Don’t Stop Believing
Eleanor Lewis had only just begun her foray into the big wide world of music theatre when Covid-19 said “No. Not today.” This marvellous young woman talked to us about studying, working, creating - doing what she loves.
Who are you?
I’m Eleanor Lewis. I graduated from the MTA (Music Theatre Academy) September 2019. Usually, when you graduate, you finish at the end of the academic year. We went straight up to September. I left doing everything - singing, dancing, acting. Since then, I moved back to Hertfordshire. I’ve been working as a teacher for various stage schools and as a teaching assistant in a primary school as well as working at a theatre in the West End. So I feel that there are still connections.
When did you decide to move back home? And why?
It took a long time. Originally, I’d been in London for three years. Also, I’d spent time in London beforehand - to see shows and for churchy things. And, we also used to live in London years and years ago. There was always that connection and I wanted to keep that.
When I knew I was coming up to graduating, I thought – do I stay in London? Do I still have that freedom I had living in London or do I come back home and basically sort myself out before venturing on, wherever it may be? It was probably Jun-ish last year when I thought, I am going to move back to Hertfordshire. Hindsight is a great thing. If I hadn’t had made that decision, I don’t know what I would have done over this last period. Being at home is probably the best thing that could have happened over the Corona virus “era”. And it’s meant that I’ve had a brilliant support system. The fact that I’ve been here with my parents has been lovely. And we’ve got a dog! Even better!
What was the trigger to move? You were living and working in London…
Money. It was money, in the end. The course that I was on was uncredited. You don’t get any government support, you don’t get a student loan, you don’t get that maintenance loan. I had to work hard and I also had other people giving me money from different places. That was my way of funding that course. That was also my way of being able to live in London.
That was the trigger in the end – definitely the money. I was getting to a really nice, stable point. March would have been one of my first proper pay packages – I was on zero hours for everything. So, coming round to March, I thought – I’m doing alright. And then – coronavirus.
When you qualified, what happened?
We’re really lucky. In the second show of your second year, you get a lot of agent exposure. We were doing one-to-ones, we did a showcase at the Bridewell and I managed to get an agent then. I signed all my contracts March/April. From then to March this year, I was being sent for auditions. Like anything, sometimes you do really well, you get through a few rounds. I made all of my jobs zero hours so I could go to auditions anytime. When I did graduate, from December through to March, I was going for auditions once a week, sometimes twice a week, which was brilliant. I was seeing lots of different casting directors and I was being recognized. Things were starting to get exciting. It was also nice to go and do a completely different job – the TA in the primary school. That brought me back to reality. I’d been singing, dancing and acting, every hour of every day for how many years? Now I was coming back to something that is a little bit out of all of that. Which has now made me realize that I can take time for myself (for a while, I didn’t think I could). I love working with children – that’s my other huge passion. Some of the teachers would say “Guess where Ms Lewis is going today?” and I’d get to tell the children something that they’ve never heard about. There are kids asking “do you think I could do this one day?” Well, if you put your mind to it – yes! Of course you can!
Why do you do what you? Why did you think studying music theatre was a good idea?!
There’s just something about getting on that stage and, no matter who it is you’re performing to and no matter what that stage is, there’s something about going out, doing what makes you feel good and makes other people feel good as well – sharing emotion in one big room. You can’t much better than that. There is no other way that I feel that I can get that same adrenalin than from applause at the end of something, where everyone comes together and appreciates how everything has been put together. That is just magical.
The stage school where I teach, last year the kids did a show at the O2 and I was part of the dance group that danced behind the principal during his big number. During the dress rehearsal, he wanted to run his number, but the other dancers weren’t there, it was just me on my own. The kids were so excited. When I finished, the kids were hugging and saying “you’re amazing! We didn’t know you could do that!” I’d never been so overwhelmed.
This is what I do when I don’t teach you! “We though you just taught us!” NO – this is what we want you to end up doing. It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. It was also very cringy and very embarrassing… It was lovely. A lot of the kids that we teach have never seen people perform and they were excited. That’s what we want.
With all the declarations about the end of theatre (as we know it), how does that sit with you, being at the beginning of your career?
It is difficult. People are coming up with ways around it. Lots of outdoor things.
when it comes around to winter, it’s going to get quieter because people don’t want to sit in the snow, while they’re watching stuff. For a while, it looked like nothing was going to come back. It seemed drastic – what is going to happen? The snooker was a bit of setback, when you watch all of them standing, not socially distanced, no masks on. Then people are expecting that when they go to the London Palladium. (It’s also very ironic that the snooker took place in a theatre!) Andrew Lloyd Webber is saying that we can do things. But that’s coming from someone who owns some of the biggest theatres in London. The little theatre that I work at, if we did something like that (open), we wouldn’t make enough revenue. Recently, we’ve all been made redundant. But, if that’s the step that we have to take in order to come back, that’s a step that I’m willing to take. They looked after me. Our manager actually rang us and discussed it with us and why it was happening. and if that is a step we have to take, then that is a step we have to take. If that means we are going to be able to go back, then that’s how we do it. It is disheartening. My agent has been brilliant, saying, as soon as we get back, we’re going to do this and that. It’s good to know that someone is still there and still rooting for me to go and get out there. I know that there were some good impressions that I made before the pandemic happened, so I’ve got a lot of hope.
