so there I was in my very own medical drama, happily without Dr House, and even more happily without one of those ugly medical gowns that open at the back to show the world your naked bottom. I was allowed to stay in my tracksuit bottoms and jumper.

I lay down on a long pull out shelf/plank and my head was wedged still and they put ear plugs in my ears and told me it would take about 10 minutes and be very noisy and to do my best not to move. No problem.

The tray slid in, rather like the contraptions they keep dead bodies on in a morgue. I was in a spacey white cylinder, unable to move, with a pump in my hand, like old fashioned photographers have for taking the photo, to press if I started to panic. Above me there was a little mirror so I could see out if I wanted, but I decided to keep my eyes shut.

The scan itself was like a practical joke. It sounded like a very contemporary piece of music. A mixture of african drum beats and sirens. Very strange. I wouldn't be surprised to turn up at the Sadlers Wells and see Rambert doing a dance piece to something similar.

It went on for 10 minutes in bursts of three or one and then that was that and I went home on my bike. That machine could see inside my head. Isn't that amazing? Those odd sounds were it looking inside my head to try and find out what is making the popping... There's nought as strange as folk, or at least, nought as strange as what folk have made for other folk.

Hypothyroidism

I met up for coffee today with a very old, very dear friend and mentioned that another old and dear friend had said that she'd been reading the blog and was worried about me due to my posts. She said that she had been too. So just in case there are friends out there actually reading this and worried about my maudlin don't be, there is an explanation.

I was at a very low ebb this summer, as it seems was apparent. Indeed so much so that I actually went to the doctor because I was getting a bit worried about myself. She did a blood test and discovered that I have hypothyroidism. This sounds very flash and rather scary, but actually is quite straight forward. It means that for some strange reason my body doesn't produce enough thyroxine.

The Internet superhighway tells me that:-

"Hypothyroidism is a condition in which the body lacks sufficient thyroid hormone. Since the main purpose of thyroid hormone is to "run the body's metabolism", it is understandable that people with this condition will have symptoms associated with a slow metabolism. Over five million Americans have this common medical condition. In fact, as many as ten percent of women may have some degree of thyroid hormone deficiency. Hypothyroidism is more common than you would believe...and, millions of people are currently hypothyroid and don't know it!

Symptoms:

Fatigue
Weakness
Weight gain or increased difficulty losing weight
Coarse, dry hair
Dry, rough pale skin
Hair loss
Cold intolerance (can't tolerate the cold like those around you)
Muscle cramps and frequent muscle aches
Constipation
Depression
Irritability
Memory loss
Abnormal menstrual cycles
Decreased libido"

I am tick box on quite a few of these - depression, exhaustion, difficulty loosing weight, feeling the cold etc. but the fantastic thing is that all you need to do is take a pill (each day forever) and then you feel fine.

And I do feel so fine. Amazingly well. It's extraordinary to feel my vitality returning, my energy, my delight in life. And most of all mentally. I had got so worried about how difficult I found it to focus and concentrate. I felt like I was swimming through lead both mentally and physically. And now I don't. It's as though my life has been given back to me.

It makes me think of all the people who suffer from this, or something much worse and aren't able to just go to the doctors and be given a pill and have to suffer on, unknowing.

I am still questioning a lot. About what I want to do with my life, what the right path is. I don't want to just throw it away. I want to be of use to the world. I believe in theatre, but perhaps not for a narrow middle class audience. But what then? It means huge changes and I'm not quite sure what they should be and feel a little scared at the prospect, but excited too. And now I'm buzzing with 75mg I feel capable of almost anything. And I'm not even up to 100mg yet... ahh, drugs. How I love them.

Thank you for the kind thoughts.
xx

The northern line on a monday night, 11pm

The tube home is a dizziness of reality. Glissens of conversations, sliplights into the cracks of other peoples eyes. The world is loosened by alcohol. Images slip and glide. Words are drowned by the rumble of the tunnel and tracks and bouts emerge into clarity and disappear again with a squeal and a screech.

My heart is breaking slowly again. Dissolving into the pain of impossibility. Stammers of hope waken it, stir it, and bam-bam-you're-dead-fifty-bullets-in-your-head.

stops my breath. Sits high in my chest. central. stolid lump of un-com-for-table (spell out each crickcrack)............ nothing. All the things I don't allow myself to admit.

The boy along from me is tapping and tilting his head side to side to a rhythm I can't hear. His trainers shine bright white in my peripheral view.
This station is borough. This train terminates at Morden.
How nice.

I sit. I focus on my book. The lump dissolves and hardens again. I try to swallow it away, but it's grasping at my throat, pulling at the bottom of my tongue.

People have left the debris of their day lent up against the windows. A Tesco's bag knotted at the collar, a stately coke can sitting shiny behind the seats.

Some people close their eyes, or rest their heads in their hands. Two girls are turned in towards each other, still animated despite the night.

The tube stops. Conversations come into clarity, soften as their speakers see they're no longer guarded by the journey.

'...He's such a perve n'all...'

The next station is Kennington.

'...If you cut your hair... past your route...'

Change here for northbound services via Charing Cross.

Looking for Great Travel Insurance. Insure and Go!

People stare morosely at the advertising opposite them.

This train terminates at Morden.

Silence. The electric breath of the lights.

....'We thought we were going to celebrate on the Thursday, like we assumed... I'm not going dancing, no way...

From over the moon to the honeymoon.

...terminates at... terminates....

'I didn't want to be somebody who stood by and did nothing'.
Helen, Volunteer Police Officer.

Annual Multi-trip £30. Winter Sports £17. Single trip £6. Back packing £11. Kids go for free.

'...she came home wild...'

! In an emergency use the passenger alarm to alert the driver. It is safer to stay in the train than attempting to get off. Follow instructions from staff or emergency services.
DO NOT TAKE ANY RISKS.

I do what I am told Each breath is a sherbet pain A taut canvas across my chest.

Because
Iyouhe

I am all unfinished cups of tea and watchings

Being Alive

I met up for a cup of tea at the festival hall this evening with my friend A*** and managed to chase the black dog away further than he's been in a while. He's been at my heels a great deal recently.

We were talking about the project we're both involved with that she has already put a huge amount of work into, ideas for and about it and plays we had seen. It was one of those lovely evenings that seems as though the flow of conversation can only have lasted 30 minutes, when actually it's lasted three hours, where words cram one against another with over eager thoughts. It makes it all seem worth it. All the black.

My fears come from the very far ahead future. A vision of myself in the future. How not to be a burden. Responsibility. How long do the risks last for? Sensible. Ahem says the little girl next door. Ahem. Time to be proper. Time to take stock.

Or not.

"The message we are getting from Rangoon is 'Please help us'....

I plan to be there. Please join me.

MARCH FOR BURMA

JOIN THE UK¹S BIGGEST EVER DEMONSTRATION IN SUPPORT OF THE PEOPLE OF BURMA.

UN SECURITY COUNCIL MUST ACT!

No-one knows the true scale of the Burmese junta¹s brutal crackdown on Monks
and Burmese democracy activists. Troops fired directly into protesting
crowds, using automatic weapons on at least one occasion.

THOUSANDS HAVE BEEN ARRESTED

HUNDREDS MAY HAVE BEEN KILLED

PRISONERS FACE BRUTAL TORTURE

The message we are getting from Rangoon is: ³PLEASE HELP US.²

JOIN THE MARCH ­ SUPPORT THE PEOPLE OF BURMA

Assemble 11am at Tate Britain, Millbank, SW1P 4RG, nearest tube Pimlico, for
March and rally at Trafalgar Sq, 12.45pm.

My directorial debut!

