I catch myself, momentarily, out of the corner of my eye. I write. Thinking retrospectively about our last POSTSCRIPT rehearsal, which I led, I am somewhat surprised about the extent to which text played a role. Text and me, that’s something new. As it turned out, the session was divided in two parts: beginning with physical work and then moving onto exploring new approaches to text. Outcomes? It is somewhat difficult to summarise them in just one sentence. Keep reading. Draw your own conclusions.
I suppose I ought to begin at the beginning. Sit. Stand. Walk. Run. Jump. Fall. These simple activities served as a restricted movement vocabulary within which we improvised. The space was cleared with the exception of a table, with a chair behind it, and second chair to a side, on its own. Though initially I had conceived this as merely a warm-up exercise which might get our blood flowing, something else entirely begun to happen. Ebbs and flows. The incessant sound of feet hitting the floor. Follow me. A pattern that is mirrored, copied and then inverted. Suddenly you leave. Where did you go? Somebody falls. Out of nowhere, a burst into running. Then stillness, and on we go. The ten minutes I had planned for this exercise seemed to fly by. We continued nonetheless, happy to let things develop, collapse upon themselves, and rise out of the rubble transformed. At one point I played some music (Mulholland Drive, tracks 9 and 17). Though there was not direct effect, its atmospheric moods seemed to resonate with what we are doing. Of course at the time one does not think, or plan, or analyse. Writing of it now though, the possibility strikes me. Could this simple structure be the starting point from which complexity emerges? As the exercise progressed relationships began to appear, and with them, an array of narratives. Stories that constantly broke up, reach dead ends, or dissipated into thin air. There is a similarity there with previous rehearsals (objects and lights), but I cannot put my finger on it. I also realise that we had not engaged in this kind of uninterrupted play way for quite some time. We seem to work best within these structures: setting rules for ourselves, letting them rearrange themselves as we go along. There was not much time to discuss afterwards, but Daisy says she found some of what happened strangely moving. Remembering her body on the floor, rolling away slowly as I walk towards her, I agree.
Next, I proposed a cycle. We began around the central table and chair. The rules: walk slowly towards it (museum pace); when you reach the chair, sit down; perform a single gesture or a brief action, as melodramatic or as subtle as you want, but without making a noise; as the next person slowly approaches the table, get up; walk around the table in a rectangle and repeat the cycle. Though at first it was a little bit difficult to get into this pattern, we soon got the hang of it and the activity came into its own. After a while I played a track on repeat (Ghosts of love by David Lynch). Whilst its repetitively hypnotic chords suited our slow walking perfectly, Lynch’s distorted voice gave our gestures and actions an unsettlingly eerie quality. Laura’s silent laugh was terrifying and seductive. Suddenly I realise the exercise can be taken a step further. I quickly set out a further three tables and chairs. Breaking the rectangular cycle around the central table we began to move freely between them. It worked, opening up the challenge of not knowing who would go to which table next. Again, disrupted narratives and glimpses of half-formed characters tie this to our previous explorations. We work in small units, pushing them, repeating them, turning them on their heads.
Now the text. First, Laura’s speech. As homework I had asked her to write a paragraph which a performer might address to an audience. From the beginning of the project we had decided that this would be, primarily, an image-based piece. I was interested in finding ways to disrupt the natural flow of a text. So, I asked her to write each work on a single piece of paper. (At the time I did not fully realise the time and effort this would take, so, Laura darling, thank you very much!) Rather than having Laura read the speech herself we gave the stack of prompt cards to Rick who read One. Word. At. A. Time. Not. Knowing. What. Word. Might. Come Next. The result was both comical and thrilling. As people who did not know the text either (an audience), Daisy and I sat at the edge of our seats Waiting. To. See. How. Each. Sentence. Would. Resolve. Itself. As Rick began to familiarise himself with this difficult process, he started to play with rhythm, reading a few words in quick succession, then allowing the pauses between them to be longer. The sense of anticipation was very effective. Moreover, there were points where Rick would intone a sentence which would suddenly change direction, so that he had to readjust constantly his delivery. In a way, the experience for the listener was similar to that achieved by certain editing techniques. Frame. Cut. Frame. Cut. Frame. At each point a surprise, sometimes a disappointment. Of course, the effect was heightened by the fact that Rick did not know the speech himself. This was confirmed when Laura, who had written it, read the text Word. By. Word. In this case, the quality was an altogether different one. That. Is. It. I Now Remember. Where. This. Idea. Came. From. A couple of years ago I read Mark Danielewski’s House of leaves (a terrific story). As the narrative progresses, the words on the pages begin to arrange themselves in unconventional ways. A paragraph there, another upside down, forcing the reader to physically turn the book around. At one point of particularly heightened tension the crowded pages give way to just one word per page. I. Now. Remember. The. Cinematic. Effect. This. Produced. And. How. Turning. The. Pages. Frantically. I. Was Lost. Within. Them.