A lot of schools graduated and they were out by May. A lot of people, in the same graduating year as me, have already managed to have their West End debut. Then you’ve also got the grads from this year being given so many different opportunities. When we first started in lockdown, I reached out to so many of these grad schemes. “You graduated late year”. I asked if I might be able to join in (I graduated in September 2019) “No. It’s strictly for 2020 grads.” I get that people haven’t had graduations. I get that people haven’t had exposure. But, I’ve only just put my foot in the door. And it’s just been kicked out. don’t get me wrong – I have been into some amazing rooms. I had a really good few auditions. But – I’ve only just graduated and I’ve had less time in the industry than a lot of people in that 2019 bracket. All I want to do is just sit in on something. I don’t have to get up and sing. I can sit in and take in what they’re talking about. Surely that wouldn’t make a difference.
You’re younger than us (and therefore, infinitely more optimistic!) – how do you envisage going forward?
When we were at college, we were told that if we had a backup, then – did we want to do it? Forever it’s been – I just want to do this. And with this pandemic, well – I can’t do this.
The primary school that I now work at, is my old primary school. The head teacher is my old class teacher. The room I’m in this year is one of my old teachers. And my mum as well…! I’m surrounded by people who have known me for years and who know what I’m like. When one of the stage school jobs told me that they couldn’t reopen because of the pandemic, I was fine. The head teacher of the primary said to me “why don’t you try and do your PGCE?” I thought – actually, that might be a nice thing to have. Because we don’t know what’s going on. I love working with children. I love teaching. I’ve basically had a class to myself over the pandemic, which has been SO much fun! But the PGCE – if that is something that I then have to go to – it’s something I do enjoy. I don’t get the same as performing from it, but I know that I can go and do that if I have to top my diploma up to a degree. I know that that is something that I can go to. It’s a taken a pandemic for me to say – there is something more. I don’t have to worry if I can’t – but, I want to… It’s so difficult because I don’t want to have that mindset of it’s never going to happen, you’re never going to make that big debut, because I’ve still got it there. I still know that, at some point, it’s still going to happen. And I don’t want that PGCE to completely engulf that and for it to go away. I still want that there.
Has it occurred to you to create the work yourself?
I have done a few things over lockdown. When we first had the pandemic, everyone was saying we’ll come back by May and it’s all going to be fine. When we found out that year below me weren’t going to have their graduation, we decided we would have a big bumper two year graduation next year. Me and my year decided to do something to show them that we’re here. Let’s make it as cheezy as possible, funny – just to bring some light to this situation. I managed to get a few people who have graduated from the school and I put together a Zoom version of “Don’t Stop Believing”. I learned how to use Adobe! That took me ages to mix – I’ve learned a few new skills! I have sung. I haven’t stopped singing. I say to myself – let’s flip through my rep and see what I’ve got. The amount of times I’ve said “Let’s film it. Let’s film it and see.” And then it becomes “No – I’m not going to film it this time.” That keeps happening. So, it’s just been singing for myself, which I haven’t done for a long time. It’s been quite nice. Because I’ve had such a long break and I haven’t been singing at the top of my voice all the time, I’ve felt that I could do other things with it. It’s been creating stuff for myself. A couple of people have asked me to do things, which haven’t happened as yet. Nothing major has happened. It’s all been for myself, the stuff that I’ve been creating. I did start playing the piano again. I’d stopped for so long because I didn’t have a piano in my house in Tottenham. I started playing again at the beginning of lockdown and that brought so much joy. It’s difficult when you want to create things but you don’t know where they’re going to end up.
Would you rather create something and put it out there for a “digital response” or would you rather wait for a real, live human in front of you?
I’d rather wait. So many people I know have posted things. “I just want to put it out there so it looks like I’ve done something during this pandemic” and it’s not been good quality. Someone I know, who is a very good performer has put out stuff that is just not her. It’s put out there as “look at me – look at me”. Everywhere. I don’t want to do that. I want to come back almost fresh. I feel I’ve made enough good impressions. I’m back where I was before, just a bit more rested!
I’ve done it once. I didn’t “post it” post it. I did it on an Instagram story, a little something. Lots of people thought it was brilliant. But – I can’t share it with you. It’s not the same. I’m not getting the same thrill out of it as if you were sitting in the same room with me. So, I think I’ll just wait. Unless I get really bored.
What do you think we can do? In order to survive.
