Odds & Ends: Art or a Naked Emperor?

Posted on July 22, 2012 by Scribe Doll

A ten year-old Italian boy called Federico went to the Tate Modern with his mother.  When he saw Damian Hirst’s formaldehyde-pickled cows, he said, “That’s cruel.  Why didn’t they allow this calf to grow up and have calves of its own?”

I was told about this occurrence over dinner, that evening, by some amused adults.  I leaned across the table and said to the boy, “I totally agree with you.”

Federico’s eyes sparkled with intelligent fun.  I winked back.  He had helped me unleash thoughts about Modern Art, I had harboured for some time.

Striking.  Powerful.  Controversial.  Raw.  Brave.  Statement.  Subversive.

Words often used to describe Modern Art.  Words of violence.  Words we also often use when we find ourselves before a thing in a museum, which baffles us but which we think we should understand.  We do not want to appear stupid, by not understanding.  We think that this thing must be rich in meaning or symbolism, surely, or it would not be displayed in a reputable gallery or museum.  Critics would not call it a “milestone” or a “seminal work”, would they? Critics are free-thinkers, right?

“That’s cruel.  Why didn’t they allow this calf to grow up and have calves of its own?”

That is the voice of the free-thinker.  The voice of unadulterated innocence, which speaks straight from the heart.  It does not care if someone thinks it is stupid.  It is true to itself.  It is that same voice which rose from the crowd, in Hans Christian Andersen’s story, and cried, “But, Mummy, the Emperor is naked!”

Shortly after the wonderful, intelligent Nora Ephron passed away, I read this quotation of hers: “I am continually fascinated at the difficulty intelligent people have in distinguishing what is controversial from what is merely offensive.”

Just because something breaks the rules of convention does not, per se, mean it is good, or Art.  One must first assess whether that convention is good or bad, before deciding if breaking it is an act of courage or the spitefulness of an egotistic brat.

Being original is not automatically good.  You cannot try to be original.  Originality is like style – you’ve either got it in you, or you haven’t.  Trying to be original can only result in tack.

I think many contemporary artists seek – above all else – to break the mould, to defy rules for the sake of defying them, and to brand the world’s stage with the mark of their ego – as opposed to creating a work of art that will please.  Pleasing is now considered weak, unadventurous, dull.  Pleasure has become coupled with guilt.  It does not occur to them that it takes skill to please.  Today’s motto is subvert, shock, make people feel uncomfortable (again, discomfort is not always a path to learning; it can also be an instinctive rebellion against something that is actually wrong for us).

My question is, what gives an artist the right to be so aggressive? What degree of arrogance allows an artist to think he or she has the keys to the Truth? In my book, a true artist loves the art more than him or herself.  He/she is the servant of Art – not its manipulator.

Let us take London’s newest building, the Shard (the very word makes me wince).  As its name suggests, the building looks like a sharp fragment of broken glass stabbing into the soft blue sky.  This is not the inspirational spire of the Chrysler Building, streamlined and refined.  It is a weapon in a pub fight.  What kind of society admires a shape that evokes violent cutting, breaking, bleeding, pain?

Until the 20th Century, Art was designed to caress the senses, glorify Nature and the human body.  Art enhanced the pleasure of life.  Art exalted Beauty.  John Keats wrote

“‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’ – that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

You only need to observe the colours and forms of Nature, to realise that this is, indeed, true.  Purposefully creating ugliness is an egotistic perversion, since nothing in the natural world is ugly.  Ugliness teaches only ugliness.  It is unnatural, in the strongest sense of the word.  It goes against the perfection of this beautiful World.

Of course, we cannot all like the same things.  I may gush in front of Verrocchio’s Tobias and the Angel at the National Gallery, while you may rejoice at the sight of Rosina Wachtmeister’s cats.  However, let us not shy away from being discriminating.  There is art; there is what – with the correct marketing spin – becomes a money-making venture aimed at the same people who marvelled at the Emperor’s invisible thread cloak; and there is also what Kenneth Branagh’s character in the film Peter’s Friends calls “Shit with a capital SH”.

In this era where reclaiming personal power is so frequently advocated, let us claim back our right to be pleased, to be caressed, to be spoilt with Beauty.  Let us demand to be wrapped in it, to swim in it, to drink it to our hearts’ content.  Let us gratefully rediscover Pleasure.

