Thinking big
The co-creator/co-director of Two Gents Productions - Tonderai Munyevu is a joy to speak to. So we did. This post is our conversation.
Introduce yourself!
So, my name is Tonderai and I am an artist – I would say. I am a writer and an actor and a theatre maker.
And why do you do what you do?
Well, I think – fundamentally – the honest answer is never really the one that I give because it’s so batshit crazy (!) And it’s so exposing… The reason I do what I do is that – I think that when I was very young I thought I was very special and that I had some sort of insight into things and that I was here to do something – you know? And I spent a large part of my childhood thinking – what is this great thing that I’m going to do? Because I’ve been brought here to do something great. And then, when I saw the priest in my missionary boarding school in Zimbabwe, I thought – oh, that’s it. To stand on a pulpit and do all of that. And then that changed as time went on. Meanwhile, I moved countries. I have this – kind of – trans identity of gender as well. And so, I think I saw a lot of things from different perspectives. And I think, somehow, somewhere, it kind of collated itself into really thinking that that’s my offering – this idea of what I feel of the different cultures. Because I was always outside of something, always watching it, always digesting and dissecting. I think, now, a great deal of what I do, is to think of an idea that I think would translate and would entertain and that would be worthy of the time that one has to give any endeavor. Whatever it is, at the core of it, is something really, really worth saying. So, that’s why I do what I do.
You said the word “offering”. Who are you offering to?
To the world. And I always think, that actually there are a certain group of people in the world who are a microcosm of the rest of the world, who engage with my work and who are waiting for my work. So, that is that offering to those people. With Two Gents, a lot of what we’ve done has had such a legacy. We’re always thinking about what we end up doing, because we know that there is a legacy around it. And then, for me, personally, just the kind of friends and colleagues and, um – fans! – that one accumulates. There’s a group of people who know the work. They may be small, but I always think, they’re just a real pixel of what may ultimately be a collective – a community - of people around the world who are interested in the same things that I am interested in, and who are delighted with my take on how to deal with those things. And I have people who I feel are not necessarily famous or established who I feel the same way about, whose work I always, always wait for and I’m excited by and I find will just thrill me in some way.
So, what I’m hearing is about community and sharing and communion. Here we are in a pandemic, where the primary, overriding characteristic is isolation. Tell me about all of what you just said, in light of where we are now.
It’s tricky, isn’t it? I don’t know if the answers are there in terms of moving forward. I had a play postponed and I was talking to the producers about it, and we were like – well, when is the right time to come back? Because we know a lot of the community that we serve, is very vulnerable - whether it is the slightly older white middle class people, who, traditionally, have been such a support. Partly because they understand the history of Zimbabwe and because they have the income to do so (to come) and partly because they’ve been seeing the work for so long. Those people are vulnerable and you don’t want to put them in that space. We know that black people are vulnerable at this time and you don’t want to put everybody in the space like that. We know that Africans are really challenged, because they have to survive, but they also have family back home that they have to now really take care of because the shutdowns in places like Zimbabwe or South Africa are not necessarily coming with financial aid. So, there’s a lot there – one can easily feel helpless.
But I think, one of the things that I’m trying to do, is to try as much as possible to think of ways (and we’re doing that quite a bit with Two Gents, also) – how do we make that work that is not replacing the work that we would have done (so – you know – it’s not going to be a theatrical experience). What, instead, can we actually do that is befitting this time? For me, I’m contributing as much to things like this, I’ve got an audio play that I’ve committed to write (which I haven’t done yet) and I’ve written a couple blogs. So, I have tried, without pressure, to kind of keep some sort of conversation going.
I am writing. I’m writing several pieces that are all in different stages and one of the pieces I committed to writing, which I’m really going to kick off in a couple weeks (a brand new piece) was very specific about what it was. And I think isolation is making me look at those characters – not the story, but just making me look at those characters very, very differently. I think that I’m much more concerned with those characters being absolutely polished because I now know that each individual person has a life. Because I’m now experiencing my own individual life in a very different way. Normally I’m quite social and I engage quite a bit. Now, it’s really, really clear to me – each person has real agency. So – that isolation has been really, really profound, actually.
This is a two-parter – where do you think theatre will land, both in the near future and generally going forward and then, with that, where do you think your future will land, or – going forward – what your future will be, with this experience?