The people I work with at the theatre, we all come from different aspects of the creative bubble. Designers, performers, writers, directors. We’ve had this chat where we’ve said, if anyone feels like they can’t get through this, something gets put on the chat. Can we do a call, can we do something. Can we liven each other up. That has been the main point for me, during the pandemic. I’ve been able to reconnect. I’ve been able to connect with people that I haven’t before. Because, we’re all in the same boat. We’re all united because of the “lack of”. Because there is a lack of everything. And we need to something to fill that hole. I’m guessing we’re doing that by connecting with other people.
Lulu. And Eleanor.
Listen with your heart.
Hazel Holder - voice and dialect coach, actor, singer. We had a beautiful chat about mice, men, lions and navigating the high seas. Read on - it makes sense.
Photo: Helen Murray
Who are you?
I am a black woman, navigating the arts industry. I truly feel that “navigating” is the right word, because there are, so often, stormy seas. I am a voice and dialect coach, and an actor and singer. I’m a black woman who has performance and creating in my blood. I was always creating in my head - creating something out of the situation I was in. My dad is a musician (he’s 83!) and my sister Alison is a producer. Many family members were and are connected to the arts.
Have you always thought that you were navigating?
No. And yes! Yes – because I had a feeling that all working class people within the arts had this cross to bear and no - because I didn't think I was any different to the experiences that I saw of many of those around me.
I was navigating one particularly rough sea around 2010 when I was still acting and being directed by a white, male Oxbridge director. The character I auditioned for could be anything. I’d auditioned using a Yoruban accent, because I had just finished Death and the Kings Horseman at the National. The character was strong and energetic, so I thought – let me make her Yoruban. I got the job but after the first day read through, I was told - “Ah…. You know – when we did this show in the West End, the (white) woman who played this character, played her as Italian. How about if you played her as Italian.” So that’s what I did; the play was absurdist so anything was possible. Then we finish the final rehearsal room run and I’m told – “you know…., playing Italian. It’s not working. Do you think, before we tech, you can go back to being African?” You mean Nigerian Yoruban. Let’s be specific, here. And you need to tell the rest of the cast. I’m not turning up on day one of tech, with cast members wondering what’s going on. And, of course, he didn’t tell the rest of the cast. I was on stage with people who were, literally – “what the…??” Holding their heads.
So I stop the scene and the director, embarrassed, is busy clicking his fingers. My name clearly couldn’t come quickly enough to him…. He’s clicking his fingers and I’m saying – Hazel. My name is Hazel. I was pissed.
About five years later, he is an AD and I’m cast in a production at his theatre. Imagine his surprise when we have the first day introductions. Hazel Holder. Performer. Let me look you in the eye as I place my name in the space.
So, in this forced hiatus that we all have, how have you been able to “navigate the navigation”?
I’ve reflected on the navigation by using the time to understand my own thinking processes. I’m having energetic and physical therapy sessions with a wonderful counselor called Charmaine McCaulay (www.kokorotherapy.co.uk). It is really important for me to speak to a black woman. No explanation needed! And we use her Body Talk technique, which the drama queen in me loves! This is a good time, in this down time - this forced hiatus - for me to actually take time for myself. To really make sure that when I go back into spaces with people whose energy does not align with my energy, that I can stay true to me and handle situations in a way that doesn’t diminish myself – also doesn’t diminish others – but specifically does not allow me to be diminished.
There have been and are very few spaces where I experience real collaboration. But this industry is about negotiation and collaboration and I spent too much time and energy (as an actor) building habits within myself that created a mouse in certain spaces. The reality is – how my family and close friends know me – I’m a lion! I’m the person who – if you want to get it done, ask Hazel to sort it. Why am I suddenly a mouse in these spaces? I’m re-evaluating my belief systems and changing my thinking, going back to the essence of myself and not the self who has become the spaces that I have navigated.
Do you think that this “epiphany” would have occurred at a different time if we hadn’t had this enforced downtime? Were you getting there or was this just perfect timing that offered you this gift?
It is perfect timing but I had already started the journey of looking at my thought process. Some recent experiences forced me to look at how my thinking was enabling particularly negative situations. I was covering on a television show and was able to spend time observing. And I observed a lot of behaviour from women that were serving the men - even women who were in positions of power and status. This is really a male orientated world. Even when it shouldn’t be. Even when the power balance isn’t actually male, it’s male-orientated. It’s so tiring and a waste of energy trying to be in spaces that don't really make space for you to be there – the constant push. Fast forward to this year and I started working on a television show that has female energy. Ahhhh….. Now this space, as a woman, as a black woman – I feel no need to have an energy that is protecting myself - pushing or meeting something. I can actually just… be in this space.
In light of George Floyd and how that has rippled through the artistic community, what is it like being in an all – or mostly – black space?
Well. I was in a very beautiful space a few weeks before lockdown, because we were filming in Durban, in South Africa. I’d say 90% of the people working on set were black. I felt like I could breathe out. We were the majority. Not “minority ethnic”. My heart felt euphoric. Absolutely euphoric. And there was a definite feeling of – I didn’t have to explain anything. There was just a real sense of… a real sense of – being myself. I could be the different parts of me. I could be the person that’s hitting the dance floor – hard! Or quiet and observant. Or the person having an intense conversation about the responsibility of black diaspora investing more in Africa. I just found it beautiful. It was talking about life. And life involved talking about silly social media posts and serious life challenges. Just beautiful.