Separated at birth? 2

Welcome to the world

Can I introduce you to my beautiful new niece? ... isn't she peachy? Or perhaps I should say Rosey or, to be more precise, Rosa.

I've just got back from a fantastic three weeks directing a street theatre project with students in Dundee. They were fantastic and so was the result. It was a bit like blissful autocours where when I said my opinion it had hugely more weight than everyone else's and I would always get my way, though I like to think that I was a diplomatic tyrant.

One of the students said 'did you always want to be a teacher?' which gave me a very strange moment. I'm so used to that question with 'actor' on the end.

Ch-ch-ch Changes...

Back in England and the main changes seem to be

1. That people have started drinking cider with ice in it, apparently a skillful marketing campagin to mask the sharp taste of a badly selling brand.

And

2. All teenagers are wearing tight black skinny jeans.

Other than that things are pretty much the same. Even the smoking ban feels as though it's been here forever. People loll around outside pubs and restaurants provoking new vocabulary- smirking or slirting or something like that. Neither sounds very nice. It's taking up smoking so that you can go and flirt outside. How stupid can you get?

I went up to the Edinburgh festival with L*****, who was like an arts critic on speed. We would go our separate ways and meet up later in the day. In the meantime she would have seen eight different shows at locations all over Edinburgh while I had been drinking tea with my friend Bates. I used to do the mad rushing around and then about seven years ago I just stopped.

It was really good to be there though. I did see some interesting theatre, and Jos was there with his show and we said hello afterwards. It was lovely to see him. I met up with lots of old friends and for the first time since I got back to Britain I started to feel really here. I started to settle back in and see a bit of a future.

Back to telephone hell (my current employment!) the week after I sat there wondering why I spent two years having lavish fun in Paris instead of doing a sensible PGCE to earn me money.

My overall pace has definitely slowed down during my time in France. I know we all moaned about how tiring and what hard work it was, but basically, when the chips are down we were only really working in the afternoons. And 'work' in this case being defined as rolling around on the floor in various different formats.

Now I am back to real life and in my hellish skintness delighted to get a job telephoning GP's to try and get them to do telephone surveys. Ugh! I hate myself. Better though, I'm about to go and do some teaching in Scotland next week,(site specific, street and physical theatre) still needs preparing, oops. Then later in November another project starts and meanwhile my old friend Matt and I have a scheme boiling away.

All of this means work now, not drifting around watching 'My so called life' - boxset heaven.

Anyway. There you go. That's me for now.

Now

I am floating rudderless at the moment. Back in my parents house again, like a teenager again. Unsure of the future and bit unsure about what happened there in Paris for the past two years.

We are all facebooking each other blurrily. Everyone seems disorientated. I am distracting myself with other nonsense. I can't decide whether or not to borrow, beg and steal the money to go to Vancouver for one of my oldest friends weddings. I can just about get my hands on the cash, but it would leave me without any financial buffer, necessary in London. I do think it is just an avoidance of the bigger what-are-you-going-to-do-with-your-life issues.

On the other hand good things can come out of malable moments in your life, before you stick into your own assumptions and expectations for yourself, none of which are necessarily true.

The Aftermath

I had decided not to keep going with this after it all ended. But like so many good resolutions I make I can't help but break it a little.

I missed out on a lot of the immediate partying and farewells. I went back to London for a week to see my gorgeous nephew and his equally delightful parents over from Chicago on a short visit on their way to Italy and then Russia. He is already more well traveled than I am.

I got back to Paris on Saturday and have been feeling very drifty and floaty ever since. It's strange to be here but not to be here. I am crowded with fears. About the future mainly. Those nameless, voiceless fears that bundle themselves up into spiders and thunderstorms.

Back in rue du Faubourg St Denis to collect the dvd of the commandes I bumped into a group of 3 of the Spanish contingent of my class and then another Brit. All by chance. Mysterious forces... ? Well actually we were all just collecting our dvds.

Here are some photos of when we were all feeling a bit more cheerful before the it's-all-over-ness lethargy set in.

So long and thanks for all the fish

It's our last day of school today. The fact that I'm sitting here at 6 o'clock writing this and that I've already been awake for some time shows a probable case of excess of alcohol last night more than anything else. But I think I was woken up by thoughts and feelings about all of this ending as well.

It has been two weeks of almost constant work. Days of 9am-9pm or 9am-10pm. My commande itself didn't go that well and I'm finding it hard to let go of and come to terms with. I ended up making a huge change to it on Friday night and re-working it over the weekend. I had been directing rather than being in it and decided to be in it because I wasn't able to get my (brilliant) actress to do what I wanted her to. (It was her suggestion). I worked much faster from the inside. Great lesson. Despite what everyone has said to me my entire life I am obviously not a director.

I regret extremely that I didn't ask to go on Thursday instead of Monday as it clearly wasn't ready and there were others that were. Regrets, regrets. The teachers said that it was good what there was but they wanted more. It was too short. I think they were being overly nice. . I didn't play it very well due to exhaustion and it not being ready. When you have rehearsed enough a part settles into your body. It wasn't in my body.

I was very lucky though to be cast in others people's work, and have had some nice comments on my playing in theirs. It was a real pleasure to enter into people's different worlds.

The profs have been very careful in their feedback all week, trying to right wrongs and send us off on a good note. I haven't entirely believed some of their feedback. I was watching the profs faces as they watched one of the performances and was able to see their reaction to some of the pieces and then heard a rather altered version in the feedback afterwards, above all yesterday when they were clearly trying to send us off on a good note. After such frank feedback for two years it rang a bit false.

I am so sad to leave. It has been the best two years of my life. I am scared and hopeful and excited and regretful and most of all so, so glad that I have had this amazing experience. I don't know if it's changed my life, though I suspect it will have done. I think it's changed me and changed me more than I yet realise. I feel I have two years of happiness in the bank and that I am well set up with a stock of good feelings for what it to come. I am clear about what I want for myself for the future.

When I arrived at Lecoq I was anything but clear. I had fallen out of love with theatre and with acting. I didn't believe in it any more and it was like loosing my religion. Again. I have been in love with theatre ever since 'Bandycoot'(early puppet show at Croydon library - the crocodile ate the cake), and decided to be an actress after reading my first full length book 'Mr Galliano's Circus' at about five.

I had a bit of a bumpy time towards the end of first year and retrospectively I think I was making the decision whether to stay as a performer or not. And how that could be possible. My amazingly talented friend A**, clear queen of the class, had a visit from her mother. She quoted an agent friend of hers who says 'I've never met a happy actress'. It's a bitter profession and more so for women. There are more actresses and fewer parts and the parts that there are are less diverse and more stereotyped - mother, hag, whore. I am out to prove him wrong. I think Lecoq has given me the tools to be a happy actress. I think I can.

Commandes spelt with an e

Even though it's amazingly knackering there's something much simpler and less stressful, certainly than the soiree and than autocours overall. I'm involved in nine commandes altogether, though with two of them my presence is so fleeting it hardly counts, and then I'm not acutally in my own, but there's still lots of work on that. so about seven really.

With autocours you get given your theme and then you all fight about interpretation and who has the best idea for a week. With the commandes someone comes and very flatteringly asks you, no chooses you, to be in their thing and then you turn up and they tell you what they want to do. Of course it depends a little on whether you agree with what the person is doing. If you think what they're doing is shit it could be rather depressing. Fortunately I rather like all the ones I'm doing, though I'm sure the teachers won't agree.

There's also something completely charming about entering into people's worlds, into their heads. We are all peddling our own brands of madness.

Make Poverty History

Can we? Let's try eh?

Sign below petition to actually try and do something instead of just being depressed about how bad it all is....

www.oct17.org

World Day to Overcome Extreme Poverty
17 October 2007

- I am in solidarity with all those who are fighting throughout the world to eliminate extreme poverty.

