Oops. I meant to set aside time to write before today, but no. It hasn't been hectic here. Maybe if it was I'd have been better organized. Not that I'm complaining.
In a few minutes I head out to Stansted airport to go to Greece for a friend's wedding, on Crete. Nikos (a classmate here) asked about 7 of us to come from Lispa to do a short play at the party after his wedding next Saturday. So this week we devise and rehearse, and enjoy being in Greece. Then a few days in Athens before going home for two weeks. And the Great Minnesota Get-Together (a.k.a., the state fair). I think we get the chance to see some Aeschylus this week, then deep-fried everything-under-the-sun on a stick a week later in St. Paul. Experiencing the breadth of human culture I am.
Speaking of cultcha, I've been able to see some quality theatre lately: Helen Mirren in "Phedre" at the National, and Mark Rylance in "Jerusalem" at the Royal Court, which was one of the best performances I think I've ever seen. And a second helping of Godot squeezed in between, which was even better than the first time.
I'll have to write more about those later. But for now, off to the airport...
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
This and that, part 2
The chaos of free speech
Last Sunday a friend and I wandered through Hyde Park and came upon Speakers Corner. I'd been there before on a weekday, but no one was holding forth then. I imagined that if I ever did find someone there, there'd be one man or woman speaking from a stump or soapbox while a few people stood around and listened. I still have this image of the English that's more Jane Austen and less House of Commons. As we got within a hundred yards of the corner, I could see this would be more Parliament than Pride and Prejudice. Someone was waving a Union Jack, and there were lots of people, standing in clumps of various sizes. Each clump was centered around a man or two on chairs or stepladders, shouting out their opinions, often engaging in argument with angry other men in the audience. Very few women there.
The first guy we came across was standing in front of a red flag and excoriating the bankers and capitalists. The second was wearing a helmet with horns of different sizes on it, proclaiming himself to be Lucifer and laughing off the protestations of a Somali man. The third was a hoarse man proclaiming the virtues of Islam from a lamppost. About 20 yards away, a Nigerian evangelist in a purple suit was trying to convert the masses to Jesus and clearly enjoying the spotlight. A bit farther along, two men stood holding a sign saying Free Hugs. (No one was gathered around them.) And then there was what looked like it had started out as a debate between two speakers--an American Christian and a North African Muslim standing on chairs--on the respective merits of Christianity and Islam. But now the self-appointed spokesman for Christianity and the West was engaged in a shouting match with an angry Muslim who started shoving the people around him so he could get closer to the guy standing on the chair. "Isn't this the way it always is with the Muslims?" the American said, playing to the crowd. If this guy doesn't have a background in talk radio, he's certainly learned a lesson or two from it, for better or for worse.
Oy!
Since moving to Clapton I've let my Tube pass expire, so I'm getting around on bike and bus. I have a little ting-ting bell on my handlebars, but have been advised that a good shouted "Oy!" is a more effective warning. Still haven't got that syllable hard-wired into my brain yet though.
What is it with these signs?
Maybe it's the move to new surroundings, making me more alert to things around me. Or maybe it's something more transcendent. You tell me. Last fall when I first moved here and was preparing to begin this grand adventure or folly, I came across a traffic sign that said Changed Priorities Ahead. I haven't noticed another one like it since. Yesterday, having recently completed Year 1 and hoping to use the summer to reflect more on it as I prepare for Year 2, I saw one for the first time that says Priorities Changed.
Excuse my asking,O Holy One, but Your point is...?
And finally...
Words to live by
"The greatest potential for growth and self-realization exists in the second half of life." — CG Jung
Last Sunday a friend and I wandered through Hyde Park and came upon Speakers Corner. I'd been there before on a weekday, but no one was holding forth then. I imagined that if I ever did find someone there, there'd be one man or woman speaking from a stump or soapbox while a few people stood around and listened. I still have this image of the English that's more Jane Austen and less House of Commons. As we got within a hundred yards of the corner, I could see this would be more Parliament than Pride and Prejudice. Someone was waving a Union Jack, and there were lots of people, standing in clumps of various sizes. Each clump was centered around a man or two on chairs or stepladders, shouting out their opinions, often engaging in argument with angry other men in the audience. Very few women there.