Whether people want to admit it or not, the pandemic has forced us to consider a different way of working – mostly in a practical sense. Because you have had the opportunity to really acknowledge yourself now – whenever we come out or come through this pandemic – are you more clear about the way you want to work?
First of all, I want to work but I want to work safely through this pandemic. I am definitely, currently working from home and as someone who has underlying health concerns, I’m not doing this [crosses fingers] with my life or my family’s lives, thank you very much. And especially in a time where productions or institutions are just trying to cover their ass so they can say they have black creatives or a black member of staff. They need to do the work of also seeing the person not just the skin colour. I also need to feel safe and supported in the space mentally and physically so will choose who I work with carefully.
I’m definitely being the lion again in terms of asking for what I need. I’m someone who used to see something and say – no! That’s not right! Unjust! This is what I mean by navigating spaces – I learnt to stop being the person that spoke out because I was always being labelled a troublemaker. I’m not being a troublemaker. I’m just not aligning myself with your values. So, yes, now – I’m asking for what I need. Definitely. I encourage others to do the same.
Let’s assume that the pandemic is over! Everybody’s had a vaccine and we’re all safe and healthy. Can you continue aligning yourself with your needs? The need to not be silenced, the need to not be labelled and the need to be who you are and say what you want. There’s a weird magic to this pandemic and it’s allowed us to figure out so much about ourselves. Can you keep going with the “what you want”?
We need to keep going with ‘what we want’ and ‘what we need’. Otherwise any ground gained will be for nought. This young generation has the energy and the right to say “no”. They are not putting up with what we had to put up with in the past. And that’s a blessèd place to be right now. So, I take a leaf out of the millennial book of living and continue to ask for what I need. Pre-pandemic I was working with people who were interested in creating conversation around the challenges we faced during filming. My requests were being heard rather than getting shut down (which has happened often previously). So I keep creating the habit of asking for what I need.
Because you’ve changed, are you trying to change everything else? To make a more equal environment? Through your profession, through the arts, through helping every creative, if possible?
There’s a definite need in me to be the carer. To say – it’s okay, don’t worry; to take on the responsibility of effecting change. Although, I’ve learned, the hard way, that sometimes I have to let it be what it is in that moment, clock it and know that I won’t let a situation evolve again. I’m currently mentoring two early career voice coaches but I’ve also learned over the years, that if l don't look after myself, (and not fight every battle), I’m no good to others anyway. A good way for us all to create that level playing field is to work with partner organisations such as Stage Sight (www.stagesight.org). They work with productions to create a more diverse workforce behind the scenes. We see all too often the hollow ticking of boxes with black and brown faces in front of the camera or on stage but none backstage.
What can we all do? During this time, after this time – what can we do?
I think that one of the first things that we need to do is listen to each other; especially the people who have done a lot of the talking over years. In the not so distant past, I was writing some notes and as I stood up I had a hand on my shoulder to stop me rising. It was a male hand - a white, male hand. He was standing over me, watching me making my notes. I remember thinking to myself – “hmmm – you didn’t even ask. You just presumed you knew what and how I was going to communicate with the actor or director.” I’ve never experienced a female producer do that to me. Never. There has always been a conversation (no matter how brief) in order that we can all make an informed assessment of the situation.
So, what do we do? What can we do? I don’t even think it’s us – as black women! I think we facilitate spaces where we listen to people. You’re listening to me now. We facilitate spaces where we listen to each other really generously. I think those who don’t listen to people generously are the people who need to start re-evaluating that question. This experience is borne from being a woman, a black woman, a voice and dialect coach. It comes from me having that actor/inquisitive quality of just wanting to observe. I see uncompassionate people engaging in conversations that are very one-sided unable to even acknowledge that the other person may be in pain when asking for what they need. And I see people walking away, knowing they weren’t listened to. They articulated what they needed but they know it didn’t penetrate the armour and that nothing will actually change. I think that until people listen with an open heart and have empathy…. Really listen… without a defensive attitude…
We have to make space in our hearts to listen to each other. With our hearts. Our hearts. Because until we start to listen, until certain people start to really listen we can’t make steps towards change.
Pause. Redux.
Time for a staycation.
We’re taking a pause. A hiatus. A break. We’re tired – not physically, but mentally. This is the type of exhaustion that creeps up on you, no matter how positive, realistic, or practical you are. The current situation is like one of those weighted blankets, draped over you, tucked into the corners, that you didn’t ask for. In other circumstances, taking a break from work would be welcome, but not so much now. Especially as it isn’t our decision.