- I want to contribute to promoting respect for the dignity of all people, and their effective access to human rights.

- I want to join efforts to enable those living in extreme poverty and exclusion to participate fully in their societies, including the commemoration of October 17th, International Day for the Eradication of Poverty.

- I ask all members of civil society, local and national authorities, and the United Nations to:

* Consider those in extreme poverty as the first to take action in the fight against poverty;
* Ensure that people living in poverty fully participate in the development, implementation and evaluation of policies and programmes that concern them and that are inspired by a commitment to a world without poverty - a world where the rights to family life, decent work, social, cultural and political participation are respected;
* Support events organized each October 17th to ensure that the participation of people with direct experience of poverty be at the heart of the International Day for the Eradication of Poverty.
* Participate in an ongoing, long-term dialogue with people who, in refusing to accept extreme poverty, are building peace.

19813 Signatories

Three weeks to go

We had our last class with Jos today which I found very sad and cried at the end like a stupid idiot.
The tension levels are extremely high in the class. We wasted most of autocours today with a long and completely unecessary meeting, or almost unecessary meeting where everyone had to say something about something.
I think we were all trying to avoid getting down to work and also to try and manage or organise our unconcious or concious fear, tension etc. Of course the best way to counter these is in doing. Start something even if it's the wrong thing.
I did an impro with N** and C***** who are going to play for me. I've made the luxurious decision to sit out and not be in my thing, though of course it's possible I may completely change my mind.
I think we'll muddle through.
More than anything I am screaming with sadness, with dread about leaving. I feel as though I'll never work again. Never be happy again. Very melodramatic. Again the best way to cope with this is to live it and hope.
It's probably partly the post soiree/after xmas/nothing nice will ever happen again amplified and with applied command pressure.
Jos said we're not teacher-student any more, we're colleagues which is much better. I think I disagree because from now on I won't get to work with him any more.
This happy, happy time of my life is coming to an end. At least I had it. At least it happened.

Commands

(Mood music is tiny fragments of Beth Gibbons on her site. Fantastic new album which I recommend).

We were given rather distant, under whelming feedback on the soiree. I found it a bit sad. I thought we'd done a really good job and people were saying it was one of the better soirees they'd seen. We certainly didn't get that impression from the teachers. They said we seemed tenser than we had done the night before and were slightly off timing or rhythm as a result. That certainly was true of one of my pieces, but not of the other which went much better and much further in my performance than it ever had before. I'd always felt that that was the way to go, and knew there was more play there but the people I was playing with disagreed, or one of them. Anyhow I was a bit sad that they couldn't have been a bit more cheerful about our last soiree. Though I suppose not surprising that they weren't.

Then we were given our envelopes with our names printed on the outside and inside on a card with the school's logo our names and beneath our title, the final provocation. Jos made a point of saying that they were new titles and that they had been chosen randomly so not to try and read any great psychological depth.

Just to explain to the uniniated the commands are the final 'provocation' given by the school. We're given titles and then have three weeks to work on a present them entirely independently of the teachers. When we perform them for the public it's the first time they see them.

The general consensus of opinion is that they haven't been chosen randomly. They do seem to suit people's talents and style inclinations very specifically. I LOVE mine as a title, but haven't got any specific ideas of where to go.

I'm attacking it in a roundabout way. I'm going to do some sketching and go to galleries tomorrow and see what it throws up.

I think simplicity is key. Not trying to overreach myself. After all we only have between 2-7 minutes. Paola warned us that people had been stopped in the past.

We have a last lesson with each of the profs this week and then that's it. How can it be this week? The 20 movement are starting... hum. I really want to go and watch some of them, to see them with a year's distance.

I've kept notes every day about what we've done here. I read all last years over the summer and I think I'm going to try and read the whole lot of them tomorrow, just to refresh myself on all the width and possibilities we've been exposed to.

It's really important to me that I talk about a big something. Relationships, love, death. Perhaps obvious, but all the same.

Three weeks left. It's so sad I can't begin to confront it. I don't want to leave Paris. I suppose in theory I don't have to, but reality feels like I must. The idea of going back to London, skint, and living with my parents and having to pay out £100's of pounds to go to weddings and hen nights and visit all the new babies that are being produced... ahh I'm getting maudlin. Excuse me please. Definitely time for bed I think.

Party!!!

Hold on tightly, let go lightly

We have a big problem. It's a problem we've had for about a week now and we've all been putting off, hoping that it'll go away, but of course it hasn't. We had 50 pieces for the soiree and we need to have about 20 maximum.

We showed 19 pieces this evening and told the profs that we had another 20 for Monday. In fact it's another 30. Then we had the third meeting this week where we all talked about it all alot and no one was able to make any decisions.

It is a bit killing to know that we're going to have to get rid of pieces that work, though we all know which pieces work better than others, it's just that we're not admitting it to ourselves.

This hasn't been helped by the teachers who, Jos espcially, have been very 'nice' about all the stuff we've been presenting. Either we have all finally managed to achieve a good level of work, or they want to pick our confidence levels up after the en-gueling we had last week. That would make sense - to finish their teacher-mentor relationship on a good note before we're released alone into the commands.

It also could be the most important lesson we learn, to really truely look at the work that you're doing and see if it's good or not. I thought lots of the commands last year lacked self-rigour. I hope we can all learn from this experience and do better.

Even though it's mad and busy and I'm very tired, I'm really enjoying it. I'm having a nice soiree.

The art of loosing things

Why is it always when you are at your most busy and stressed that you loose your doorkeys? A question particularly pertinent this evening. Fortunately my friend W has my spare set. Perhaps is was a freudian desire to stay at school all night and keep working on my pieces. They all certainly need it.
I ended up sitting on a bench outside her house for a very long time talking all the soiree maddness over. Everyone has a different brand of stress. So it's very late now, but I need to unwind a little, so I'm listening to 'Mir ist so wunderbar' and I'm going to read some carol ann duffy poems before I go to sleep to make everything happy... and I'm drinking hot chocolate.

Go and see this film immediately now

You need to go and see this film immediately. It's the best film I've seen in years. It made me cry even though I was reading french subtitles to a german film. Nuff said.

Any dream will do

There's an interview in the Observer magazine this morning with Andrew Lloyd Webber who had found new, or rather, more fame on two television programmes which I'm happy to say I've missed, being out of the UK. The first, 'How do you solve a problem like Maria', was basically a televised talent competition for young girls, the prize being a contract to play Maria Von Trapp in 'The Sound of Music' at the Palladium. It was an enormous success and has been succeeded by another version of the same, but this time to find a Joseph for Lloyd W's 'Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat'.

I grew up in the 80's and as a stagestruck child have to admit to knowing most of the music and lyrics to most LW songs. Set me off and I could probably still sing my way through most of Phantom, Joseph, Jesus Christ Superstar etc. Very shameful.

Or maybe less so now as it seems everyone has decided that it's ok to like him again now he's on TV with Graham Norton and giving out jobs in the west end. There was of course lots of kerfuffle with equity, the British actor's union about this, and I think Trevor Nunn refused to direct the first one. (Tragic loss). But actually auditions are already a circus and as LW points out he'd probably have never have met the winner of Maria without this.

What's interesting as well is that it highlights, and is some ways proves, the public suspicions that acting is not a difficult job and that they could do just as well given the chance. And here they are doing just as well for Norton and LW and then getting a nice job in the west end - that was easy, wasn't it!

But there you are. They did and have and so to some respects it is true. There are so many actors and so many talented non actors out there and everyone quite fancies having a go.

So what then do we have to offer that is different and special?