The first guy we came across was standing in front of a red flag and excoriating the bankers and capitalists. The second was wearing a helmet with horns of different sizes on it, proclaiming himself to be Lucifer and laughing off the protestations of a Somali man. The third was a hoarse man proclaiming the virtues of Islam from a lamppost. About 20 yards away, a Nigerian evangelist in a purple suit was trying to convert the masses to Jesus and clearly enjoying the spotlight. A bit farther along, two men stood holding a sign saying Free Hugs. (No one was gathered around them.) And then there was what looked like it had started out as a debate between two speakers--an American Christian and a North African Muslim standing on chairs--on the respective merits of Christianity and Islam. But now the self-appointed spokesman for Christianity and the West was engaged in a shouting match with an angry Muslim who started shoving the people around him so he could get closer to the guy standing on the chair. "Isn't this the way it always is with the Muslims?" the American said, playing to the crowd. If this guy doesn't have a background in talk radio, he's certainly learned a lesson or two from it, for better or for worse.
Oy!
Since moving to Clapton I've let my Tube pass expire, so I'm getting around on bike and bus. I have a little ting-ting bell on my handlebars, but have been advised that a good shouted "Oy!" is a more effective warning. Still haven't got that syllable hard-wired into my brain yet though.
What is it with these signs?
Maybe it's the move to new surroundings, making me more alert to things around me. Or maybe it's something more transcendent. You tell me. Last fall when I first moved here and was preparing to begin this grand adventure or folly, I came across a traffic sign that said Changed Priorities Ahead. I haven't noticed another one like it since. Yesterday, having recently completed Year 1 and hoping to use the summer to reflect more on it as I prepare for Year 2, I saw one for the first time that says Priorities Changed.
Excuse my asking,O Holy One, but Your point is...?
And finally...
Words to live by
"The greatest potential for growth and self-realization exists in the second half of life." — CG Jung
This and that, part 1
Some random notes to start catching up again:
The pub at the end of the world
There's a canal at the other end of the park near my house. Last week, several housemates and I walked up the canal path to a pub called the Anchor and Hope. The barman looked like he'd been there for years--literally, standing behind the bar for years with no break and perhaps no nourishment except what he pulled from the tap. Pretty much the worse for wear. One in our party wanted a shandy, but he refused to make one. Only beer, he said. After getting our pints and half pints we took a table outside with the rough-looking but genial clientele and the bar dog, who was looking for any new friend to scratch him on the butt. The sun had just set. All was calmer than I'd have expected. Across the canal stretched the Walthamstow Marshes--acres of grasses with feathery heads. Off in the twilight, some buildings poked up like grain elevators. The only activity across the way was the occasional passing of a train. I felt miles away from London, very much like being in the Midwest.
Variations on a theme
Went to the National Portrait Gallery again the other day. In addition to a showing of the annual portrait painting contest, there's an exhibit of one artist's collection of other people's paintings--about 300 of them, all of the same image. He went to flea markets and antique shops, originally thinking he'd collect every copy he could find of da Vinci's Last Supper or some other well-loved image. What he found over time, however, was painting after painting of a 4th century saint named Fabiola. The curator's notes describe her as the patron saint of nurses and protector of abused women. The walls are a hodgepodge of copies. Almost all show a woman in profile, facing left, red cloak on her head. A few turn her around to face right, and some change the color of her cloak. Her face, of course, is at least slightly different in each one. Most are probably in oil, some in acrylic, at least one is seed art. Some are on canvas, some on wood, one on black velvet like those homages to Elvis you find at state fairs and cheap bars back home. Some Fabiolas are huge, most modest in scale, a few are tiny, pieces of jewelry.
It's a fascinating experience to walk into the rooms and see the subtle and at times dramatic variety. Reminded me of a comment earlier about how some painters or sculptors (or actors) seem to recreate the same thing over and over again. Are they trying to get it right, or working out something inward, or is this just what we do? It occurs to me that maybe this exhibit imitated something like an archetype--an image that keeps coming up over and over again, in different parts of the world, in different times. It was also interesting to note in the curator's display that the original painting has been lost, so all we have now are probably copies of copies of a 19th century image of a woman who lived a millennium and a half before that. So it's not at all about what she really looked like, really about how she's been imagined and envisioned by individual artists of varying skill, over and over again. I guess you could say the same of any actor's portrayal of any given character. Or any preacher's take on Jesus or the gospels, for that matter.
