Recent experience has got me thinking about how and why I ended up where I did, and today I'd like to take you through some of my most vivid and prominent memories - moments which led me in the same direction and reminded me why I chose that path in the first place. I can recall four occasions in particular - two very recent - when I realised (or remembered) why I decided to study, live, and breathe theatre and performance for the rest of my life.
The first occurred six years ago, when I was a wee 17-year-old. I went on a trip with my AS Level Drama class to The Lowry in Salford; an evening I'll never forget. The performance was Othello by Frantic Assembly; a well-known physical theatre company who often re-invent classic stories for the modern stage. In this instance, Othello was a bouncer at a club (presumably somewhere in Manchester, given the accents), and the action took place either in the bar area, the ladies' toilets, or the seedy alley outside. I think it was the moment - spoiler alert! - just before Desdemona dies (having been strangled atop a pool table) when I decided that this was what I wanted to do. Not necessarily physical theatre, or Shakespeare, but just something that made me feel this way again. To be able to create, or be part of, something that would give me the same pride as those performers - from that day on - became my ambition. This gives me an excuse to dig out an essay I wrote three years later, in my second year of uni, about this very performance:
Pieces such as Othello show just how creative FA can be with original, or found, text; their adaptation of scripts shows their ability to take ownership of words. Even in the early stages of rehearsal, the company focus on the type of world they aim to transmit throughout a particular piece. They believe that this is a delicate process, easily disturbed. Later on in the course, these ideas will transfer onto the scenographic choices of the piece; Othello's gritty, contemporary reality is a prime example.
This leads me nicely to the next experience I'd like to share. Fast forward five years; I graduated, travelled, auditioned, free-lanced, temped, and eventually found myself in Glasgow in my current role. I hadn't lived in the city a week - it was my fourth day at work and I was acting as a 'secret shopper' among my own staff. The show this time was Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake. The run had gotten off to a great start, when, during the dress rehearsal, the fire alarm sounded and we had a sudden swan evacuation. This must have been a hell of a sight for unknowing passers-by. It was now Thursday night, so three days into the run. I'd heard great things about Matthew Bourne, and Facebook told me that an old school friend of mine was now a dancer in his company. My knowledge of his work, however, amounted to the fact that it was this very production of Swan Lake that features at the end of Billy Elliot. My ignorance ended that night. For the first time in my life, my stomach was in knots with excitement and emotion throughout the performance. It was the first of many times that I would sit in "my" theatre, and I choked back tears at the end of the show, primarily because this stunning male swan (Jonathan Ollivier) and his fellow cast had made me realise what an exciting chapter I had entered into, and that, in my own, small way, I'd 'made it'.
My third, and penultimate, reminder of why it was all worth it came over a year later. A serious injury had put a sudden stop to any dancing, sport, or physical theatre I might have pursued. And am-dram just wouldn't have worked with my hours. Having worked in management - albeit theatre management - for most of my career, the creative, performing part of my brain was beginning to get restless. Something was amiss and I didn't know what it was. One Sunday, after months of casual email to-and-fro-ing and the occasional meeting, I found myself at another local theatre, this time on a voluntary basis. I'd decided to try my hand at teaching (something I hadn't done since my second year of uni) and ended up very much involved with various acting workshops. I'd forgotten how incomparable it is to work with young performers; the ideas and engagement that came out of those sessions is something you just don't get with adults. I knew that afternoon that this was what had been missing, and that this would help me to be me again. It transformed that gloomy non-day that is Sunday into something to look forward to; wondering what those minds would surprise us with week after week.
So, that brings us to the most recent example of that epiphany-like sensation. This happened just two days ago, when, once again, the physical theatre/contemporary dance bug struck. I'd booked tickets to see Matthew Bourne's The Car Man at Edinburgh Festival Theatre (can you see a theme emerging?). For those who don't know, this -like all Matthew Bourne work - is a modern re-telling of Bizet's Carmen (the opera). I know nothing of the original story, but - as ever, this really didn't matter. I was glad to have taken my seat early; the stage came to life about fifteen minutes before curtain up, as the performers began to move around and interact in character. My eye was drawn to the vulnerable, withdrawn Angelo at the edge of the stage, played by Dominic North whom I'd seen as Edward Scissorhands in November. Just seeing him and remembering his last performance was enough to know that this wouldn't be a disappointment. As soon as the house lights went down and the score began, that feeling returned - let's call it The Swan Lake Effect - the knots, the butterflies...and it was as if I was being welcomed home, having been away for far too long. I should emphasises that I've worked and performed in theatres for a long time - this production instantly earned its spot in my 'top three' performances ever. It's a brutal selection process, believe me.
Why am I telling you all this? Well, whether you're a performer, writer, director, techie, critic, or even a manager - it's important to know why we do what we do. Especially if we reach a rut for whatever reason. As Christopher Isherwood once wrote, "A few times in my life I've had moments of absolute clarity. When for a few brief seconds the silence drowns out the noise and I can feel rather than think, and things seem so sharp and the world seems to fresh. It's as though it had all just come into existence [...] I have lived my life on these moments. They pull me back to the present and I realise that everything is exactly the way it was meant to be".
So, if - like me - you ever feel as if you've lost your way in this world of competition, ambition, disappointment, and change; try to remember that first time, and the good times. Trust me - you'll find your way home.