I'm thinking of this especially in relation to our cabaret autocours. Lots of us did cabaret things badly. At one point Paola asked us if we were acrobats, singers, contortionists etc. No? No. We're actors even though there are people in the class who can do some of those things as well. Is it enough? I don't know.

The arts council is particularly keen to fund street theatre and circus or acrobat type things. And I do understand why. Their physicality is amazing, the effects they can create.

But I do still believe that when we get it right, when our imaginations and our skills as actors are at their best, they are amazing. I don't think we should get angry about these programmes, I think we should just do better and never, ever produce crap theatre. Every crap show kills theatre a little more.

http://observer.guardian.co.uk/magazine/story/0,,2081836,00.html

A Big Bath of Blood or Goodbye to autocours

I think no one will thank me for putting on these pictures tonight following a massive slaughter session from the teachers about our attempts at Cabaret. Not unexpected as this was our last autocours and we've had an extremely crap and unmotivated week. Lots of people ill and even absent.
It is amazing that that is the last autocours. No more ok merci in that format. So here's for old time sakes...

Scriptwriters

I've fallen into the great youtube hole again. janeeye112 and jamiealias have very kindly put the whole of the recent Austen adaptations on youtube in 5-10 minute sections. Perfect for those with short attention spans, like me.

I'm calling this research as I'm in the throws of writing chick lit for a competition in Cosmo and Jane Austen is of course the original and best (discuss) chick lit.

I get very cross with the scriptwriters though, who change the original for the worse. These haven't changed too much of the plot, though they have changed some of it. Why? Do they seriously think they are better than Austen? And then they leave out the best bits. They water down gems of characters into wishy-washy versions of the brilliant originals. For example - horrid Mr Thorpe in Northanger Abbey contiually talking about how fast his horse and cart go, lying out right and ignoring what Catherine says is made bearable. Why? Why? Isabella is far less artificial and amusing than in the book. etc etc. Just a few irritating examples.

And Persuasion, already pointless after the amazing version with Amanda Root and Ciran Hinds a few years ago which was so immaculately scripted and directed and acted. Rupert Penry Jones has the depth of a puddle compared to Ciran Hinds. They change the plot to make it worse. Stupid, stupid.

What is so brilliant about Austen is that she is still relevant now. Anne is left on the shelf, a singleton at 30 with the same fears as Bridget Jones, or some of them.

It's Andrew Davies responsible again. I know everyone else likes him but I DON'T!!

And where is my Mr Tilney, humm?

Oh dear. This is very bad. I am really becoming a sad youtuber. Soon I will be having violent internet discussions with people with odd pseudonyms as to whether the 95 or 05 version of Pride & Predjudice is better and making montages of costume dramas set to cheesy 80's music. Aggh! No more internet. Real life please.

I hate sport

This is opposing the reallocation of resources to the Olympics of which the
35% reduction of grants for the arts is a part. To submit your name to this
petition click on this link:

('http://petitions.pm.gov.uk/lotteryolympics/');
http://petitions.pm.gov.uk/lotteryolympics/

It has already passed the minimum requirement of 200 signatures to get an
official response from Number 10 when the petition closes on 16 September
2007. If it gets to 40,000 signatures it would make it into the top 5 most
popular petitions on the site! Currently, the petition in the number 4 spot
is 'Continue funding for the Royal Air Force Aerobatics Team'. Surely in
the
arts world we are able to gather a similar if, not larger number, of
supporters.

Very popular petitions seem to generate responses from the Prime Minister
prior to the petition closing, so this really is a great way to draw the
attention to our widespread concern and opposition to the proposed 35%
reduction in Grants for the Arts funding.

Do forward this email on to colleagues, friends, and collaborators
encouraging them to add their name to the petition.

And do please sign the petition. You must be a
UK citizen, UK resident, ex-patriate or serving
in HM Forces abroad to sign.There are currently 5,739 signatures.

A load of crap.

This is my horoscope for tomorrow. Okay. I know they're a load of bollocks, but honestly, it's not exactly encouraging is it? I mean, why bother....

Take care not to overreact today. Your biorhythms are low, and in fact you may be feeling a bit under the weather. There is no point in trying to fool everyone with a cheerful front. They will see through your facade soon enough. You would be best served by spending time on independent activities. That way you can spend long stretches of time in bed, where you were meant to be today.

On the other hand, I could just take it entirely literally and spend all day in bed reading. Ahh. what a lovely thought. But then I would miss out on my lovely lovely school and I don't want to do that.

Out with the old...

Tony Blair has announced he will stand down as prime minister on 27 June.

He made the announcement in a speech to party activists in his Sedgefield constituency, after earlier briefing the Cabinet on his plans.

He acknowledged his government had not always lived up to high expectations but said he had been "very blessed" to lead "the greatest nation on earth".

He will stay on in Downing Street until the Labour Party elects a new leader - widely expected to be Gordon Brown

And of course at the same time here in France we have welcomed Sarkozy as the new President of the Republic, which is extremely frightening, but not at all unexpected. Every night here in Paris, and all over France there have been pros tests/riots. In Paris they've been based around Bastille. Rather pathetically I've stayed away, not only because I fear physical injury (hence my difficulties with acrobacy) but also because I don't think that an English person should go and protest about how the French make their political decisions.

'Hey you froggies! You picked wrong! Bad decision!' How could I say that after all those years of Thatcher, though in some ways he does make her look tame.

But this is essentially what the French are doing.
'Hey, we choose badly! We picked wrong! And now we're going to have (another) manifestation about it. Yeah!'

And as the British say goodbye to Blair and hello to Brown, and the French hello to Sarko we are getting ready to say goodbye to Lecoq and another wave of students, all eager beaver and full of their own ideas (which are definitely better and more interesting than everyone else's in the group) just like us appear. (Ok, slightly tenuious link to lecoq, I know!)

For a moment these changes seem important and momentous and then they happen and you get used to them and it just becomes another part of your life.

I will be so sad to say goodbye to some friends. The close friends who'll be going back to the other side of the world. I already know from having my brother and sister-in-law and baby nephew (who I may perhaps have mentioned occasionally before now) in Chicago that maintaining a relationship by skype is difficult. And more than that, the friendship is irrevocably changed and will never, can never be the same again, it's so linked to a time and a place. Sometimes it's sadest when a relationship changes so much from what it was it would be better if it ended at the happy time.

And sometimes not. Imagine what fun we'll have if we can manage a reunion 10 years from now? Catching up on 10 years of gossip. 'You married who!!??' 'Her play was a success?!!' etc etc.

10 years on from my last drama school and I think I'm pretty much the only female actor in my class whose still working, or attempting to work. Very scary. It's one profession for men and another for women...

All the more reason to make these last few weeks count before this magic time ends. I'm nostaglic for the present.

Whoops! There goes my trousers!

There's something about doing theatre that takes you over. It's one of those 'actory' things you have to beware of saying, but at the same time I think is true. I'd noticed it before coming to Lecoq in relation to playing different characters. Spending weeks or even months trying to be someone else, think like them, move like them and act like them seeps into you. Similar parts of your own personality emerge more strongly and you take on aspects of the character's.

How much worse then, not just one character, but a whole theatrical style. We're doing Burlesque at the moment which is what they call Charlie Chaplin, (Charlo the french call him) Buster Keaton, Marx Brother etc. Lots of prat falls and getting hit but not actually hurt and apologising. I LOVE it. I obviously have a very lowest common denominator sense of humour.