I’m quite positive, partly because, that is the only option! That’s the option I have – positivity. Because, actually, if you’re a little bit positive, you do come up with more ideas. At Two Gents, at the core of Two Gents, we had no lighting, we had no additional sound. Anything you wanted done, you’d have to make it vocally, or stamping your feet or hitting something. We’ve changed since then, because it’s quite tiring to make it work that way. I was always about that “acoustic” theatre. But now, what I’ve realized (and I think that theatre might end up doing the same thing) is that – actually, there is a level of communication that happens with technology. I think that technology is going to be less “other” in the theatre. It’s going to be part of the language now. Because everybody recognizes it. Everybody has had to find, in this isolation time, their own [way of] leaning into that. I think it’s going to be layers.
I think social distancing will come to theatre. I’ve been resisting that though, because there’s no point, is there. You’re going to play to a fifth of your audience. But I think social distancing would be very, very interesting within a theatrical landscape. I think there will be a ring of emptiness around each person that I think will be theatrical in itself. You know, as a director, I think – what would I do with an audience that is isolating? What is the best way? And I’ve thought a lot about outdoor theatre or theatre that’s going to happen in big warehouses or big spaces, where you have almost a sculptural sense of controlling the audience. So, they might enter into the space and by the time they’ve gotten to Point A, the person who was already in Point A has gone to Point B. It’s a collective experience but it’s happening just with a little bit with a time delay. Obviously, with my work, it’s going to end up very different because I don’t really do that large, large, large scale kind of work. But I think that’s what is going to be exciting.
Reassembly – the idea that we’ve all been isolated and now - what is the big thing that is going to make us come back? I think that is going to happen. I think that one, big thing that is going to set it (the return to theatre) off, will happen. It’s hard to predict what it will be. But there’ll be one, big fuck off thing where everybody will be – “I don’t care what I get, I’m going!” It’ll probably be football or something! “I’m ABSOLUTELY going to be there! Kill me! Alive or dead, I’m going! And I don’t care how many people are going to get Corona, I’M GOING!” I think that something - something just as shifting will happen. For me – I think I’m just going to be bolder. There has been a sense with my work with embracing the smallness of it and the specificity of who I speak to. I can continue to do this and a kind of artisan way of working. I’m going to lean in to making the work larger and just embracing that there are lot more people than I currently serve. I think it’s just time to allow the work to be bigger.
It’s interesting – isolation, in one’s head – you get the picture of things becoming smaller and smaller and you speak of embracing the largeness of it, the “capacity to be bigger”. In shutting down, you are allowed to explode.
It’s allowed me to think a little bit about why I wasn’t embracing it before. And, I think, a lot of it had to do with survival. When you are surviving, as artists – as black artists in England, you know, I literally was working myself to the bone, just to create some sort of momentum. The forced settlement has allowed me to achieve the things I want to achieve, bigger. Actually, I need to stop all the other things that were distracting me from that one thing. I think not working, not having to be somewhere and, to some extent, just being kind of financially stable, has made me, for the first, time, not focus on survival but focus on being. I can just be.
http://www.twogentsproductions.co.uk/
More on post pandemic productions here.
When Is A House Not A Home?
A recent article written by West End producer Sonia Friedman (here) has rattled a few cages. In it, she speaks passionately about a need for “an urgent government rescue package” in order to save a large number of UK performing arts companies.
Things are pretty dire. To date, the Nuffield Southampton Theatres have been placed into administration and Leicester’s Haymarket Theatre has gone into liquidation. That’s the scary end of this precarious line. In the meantime, theatres up and down the country are spending (and therefore, losing) money, keeping themselves closed. Then, there’s the simple fact that they have absolutely no income. No ticket sales. No income. It’s a sinking ship.
This is not unknown information. It’s horrible and stinks and it is like watching a car crash in slow motion. But the above is a preamble to the question which is the title of our blog – when is a house not a home?
At the end of her article, Ms Friedman writes:
“Once gone, British theatre is lost for good. An ecosystem as intricate and evolved as ours, shaped over 70 years, is beyond price. It cannot be rebuilt from scratch. As of now, without support, it is in grave danger.”
We (Devilishly + Grand) are understanding this to mean that if the buildings go (because keeping them going is financially unviable) then the creatives and their creativity will cease. Um. Will it? Is it all over if we don’t have the buildings in which to perform? If the venue isn’t there, does the art disappear?
We (Devilishly + Grand) agree that the performing arts are about communication, communion and human connection (on stage, to the audience and back again). So - here’s a question:
Do these performing arts disappear without that human connection? Without those living, breathing bodies in front of us, responding to our every thought, decision, emotion?