 

Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: A Nomad to Guard Someone’s Land

Posted on July 15, 2012 by Scribe Doll

My Armenian grandmother, Yekaterina Gregorian, passed away last March, at the age of one hundred.  Several years ago, when, blind and almost deaf (but her mind as sharp as a needle), she was moved from my mother’s to a nursing home, I raided her cupboards and drawers, grabbing anything I thought should be kept safe, intending to go through it at a later date.  Although that was, technically, my mother’s job, I was worried that – with all the pressure of her own frequent house moves – she might overlook something.  Or else that she would discard something as merely sentimental and, therefore, not worth holding onto.   I come from a family who has not owned a property since the Soviets confiscated the little my great-grandparents had, nearly a hundred years ago, and who has moved from country to country for now three generations.  We have moved through marriage, political unrest, lack of opportunity, or simply because we heard it said that such-or-such a country was better than the one we were currently in.  I, for one, have moved house forty-four times, so far.  I imagine if you do not have the security of a place to live from where no one can boot you out, there is nothing stopping you from chasing after dreams over mountains and over seas.  After all, if you have no solid roots to anchor you to a piece of soil, then you ride on any alluring gust of wind.

Among my grandmother’s personal possessions, there was not much.  Certainly nothing of any financial value.  The upside of having nothing, is that there are never any family fights over bequests.  There is nothing to fight over when there is nothing material to inherit.  I know that is where both my grandmother’s and mother’s quasi obsessive thirst for knowledge and education comes from – one that was drilled into me from at early age.  Learn, learn, learn – languages and skills.  You have nothing except what is inside your head.  At any moment, you could lose your home, your spouse, your friends.  But your knowledge is yours.  No change in government or affections can take that away from you.  Gold is too heavy to carry, banknotes lose value, but acquiring a new language is always a good investment – because every new language gives you a new perspective.

When The Red Room posted the theme of finding something in your attic that reveals a fascinating piece of family history, as a blog challenge, I decided the time had come to spill the contents of the plastic envelope containing what I had salvaged from my grandmother’s things, on the kitchen table.  There is a small cloth-bound notebook with recipes  transcribed, out-of-date documents (one with a picture of my grandmother at the age of seventeen), letters her mother sent her from the Soviet Union after my grandmother married an Iranian diplomat and moved to Teheran.  A couple of the letters are cut up, with paragraphs missing beneath jagged edges.  Soviet censorship.  There is also a land deed, dated 1902, complete with the Russian Imperial seal.  Several pages of thick yellowed paper, sewn together with a cotton thread.  I have difficulty deciphering the old legal Russian language but understand it testifies as to the acquisition through inheritance of a plot of land containing a small house and a vegetable garden.  It belongs to a man whose name I do not recognise.  There is also a map, traced in different coloured inks, outlining this plot of land.  Where this land is situated, though, I cannot work out.  The names written in the legal document no longer exist, probably changed by various incoming political regimes.  What is someone else’s land deed doing among such personal family keepsakes? I studied the map, wondering.  Then a word, and image, a recollection at a time, a memory began to take shape.  I remembered odds and ends from something my grandmother used to tell me, long ago.

Your grandfather helped this man.  

He always helped people.

This Russian man fled from the Soviet Union.  They had taken everything from him.

He wanted to go to America.

Your grandfather helped him get the papers.

The man was so grateful to your grandfather.  He left him the land deed – what good would it be to him in America? He gave it to your grandfather for safe-keeping in case, one day, the Soviet Union collapsed, and borders would be opened once again.

My grandfather gave the documents to my grandmother, and told her to keep them safe.  “You never know,” he said, “life can be strange.  Perhaps, someday, our children or grandchildren will meet an American, by chance.   He’ll tell them his father or grandfather once owned a piece of land in Russia.  Our child or grandchild can then give him good news, say he still owns this land, and hand him the deed back.” 

And so it seems I have in my possession that land deed, for a plot which belongs by rights perhaps to an American of Russian descent, somewhere across the Atlantic.  Life is strange.  Nobody in my family has ever owned land in living memory, and here am I, a nomad, yet unwittingly the guardian of someone else’s land.  Life can certainly make you smile.

I will find someone to help me translate the deed, and find out exactly where this land is, and whom it belongs to.  Then I will have all the information I need to be ready and wait.  Wait for a gust of wind to blow me to the rightful owner of this land – or to blow him or her to me.

Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: London – Can’t live in it, can’t live out of it.

Posted on July 8, 2012 by Scribe Doll

Ask me if I like London.

No, I don’t, would be a frequent answer.

Architecturally, I don’t think it’s beautiful.  Not as ugly as some other places (no names mentioned) but not a city where you can walk down the streets and feast your eyes on one beautiful building after another.  Because of the Great Fire of 1666, most of London is relatively modern.  What we have predominantly, is a combination of Colonial chunkiness (Trafalgar Square, Whitehall and Pall Mall), and cold steel and glass expressions of folie des grandeurs (the London Eye, the Gherkin and, now, the Shard).  London buildings do not possess the splendour of Rome, the sensuality of Venice, the quiet precision of Brussels or Brugge, the charm of Cambridge, or the elated inspiration of New York skyscrapers.