Distractions come and go. The new hobbies, the myriad of new projects, learning how to live online – they all have their moments (my – Devilishly – Dutch is coming along fine, thank you). But all it takes is a single microsecond of awareness that you’re not doing what you do to lead you back into the deep. It is exhausting swimming against the current.
Add to this, the Black Lives Matter movement. We are black. We’ve always known our lives matter. We’ve always operated with a suit of armour to get through our day, so much so that the weight of said armour has become almost unnoticed. And yet – now – all that we have pushed aside in order to get on and do our job is front and centre. As it should be. But, to be honest with you, how we both don’t have whiplash from all the nodding in agreement, I do not know.
So, we’re taking a pause. Because our brains are tired and our souls need to have a chance to reboot. We’ll be back in September – this pandemic is not going anywhere soon (and neither are black people). There are more people we want to talk to, more brains we want to pick, more reflections we want to share. Because sharing is caring, right? And we care. For you and for ourselves.
Stay safe. Stay well. See you in September.
DG
This is how we will be taking care of ourselves. Won’t you join us?
If a tree falls in the woods…
…does it matter if it makes a sound? Is the tree bothered if the crashing is not acknowledged? Does the tree re-think the falling if there's no one to comment on the (alleged) noise it makes when it hits the ground? Another ramble from us. You lucky people.
Are we still in mourning? I think we are. Grief - a long and very individual process – is widely accepted to have five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Arts – the performing arts, how we perform arts died a kind of death the day lockdown became official in the UK. Since then, the responses to what seems to be our death knell, have been various.
We can all agree that the sudden inability to communicate, to share to a large audience in person is strange. It’s empty. Those first few weeks, it felt like we were scrambling to stop being sucked into the big, black hole where no one can hear you scream. And then – VIDEOS. Online presence a-go-go. Every Tom, Dick and Harry (and Sharon, Karen and Leslie) downloaded the a cappella app and blessed us with their multi-voiced, multi-instrumental versions of Cabaret and Imagine. It was a reaction and rightly so. If we are playing/singing our collective socks off in the woods and no one is there to listen, is it really happening? Are we who we say we are if no one is there to give the thumbs up?
It got better, this video thing. The slow and steady streaming of archival footage of productions from theatres and opera houses reminded us of our validity and fed the yearning in our hearts to be back on those stages. We learned how to navigate through the varieties of tech and figured out how to play with each other and not a split second after each other. And we reminded each other (and those audiences) that we still exist.
And then, the next blow – money. Or lack thereof. Theatres, venues – our homes were (are) in danger. Shutdown means no money coming in and therefore impossible to keep these places open. Like a house of cards falling in slow motion, theatres around the country let staff go and then had to close. Another dream shattered. If we could just hold our collective breath long enough, we might be able to get back home. But now, home was no more.
Now, it seems, we are entering a new stage of offering new and different ways to deliver ourselves and share our work. Some of it involves sharing the same open space, some of it online. Testing, testing, testing. Will our audiences approve? Will they come with us as we walk this new path? Will they stay with us?
So, where are we in these Five Stages of Grief? Denial didn’t really get a chance. I mean, we were performing one night and then - not. Can’t really deny reality. Anger? The inability to have our questions answered. Not know what the right questions were. All answers misleading and patronizing. I might add Shock at this stage. the disbelief that the door had shut with little or no warning. “Just go home. We’ll let you know when…” . Being left high and dry, banging on the door of the house that, unbeknownst to us, was about to fall down. Back to Anger.
I suspect we’re at the beginning of Bargaining. The offers of the new, the untested, the not-tried-before. We’ll do this until the the New Normal begins. It will keep us going until “you” (yeah, the government, I guess) makes everything okay again and we can go back to the way it was.
Except, we can’t. Go back. Or we shouldn’t. This could be a real chance for change, while the playing field is level. We’re all at the same place. Let’s skip Depression (easier said than done) and head straight to Acceptance. Let’s also add on “Forward-Ho”. Do you really want to go back into the burning building?
The Seven Deadly Sins During A Pandemic. Brought to you this week on all good DevilishlyGrand social media pages.
Blowing the door wide open
We’re not going to list the gazillion things Elizabeth Kenny does. The short version is that Liz plays the lute and teaches and she’s really good at both. In the midst of juggling an academic schedule that has not stopped with the pandemic, Liz writes about inclusion and belonging. It’s important.
I play the lute. And a number of other lute-shaped and related instruments. They live at the top of my house near where the hamster used to run up and down in the days when my children wished to care for (control?) small furry creatures. I bring down to the living room the one/s I’m playing most. I can measure how life has changed by the fact that I’m playing the less-used solo-only instruments. The workhorses - the long necked theorboes and guitars that I play in ensembles, in operas, and with singers - are resting. I have forgotten, for now, the essential skills of carrying them weaving between the crowds on trains, trying not to hit anyone with them as I go. Mostly succeeding. The others, made for introspection and self-exploration, are having their day. French baroque lute suites and Bach … that music is all about solitary Me.