Another question:
Can we still connect without the bodies in front of us? (Can we trust sending our love and care into cyberspace?) Do we need more than the likes, thumbs up and hearts to truly indicate that some sort of communication and communion has happened?
We are used to performing in venues – houses - with four walls and a roof. Us on stage (with a behind-the-scenes that allows us to do what we do) and you in front, ready and waiting to receive. But “used to” does not mean carved in stone. Social distancing is here and will be with us for some time. We know that a significant number of artistic forms will not be sustainable within a traditional framework of “theatre”. And while this presents huge, practical difficulties (understatement), here’s a thing – creativity is still happening. All around us. Look at EVERY SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORM. We’re still sending out the love. We’re still doing what we do.
We put to you that this is an opportunity to experiment with a new way of delivering performing arts. We put to you that this is an opportunity to experiment with new ways of reaching, communicating and sharing with an audience. Maybe not have “tradition” as a convenient fall back. Maybe seize the opportunity to approach and embrace the unknown, with tried and tested skills, commitment and passion.
A house is what you live in, but a home is what you create. We may lose our house, but we haven’t stopped making a home.
Humans in a Room
Philip Venables has been described as “one of the finest of the younger generation of composers working today” (The Guardian). We (Grand and Philip) found each other through 4.48 Psychosis or rather, he found me. After asking me “can you say this in a bedroom voice?” “You mean like 0898 Kitty?”, it was pretty much a done deal. Devilishly has pointed out that she has seen every English performance (including the NY premiere), and thus, is part of the 4.48 Psychosis family. An exclusive club…
I’m Philip, I’m a composer. I have no idea exactly why — it was just something that I always found stimulating. And I guess that’s even more true now that I’ve realised that music theatre is my favourite thing to make. My path to this was a bit zig-zaggy, first studying Natural Sciences, then switching to musical composition for postgrad studies at the Royal Academy of Music and the Guildhall, and I suppose the path to opera was mainly through a few workshops and such like, and then my first produced opera with the Royal Opera House via the Doctoral Composer in Residence scheme.
I was supposed to be taking a sabbatical in 19/20 season, to reflect, rest, and focus on ideas for future opera projects (I struggle to do this while writing music at the same time). But then I realised I couldn’t survive financially for the whole year without a commission, so I took on one project, which I was in the middle of writing when the Covid crisis hit. So in the end, I finished the piece for a cancelled performance, and luckily my contract was honoured, but it was a bit absurd to finish the piece knowing it wouldn’t have a premiere. But I’ve been quite lucky, compared to people who have lost all their work. I've only lost some, mainly guest teaching, so far. And in the end, perversely, I’ve had much more of the sabbatical than I thought I would.
Our London performances of Denis & Katya on 13+14 March were some of the last performances in London, and a weird atmosphere. The shows were sold out, but only half the audience showed up, and those that were there had a kind of solidarity at the cliff edge. It was a very supportive audience as a result! The day after, I got a last minute flight to Paris and stayed there with my boyfriend in the very strict French lockdown.
These two months were spent mainly baking and cooking, eating and drinking cocktails, reading, and doing as little work as possible, once I’d finished that piece for the cancelled show. I didn’t feel creative at all, and it still flummoxes me how people having been pushing to make work during this time. Even one or two zoom calls a day would seem stressful and exhausting to me. Each to their own. The hours and days passed very quickly, even though there was not much to do. I felt sad and angry about the UK Government handling of the situation, and lucky to be living in Germany. I was very happy to press pause on normal life, and happy to suspend contact with a lot of the outside world. The only main contact I had apart from some work calls was an almost daily 3pm Facetime with Ted Huffman.
Now I’m writing this two months later on the way back to Berlin on the train. I’ll be stuck at home in quarantine for 14 days when I arrive. And then I guess normal life will maybe resume — and I’m not sure how I feel about that yet. But I am beginning to miss friends and social contact, so I guess I’m looking forward to that. I’m not sure I’m looking forward to getting back to work in terms of deadlines and actual composing. For now I’m quite happy just reading, reflecting, thinking of things I would like to do in the future. That’s very valuable time, but I realise I’m very privileged to have it, compared to friends who’ve lost all their work, or other friends who are working in the NHS. I hope they can soon have some time off to reflect and recharge too.