Still, sometimes, when I am walking around the city, I find myself ambushed by a whisper, a song, a few errant words from a story, carried by a gust of wind; or a wink rippling in the Thames.  A building is calling me.  I stop and pay attention, and come face to face with a gem.  St Paul’s Cathedral bathed in silver light, seen from Hungerford Bridge.  The gold Houses of Parliament reflected in the nocturnal river.  Big Ben at sunset.  Hammersmith Bridge, in green and gold.  The Tower of London, murmuring secrets.  Lambeth Palace, austere and sapient.  There are also the hidden jewels, the ones that do not feature on the official tourist trail.  Fulham Palace, with its Elizabethan courtyard and gently gurgling fountain.  All Saints’ Church has stood guard at the North end of Putney Bridge for six hundred years.  The Royal Courts of Justice line Fleet Street, tall and imposing.  Across the street, ensconced among barristers’ chambers, the Temple Church – built by Knights Templars – is another  nugget of precious architecture, history and music.

When I returned to London both from Hamburg and Brussels, I wanted to turn back as soon as I stepped off the plane and the Eurostar.  After the politeness and helpfulness in Hamburg and Brussels, London rudeness and aggressiveness was like an unprovoked slap across the face.  London is becoming increasingly difficult to live in.  It is becoming the playground of the rich and, unless you can keep up financially, you fall under and get trampled.  Property prices are absurdly disproportionate to the average salary.  Food prices are noticeably rising.  Public transport prices are shocking.  If you are well heeled, London is the Horn of Plenty for it can cater to your every whim (except offer consistently good weather – even millionaires can’t order that one).  Unless you are on a high salary, living in London can be an uphill struggle to survive.

I spend much of my time plotting ways to escape from London; to move to a small, quiet town where the main street is deserted after 8 p.m., and where I can get around on foot.  Where I can afford to live.

Then I get a day like the one I had a few weeks ago.  I bought a pair of sandals from an Italian shoe shop.  Then I bought bunches of fresh dill, mint and parsley from a Middle Eastern grocer.  I had crusty Italian bread for lunch, and a Japanese take away for dinner.  There is a café in Southwark, where I like drinking Turkish coffee.  Sometimes, I get a loaf of wholemeal and rye bread from the German bakery, and poppy seed cake from the Polish shop.  I also like buying Spanish hot chocolate tablets from the Spanish shop on the Portobello Road.  I can take a walk to a couple of nearby newsagents, and buy a copy of The Guardian, of El Pais, a Corriere della Sera, a NewYorker or Le Monde.  I cannot afford these often but they are there if and when I want them.  On the bus, and the Tube, you hear people speaking French, Italian, Spanish, Russian, Farsi, Thai, Polish, Arabic… The list could go on and on.  You cannot get bored in London.  London is a city where new experiences are served daily – whatever your budget.

As for moving to a small, quiet town where the main street is deserted after 8 p.m., where I can get around on foot, and where I can afford to live… Well, I think I will wait a while.  I will be one of the many London church mice for just a little longer.  I still enjoy breathing this dirty but wonderfully varied air.

Do I like London? I guess I do.

Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: The Generosity of Animals

Posted on July 1, 2012 by Scribe Doll

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a grey wolf ran up to him.  “What is the matter, Tzarevitch Ivan?” asked the wolf.  “Why so downhearted?”

“Grey wolf, I have lost my trusted steed.”

“It is I who ate your steed… And now I am sad for you.  Tell me, why are you so far from home and where are you bound?”

“My father has sent me on a quest for the Fire Bird.”

“Three years would not have been long enough for your steed to take you to the Fire Bird! I alone know where she abides.  So be it.  Since I have eaten your steed, I shall become your loyal servant.  Now climb on my back, and hold on tight.”

And so Tzarevitch Ivan sat astride the wolf, and the wolf began galloping so fast, extensive forests and wide lakes flashed before his eyes.

The huntsman noticed an injured eagle in the tree.  He drew his bow and aimed his arrow.  Suddenly, the eagle spoke to him in a human voice.  “Spare me, good man.  There will be little profit in killing me.  Better take me alive.  Nurse me and feed me for three years, three months and three days.  Once I have regained strength in my wings, I shall repay your kindness.”

(Extracts from Russian fairy tales)

Last week, I joined a small group of fans surrounding a policewoman’s horse in Covent Garden.  The dark brown filly nodded as half a dozen adult and child hands tried to stroke her head, muzzle and neck.  When I began caressing her and speaking words of endearment, she turned to me and I am sure I saw a glint of mischief in her eyes.  Then, she opened her mouth and my hand suddenly disappeared between her large jaws.  I left it there, curious to see what the horse would do next.  Well, she began chewing it gently, her teeth playfully grinding my knuckles.  A few seconds later, I pulled out a hand glistening with equine saliva.  I walked away with the sense of deep satisfaction you feel after sharing a joke.