But today I am on a train. In our new-old way of working a hybrid form of concert is emerging, the livestream to an empty hall. I’ve done two now, both with counter-tenor Iestyn Davies, and they feel like keeping the faith, sticking to a time and a place when the music will happen in “real” time The one-take video recording is something I still need to learn to love. I do hanker after the old do-or-die concert format, for the live audience’s benediction, where the mistakes don’t hang around in the ether waiting to creep out after dark, reminding me of my own imperfections. But making the appointment with the audience is the important thing: they agree to pause their life if we play. We are complicit. And that’s a great privilege. Waiting for people to scroll and happen upon you is one thing (will they get to the good ones or the iffy ones?); keeping our pact is another.
During the past few months we’ve heard a lot from musicians, actors, crew, recording engineers, festival events wizards and promoters, about how the music and the shows need to continue. Of course we would say that: this is our lifeblood, and we have the urge to communicate, to hone our skill. I’ve wondered, though, whether those who determine our financial future were waiting for the voices of the people we play to, to sound and be heard, before they made their welcome decision to create the £1.57bn support package whose details will unfold over the next months. We have to listen to who is listening.
Recently a friend sent me a gift which moved me and plunged me back thirty years. In 1987 I was at university, not studying music, day-dreaming now and then of what a musician’s life might be like (I didn’t know any). I was a classical guitarist by night, studying English literature by day. I was offered the chance to play the Rodrigo “Orange Juice” (Concierto de Aranjuez) with an orchestra of students. I’d been a Junior at the Royal Academy of Music, but ran away from all the general musicianship classes because I was neither studying music at school nor in possession of a piano at home to figure it all out, and I didn’t like being reminded of the gulf between my knowledge and everyone else’s. I would do that differently now. I kept on playing, if not understanding how the music worked, so with a lot of luck and a good wind behind me I felt I could accept the challenge. I spent the summer hammering away at it. When it came to it, I had nothing to wear, so my friend, who to me epitomised the kind of sophistication and glamour of the people I had met for the first time at university, took action. She designed and made a beautiful green silk skirt. I was moved and grateful. But at the same time a part of me thought “Why don’t I know this stuff? Why do I not have formal clothes? What are you meant to wear for a concerto? Are there beings whose style isn’t got from the sales in Top Shop and Chelsea Girl?” (Look that last one up if you’re lucky enough to be too young to know what I’m talking about.)
I hadn’t realised I wasn’t included, until, now, I was. That summer I overheard my mum on the phone to a friend, saying “I used to like the guitar, but now…” and I intuited a kind of gulf was opening up, that this music and the need for training, for repetitive practice, which we take for granted but is alien to everyone outside the club, was going to take me away from her world. When you get included in one place it’s likely you’ll be excluded from another. My parents didn’t attend many concerts: three of mine, I think, between that day and this. As bright people who left school in their teens, they made the leap into mixing in university circles as their children entered them, but somehow the classical music club was a leap too far. But they did listen to programmes on the radio. The social togetherness of live concerts is great, but the anonymity of radio and online is a real tool for getting us out of our bubbles, and allowing other people in.
My old university friend’s more recent gift arrived in the post last week: it was a Covid-mask made from off-cuts of green silk which she had kept since that time. Suddenly the past is now the present and I’m overwhelmed by this friendship. If the creative minds behind this blog promise to keep it as a tiny thumbnail, I will include a picture of train-mask-with lockdown-hair-me. (You can make the publicity picture of my other, curated, self as big as you like.)
Not quite a thumbnail. Sorry Liz…
Now I’m a classical music insider. My skin is white. I managed to study in elite places where my ignorance of the codes could be disguised and I could catch up on the musical understanding: a lot of work, but I realised it was just a kind of learning like any other, not the mysterious exclusive knowledge that I had feared it might be. I’ve had and continue to have, a great variety of performance opportunities. I’ve been able to travel through music in ways that I couldn’t have imagined, growing up. Right now I’m feeling lucky because this job and my just-completed contract as Director of Performance at Oxford, cushioned me from the financial hammer-blows that have rained on the freelancers around me. Just before lockdown I accepted a job as Dean of Students at the Royal Academy of Music. To start as a global pandemic unfolds wasn’t the plan, but it has been a learning like no other.