I sympathise very much with performers, whose music-making and livelihood is much more sociable (and therefore precarious at the moment), than my solitary version of music-making. I have no idea what the future of live performance holds right now — only that I am quite sure that things are not going to go back to normal for a long time. Someone asked me recently if I wanted to make a virtual opera, but I’m not sure I’m ready to give up just yet on getting humans in a room for a collective live experience of music and theatre.
An enviable boot game.
For myself and no one else
Felix Cross writes, composes and directs. Personal experience allows us to say that he’s also a rather fine chef. You can read about him here AND below.
Photo:Chris Woe
My name is Felix Cross and I am a composer, theatre-maker and, currently, a PhD research student. At sixty-six I am delighted to still be in business, so to speak, but I know I do all these things out of an innate fear of being both redundant and irrelevant. I am told I work very hard and, if I do, it is almost certainly due to having messed around rather hopelessly in my earlier years, leaving me with a sense of a lot of catching up to do.
In my twenties I went off the rails somewhat and, having already been expelled from school and then art college, I drifted from one unsuccessful band to another. I wrote songs, for a publisher, with no success; I tried a bit of stand-up comedy, with barely more progress. Suddenly, I hit thirty, aimless and without an act to get together.
Salvation came in the form of the theatre – as I suspect it did for many others – when I was asked to write some songs for a show. I ended up writing the whole show and acting in it (badly). For some reason this play, a musical called Blues For Railton, was a moderate success, other people began to ask me to write shows for their theatres and, hey presto, I found a purpose and, in one form or another, theatre with music has been my home ever since.
That’s why I do what I do; I write it, compose it, direct it because I’m fairly good at it and people seem to ask me to do more. And they pay me. It’s a self-selecting process really; the things I was not that good at, nobody asked me to do again, so I haven’t.
After forty years of writing and making music, I occasionally allow myself to accept that I have a bit of talent – but as soon as I do that....whooosh! along comes some genius twelve-year old who’s composed her third symphony, or I listen to anyone from Hendrix to Schumann, or read some clever bastard saying something clever cleverly, and I’m back on the naughty-imposter step.
Yet, although I never had any formal training or higher education, I did learn one thing early on that I think has helped. When I was doing stand-up in my late twenties, I wrote all my own material. I would sit at home, writing jokes and stories and practice them in front of the mirror. In the early days I might try a new joke that I though was amusing and would tell myself that if I said it with perfect timing, the audience was in the right frame of mind and the wind was in the right direction, then it might be funny. Of course, I’d go out on stage and that particular joke would die on its arse and I soon learnt that if I tried out something at home and it instinctively made me laugh, then it would probably make other people laugh too. This meant that a) I had to write and throw away a lot more material to get a 20-minute set that was funny and b) I realized that I had to write for myself and no one else. And that is what I have been doing ever since. Those who don’t like it, who don’t laugh, well they won’t come again; but there will be (hopefully) enough who do, and that is the basis of my career.
I need very little to create work; encouragement, money and deadlines, and a warm, quiet, private space, where I will not be interrupted until I’m ready to be interrupted. I need a desk, a piano, a guitar, a laptop and an agent. Working life in this lockdown therefore is no different from how it has always been.
Actually, right now, there is a difference to my working schedule. Alongside trying to evade illness, I am researching for a PhD; probably more imposter, catching up syndrome. Anyway, this means reading a lot of books, which in turn means buying a lot of books. I read a couple of weeks ago that Amazon was turning over £10,000 per second; I may be responsible for a good proportion of that. I found myself surrounded by so many academic books I had to buy an extra scholarly bookshelf, which I of course got through Amazon – maybe I am in the wrong business?
I am lucky, my family is with me, our house is large enough for each of us to be separate when we want to, we have no mortgage to pay, I am old enough to receive a small pension that supplements the odd commission that comes my way. I am also old enough to worry about what might happen if I caught the dread stuff, so I stay safe indoors, with the odd exercising walk/run outside. All I need is time and to be organised; I have the former and I’m working on the latter.
The only thing that would help right now is a pill that could keep me alert (not in the government’s way...), creative and energised 24 hours a day; but in the absence of that, a form of alcohol that has no effect on one’s body or mind the day after.
Standup comedy skills never die.
Contact
C W-R.
Catherine Wyn-Rogers knits. And paints. And sings. Not necessarily in that order. With more time to do the two former, she tells us about the latter.