A year ago, while holidaying in Abruzzo, I walked up a mountain to see the ruins of a Mediaeval castle.  On the way, I was joined by four village dogs who – bored and with nothing else to do on a hot day – decided to tag along and escort me.  Among the pack was a sheepdog-wolf mix.  You could tell by her slanted shape of her eyes.  There are many such dogs in the area.  We followed the sign-posted tourist route.  At one point, I veered off the designated path.  The wolf dog, who had run ahead, immediately turned around and bounded towards me.  What happened next was a miracle of love and concern I will remember for as long as I live.  Very, very gently, she took my fingers between her teeth, and pulled me back onto the marked path.

My late cat, Genie, woke me up when I had nightmares.

The cat I had before her, Pyewacket, would sleep on my pillow, curled up around my head, while I was ill with high blood pressure.  She resumed her place at the foot of the bed as soon as I got well.  Pyewacket also took sides during my divorce, and decided she no longer wanted my husband to stroke her.

Yesterday, I was walking in Kensington Gardens with a friend.  The side of the pond was lined with swans.  Sleeping, their beaks buried in the feathers on their backs, grooming, people watching, gliding on the water, or enjoying a lunch of bread proffered by humans.

I got it into my head that I wanted a swan feather.  There were none lying around the grass or on by the pond, so I decided to ask for one.  I went up to a swan engaged in meticulous grooming and waited for a feather to drop.  It did not.  “Can I have a feather?” I said.

The swan pulled out a large, ragged feather from his side and tossed it on the water.  It floated away before I could reach it.  The wind then lifted it and carried it further away.  “Can we try this again?” I asked.

This time, the swan stretched his neck towards his tail, plucked out a smaller, perfectly formed feather, and dropped it closer to me, where the water carried it to the shore.

“Thank you!” I said.

The swan straightened up, beak in the air, and wriggled his bottom.  I kissed the feather, and walked away, my beautiful, generous swan gift in my hand.

Scribe Doll

For more stories about animals, please see:

In the Mountains of Abruzzo

An Apology for the Grey Squirrel

Crows

The Ravens in the Tower

BBC Radio 4 Saturday Live Podcast on Crows

The Swan who Gave me a Feather

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Odds & Ends: A Mother-in-Law to Smash all Stereotypes

Posted on June 24, 2012 by Scribe Doll

When I was getting a divorce, twelve years ago, my mother-in-law said, “I want you and I to remain friends.”

I muttered some polite platitude in return.

Friends with the mother of the man with whom I was engaged in a who-hurt-whom-most contest? Right.  On which planet would that happen?

During my eleven years with her son, I had never really thought of Sue as my friend.  True, she had always been extremely kind to me but as far as I could see, as women, we were poles apart.  I did not understand her background and outlook, and took it for granted that she had little clue of where I was coming from.  Every Christmas and birthday, I cringed at the presents she sent me, invariably containing bows, frills and flowery scents.  Her proud Welshness brought out fierce and uncharacteristic English nationalism in me.  She proposed to decorate our wedding cake with daffodils.  They were my favourite flowers until I realised they emblematised Wales.  “This isn’t a blinking rugby match!” I protested, thereby also deriding Sue’s beloved sport.  “I’d rather have English roses.”  Thankfully, the end product was a three-tier, nation-free dessert.  Moreover, coming from a family of two, I felt overwhelmed by the number of relatives I was marrying into, which seemed to constitute half of South Wales (though even I had to admit that they were uniformly lovely.)

After the divorce, I assumed I would not see Sue again but our paths crossed again when my by then ex-husband was hospitalised, and we had to liaise over various medical arrangements.

One evening, almost as a spite against the cold shoulder I was parading, Sue knocked on my door.  She was holding a bottle of organic merlot veneto.  I cooked pasta and we uncorked the wine.  We talked and opened up to each other.  Casting off niceties, we left exposed – and for both to see – anger, disappointment, hopes, fears, pain and vulnerability.

Slowly, we stepped out of the prescriptive roles of mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, and  began weaving an entirely new kind of bond.  One we improvised, since we could find no model for it in our social circles, books, or films.  One thread at a time, one misunderstanding, resolution and laugh at a time – our progress was conducted over the ‘phone and in writing.