The pandemic has been followed by, and enmeshed with, a reckoning with who we have included and who we have excluded. Most British arts and higher education institutions issued statements supporting the Black Lives Matter movement – rightly so – and now have to turn words into action. One of my aims at the Academy is to build on work others have started, and try to include more people from diverse backgrounds in performance training. There’s a sharp irony to this: opening doors wider when the pandemic has exposed the precarious nature of the freelance careers for which students are preparing. But there are also positives: looking into the revealed void of the last few months is making us all question what “the profession” looks like, and we do have an opportunity to re-negotiate the old hierarchies. There seem to be much more openness about sharing ideas on how to make musical survival possible. Students and established professionals have taught themselves web and audio skills. Others are expressing themselves with words in this blog. A concert pianist friend works in Sainsbury’s, where he says he’s tempted to include champagne with all the orders, in honour of his pre-Covid concert lifestyle … He has his sense of irony more intact, perhaps, than if he was hiding the need to earn a living in order to preserve the image of a concert artist living somehow only on the music. As a student I never mentioned my other jobs to my teachers – cleaning, playing music on a floating restaurant, tutoring, waitressing – thinking it would mean people wouldn’t take my musical aims seriously. Sometimes I’ve earned my whole living from concerts. Sometimes I haven’t. I’m no better or worse as a lute player in either of these two states. The younger generation are more honest about all this, I feel. The Academy set about fundraising for students when lockdown hit: It’s been sobering and inspiring to manage the allocation of the Academy’s Response Fund, to students who have been doing all these things and more, when the work that sustained them through their studies disappeared overnight. The fact that the young are putting their futures on ice mainly to shield older generations from harm, speaks volumes about their ethical sense. I have great faith in them. Education is taking a battering, but it’s an extraordinary place to be just now.
Henry - zero, Anna - many, many points
Not your standard battle with a hoover. Director Anna Pool speaks beautifully of how the pandemic and resulting artistic hiatus has allowed for the the anxiety vacuum to give way to writing, enjoying writing and then - writing a bit more.
Be excited about writing.
Panic about what to write as you clearly have no expertise in anything and what you write will be rubbish.
Decide to write about anxiety and perfectionism.
Get anxious that your piece about anxiety and perfectionism won’t be good enough.
Spend hours paralysed at keyboard thinking people will pity you and give you no work if they read this because they’ll think you’re pathetic and will implode at the slightest thing.
Think about other topics to write about.
Repeat.
I’m Anna. I’m a freelance director, producer, writer and composer. Also singer of loud songs, dedicated eater of cake-based foods, friend, daughter, problem-solver, vintage glassware collector and definitely glass half full person.
I also have anxiety; it’s been a diagnosed thing for at least 10 years, but I truly can’t remember a time without it. It’s the kind that stopped me sleeping as a child, leaves me waking up with dread at my perceived failure before the day has begun and sits in the room with me in nearly every situation, professional or personal. Like a giant Henry hoover, its trundles through opportunities, job interviews, rehearsal rooms, conversations and day to day existences, sucking away the creativity and enjoyment of doing what I do with its giant nozzle of doom.
It’s a very complicated co-existence. Let’s be clear here: I do really enjoy what I do. I mainly work in new music theatre- producing it, directing it, writing it, singing it. The people I work with, the stories I get to be part of telling (when I get to see these things clearly), give me as much joy now as they did when I first discovered that I could sing as a young child. I am fed and sustained by this work, and, it could probably be construed using objective, quantitative methods that humans like to use (CVs, work opportunities, friends who are truly supportive of my existence), that I am not a failure. But Horrible Henry has decreed that I must go through him before I get to the activity itself, whether that’s sending an email, writing a new piece or researching a new production. And Horrible Henry must remind me that whilst I may be about to enjoy this activity, there are a hundred reasons why what I am about to produce is pointless, and another hundred reasons why I should be focussing on one of my other branches of work because that, not this, is clearly the project that will bring me the calm, success and validity (whatever they all mean), that I am clearly craving. Any reasonable person could deduce from this that Henry is clearly a psychopathic serial killer of creativity and the reason that I often end up producing nothing at all, staring into space in a sort of manic paralysis for hours. When I have actually created something, written a new libretto, directed a new play, produced a national tour, he takes away the joy I should be allowed to feel at that achievement because it still hasn’t made me valid yet.
Anna zero, Henry, many, many, many points.
The complete change in (or complete halting of) all activity due to the pandemic threw all this into a rather harsh perspective. Not only had I (like practically all of my other freelance colleagues) lost all of my work and income for the foreseeable future, I now had this gaping void of uncertainty where I see my validity as a person slipping from my grasp because I had to fill this void in the CORRECT way.
What was everyone else doing during this time that I wasn’t? What if THIS was the time I was meant to write my masterpiece/ learn that new skill that was going to change my life? What was the point of doing anything because everything was falling to pieces and clearly, I was going to fall with it because I am so insignificant? It was a classic Henry manoeuvre (he feeds on circumstantial double whammies, you see?), and one that led me to a mid-lockdown breakdown.
I’m not going to pretend that, wrapped in a yellow blanket on a sofa being fed chocolate by my partner for three days, I had an earth shattering, bolt from the blue moment where all my problems were solved. In my experience, (admittedly limited, it’s just mine) that’s not how it happens. But what I will say is that I had a couple of strange moments of clarity to which I had to listen. In pre-pandemic world, I’d always been able to push them aside as I charged onto the next project, desperately trying to outrun the ominous hoovery shadow and smacking away anything that might allow me to face him in a full stand-off. Right there, lying on the sofa, shaking uncontrollably and hating myself for it, I genuinely realised that this was how it was going to be, for everything, ever, unless I LIKED MYSELF MORE. Of course, this had been pointed out to me many times before, but recognizing with exception clarity, that I could become the Artistic Director of the Royal Opera House and still be anxious, self-loathing and dissatisfied with my work was a real eye-opener. I could win a Tony; successful people get two. Three Oscars? Need four, mate. I would be going through my life, never enjoying each thing I do, each little achievement, the journey to the end goal. That is truly what I have been doing for the best part of a decade. And that, is a terribly disappointing place to be.