Swine flu liturgies
Speaking of church--and no, I didn't even plan that segue--there was a notice in the paper the other day that the Church of England has, because of the swine flu outbreak and for the first time ever, directed its priests to stop using the common cup when celebrating the Eucharist. They didn't even do that during the plague--though Parliament did pass a law back then saying that in cases of necessity, Communion would be considered valid if only the bread or the cup were used (and not both). Interesting that it took an act of Parliament to settle such an issue. But this is the Sovereign Queen (or King) of England's church, after all.
The pub at the end of the world
There's a canal at the other end of the park near my house. Last week, several housemates and I walked up the canal path to a pub called the Anchor and Hope. The barman looked like he'd been there for years--literally, standing behind the bar for years with no break and perhaps no nourishment except what he pulled from the tap. Pretty much the worse for wear. One in our party wanted a shandy, but he refused to make one. Only beer, he said. After getting our pints and half pints we took a table outside with the rough-looking but genial clientele and the bar dog, who was looking for any new friend to scratch him on the butt. The sun had just set. All was calmer than I'd have expected. Across the canal stretched the Walthamstow Marshes--acres of grasses with feathery heads. Off in the twilight, some buildings poked up like grain elevators. The only activity across the way was the occasional passing of a train. I felt miles away from London, very much like being in the Midwest.
Variations on a theme
Went to the National Portrait Gallery again the other day. In addition to a showing of the annual portrait painting contest, there's an exhibit of one artist's collection of other people's paintings--about 300 of them, all of the same image. He went to flea markets and antique shops, originally thinking he'd collect every copy he could find of da Vinci's Last Supper or some other well-loved image. What he found over time, however, was painting after painting of a 4th century saint named Fabiola. The curator's notes describe her as the patron saint of nurses and protector of abused women. The walls are a hodgepodge of copies. Almost all show a woman in profile, facing left, red cloak on her head. A few turn her around to face right, and some change the color of her cloak. Her face, of course, is at least slightly different in each one. Most are probably in oil, some in acrylic, at least one is seed art. Some are on canvas, some on wood, one on black velvet like those homages to Elvis you find at state fairs and cheap bars back home. Some Fabiolas are huge, most modest in scale, a few are tiny, pieces of jewelry.
It's a fascinating experience to walk into the rooms and see the subtle and at times dramatic variety. Reminded me of a comment earlier about how some painters or sculptors (or actors) seem to recreate the same thing over and over again. Are they trying to get it right, or working out something inward, or is this just what we do? It occurs to me that maybe this exhibit imitated something like an archetype--an image that keeps coming up over and over again, in different parts of the world, in different times. It was also interesting to note in the curator's display that the original painting has been lost, so all we have now are probably copies of copies of a 19th century image of a woman who lived a millennium and a half before that. So it's not at all about what she really looked like, really about how she's been imagined and envisioned by individual artists of varying skill, over and over again. I guess you could say the same of any actor's portrayal of any given character. Or any preacher's take on Jesus or the gospels, for that matter.
Swine flu liturgies
Speaking of church--and no, I didn't even plan that segue--there was a notice in the paper the other day that the Church of England has, because of the swine flu outbreak and for the first time ever, directed its priests to stop using the common cup when celebrating the Eucharist. They didn't even do that during the plague--though Parliament did pass a law back then saying that in cases of necessity, Communion would be considered valid if only the bread or the cup were used (and not both). Interesting that it took an act of Parliament to settle such an issue. But this is the Sovereign Queen (or King) of England's church, after all.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Eric, Clapton
Ahhh. I've moved. And I think I'm really going to like living here.
I'm in an airy, light, old house in Clapton, in a room that's more than twice the size of the one I had in Vermin House. A nice high ceiling--and room for a chair! There wasn't even enough space in my old room to lie down on the floor to do my back stretches. It'll be a pleasure to stretch out in a room like this.