I have not seen Sue for ten years.  The reasons for this are multiple and complex.  They involve our living in different parts of the country, her struggling with a debilitating case of M.E., but also an unspoken pact not to cross certain boundaries.  Most of these, Sue has erected for my own emotional protection, and I can only imagine the strength she musters to guard them.  For example, in the ten years of our friendship, she has not mentioned my ex-husband once.  She shares with me news of the trials and joys of her other sons and their families.  I feel genuine concern for their problems and genuine delight for their achievements.  About the son to whom I was married, she keeps silent.  It is as though the man with whom I spent eleven years came into my life with the sole purpose of leaving me the gift of this precious friendship with this extraordinary lady.  His task achieved, he has no place in the rich tapestry Sue and I have woven, so his name need not be mentioned.

I call Sue at least once a week.  We chat, set the world to rights, deplore the downward spiral trend of the country, bemoan the state of education, enthuse about books, drool over the mellifluous voices of Shakespearean actors, and share a love for the English language.  I ask her to scan all my projects, run to her with my anxieties and tell her about my successes.  A talented artist, she sends me cards painted with elegant cat figures and abstract patterns.  I feel deeply privileged to be her friend, and undeservedly lucky that she should be mine.  She reads everything I write and is my staunch, loyal supporter.   “I’ve always known you’re a writer,” she tells me.

“Someday, I’ll write a play about us,” I reply.

I hear excitement in her voice, as she wholeheartedly approves.

Scribe Doll

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Theatre Review: While the Sun Shines

Posted on June 19, 2012 by Scribe Doll

It is a crying shame that this production is on for only a week, or I would go and see it again.

Terence Rattigan’s 1943 comedy is a farce involving the usual premise of mistaken identity and romantic complications, but there is nothing usual about the plot twists and ‘coups de theâtre’. Just when you think you know where the story is taking you, a surprise awaits you. This is not a run-of-the-mill…

Please continue reading this review on Remote Goat.

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Odds & Ends: My Adventures in Twitter

Posted on June 17, 2012 by Scribe Doll

Beginnings:

I signed up to Twitter a few days before Christmas.  It seemed like a low-maintenance way of promoting my writing electronically.

As usual, I needed someone to show me.  Not that the instructions were complicated – on the contrary.  I am just the sort of person whose mental learning pattern responds better to a physically present human being.  That, surprisingly, turned into a friendship test.  Just about everyone I turned to eluded me with, “Oh, yes, I’m on Twitter but I really don’t know what I’m doing”, even though they clearly were a few steps ahead of me.  Until I asked my young friend Mark.  He started his response to me with, “I’m really not an expert” but ended it with the magic words “but I’m happy to show you what I know.”  Hurray for Mark, my first Twitter follower.  So, after a crash course in a West End Starbucks, I flung myself onto the Twitter scene, which felt like walking into a moonless night filled with anonymous barks.  I began contributing my own.  Woof! Woof! Woof! Listen to me! Read me! Me! Me! Me!

My initial impression (altered since) was that part of the deal was to keep up a rhythmic, peremptory bark, whilst doggedly ignoring the others.  So, after a few days, I got bored with the incessant din and logged off.  About a month later, BBC Radio 4 aired a piece about crows, which I had recorded just before Christmas.  Within seconds of the broadcast, my friend Sue rang me.  “They’re tweeting about your crows!” she said.  “What do you mean you’re bored with Twitter?! Get on it now!”

So I logged on again and, a few hours later, collected a respectable number of followers.  Now that people were barking back, this was becoming fun.  Eventually, I worked it out.  Like any other social microcosm, the Twitter “community” has its pecking order, its unspoken rules, its club code, and its players.  It was simply a question of building my own little structure within the overall edifice.

Etiquette

Retweets

I thank for retweets and I like being thanked for retweeting someone.  Every thank you induces me to retweet more.  It is like a nod or wave to the driver who slows down to let you cross the road.  Small courtesy, but it oils the social interaction machinery.

Plugs/Positive Mentions

I think it is kind and polite to mention/plug someone who regularly mentions/plugs you.

Returning the Compliment

A learned friend of mine, who entered the world of Twitter at around the same time as I did, but quickly became an expert on the subject, tends to follow back his followers.  He says it is simple courtesy.  I quickly discovered that not everyone shares his two-way street gentlemanly attitude.  That is where the pecking order element comes in.  Generally, famous people follow other famous people.  We are welcome to follow them but that must be satisfaction enough, for they will seldom follow us.  They are not aware that we, their admirers, low beneath their feet, are what supports them above the icky mud and makes up the blocks of the pyramid atop which they stand.

Having said that, I – in my relatively inconsequential state – find that I do not follow all my followers, either (all right, I never said I never indulge in the odd double-standards episode.)   However, my case is different (yeah, right) – no, but honestly – hear me out.  The truth, is that I actually read all the tweets on my timeline.  Therefore, I need to limit my number of “followees”, to keep the number of tweets manageable.   For what it is worth, if you are reading this and know that I am one of your followers, then you can be sure I read your tweets (and I might well be reading them, even though I do not officially follow you!)