My very kind friend J**** came round to help me fix my bed tonight. I really owe him one! (You see, I can't get out of burlesque - or is that carry on?) We came straight from an evening of rehearsing our own respective cascade sequences and it became 'the bed fixing routine'. Already conversation like 'Oh my bed is broken! How did that happen?' is along those lines. Then all the 'have you got it in yet? Push harder!' dialogue. Stepping on something under the bed and hearing the crunch of breaking glass. Pushing an enormous piece of chipboard into an oil painting (nearly). Manoeuvring huge mattresses and pieces of chipboard around in 16m2. It was absurd. And of course, of course finally fixing it and then stepping backwards and the slat falling out of it's hole. Of course.

And all the way through me issuing a series of 'oppsie daisy!'s and 'whoopsie''s .

Well I thought it was funny. I'm not so sure about J****.

Clowns

Hour

I'm typing with nail polish drying on my fingers which is always exciting while waiting for a student to arrive, the last one canceled at the last minute because she got the time wrong!! How appropriate then...


Hour

by Carol Ann Duffy

Love's time's beggar, but even a single hour,
bright as a dropped coin, makes love rich.
We find an hour together, spend it not on flowers
or wine, but the whole of the summer sky and a grass ditch.

For thousands of seconds we kiss; your hair
like treasure on the ground; the Midas light
turning your limbs to gold. Time slows, for here
we are millonaires, backhanding the night

so nothing dark will end our shining hour,
no jewel hold a candle to the cuckoo spit
hung from the blade of grass at your ear,
no chandelier or spotlight see you better lit

than here. Now. Time hates love, wants love poor,
but love spins gold, gold, gold from straw.


Isn't that fantastic. There's just no one holds a candle to her as far as I'm concerned. I'm going to be spending a few hours of my life watching spiderman 3 later today. Very highbrow, but we all need it. Why are we so droopy? J**** says its the end of two hard years. But that's a bit nonsensical. We only work in the afternoons after all and rolling around with a red nose on can't really be described as 'work'.

another thursday night

I've started an awful lot of entries on this blog by saying how tired we all are, so I think I won't tonight. Instead I'll just let you know that I'm eating cheese and drinking wine and that should just about let you know where I am. We're all having difficulties moving from clown in a 'number' situation to clown in 'la vie quoditian'. It's quite a big jump I think. Tomorrow I think will be interesting. I think we're quite near something good, but perhaps not near enough. Yes quite a long way from near enough. Fingers crossed pleased.

I want some chocolate.

We are about to leave clown and have started doing burlesque in classes with Jos. And it really is his baby. He told us today that he introduced it to the school and that it wasn't taught here before he came here. His eyes light up when he's teaching and he laughs and laughs.

Lecoqian misconceptions

There are some things that do not seem to translate culturally and so provide difficulites in characterization general understanding between teachers and students. One of the main of these is that lepoard skin is classy, whereas in the UK leopard skin anything is the universal sign of a slapper.
Though to be fair leopard skin has made a bit of a come back recently. One very dear friend in Britain pulled her boyfriend about seven years ago in a leopard skin dress. We like to say she was ahead of her time rather than a slapper.
I don't want to dwell on unhappy memories from first year, but another difference of opinion is certainly what the phrase '100%' means. Remember the 100% animals week, where we actually were 100% animals in the human world?
And another of my bug-bears is the idea, often touted by Krikor, that there are bouffons in Shakespeare. Now, I'm working on the pedagogical basis that bouffons are these strange creatures who look at humans and mock them, essentially not in human form, but perfectly happy to dress up like them. Liz's bouffon had a triangular head. The only thing remotely like that in Shakespeare that I know of is Caliban, and he doesn't really mock humanity. Or Falstaff or Toby Belch I suppose you could say. But they are both fat men. Neither of them have triangular heads though they do have 'bands' that they drink and fart with.
W****** has pointed out to me that I've been doing a lot less blogging than I used to and you may have noticed that when I do it's usually only to recommend something on youtube. I am becoming a dreadful, dreadful addict. Every night I come home and look up something. Sometimes recommendations for school - Spike Jones, Karl Valentin and Denny Willis. And then as you have seen old favourtites - Anne of Green Gables, Willo the wisp and Taxi. And then anything that takes my fancy... I have found myself linking on from one thing to another and have ended up, shame on me, on a completely hillarious sequence of kisses from Jane Austen films set to some awful song by Bryan Adams. Though I have to admit Bryan was my first live pop concert aged about 13. You see how uncool I was. 'Got my first real 6 string... ooo, played it at the five and dime...' And now I'm thinking. Hum, where could I see a bit of that video? Where indeed.
You want to find an old bit of thirtysomething or my so called life. You want to see some hancocks half hour or monty python, you want to see Hancock's egg adverts with Patricia Hayes or the last episode of sex and the city.... ah and it just goes on. Almost anything that you can think of has been downloaded by someone somewhere. Dangerous, very, very dangerous.

I went and saw a clown show last night and had the fortune/misfortune to be sitting next to it's director J**. I had a Belgian running commentary all the way through 'Oh, that wasn't supposed to happen... That was my idea! The planes have got twisted up, he won't be able to do the next bit now. There's supposed to be a huge drop of planes now. It's hasn't happened. You see how he's playing anyway, even though it's all gone wrong?'

Happily autocours went well for me yesterday. Especially happily because I had one of my old teachers from my last drama school watching. She is an ex-Lecoq student too, and never particularly liked me or thought I was talented at drama school. I though I saw her watching Christophe's lesson on Thursday where we were making up poem, but from the mezzanine level above. Then I though, no, no I'm being stupid. I've just got that paranoid feeling that my old teacher who though I was crap is watching me fuck up yet again. And then she came up to me just before the first year's autocours and said hello. Well, at least I'm not a paranoid fantasist. I said, 'oh, I thought I saw you watching yesterday's lesson.' And she said 'yes, clown can be so excruciating can't it'. Lovely. Thanks.
Anyhow our autocours rocked so yah boo sucks to you.

The origins of granny

I'd always thought I'd nicked it straight from the grandmother in Odon Von Hovath's 'Tales from the Vienna Woods' but on watching the I wonder if there was another earlier influence on my granny character.
How I love you tube.
Willo the Wisp - the potion
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oFKTeZ-tSGU&mode=related&search=

Clown

We're all buckling under the worry of not being funny, except the happy few who do manage to make people laugh. And the teachers are giving us an 'only a few weeks left' hard time. They do not need to give me an 'only a few weeks left' hard time. I am well aware that we only have three more weeks of being taught and then the soiree and then the commands, and that clown is almost at an end and I've in no way cracked it.

And paranoidly I feel that everyone has several exciting things lined up and I have nothing. Talking to A**** last night he was very much in the 'I can't wait to get out there line'. I've already been out there and now I want to stay in here for a bit longer. I know how scary out there is, but don't take my word for it. I'm re-reading Peter Brook's 'The Empty Space' which I highly recommend to those of you who haven't (and Phillip Roth's The Plot against America which is also excellent, in fact anything by Roth is pretty much guaranteed to be good).

I first read 'The Empty Space' the last time I was at drama school, so about 10 years ago. I get it a lot better now. Some of it is so apt and precise it makes me laugh out loud.
(on bad theatre)
'Almost every season in most theatre-loving towns, there is one great success that defies these rules; one play that succeeds not despite of but because of dullness. After all, one associates culture and long speeches with the sensation of being bored, so conversely, just the right degree of boringness is a reassuring guarantee of a worthwhile event.'
My friend S**** was telling me this weekend about a play at the Almedia in London that had had rave reviews and she went with a friend and got very bored. Her friend,who is an actress, wouldn't reply and was very shifty when she said this to her and after they left said, 'I can't say anything when we're in a theatre. I always think I might be sitting next to a casting director and I might suddenly have an audition with them the next day and what would they think if they'd heard me bitching about a play they'd cast'.