I bIked over past school today (maybe 30 minutes, which is also about how long it'd take by bus) and then came back and wandered around my new neighborhood, found the local pub (with a quirky name, something like The Crooked Billet) and a couple of little restaurants and cafes (in addition to the ever-present kebab shops), checked out the bus routes, etc. My housemates told me of a couple other pubs a few minutes away that overlook the canal. And I found Hackney Downs, a pleasant park just a few minutes away. I think I mentioned the large park at the end of the block, too. I've rearranged my new room and spent most of the morning unpacking. It's nice to have leisure time to do all this. Unlike last October, when I moved in and started classes all within about 48 hours. And also unlike last October, I didn't get egged on my way home the first night in my new place. Ah, Plaistow, I will not shed tears for you.
Another good sign: Last night not one but two housemates brought home some Haagen Dazs. Some housemates will come and go over the next few months, but nations represented include Australia, Guatemala by way of Mexico, Italy, Switzerland, and the US. At any given time there will be 4 to 7 people living here. We'll eventually settle down to 5. Six when Robin comes next May-July or -August.
My new address, in case anybody needs it:
22 Cleveleys Road
London E5 9JN
I'm in an airy, light, old house in Clapton, in a room that's more than twice the size of the one I had in Vermin House. A nice high ceiling--and room for a chair! There wasn't even enough space in my old room to lie down on the floor to do my back stretches. It'll be a pleasure to stretch out in a room like this.
I bIked over past school today (maybe 30 minutes, which is also about how long it'd take by bus) and then came back and wandered around my new neighborhood, found the local pub (with a quirky name, something like The Crooked Billet) and a couple of little restaurants and cafes (in addition to the ever-present kebab shops), checked out the bus routes, etc. My housemates told me of a couple other pubs a few minutes away that overlook the canal. And I found Hackney Downs, a pleasant park just a few minutes away. I think I mentioned the large park at the end of the block, too. I've rearranged my new room and spent most of the morning unpacking. It's nice to have leisure time to do all this. Unlike last October, when I moved in and started classes all within about 48 hours. And also unlike last October, I didn't get egged on my way home the first night in my new place. Ah, Plaistow, I will not shed tears for you.
Another good sign: Last night not one but two housemates brought home some Haagen Dazs. Some housemates will come and go over the next few months, but nations represented include Australia, Guatemala by way of Mexico, Italy, Switzerland, and the US. At any given time there will be 4 to 7 people living here. We'll eventually settle down to 5. Six when Robin comes next May-July or -August.
My new address, in case anybody needs it:
22 Cleveleys Road
London E5 9JN
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The 20 movements
One of the main events at the end of the first year is each student's presentation of 20 specific movements that we learned over the course of the year. We all have the same repertoire to draw from, but it's quite revealing how everyone does them differently and how each person strings them together in their own unique way. I'd heard that the 20 movements show who you are. That's quite a claim. But I'll grant that there's something to it. I wouldn't say the 20 movements are likely to reveal something that's never come to light before, more that they often crystallize some key parts of what has shown through from time to time.
We 40 or so did our presentations over three days, and we all watched each of them. The 2nd years were invited to come, too, and several did. As did most of the teachers. I'd worked on my presentation quite a bit. I enjoyed the challenge of finding a flow from one movement to another, also including some surprising juxtapositions and varying the rhythms. A few movements take just a few seconds. Others are quite involved--a dozen steps or more. And you can cycle through a movement several times before moving on if you want; so each presentation took a while. Mine was about 8 minutes. You're out there, all by yourself in front of potentially the whole school. The stage is yours. The time is yours. The goal is more to show yourself than it is to hide your mistakes, because often the things that are most difficult for you show you more in your fullness. (The things that are most playful often do, too.)
As I watched others go before me, I often thought of which movement I would go into from the one they were doing, just as a review to myself. The morning I was to go, I was a bit chagrined to see that a classmate had almost the same routine as I'd be doing a few people later. Of the 20 transitions, about a dozen of hers were the same as mine. Oh no, I thought at first, mine's going to look so familiar after this. But each of us does them differently--different bodies, different ways of moving, different things that we bring to it--and so after she'd finished, I realized mine would be different in its own way. I'm not sure anyone but me (and maybe she) noticed the similarities of pattern when all was said and done.