The People I Choose to Follow

So how do I decide whom to follow?

– People I know personally (but that one must work on a strictly mutual following basis.)

– People who tweet information that interests me (links to articles, blogs I enjoy reading, etc.)

– People whose tweets I find entertaining, funny, instructive (tweets that tell me only that the sender is off to walk his/her dog, that he/she is stuck in a traffic jam, or what he/she is  having for supper fail to engage me, unless phrased with wit.)

Because I am a cautious kind of gal, whenever someone starts following me, I check out their last twenty or so tweets, to see if they appeal to me.  Sometimes, I monitor them for a few days.  Then, once I decide to follow, I try not un-follow… Though I do not promise everlasting loyalty, either.  I also see the average of daily tweets they emit.  However interesting someone’s tweets may be, you can have too much of a good thing, and when I scroll down and see a string of tweets from the same person, I am afraid my heart sinks and my attention drifts.

Twitter Vocabulary

Let us agree on this:

Tweeter (not Twit nor Tweeterer nor Twitterer): person who uses Twitter

To tweet (not twitter): to send tweets

Myths

I learnt this the hard way.  Just because someone follows you does not, sadly, mean that they click on all the links you tweet.

Twitter and I – Now

Contrary to advice, I do not chase after hoards of people to follow in the hope that half that number might follow me back.  I am far too lazy.  I am content with the number of people I follow and whose tweets I read.  And I am equally content with having a relatively small number of followers (by Twitter standards).  I live in hope that they, too, read my tweets.  I particularly enjoy the odd Twitter dialogue or exchange I get with individual Tweeters.  Who said you cannot have human contact electronically? Who said you cannot be supportive of people you have never physically met?

Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: Showbiz Party*

Posted on June 10, 2012 by Scribe Doll

The Scene: a bar

Props: nibbles and alcoholic drinks (white wine with a soupçon of ammonia, red wine with a bouquet of vinaigre, or champagne à la bicarbonate) .

Sound Effects: Near hysterical laughter and raised, sometimes high-pitched voices with very pronounced inflection, expressing the following:

– Surprise: “I didn’t know you were coming!” (they really did invite everyone)

– Exaggerated compliments: “You look positively Chekovian in that dress!” (i.e. “like an unfashionable peasant”)

– Off the scale, extreme emotions: “I adore your script!” or “That show was absolutely awful.  I simply lost the will to live.”

– Disproportionate joy outbursts: “I was over the moon when I found a seat on the Northern Line.”

– Over the top terms of endearment: “You’re an angel!” or “I could just eat him up, he’s such a poppet.”

– Begging: “I told my agent, you’re the best director I’ve ever worked with.”

– Lying: “Dah’ling, I’m absolutely thrilled you got that part.”

– Practising actor’s sport: “My agent is totally useless!”

Special Effects:

– Regular 360º head rotations to scan the room for useful people.

– Blank, dummy stares if you are nobody.

– The submarine viewfinder: impressive upwards stretching of the neck to twice its natural length, to raise the head just above everyone else’s, aimed at scanning the room for important people.

– The air kiss: a form of thespian greeting, consisting of pressing your cheek against another person’s, and pursing your lips forward, to kiss the air (“Mwah!” sound optional).

The bar is crowded with actors, directors, agents, casting directors and writers performing the above.

Enter a reasonably well-known female actor (TV credits) with a flourish, slight pause (just in case the room wants to applaud).  Eyes sweep the room in semi-circular movement just above other people’s head level (Hello, Dah’lings! It’s me!) using submarine viewfinder technique.  Panic  freezes face at not seeing anyone she knows.  Recognises someone in the crowd, immediately darts towards them like to a life-saving anchor, expressing unadulterated rapture and giving an air kiss.

Writer in search of agent walks up to Agent.  Smiles.

Writer: “Hello, how nice to see you! How are you?”

Agent: “Very busy. (submarine viewfinder effect) I’m just looking for someone.” (Propels himself through the crowd, away from Writer.)

Struggling Actor sees Successful Actor.

Struggling Actor: “I absolutely loved you at the National, last week.”

Successful Actor: “Oh, thank you very much.  That’s very kind.” (Assesses usefulness of stranger.)

Struggling Actor: “I’m an actor.”

Successful Actor: “Oh, right.” (360º head rotation).

Struggling Actor: “I was in that new adaptation of  The Illiad, in a great little space above a pub – a great show with energy and grit.”

Successful Actor (dummy stare): “Mmm… (Swallows the rest of the wine in the glass) Great.” (Floats away at full speed).