More text. In this case I had asked Rick and Daisy to write a short dialogue each, except they would have to be the internal monologues of two people sat, silently, next to each other. I gave them free reign regarding the nature of the text. As it was, both Daisy and Rick’s writing sketched actual characters (with a history etc.). On the one hand, what interested me most about Rick’s was the way it was structured: one extract mirroring the previous one, but diverting from it (is this a coda?). On the other hand, Daisy’s text offered great opportunities for physical actions. I myself has also written an internal monologue, but one which was deliberately abstract (thoughts piled up next to each other). Now to the experiment. Rick and Daisy read their texts, each taking on ‘character’. Laura and I read various fragments from my writing. We captured all this on my old tape recorder (the undying charm of defunct technologies). Then, we all sat around a table just as our audience will do; and we took it in turn to press play and improvise a series of actions around the recorded text. What was interesting here was the juxtaposition of the disembodied voice and the performer: actions that preempt the text, actions that respond to it abstractly, or with minute realistic details. Because this was the end of the session we did not have enough time to delve too deep, but the possibilities seem very attractive, particularly when we begun rewinding and fast forwarding the tape, repeating, re-, rep-, repeating small extracts in an almost obsessive manner. As in our previous experiment with words, this was a strategy primarily aimed at subverting the use of text. In a way, I guess I was trying to adapt the internal narration often used in films (I had recently watched the Coen brother’s The Man Who Wasn’t There, which is full of wonderful examples). At the same time I wonder whether this idea was a subconscious adaptation/interpretation of Katie Mitchell’s work in Waves and …some trace of her; certainly our aesthetics are similarly D.I.Y. Not relying on a sound system for this will give us more flexibility in our movements, but also is more in keeping with the intimate character that POSTSCRIPT seems to be developing. Starting points. Starting points.
I suppose I ought to begin at the beginning. Sit. Stand. Walk. Run. Jump. Fall. These simple activities served as a restricted movement vocabulary within which we improvised. The space was cleared with the exception of a table, with a chair behind it, and second chair to a side, on its own. Though initially I had conceived this as merely a warm-up exercise which might get our blood flowing, something else entirely begun to happen. Ebbs and flows. The incessant sound of feet hitting the floor. Follow me. A pattern that is mirrored, copied and then inverted. Suddenly you leave. Where did you go? Somebody falls. Out of nowhere, a burst into running. Then stillness, and on we go. The ten minutes I had planned for this exercise seemed to fly by. We continued nonetheless, happy to let things develop, collapse upon themselves, and rise out of the rubble transformed. At one point I played some music (Mulholland Drive, tracks 9 and 17). Though there was not direct effect, its atmospheric moods seemed to resonate with what we are doing. Of course at the time one does not think, or plan, or analyse. Writing of it now though, the possibility strikes me. Could this simple structure be the starting point from which complexity emerges? As the exercise progressed relationships began to appear, and with them, an array of narratives. Stories that constantly broke up, reach dead ends, or dissipated into thin air. There is a similarity there with previous rehearsals (objects and lights), but I cannot put my finger on it. I also realise that we had not engaged in this kind of uninterrupted play way for quite some time. We seem to work best within these structures: setting rules for ourselves, letting them rearrange themselves as we go along. There was not much time to discuss afterwards, but Daisy says she found some of what happened strangely moving. Remembering her body on the floor, rolling away slowly as I walk towards her, I agree.