Doing the 20 movements was one of the highlights of the year for me. The feedback afterward was very encouraging, and I got a lot of strokes from my classmates. I don't know exactly what it looked like, but several people commented on the "maturity" I brought to it, which I really do think was not just a way of saying I'm obviously older. (One of the teachers even said I look much younger now than when I started last fall. I am a lot more limber. And lighter.) I won't go into the specifics of the comments here, but apparently something did show through that drew on a different level of life experience. I felt really good about it. It was one of those times (that we all need so much) when I could tell that I really have learned something in my time here.
It was also a time when I could get out of my head and trust that my body knew what to do. I remember thinking at one point in the middle of it all, "Did I just forget something there? Did I skip a movement?" But there wasn't time to stop and fret over it. Actually I could have stopped and done that, but I didn't want to. So I just went on, trusting that my body remembered the patterns I'd rehearsed. I wish I could do that more often.
We 40 or so did our presentations over three days, and we all watched each of them. The 2nd years were invited to come, too, and several did. As did most of the teachers. I'd worked on my presentation quite a bit. I enjoyed the challenge of finding a flow from one movement to another, also including some surprising juxtapositions and varying the rhythms. A few movements take just a few seconds. Others are quite involved--a dozen steps or more. And you can cycle through a movement several times before moving on if you want; so each presentation took a while. Mine was about 8 minutes. You're out there, all by yourself in front of potentially the whole school. The stage is yours. The time is yours. The goal is more to show yourself than it is to hide your mistakes, because often the things that are most difficult for you show you more in your fullness. (The things that are most playful often do, too.)
As I watched others go before me, I often thought of which movement I would go into from the one they were doing, just as a review to myself. The morning I was to go, I was a bit chagrined to see that a classmate had almost the same routine as I'd be doing a few people later. Of the 20 transitions, about a dozen of hers were the same as mine. Oh no, I thought at first, mine's going to look so familiar after this. But each of us does them differently--different bodies, different ways of moving, different things that we bring to it--and so after she'd finished, I realized mine would be different in its own way. I'm not sure anyone but me (and maybe she) noticed the similarities of pattern when all was said and done.
Doing the 20 movements was one of the highlights of the year for me. The feedback afterward was very encouraging, and I got a lot of strokes from my classmates. I don't know exactly what it looked like, but several people commented on the "maturity" I brought to it, which I really do think was not just a way of saying I'm obviously older. (One of the teachers even said I look much younger now than when I started last fall. I am a lot more limber. And lighter.) I won't go into the specifics of the comments here, but apparently something did show through that drew on a different level of life experience. I felt really good about it. It was one of those times (that we all need so much) when I could tell that I really have learned something in my time here.
It was also a time when I could get out of my head and trust that my body knew what to do. I remember thinking at one point in the middle of it all, "Did I just forget something there? Did I skip a movement?" But there wasn't time to stop and fret over it. Actually I could have stopped and done that, but I didn't want to. So I just went on, trusting that my body remembered the patterns I'd rehearsed. I wish I could do that more often.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
End of Year 1
Wow. What a ride, especially over the past few weeks. I won't try to put it all in one post.
At the beginning of the 7th week when we presented our final works-in-progress, they were so rough that the teachers decided on the spot that we wouldn't be ready to show them at the scheduled time. So final presentations were postponed by 6 days. A wise decision, though it threw scheduling into chaos (something that happens here fairly regularly). The pieces continued to grow and change in the extra time given. Our piece in particular was disjointed and benefited from the extra days. Even a week later--on the Monday of Week 8--it was pretty awful, but the final 72 hours proved to be fruitful (as well as temperamentally volatile). Two-thirds of what we ended up with was created in the final three days.
The six final group presentations varied greatly in subject and treatment. As did the 50 final projects the Advanced Course students presented in the last two weeks. And the 40 or so individual 20-movement presentations that we in the Initiation Course did on the last Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. (It's been a busy end of term.) Oh yes, and the nearly 40 double Acrobatics presentations in Week 7--one a set routine, the other created by each of the first years. Except me, who just did a set routine since I had to protect my neck and was pretty low in energy following a weekend of being sick.