You see how mad actors are? Brook again:
'In England, it seems suddenly that we have a marvellous new breed of young actors- we feel we are witnessing two lines of men in a factory facing opposite directions: one line shuffles out grey, tired; the other strides forward fresh and vital. We get the impression that one line is better than the other, that the lively line is made of better stock. This is partly ture, but in the end the new shift will be as tired and grey as the old; it is an inevitable result of certain conditions that have not yet changed. the tragedy is that the professional status of actors over the age of thirty is seldom a true reflection of their talents. There are countloess actors who never have the chance to develop their inborn potential to its proper fruition.'

I am one of these old, sad tired actors over the age of 30 who knows that they're not one of the very gifted and a part of me wonders if it's all worth it at all. I mean, if I can't get clown, why even bother?

On the other hand that is very defeatest and I still have two days left so I'm going to go for a swim and buy a new clown costume.

Research

I'm taking Clown very seriously and doing lots of research on Marx Brothers Films and other serious intellectual works like that. My research has even stretched to bits of 'Taxi' on Youtube.
So for your delight and delectation I present...
What does the yellow light mean? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAjP86tWypQ&mode=related&search=
and Vic Ferrari
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FLUXa9jNzIc&mode=related&search=
and
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3p3oF7fVX-s&mode=related&search=
It's wonderful stuff.

One more term

I cannot tell you what bliss it is to be able to cross the road without being followed by 26 americans. Thank heavens that is over. The plus side is that it makes me fully apreciate and look forward to getting back to school. J'hate, I believe the term is in french.

I filled in my spotlight form today. (I don't look as good in reality as in the photo. Same problem with my passport photo. I foolishly put on make-up and had it taken in black and white so I look quite nice, over pouty, but nice. When I go through the passport checks, espcially on the French side, the people checking always do a double take and look incredulously from the nice photo to the bedraggled reality in front of them and then swipe the passport through a machine to check it really is me.)

£124 for my picture in a book for casting directors to ignore. Ugh. I am really not looking forward to my blissful two years of living in France and doing what I love every day ending, to going back to scurrying around London, skint, trying to juggle 100 things at once- looking for acting work, writing letters, doing my day a week in my co-operative agency, temping and a thousand other hideous, badly- paid temporary jobs. It's like looking down from heaven into hell and knowing the fall is inevitable. I really hope that I'm able to take some perspective on it all, to make some big changes and not just go back to things exactly as they were before. Because Paris is so much cheaper it's possible to have a decent quality of life here. In London as soon as you walk out the door it costs £50, and the door itself won't be cheap.

I just want to stay here forever and work with Monouchkine. (Went and saw Les Iphermeres again yesterday. Still brilliant even after only 5 hours sleep.) I want, I want.... don't you just hate whingy actors.

Peter Brook drank my orange juice

I am up to my neck in preparations for taking a group of 28 Americans around France, to places I've never visited before, all the while giving amusing and informative commentary. I had been briefed all afternoon and couldn't really be bothered to go to the jolly to meet the new British Ambassador at the British Council, but as I was just around the corner and the nibbles tend to be good I decided not to be pathetic and pop in.

The problem with these things is that you never know anyone, or at least that's always the fear. Actually the Parisian ex-pat community is so small that there's a high chance you'll see someone you know, but walking in past all the men in suits I was very conscious that a) I was all on my own and b) that I was the only person wearing jeans.

Imagine my relief when I saw another person wearing jeans, though admittedly much smarter and newer black jeans that could nearly be proper trousers. But I thought, 'well, if it's ok for Peter Brook to wear jeans, it's ok for me too'.

He was surrounded by a group of people and I didn't really know what to do so I went and stood by the window and looked out at the view onto the stretch leading up to Invalides and the Eiffel Tour. A lady came over and started talking to me and we took me over to the drinks and nibbles table to get a drink. As I was planning to work later with superhuman strength I resisted the free champagne and went for orange juice instead. She worked represented film for the British Council and told me about the things she was organising at the moment on women and film and then in a whirl and I'm not quite sure how, Mr Brook and another man came over and then they both left and I was left all alone talking to Peter Brook!

I think I went rather pink. But we started chatting and I said he'd just directed on of my teachers, Joss Houben, in a play. He said, 'oh yes, Joss, he's a good actor and a good man' which is a lovely thing to say about anyone, and also in this case true. Then somehow we were talking about me and I was telling him about working with autistic teenagers before I came to Lecoq. His eyes went very bright and he seemed very interested and asked what I'd done with them. I gave a general answer and he asked what specific exercise I'd done. My stupid befuddled brain couldn't remember very well. Then he told me about going to a mental hospital in France with his actors where the nurses said, oh you won't be able to do anything with them and he did an exercise with bamboo sticks where they had to raise them up, and of course they did.

Then the nibbles came round and he took a bite and started coughing and coughing. I wasn't quite sure what to do. Usually I'd give someone a good slap on the back, but he looked rather frail and I was afraid that if I did I might kill him and then I'd have killed Peter Brook and the theatrical establishment would be very cross with me. I said, 'something must have gone down the wrong way, as my mum would say' and offered him some of my orange juice, which he took.

He was just about recovered and we were starting chatting again when the man from Porlock arrived in the shape of L****** who I know from a mutual organisation. I said 'L*****, Peter Brook'. L***** obviously had absolutely no idea who he was and started chuntering away to me about something very dull. Peter drifted off and I ended up talking to L***** and someone who worked at Sciences Po who told us all about it for a very long time.

I wasn't really listening. I was chuckling happily away to myself. Who would have thought it eh?

Spring Soiree

Anne spelt with an E

To the uninitiated 'Anne of Green Gables' is one of the best things, like, ever. All of it - books, TV mini series with Megan Follows and Colleen Dewhurst, spin off series of the other many works of the truly prolific Lucy Maud Montgomery - all very, very good stuff in my opinion. It is only due to Anne of Green Gables that I can confidently spell the word chrysanthemum!

I have discovered (thank you A***, thank you J**) that you can get Anne via you tube in bite size ten minutes portions. These Annelets and of course my old friends tea and radio 4 are helping me ward off soiree stress.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2px3wrJqQXs&NR

As all Anne fans will know Anne spells her name with an E. Ideally she would rather be called Cordelia, and who can argue with that, but at the very least please spell Anne with an e. Infinitely more elegant and refined. And it seems the french have a similar pedancy about language.

Chatting to M**** and J******* tonight they were saying how precise the french are about language and finding exactly the right word to explain what you mean. Apparently J******** had to tell M**** to simplify her language last year as she was using a mixture of argot (slang) and very old classical french in order to explain her autocours ideas with necessary, french precision. She said, 'J**** has learned a lot from me'. He was celebrating his birthday tonight. I checked his straight line abilities after about 4 pints and a few shots of JD and he was still straight as an arrow.

So, the french may be swanky with their language, but we Brits can drink fuck-loads and still walk in a straight line.

Oh dear. That's really not something to boast about, is it.

All things in proportion

I've been working on a chorus piece for the soiree, a cut of texts taken from Women of Troy, a beautiful version by Kenneth Mcleish and Bagdad Burning. Plus ca change.

We're all stressed. To my shame I burst into tears a couple of times yesterday. Then I came home and read some of her blog and it rather put things in proportion.

http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com

The Rape of Sabrine...

It takes a lot to get the energy and resolution to blog lately. I guess it’s mainly because just thinking about the state of Iraq leaves me drained and depressed. But I had to write tonight.

As I write this, Oprah is on Channel 4 (one of the MBC channels we get on Nilesat), showing Americans how to get out of debt. Her guest speaker is telling a studio full of American women who seem to have over-shopped that they could probably do with fewer designer products. As they talk about increasing incomes and fortunes, Sabrine Al-Janabi, a young Iraqi woman, is on Al Jazeera telling how Iraqi security forces abducted her from her home and raped her. You can only see her eyes, her voice is hoarse and it keeps breaking as she speaks. In the end she tells the reporter that she can’t talk about it anymore and she covers her eyes with shame.