Currently I’m at home with my husband in Gloucestershire…. sadly he lost his mum during this time and as he is Dutch, this entailed going to Holland - we needed to have papers to prove why we were driving over there, but everyone was very understanding and expressed their sympathy to Chris. When we came back, I must say there was a part of me which thought why don’t I just knuckle under and stop everything - there’s something very nice about the taste of retirement I’d had for all of a week – however, I’ve started the teaching on line again since and of course it’s rewarding and it’s great to see the students again. I’m coping - I’m lucky as I have a fairly optimistic disposition but impatience with the lack of real measures to actually stop the further spread of the damned virus does make me rather cross.
I can only wait and see - the work I do have in the diary is mostly opera and I’d be so disappointed to lose it but it isn’t in my hands - therefore I try to keep cool about it. Trying to identify what I can and can’t affect is very important - I do try to stay away from too much watching of the briefing sessions and the news as one can get very dragged down by it all … I definitely think it’s important to breathe different air if it’s only in the yard or on a pavement - and to try and think of other things than singing for at least some of the day. In spite of being terminally optimistic the one thing that can bring me to tears is the thought of being able to hug my friends again.
I’m the eldest of four children - I have a brother and two sisters. I’m married to a Dutchman I met on holiday in Cornwall and through him I seem to have acquired three grandchildren (who live in Holland). We have a cat called Molly and live in Gloucestershire. I sing solo work in concert and opera, and I’m classically trained (at the Royal College of Music) and I sing music from Monteverdi to contemporary composers - my favourites would probably be Bach and Handel, Wagner, Mahler, Elgar and Britten - not necessarily in any order.
When I joined the choir at school, the music teacher was looking for someone to sing a solo in a concert we were about to do and she asked each of us in turn to sing - when she got to me she said ‘now there’s a voice’…. so I was cast…. I can still remember it now, a little recit in Purcell’s Cantata to the Moon for female voices. This sowed the seed of beginning to perform solos in public - I sang in the church choir and the local Philharmonic. I found I enjoyed standing up on my hind legs and singing to people.
I have travelled all over the world singing - I started after the College to sing mainly oratorio and recital for about ten years as I wasn’t particularly interested in opera - or rather somewhat nervous of it. During those years I sang all over Britain with the numerous choral societies and learnt all the major oratorios (I was fortunate to have also been a member of Chesterfield Philharmonic at home before attending College and then the Bach Choir during my student years - both of which allowed me to become familiar with so much of the concert repertoire). Once I began to find my feet on the stage as it were, opera became a big part of my professional life, starting out at English National and Covent Garden - Scottish, Welsh and Opera North - then in Europe and America, including many engagements at the Staatsoper in Munich, and appearances at the Met and La Scala.
It will be very strange not to sing at all, after its having been a big part of my life since I was about 12…. quite a long time ago. However, recent events, of course, have given me a taste of what it could be like. I do have other hobbies and a husband and it’s rather nice to be able to spend time with him and finally getting a chance to finish a painting or the knitting or indeed the sewing which has been lying around the house … I do continue to teach in lockdown and we do not know when we’ll be back at the Royal Academy…. it’s frustrating but better than doing nothing. I know that without the opportunity to sing works like the Messiah and the Dream of Gerontius, I will miss that connection with an audience - I’ve always loved singing religious works because of the spiritual effect they have, rather than any dogmatic proselytising - even confirmed atheists can get comfort from the spirit of these works and I’m lucky that so many of them give lower-voiced mezzos the opportunity to sing some of the best bits! I’ve also loved being part of opera productions, with the sense of working in a team - trying out timings and dramatic effects, working with directors on the theatrical interpretation and with colleagues on the relationships we establish on the stage…. this I will miss enormously. Some of my best friends are people in the business and while I do my best to keep up with them, I am a gregarious person and have always relished time spent with colleagues both on and off stage…. Technology has been a boon in the present circumstances.
We can only take precautions for ourselves and treat ourselves as if we already have the virus and assume everyone else has too - behave accordingly with masks, gloves, disinfectant, distancing etc etc - we may have to be more resourceful with ways of working, with recording and videoing items possibly becoming a bigger part of what we do until a more permanent solution is found to the problem of large gatherings which is what (hopefully!) we generally sing to - however, nothing can replace the genuine face-to-face work with colleagues when performing live music - whether it’s working with a pianist or an orchestra or on stage - and nothing can replace the contact with an audience and the intention of giving them whatever the composer intended. I hope that people begin to realise through the lack of these things, just how important they are to everyone. If people don’t realise then it’s up to us to show them - to be able to take people away from their everyday cares and preoccupations with music and drama is a great gift and we should aim to do this in any way we can. We have to never leave the audience the same as when they arrived in the hall - they should be moved - whether to tears or laughter, fear or anger - and ultimately to be uplifted by the experience of hearing live music. This should be the aim of performers - not simply to get the music right, though that of course is fundamental - but to engage the audience in this wonderful art of music.