I didn't have swine flu, but at least one classmate has had. I'm not sure what the impact has been in the US except to know that Robin had it and got through it OK, but it's starting to hit pretty hard here. They're predicting up to 65,000 deaths in the UK, and I've read of plans to give everyone shots. Concern jumped to a new level last week when a GP and an apparently previously healthy 6-year-old girl both died on the same day. They're expecting up to 100,000 new cases each week. Most of them mild, of course, but the numbers are remarkable. So this is a pandemic...
Moving house
Now that classes are over, it's time for me to get back to work and also to move out of my old digs. I won't be sad to shut the door on that place. Again, fine housemates (what else can one say?), but a bad house to live in. Poorly heated, often infested (flies, mice, throw in a little mold), dark, a crowded little room, not much to offer in terms of location. Frankly, Plaistow--the town I've lived in since October--doesn't have a lot to recommend it. I'll be moving to Clapton (or Hackney--not quite sure what forms the boundary), to a house with more room, more heat, more light, another set of good housemates, in a much more pleasant part of town. A bit farther from school, and not at all convenient to the Tube, but I can live with that. More bike riding lies ahead, as well as increased familiarity with the bus system and parts of the Overground and National Rail.
More anon, depending on internet access. Our connection at home went kaput. (I do not recommend Vodafone Mobile Broadband. I'm locked in one of those absurd situations where to get out of an internet contract I have to negotiate with the company via internet, even though my internet connection with them doesn't work. Grrr. Honestly, why do they even have stores if the staff there just tell you you have to do your business through your computer?)
Another plus of the new house -- wired for internet. And it works.
At the beginning of the 7th week when we presented our final works-in-progress, they were so rough that the teachers decided on the spot that we wouldn't be ready to show them at the scheduled time. So final presentations were postponed by 6 days. A wise decision, though it threw scheduling into chaos (something that happens here fairly regularly). The pieces continued to grow and change in the extra time given. Our piece in particular was disjointed and benefited from the extra days. Even a week later--on the Monday of Week 8--it was pretty awful, but the final 72 hours proved to be fruitful (as well as temperamentally volatile). Two-thirds of what we ended up with was created in the final three days.
The six final group presentations varied greatly in subject and treatment. As did the 50 final projects the Advanced Course students presented in the last two weeks. And the 40 or so individual 20-movement presentations that we in the Initiation Course did on the last Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. (It's been a busy end of term.) Oh yes, and the nearly 40 double Acrobatics presentations in Week 7--one a set routine, the other created by each of the first years. Except me, who just did a set routine since I had to protect my neck and was pretty low in energy following a weekend of being sick.
I didn't have swine flu, but at least one classmate has had. I'm not sure what the impact has been in the US except to know that Robin had it and got through it OK, but it's starting to hit pretty hard here. They're predicting up to 65,000 deaths in the UK, and I've read of plans to give everyone shots. Concern jumped to a new level last week when a GP and an apparently previously healthy 6-year-old girl both died on the same day. They're expecting up to 100,000 new cases each week. Most of them mild, of course, but the numbers are remarkable. So this is a pandemic...
Moving house
Now that classes are over, it's time for me to get back to work and also to move out of my old digs. I won't be sad to shut the door on that place. Again, fine housemates (what else can one say?), but a bad house to live in. Poorly heated, often infested (flies, mice, throw in a little mold), dark, a crowded little room, not much to offer in terms of location. Frankly, Plaistow--the town I've lived in since October--doesn't have a lot to recommend it. I'll be moving to Clapton (or Hackney--not quite sure what forms the boundary), to a house with more room, more heat, more light, another set of good housemates, in a much more pleasant part of town. A bit farther from school, and not at all convenient to the Tube, but I can live with that. More bike riding lies ahead, as well as increased familiarity with the bus system and parts of the Overground and National Rail.
More anon, depending on internet access. Our connection at home went kaput. (I do not recommend Vodafone Mobile Broadband. I'm locked in one of those absurd situations where to get out of an internet contract I have to negotiate with the company via internet, even though my internet connection with them doesn't work. Grrr. Honestly, why do they even have stores if the staff there just tell you you have to do your business through your computer?)