She might just be the bravest Iraqi woman ever. Everyone knows American forces and Iraqi security forces are raping women (and men), but this is possibly the first woman who publicly comes out and tells about it using her actual name. Hearing her tell her story physically makes my heart ache. Some people will call her a liar. Others (including pro-war Iraqis) will call her a prostitute- shame on you in advance.

I wonder what excuse they used when they took her. It’s most likely she’s one of the thousands of people they round up under the general headline of ‘terrorist suspect’. She might have been one of those subtitles you read on CNN or BBC or Arabiya, “13 insurgents captured by Iraqi security forces.” The men who raped her are those same security forces Bush and Condi are so proud of- you know- the ones the Americans trained. It’s a chapter right out of the book that documents American occupation in Iraq: the chapter that will tell the story of 14-year-old Abeer who was raped, killed and burned with her little sister and parents.

They abducted her from her house in an area in southern Baghdad called Hai Al Amil. No- it wasn’t a gang. It was Iraqi peace keeping or security forces- the ones trained by Americans? You know them. She was brutally gang-raped and is now telling the story. Half her face is covered for security reasons or reasons of privacy. I translated what she said below.


“I told him, ‘I don’t have anything [I did not do anything].’ He said, 'You don’t have anything?’ One of them threw me on the ground and my head hit the tiles. He did what he did- I mean he raped me. The second one came and raped me. The third one also raped me. [Pause- sobbing] I begged them and cried, and one of them covered my mouth. [Unclear, crying] Another one of them came and said, 'Are you finished? We also want our turn.' So they answered, ‘No, an American committee came.’ They took me to the judge.


Anchorwoman: Sabrine Al Janabi said that one of the security forces videotaped/photographed her and threatened to kill her if she told anyone about the rape. Another officer raped her after she saw the investigative judge.

Sabrine continuing:
“One of them, he said… I told him, ‘Please- by your father and mother- let me go.’ He said, ‘No, no- by my mother’s soul I’ll let you go- but on one condition, you give me one single thing.’ I said, ‘What?’ He said, ‘[I want] to rape you.’ I told him, ‘No- I can’t.’ So he took me to a room with a weapon… It had a weapon, a Klashnikov, a small bed [Unclear], he sat me on it. So [the officer came] and told him, ‘Leave her to me.’ I swore to him on the Quran, I told him, ‘By the light of the Prophet I don’t do such things…’ He said, ‘You don’t do such things?’ I said, ‘Yes’.

[Crying] He picked up a black hose, like a pipe. He hit me on the thigh. [Crying] I told him, ‘What do you want from me? Do you want me to tell you rape me? But I can’t… I’m not one of those ***** [Prostitutes] I don’t do such things.’ So he said to me, ‘We take what we want and what we don’t want we kill. That’s that.’ [Sobbing] I can’t anymore… please, I can’t finish.”

I look at this woman and I can’t feel anything but rage. What did we gain? I know that looking at her, foreigners will never be able to relate. They’ll feel pity and maybe some anger, but she’s one of us. She’s not a girl in jeans and a t-shirt so there will only be a vague sort of sympathy. Poor third-world countries- that is what their womenfolk tolerate. Just know that we never had to tolerate this before. There was a time when Iraqis were safe in the streets. That time is long gone. We consoled ourselves after the war with the fact that we at least had a modicum of safety in our homes. Homes are sacred, aren’t they? That is gone too.

She’s just one of tens, possibly hundreds, of Iraqi women who are violated in their own homes and in Iraqi prisons. She looks like cousins I have. She looks like friends. She looks like a neighbor I sometimes used to pause to gossip with in the street. Every Iraqi who looks at her will see a cousin, a friend, a sister, a mother, an aunt…

Humanitarian organizations are warning that three Iraqi women are to be executed next month. The women are Wassan Talib, Zainab Fadhil and Liqa Omar Muhammad. They are being accused of 'terrorism', i.e. having ties to the Iraqi resistance. It could mean they are relatives of people suspected of being in the resistance. Or it could mean they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. One of them gave birth in the prison. I wonder what kind of torture they've endured. Let no one say Iraqi women didn't get at least SOME equality under the American occupation- we are now equally as likely to get executed.

And yet, as the situation continues to deteriorate both for Iraqis inside and outside of Iraq, and for Americans inside Iraq, Americans in America are still debating on the state of the war and occupation- are they winning or losing? Is it better or worse.

Let me clear it up for any moron with lingering doubts: It’s worse. It’s over. You lost. You lost the day your tanks rolled into Baghdad to the cheers of your imported, American-trained monkeys. You lost every single family whose home your soldiers violated. You lost every sane, red-blooded Iraqi when the Abu Ghraib pictures came out and verified your atrocities behind prison walls as well as the ones we see in our streets. You lost when you brought murderers, looters, gangsters and militia heads to power and hailed them as Iraq’s first democratic government. You lost when a gruesome execution was dubbed your biggest accomplishment. You lost the respect and reputation you once had. You lost more than 3000 troops. That is what you lost America. I hope the oil, at least, made it worthwhile.

Bujegustei plut que?

OH my god we are all so stressed it's unbelievable. Everybody is stressed because they have too much time but can't rehearse because they can't get their groups together because everyone is rehearsing too many things.

To my shame I ended up in tears at about 6 o'clock, first of all in the passageway between the Lem and the school where no one could see me. Then I went to wash my face so no one would know in the toilets where I met J** and S***** who said, 'are you okay?' and I burst into tears again. And then again in the vestaire. And then again in Mauri 7. I am ashamed of myself. It was a beautiful sunset, all my family and friends are well. Why am I crying because my pieces aren't going well? Pathetic.


So for light relief the picture above and this story.

My american friend has another american friend who happened to be in Paris. This person didn't know any french at all. They went into a cafe and sat down. The server came over and friend's friend said
'bu je su boojee ej kesoopsk' because they didn't speak any french.
And the waiter brought them a coffee.

For me the most amazing part of this story is that the waiter brought them a coffee. A parisian waiter! Unbelievable. Maybe it was Tim. Where is Tim? I haven't seen him in ages.

While rehearsing one of my English things we were talking about how we bastardise both the english and french language at the same time. 'Oh no! I've tromped.' Can we metre the public over there?' ' we really need to equlibre the plateau'. 'You got to use your basin more'. 'I keep forgeting to push my plexus'.

There are some words and phrases that just don't seem right in english any more - audience (c'est quoi ca?) Pelvis (ugh! sounds like a very bad pop group from the 80's) Chest - well that just doesn't mean the same as plexus, does it?

Oh yes and

I forgot one of the funniest things from last night. N**
'You English are so tiring to work with'.
(This after me saying how wierd it was being in a group last week with so many people from group C last year and how they all seemed to jump back into their group C dynamic.)
'Every time we're about to start running it again you all have to take about five minutes with your little comments and jokes and laughing at them'.
This is completely true. We do do this. I hadn't realised how irritating it was. I think of it as putting people at ease and keeping the work spirit relaxed and happy. In fact, in monday's very stressed rehearsal all those little jokes and gufaws were noticeably absent.
' - and you are the worst! You make little comments and jokes to yourself and then laugh to yourself'.
This too is very true, and I find very funny. I've been thinking about it and chuckling away to myself ever since he said it. You know what they say - first sign of madness.