Up-and-Coming-Actor (character role in West End), represented since drama school by Caring & Nurturing Associates, in conversation with Agent-With-Carpeted-West-End-Office.

Agent-With-Carpeted-West-End-Office (taking a gulp of wine, wincing): “I saw you in the show, last Thursday.  I thought you really stood out.”

Up-and-Coming Actor: “Really?”

Agent-With-Carpeted-West-End-Office: “You’ve definitely got something there.  You know – that special quality.”

Up-and-Coming Actor: “You really think so?”

Agent-With-Carpeted-West-End-Office (looking vague): “Who are you with?”

Up-and-Coming Actor: “Caring & Nurturing Associates.”

Agent-With-Carpeted-West-End-Office: “Who? Never heard of them.” (frowns)

Up-and-Coming Actor (face crumples): “Well, I’ve been with them since I left drama school…”

Agent-With-Carpeted-West-End-Office: “Have you been seen for The Hottest Ticket in Town? You’d be perfect for it.”

Up-and-Coming Actor: “No.  When are they casting?”

Agent-With-Carpeted-West-End-Office: “Very soon.  I’m surprised you haven’t been seen.” (hands business card and walks away)

Starting out Playwright walks up to Flavour of the Month Playwright.

Starting out Playwright: “Congratulations on the Award.”

Flavour of the Month Playwright: “Thank you.”

Starting out Playwright: “I also write plays.”

Flavour of the Month Playwright (blank)

Starting out Playwright: “I also write a blog.”

Flavour of the Month Playwright (blank)

Starting out Playwright: “Well, it’s lovely to meet you.”

Flavour of the Month Playwright (blank)

Starting out Playwright: “Bye.”

Flavour of the Month Playwright (nods).

Casting Director and Agent standing together.

Agent: “How many actors does it take to change a lightbulb?”

Casting Director: “Depends on the motivation and character development of the lightbulb.”

(Actor overhears and approaches)

Actor: “Wait a minute – does Equity have an agreement for changing lightbulbs?”

* All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

©Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: Diamond Jubilee

Posted on June 3, 2012 by Scribe Doll

All right, so I’m a spoilsport.

I had planned to spend today hiding in my flat, and catching the River Pageant on the television news.  I just have never been a fan of crowded, public celebrations of anything.  I still carry the trauma of a New Year’s Eve spent on Waterloo Bridge, a few years ago.

I successfully parried most of my friends’ attempts to lure me to Pageant-watching-picnics by the river, or Pageant-on-TV-screen with a pint, in a pub.  The last friend, however, ambushed me with a weapon against which I had no defence.  It was her birthday, and she wanted to be a part of the national celebrations.  She told me there had not been such an event since Queen Elizabeth I.  That there would be 1,000 boats on the river.  So she dragged me, mentally kicking and screaming, to the bank of the Thames, just by Blackfriars Bridge.  Knowing I was on the brink of bolting any minute, she had come armed with a rucksack full of ammunition in the form of cheddar biscuits – in case I complained I was hungry, a soft cashmere scarf – in case  I complained (as I did) that I was cold, a bottle of water – in case I complained I was thirsty, and so forth.  True to my spirit of un-cooperation, I showed up in a short-sleeved T-shirt under a tweed jacket and a cotton scarf with flowers and peacocks on it, which was more for decoration than warmth.  Still, as a token of self-preservation, I did take along a golf umbrella.

In for a penny, in for a pound.  I tried to look forward to the event.  A flotilla of 1,000 boats.  I pictured a colourful painting by Canaletto, and thought of grandiose music by the Gabrielis.  Perhaps there would be ancient ships, with gilt decks and candid sails tied to timber masts.  I imagined the Queen wearing the crown Imperial, clad in scarlet velvet and ermine.  I imagined, bugles, bagpipes, Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks, Elgar and Walton played with gusto, flowers tossed from the boats, floating on the Thames like a waving carpet, drum rolls, church bells peeling.  I imagined pomp, circumstance, magnificence, solemnity, majesty.  I imagined something awesome.

We could not see the river at all, all the prime viewing spots being occupied by people who had got out of bed at the crack of dawn.  There were large television screens lined up at regular intervals.  As we approached one, the volume was so high, I rammed my fingers into my ears, and contemplated escape on hearing health grounds, but my friend merely led me further away from it with patience and unwavering determination.  The sky was grey and the air chilly and humid.  At least, I told myself, it was not raining.  There was a friendly, jovial atmosphere in the crowd.  Union Jack flags on plastic sticks were waving from people’s hands, were stuck in people’s hats, and emerged from people’s rucksacks.  Union Jack hearts were painted on people’s cheeks.  Union Jack bags, towels, mats, T-shirts.  In front of us, a dog wore a Union Jack coat and tried to chew his mistress’s Union Jack flag.