Also C W-R .
We can.
Welcome and thank you to Timothy McCoy - cellist, from Ottawa, Canada. A most graceful and elegant piece to start our journey.
I am Timothy McCoy, a human being. I am a cellist and husband – really quite fun on both counts.
I played in Canada’s National Arts Centre Orchestra up until the time of Covid-19 pandemic isolation commencement. I also got married to my girlfriend. Without the NACO, I am, potentially, an unemployed person, although my contract is still being honoured presently.
For now, we have made a shift to online content including in-isolation ensemble videos. We are performing various types of committee work, audition coaching for emerging professionals, and some private instruction, via online video conferencing. We are involved in brainstorming possible solutions for the fall season to engage with our audiences. We are also engaged via our musician representatives in productive discussions with our administration. There are some viable ideas emerging which is encouraging. We can envision performing in smaller ensembles for a while. We can imagine a socially distanced, live physical audience and also a live streamed concert experience. Along a longer timeline, we can imagine a time when concert venues will reopen. We can imagine a renewed vitality in how we engage with audiences. We can see a positive future. We know that live music feeds people.
What can we do? We can pray for a safe and effective vaccine. We can learn new repertoire and revisit favourites. We can play long tone scales. We can tidy libraries. We can sort digital photos. We can listen to performances of every nature. We can read much more and many different types of materials. We can do 1,000 piece puzzles. We can do the NYT crosswords. We can teach fathers how to use their iPhones. We can grocery shop for parents. We can write memoirs. We can go for long evening walks. We can sleep more than usual. We can learn a new language or upgrade skills and other training. We can watch interesting movies and documentaries. We can stay positive in mind. We can stay fit in body. We can dream. We can wash our hands. We can maintain 2 m distance everywhere we go. We can check in on our people regularly and we can support one another. We can make sure nobody feels too alone, especially single friends and family. We can talk to one another. We can listen to each other. We can laugh together. We can heal old wounds. We can be vigilant and we can be kind. We can be thankful. We can put this world crisis in perspective. We can look to our elders for strength. We can take special care with vulnerable members of the community. We can try new recipes. We can try to support small businesses as they operate in new ways. We can hope. We can be frugal and realistic about our finances. We can ask for help if we need it. We can be compassionate. We can be gentle with ourselves and with others. We can take life one day at a time. We can know that life will return to normal. We can be scientific in evaluating our situation. We can be patient. We can share our love. We can seek out humour always. We can meditate. We can breathe. We can do. And we can be.
Let Us Begin
So, here we are. Day 9472 of lockdown/isolation in the U.K. The days (plural) have become one long day (singular) and I truly have no idea when the weekend happens. Does it happen? Who knows…
My partner in crime (Grand) and I have had countless conversations about the state of the arts during this pandemic. More specifically – we’ve been talking about our lives and careers. The problem is – we’re both ridiculously practical and worse – in complete agreement. Between the two of us, we’ve acknowledged that, being artists puts us at the bottom of the ladder in terms of “getting us back to work”. Ironic, considering that, during this state of affairs, it’s the arts that everyone (I mean – EVERYONE) turns to. It’s us who entertain, soothe, challenge, hold and move you in equal measures. You need us, you really do.
The arts are a communion. What we do – it’s all about the sharing. We do what we love and we share that with you. Upon receiving, you share your response back to us. The parlay of emotions is what feed us all. Present circumstances now dictate that the sharing comes in a different form. Here we are, online, for you. And for ourselves, because, performing and sharing is our life blood, right? It’s our life and we have to live. Which brings me to the point of it being a job. Yeah. It’s a job. We are lucky. We get paid to do what we love. And that’s a wonderful thing. But right now, we can’t share a space with you, or each other, and do the job we love. And get paid for it.
Grand and I go round and round in circles – how do we go forward, doing that communion thing - sharing with you, you sharing with us – safely? And make a living, so we can eat, keep the roof over our collective heads? And – most important – stay safe?
As we said in the “About” section, we have no answers. But we’re a nosy pair, so we’re going to be asking our mates alllll about this. We really are in this together. It’s a small world, after all.