Le Cerise Blue

I've just got home, stupidly. But when you're tired and stressed somehow being even more tired doesn't seem to matter. Drinking in bar of above name, cheese plate and all. My brain isn't working very well now, so probably not a good moment to be writing, but there you go. I should have been reading guide books in preparation for taking a bus load of American teenagers to destinations I haven't been to in France. I'm going to have to do a lot of Lecoq style question inverting... 'well, which mountain do you think Mont Blanc is'. I did this in the summer and followed similar tactics 'it's a garden', 'it's a church' etc. when asked the generic 'what that?' question.

Was in the bar with W****** ,S***** and N**. It was one of the funniest evenings I've had in a long time. We were having the standards, 'what did you do before you came to lecoq' conversation but the answers were way above average.

N** directed a production of 'Hair' with teenagers in jail. I think this was somehow supposed to encourage them to join the Israeli army. Hair is a pacifist musical. (Dear God, that such a term exists!) If I understood correctly Israel has military service, so in order to get out of, 'killing Arabs' my friend pretended to be mad in his interview with the doctor. As he is both intelligent and a good actor he didn't just have a normal conversation with the doctor and then try and jump out the window at the end of the session. Instead he, subtly, told the doctor that he 'always had to get in the shower first and would get very angry if he couldn't' and that he 'had to eat first when in the canteen' or he'd get very angry. It worked a treat. They found him seriously unbalanced - so they sent him to work with children!!

Meanwhile in Vienna S***** was trying to get into the Austrian equivalent of RADA. For her speeches she chose Metosopheles from Faust, Hinkel from Chaplin's film 'The Great Dictator' and, because her friend insisted she do at least one female speech, Medea. S**** is very keen on costume and props. She always has a huge sack of props stashed away and appears the most unlikely of things at a moments notice. Very useful for autocours. She told us that she had carefully planned her speeches so she could change from costume to costume very quickly and that it was most efficient if she started with Hinkel.

So, in she goes. There they are behind the desk. She gets into her Hinkel costume, just as he is in the Great Dictator, suit and little Hitler moustache. She does the speech, which seems to go down well and then goes behind the screen to change into her next costume which is for Medea. By the time she comes out her nerves are getting the better of her and in order to calm herself and keep in control (!!) she improvises and does the speech with a Swiss accent.
'Why Swiss?' I asked.
'Weeeel, the swees accent is veery sloowe, you know?'
Well, I do now. Unfortunately as well as doing Medea very slowly and Swiss she had forgotten to take off her Hitler moustache. Perhaps unsurprisingly the audition panel were in fits of laughter by the time she finished.
'What do you want to do?' they asked her. 'Do you want to play Juliet in Romeo and Juliet?'
'No' she replied.
'You're a clown' they told her.
So she came to learn to be a clown. But before that she worked as a road sweeper with lots of alcoholics. At first they didn't think she could do the job, but when she showed them, convinced them they were delighted.
'We're going to the pub' they'd tell her, at 7am in the morning. Give us a sign if the boss comes. Which as she's so nice she probably would have done.
Phew! Bed. I'm knackered.

Manifestations

There were SIXTEEN policemen standing on the corner opposite Mauri 7 on Saturday. SIXTEEN!! All to guard the bastard Sarkozy from people wearing cut out paper masks. Ooo! Scary. (Please, no not the paper! Not the glue! I'll do anything you like but don't put the winne the pooh mask on...)

It seems to me a little excessive.

Examine your diaries please

Just so you know the spring Soiree is on Wednesday 21st March for students and Thursday 22nd March for the rest.

Then the final Soiree is, allegedly on Wednesday 30th and Thursday 31st May.

And by a process of elimination the week of the Commands starts Monday 18th June and ends on Thursday 21st June and we get chucked out for perpetuity on 22nd.

Then, hopefully and all going well I will be traveling Europe doing workshops with teenagers from poor areas with a charity ending in Paris some time in October on their version of 'Make Poverty History' day. I'll be working with musicians, puppeteers, photo and film artist and generally nice and interesting people. Keep your fingers crossed it all works out. Hurrah!

Spanish Time

As an inherently late person I absolutely cannot complain about the timekeeping of others. I tend to be slightly relieved when other people are late in an, it's not just me kind of way. I am relatively organised.

Perhaps then it's churlish of me to be a little alarmed about having two of our Spanish boys S**** and A**** running the soiree. They've both grown their hair very long and moustaches at the moment and looked like two of the three musketeers as they lounged behind the desk getting propositions for the soiree.

We became an unbridled rabble, chatting loudly, eating and wandering around to have little talks with people on the other side of the room about how many scenes we could seriously work on and which should be jettisoned already. I have already cut my five down to four, and may cut again by the end of the day. You can only sensibly propose a few things or you won't have enough time to do any of them justice. Even if you have time to work on them other people won't.

I'm just a little afraid that under their Mediterranean management relaxation will reach a point where the whole thing will arrive a day or two late.

I am starting a movement early for the next soiree. S**** McG**** for President (or should I call you Rose?). We need her English pink-and-white-efficiency up front.
'Ahem, excuse me everyone. I'm not just sitting up here for my own amusement you know. Could everybody please listen to me? Right. This is what's going to happen...'. The Soiree will be run with clockwork efficiency.

McG**** for President! C'mon everyone, join in with me, McG**** for President! You know it's right.

Soiree Fever Again

We've all been scurrying around this week muttering to each other ...'I've got an idea for the Soiree. Do you fancy trying to do a mix of bouffon and mystere cut with a Nick Cave song?' and things like this.

Here I am at home on a Friday night when I could be out drinking at the Australian Embassy with lots of eligible Australian men (and my friends A** and S****) and instead I'm at home trying to cut Titus Andronicus and 'Keep Young and Beautiful' together. Yes, soiree madness is here again.

And why is it always at times like this I think, 'I know, now would be a good time to defrost the fridge!'. Am I completely deranged? No, now is a dreadful time to defrost the fridge. Anyway, I've started now.

It seems the 10eme is going up in the world. Sarkozy the bastard french politician, and probably the next President has rented an office just around the corner from Lecoq. I didn't realise until earlier this week, though I did wonder why for the past several weeks there have been policemen standing outside Chez Jeanette. To be honest, I thought they were doing some not-very-undercover-surveillance of Mauri 7 - the Albanian mafia, or perhaps Tim's drug dealing, but the real reason is much less interesting. Sometimes there are people having manifestations in the street and I'm very tempted to go and join in instead of going to school. I've always wanted to sit down in the middle of the street. Actually that's a complete lie, I've never wanted to sit down in the middle of the street.

My counter has disappeared so I don't know how many people are checking any more. Or how many times my mum is checking. Well, that's what you get from shoddy free stuff from goodness knows what Internet site! That won't teach me!

Time for bed I think. I'm going a little insane.

Tourists

I love tourists, especially American ones. Follow a group around any museum or gallery and you're almost assured amusement. Often their comments are more interesting than the exhibits themselves.

Overheard in the Louvre...

disappointed..."But it's just like all the other Mona Lisa's'...

Overheard outside Hotel de Ville...

..."You know, it's not actually a hotel"...

Overheard in the Uffizi.... (my favourite so far)

..."Don't you find it's sinister that the baby is always a boy?"

Please feel free to add your own over hearings.

The tragic chorus performed tragically

I'm so tired. I think perhaps because each time we start an improvisation for our chorus text we start by running around the room. Put all those attempts together and you must have something approaching a half marathon.

We still seem so far away from the crystalline clarity and brilliance, vocal and visually, but I've found it a really interesting and engaged work. And I feel I've worked in a harder and more concentrated way than I have all term, and am convinced that this is useful work for the future.

And the future is closer and closer. O***, our lovely friend from first year, is visiting from Engerland this weekend. It's great how much he's done and puts everything in proportion. And then again it doesn't.