Next, I proposed a cycle. We began around the central table and chair. The rules: walk slowly towards it (museum pace); when you reach the chair, sit down; perform a single gesture or a brief action, as melodramatic or as subtle as you want, but without making a noise; as the next person slowly approaches the table, get up; walk around the table in a rectangle and repeat the cycle. Though at first it was a little bit difficult to get into this pattern, we soon got the hang of it and the activity came into its own. After a while I played a track on repeat (Ghosts of love by David Lynch). Whilst its repetitively hypnotic chords suited our slow walking perfectly, Lynch’s distorted voice gave our gestures and actions an unsettlingly eerie quality. Laura’s silent laugh was terrifying and seductive. Suddenly I realise the exercise can be taken a step further. I quickly set out a further three tables and chairs. Breaking the rectangular cycle around the central table we began to move freely between them. It worked, opening up the challenge of not knowing who would go to which table next. Again, disrupted narratives and glimpses of half-formed characters tie this to our previous explorations. We work in small units, pushing them, repeating them, turning them on their heads.
Now the text. First, Laura’s speech. As homework I had asked her to write a paragraph which a performer might address to an audience. From the beginning of the project we had decided that this would be, primarily, an image-based piece. I was interested in finding ways to disrupt the natural flow of a text. So, I asked her to write each work on a single piece of paper. (At the time I did not fully realise the time and effort this would take, so, Laura darling, thank you very much!) Rather than having Laura read the speech herself we gave the stack of prompt cards to Rick who read One. Word. At. A. Time. Not. Knowing. What. Word. Might. Come Next. The result was both comical and thrilling. As people who did not know the text either (an audience), Daisy and I sat at the edge of our seats Waiting. To. See. How. Each. Sentence. Would. Resolve. Itself. As Rick began to familiarise himself with this difficult process, he started to play with rhythm, reading a few words in quick succession, then allowing the pauses between them to be longer. The sense of anticipation was very effective. Moreover, there were points where Rick would intone a sentence which would suddenly change direction, so that he had to readjust constantly his delivery. In a way, the experience for the listener was similar to that achieved by certain editing techniques. Frame. Cut. Frame. Cut. Frame. At each point a surprise, sometimes a disappointment. Of course, the effect was heightened by the fact that Rick did not know the speech himself. This was confirmed when Laura, who had written it, read the text Word. By. Word. In this case, the quality was an altogether different one. That. Is. It. I Now Remember. Where. This. Idea. Came. From. A couple of years ago I read Mark Danielewski’s House of leaves (a terrific story). As the narrative progresses, the words on the pages begin to arrange themselves in unconventional ways. A paragraph there, another upside down, forcing the reader to physically turn the book around. At one point of particularly heightened tension the crowded pages give way to just one word per page. I. Now. Remember. The. Cinematic. Effect. This. Produced. And. How. Turning. The. Pages. Frantically. I. Was Lost. Within. Them.
More text. In this case I had asked Rick and Daisy to write a short dialogue each, except they would have to be the internal monologues of two people sat, silently, next to each other. I gave them free reign regarding the nature of the text. As it was, both Daisy and Rick’s writing sketched actual characters (with a history etc.). On the one hand, what interested me most about Rick’s was the way it was structured: one extract mirroring the previous one, but diverting from it (is this a coda?). On the other hand, Daisy’s text offered great opportunities for physical actions. I myself has also written an internal monologue, but one which was deliberately abstract (thoughts piled up next to each other). Now to the experiment. Rick and Daisy read their texts, each taking on ‘character’. Laura and I read various fragments from my writing. We captured all this on my old tape recorder (the undying charm of defunct technologies). Then, we all sat around a table just as our audience will do; and we took it in turn to press play and improvise a series of actions around the recorded text. What was interesting here was the juxtaposition of the disembodied voice and the performer: actions that preempt the text, actions that respond to it abstractly, or with minute realistic details. Because this was the end of the session we did not have enough time to delve too deep, but the possibilities seem very attractive, particularly when we begun rewinding and fast forwarding the tape, repeating, re-, rep-, repeating small extracts in an almost obsessive manner. As in our previous experiment with words, this was a strategy primarily aimed at subverting the use of text. In a way, I guess I was trying to adapt the internal narration often used in films (I had recently watched the Coen brother’s The Man Who Wasn’t There, which is full of wonderful examples). At the same time I wonder whether this idea was a subconscious adaptation/interpretation of Katie Mitchell’s work in Waves and …some trace of her; certainly our aesthetics are similarly D.I.Y. Not relying on a sound system for this will give us more flexibility in our movements, but also is more in keeping with the intimate character that POSTSCRIPT seems to be developing. Starting points. Starting points.