The Queen wore a white outfit.  No regalia.  There were boats carrying musicians but I could not hear them against the noise of police helicopters and TV screens.  I was surprised by the relatively low-key style of the event.  I kept waiting to feel the thrill of a sense of occasion, but it never quite came to me.  Perhaps watching the event on a screen removed you from the emotion of the action.  And then, the heavens opened, and it started to pour.  Still, it is always lovely to see a crowd of people enjoying themselves, bonding and taking pride and joy in a happy event.  I do not know why I had expected something sumptuous and lavish – almost magical.

When I came home, sneezing and shivering, the television newsreaders were comparing the event to a Canaletto.  What a coincidence, I thought.  I thought again.  No.  It did not look like a Canaletto.  I guess that is the problem with imagination – reality seldom lives up to it.

Still, in these hard times, a happy day.  At least I can say I was there.

© Scribe Doll

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What Made Me Start Writing

Posted on May 27, 2012 by Scribe Doll

“I think you’ll be a writer and a teacher, when you grow up,” said my grandmother, when I was about eleven.  To this day, I do not know what made her see that in me.  Still, when I got divorced, it made perfect sense – as a teacher and weekend scribbler – to scrap my husband’s surname and, not reprise my maiden name but adopt my grandmother’s.  It was my way of thanking her for all the stories with which she nurtured me.

Most of them were fairy tales.  Russian fairy tales from the country of her birth, and Armenian tales from the land of her forefathers.  They were woven with firebirds, loyal grey wolves, Caucasus beauties bearing a star on their foreheads and a moon crescent in their hair, and enchantresses as knowing as the mountains of Central Asia.  I was a lazy reader but a voice telling a story could bewitch me into obeying any order, including eating up my dinner.  Eventually, I became my grandmother’s apprentice, making up spells and feats of my own, to tell after dinner.

I had to write down my first story because I could find nobody to listen to it.  So my school fountain pen became my voice and the notepad, my audience.  I was twelve, and the dream I had been nurturing all my life lay shattered on the winding staircase of a 19th Century building in Southern France.

More than anything else, I wanted to be a dancer.  As soon as I could draw, I covered sheets of white paper in figures of ballet dancers.  I leaned on the kitchen sink, trying to stand on my toes.  I pushed drawing pins into the soles of my shoes, to try and tap like Gene Kelly, on the tiled floor.  Dancing made me feel alive.  Our frequent house moves and difficult financial situation prevented me from attending ballet school until, at the age of twelve, I was accepted by the Conservatoire in Nice.  I could have danced all over the walls and ceiling, like Fred Astaire.  I planned to take the title role in Prokofiev’s  Cinderella when I grew up.  Every Wednesday, I skipped up the wide staircase of the 19th Cetury building to my class.  Every Wednesday, I practised turning out my feet.  Until the bone in my arch became swollen and painful.  Something was out of sync.  My back did not arch as far back as the other girls’, my legs could not kick as high, and my hips refused to remain level.  My body could not keep up with my longing to dance.  Wednesdays became the days when I was told off by the teacher, whose feet were so distorted by years of ballet, she had trouble walking.  Until the Wednesday when she told me not to bother coming back.  I walked down the winding staircase expecting, hoping to be swallowed up by it, since I could see nothing ahead.  There could be not future without dance.  There could be no me.

Next, I sat sobbing my heart out at our kitchen table.  A twelve year-old who had lost her life’s purpose.  “Never mind,” said my mother – or words to that effect.  I felt as though I had been slashed across the chest.  I might as well have lost my voice, for all impact I made on other people’s ears.  So I took out my ink pen, and wrote it all down – my grief, my anger, my despair – and the notepad listened with empathy.  I wrote a story about the ghost of a dancer who haunts the Nice Conservatoire every night, the sound of her weeping echoing throughout its corridors.

That is how, whenever my voice failed me, my pen took over as my spokesman, and when I could find no friend, the notebook became my confidant.  In time, I discovered that by writing I could create a world where I felt happier than in the so-called real world.  In my written world, I could become myself – free of the constricting boundaries of my physical life.  I had always been miserable at school but now I had something to look forward to every afternoon.  I would rush back home, put on some music, and start scribbling until I entered a world where anything was possible, and where I could have anything I wanted.

Even three decades later, my writing world feels much more real to me, than the so-called real world.  It is the world where all the normally scattered pieces of me come together to form a whole Self, and I feel real.

And the dancing ghost of the Nice Conservatoire still pirouettes up and down the winding staircase, her joyous laughter bouncing off the 19th Century walls.

© Scribe Doll

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