Another plus of the new house -- wired for internet. And it works.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Moving the finish line
The homestretch just got shorter. Today we found out that, contrary to previous terms in which we made our final presentations on the last day, this term we'll do them a week earlier. Ouch. And last Friday we found out that our Acro presentations will also be in Week 7 rather than Week 8. And on Wednesday to boot. That's a mere 9 days away. Double ouch. As if that weren't enough to mark the nearness of the end of term, a classmate bid us all adieu today. He's leaving Thursday and won't be back. Several classmates are thinking they won't return next year. I don't think it's a disenchantment with the school on any of their parts--more financial concerns, or life intervening--but we've already lost 3 or 4 people since the beginning of the year. We're all supposed to let the school know by the end of the week if we're planning on doing the second year. I don't think anyone will be told not to come back, but as it is we'll be significantly smaller, which is a loss.
¶ Last weekend I saw Ian McKellen, Patrick Stewart and Simon Callow in Waiting for Godot. Yes, it's a truly odd play, but the actors played it with such humor that it was a treat to watch. I read an article a month or two ago in which comedians spoke of the influence that Beckett has had on them (the illustration was a famous photo of Beckett with a clown's nose added). I'd never known that so many people see his plays as comical, but it worked really well with Godot. Maybe that's the way it's always done, I don't know, but clownish or vaudevillian treatment really made the play move along, at times in a touchingly endearing way. There's a lot of cruelty in it, too, but that works well pushing hard against the comedic elements. It was also reassuring to see actors of that caliber stepping on each other's lines occasionally (once, anyway) and dropping their accents from time to time.
And yes, Robin, to answer your question, they pronounced it GAH-doh. Who knew?
¶ I've seen a few plays lately: another odd one (this by Wallace Shawn) called Aunt Dan and Lemon. A one-woman show called Kafka's Monkey, starring Kathryn Hunter. I'm too ignorant to know how famous or well regarded she is but it was an amazing performance. The character is a chimpanzee who's learned to pass as a human, who thinks and feels like a human, more or less, but who still moves and acts like a chimp. Then there was an experimental theatre piece that a few classmates were in and one devised, with all the aspects (for better and for worse) that "experimental theatre" implies. Overall recently, quite a range.
¶ Last night I went to a two-hour African dance class. What a workout, and what fun! Led by a Ghanaian god of a man with incredible stamina, and charisma, and what a body. Oh my Lord...
¶ And today, the 29th of June 2009, some eight months later than most of my classmates (the whippersnappers), I was able to consistently accomplish the headstand.
(He takes a long slow bow.)
Thank you. Thank you very much.
¶ Last weekend I saw Ian McKellen, Patrick Stewart and Simon Callow in Waiting for Godot. Yes, it's a truly odd play, but the actors played it with such humor that it was a treat to watch. I read an article a month or two ago in which comedians spoke of the influence that Beckett has had on them (the illustration was a famous photo of Beckett with a clown's nose added). I'd never known that so many people see his plays as comical, but it worked really well with Godot. Maybe that's the way it's always done, I don't know, but clownish or vaudevillian treatment really made the play move along, at times in a touchingly endearing way. There's a lot of cruelty in it, too, but that works well pushing hard against the comedic elements. It was also reassuring to see actors of that caliber stepping on each other's lines occasionally (once, anyway) and dropping their accents from time to time.
And yes, Robin, to answer your question, they pronounced it GAH-doh. Who knew?
¶ I've seen a few plays lately: another odd one (this by Wallace Shawn) called Aunt Dan and Lemon. A one-woman show called Kafka's Monkey, starring Kathryn Hunter. I'm too ignorant to know how famous or well regarded she is but it was an amazing performance. The character is a chimpanzee who's learned to pass as a human, who thinks and feels like a human, more or less, but who still moves and acts like a chimp. Then there was an experimental theatre piece that a few classmates were in and one devised, with all the aspects (for better and for worse) that "experimental theatre" implies. Overall recently, quite a range.
¶ Last night I went to a two-hour African dance class. What a workout, and what fun! Led by a Ghanaian god of a man with incredible stamina, and charisma, and what a body. Oh my Lord...
¶ And today, the 29th of June 2009, some eight months later than most of my classmates (the whippersnappers), I was able to consistently accomplish the headstand.
(He takes a long slow bow.)
Thank you. Thank you very much.
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