So it is time, a new beginning, a new practice, a new approach. I have fallen, like the fate of many a post-graduate artist into bad habits, those which serve to deteriorate my ability to create. It comes from juggling a number of commissions, not focusing, losing the love and writing about 100 rejected applications. It is no wonder.
But I have hit the bottom, well I am skimming the stony bed with my bare-behind and I need to kick back into deeper waters. This is my attempt.
A blog is more than a blog. It is my space to think. I need to have a practical output, even when I am using a space to contemplate. It makes me feel better that I have used this space to make something, visible and measurable. I am an infuriating mixture of my fathers anxious inability to relax, and my mothers determined high achieving standards. So this is why I write, so I feel less guilty for the space in which I develop my thoughts. Also the massive underlying narcissistic skeleton, driving the joints in my fingers and loving every self-indulgent moment.
Cornwall. More than just a county.
Alex Goodman stole me away for 2 days in Cornwall, it saved me from a whole hell of serious moping which I would have otherwise been excecuting. Instead I ran the coast and swam in the waves of Peranporth, experienced an immerisive theatre performace of the Wolf Child- more on this, explored Plymouth, the letterpress studio of both The College of Art and The Plymouth University, oh and went for another swim, and smoked a lot of cigarettes – well I am grieving the death of an academic future after all.
Wolf Child, set in the grounds of Trelowarren estate, a
beautiful country manor and house. It was an immersive tale told around the surrounding woods and the grounds. It began in the courtyard, whilst we all drank down our pints, finished our pizzas and killed our zillionth fag (morning), we were greeted by the lord of the manor. A funny introduction into our journey. We were sent into the woods to explore our tale. It consisted of a matriarchal community –lead by mother, who every night would fight off the wolves who roomed the manor’s surrounding woodlands. Between each stage the audience walked, led by the guide of a crow. We follow Rohan, the mute bedraggled daughter sent on the mission to kill the wolf lead. There she meets (and is shamelessly, objectively seduced- god I am a bit bored by these traditional roles – but now is not the time). The walking between acts, the audience chats, shares or silently contemplates. The mud underfoot the smell of the dewy leaves and the mist. I found the woodlands to be the strong element of storytelling. It allowed you to become lost, lost in the way a book loses you, in the way which is unlike a play or a film which shows you in which way your imagination will be directed next, this allowed for the same level of deep contemplation.