Bizarrely, in some strange twist of fate, this led me to write. Again, in my rushing, self-hating, pre-pandemic head, I’d grown dismissive of the idea of journaling. I had needed to write so much but Horrible Henry so often sat in the corner dictating that everything I was doing was pointless and not going to be a world-renowned best seller so I might as well not. But in my broken-down sofa state, I briefly outwitted him and began to write. About my anxiety, about all the things that led me to it, about all the reasons that I might have found myself at this point. Word vomit has truly never been so cathartic.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s far from over but even in the past week I’ve noticed a couple of small, positive effects. For example, I’m not crying so easily. Disclaimer here - there is absolutely NOTHING wrong with crying, but it had got to the point where Henry was so intertwined with my existence that any perceived failure of the day (from burning dinner to not getting through a to-do list) caused a flood of waterworks impossible to quell. I’m still writing about my anxiety and am actually enjoying what I’ve written. Yes, it has only been a week or so, but I cannot stress enough how unusual this is - a bestseller, who knows? Important to me - absolutely. Not only do I want to keep writing, but I’m also feeling a flicker of content in my stomach. Henry is of course doing his best to stamp that out with thoughts that I am delusional, that I am accepting less, that this is all I will ever amount to. Yes, I still look at wonderful colleagues I admire and fall down the rabbit hole of perceived missed opportunities, loss of my potential, my abject failure blahblahblah. But this is an incredibly significant start, and one that that I am hoping allows me to build myself back up, bit by bit.
One day I will defeat Horrible Henry in some glorious, Boudicca- inspired battle sequence as I sexily vanquish him with my sword of calm, grounded, level-headedness. Or we might simply fall into a settled relationship that is beneficial to both of us - i.e. one where I am not terrified of my daily existence and where Henry remains an ancient system within my brain that stops me getting eaten by wild animals. Perhaps, one day soon, my thought process can look something like:
Be excited about writing.
Write.
Enjoy.
Repeat.
How to introduce yourself at parties.
What do you call yourself? When asked “what do you do?”, what do you say? The director Toria Banks reflects on the “professional”. Have a read.
I’m Toria. I’m a director and writer, a teacher, a dramaturg and a producer. Theatre-maker might be easier, but doesn’t exactly feel right. I’ve done many different, interesting things - some of them well - but find it hard to say what sort of person they add up to.
I’m 40 years old and I’ve failed to arrive at a satisfactory way of introducing myself at parties. Sometimes this feels like an overwhelming failure. When pushed I tend to argue that hybridity is a strength. In truth, I mostly feel like being disabled by chronic illness has made it really, really hard to claim a professional artistic identity for myself in the way that some (non-disabled, middle class) people take for granted, and I’ve done what I can.
My illness means I’ve spent a long time thinking about what I am without work. What if my condition deteriorates and I’m house or bed bound forever? What would I be then? The only answer that brings any peace is ‘enough.’ It’s easy to say, but hard to mean. And of course practically, I’ve still got to eat. But I have come to mean it when I say ‘I am enough without work’, and can tell you from experience that believing it won’t make you just give up.
I think I was drawn to theatre by the desire to put my whole self into something: all the creativity, intelligence and practicality I could muster. I didn’t want to have separate realms for thinking and feeling, understanding and organising. I didn’t want to have a separate, apolitical, professional self 5 days a week. (This is definitely not the same as thinking it’s okay to be ‘unprofessional’). I’m perhaps less naïve now, and I like my privacy and my home life more. Nevertheless, a big part of spending the last couple of years setting up HERA, an intersectional feminist opera company , has been me and my colleagues - Simone Ibbett-Brown and Linda Hirst - wanting to bring our whole female, older, mixed race, and disabled selves to work.
Here’s a thing I’ve been thinking about…
When this crisis is over there will be fewer professionals, and exactly the same number of artists. So maybe one thing we can do in kindness for each other is to draw the boundaries of our professions less firmly.
I need to be clear that I am not criticising anyone for fighting for the arts as an industry or for their place in it. And I am absolutely not questioning anyone’s dedication or skill, or how crucial it is that people are paid properly for their work. It is just that it’s also true that there are people with beautiful things to say and art to make who never made it to ‘professional’, or who never felt they could try, and others who have already been pushed to the periphery or all the way out - and now there will be more. Disproportionately they are and will be those with less privilege: women, working class people, people of colour, queer and trans people and disabled people. Can we find a way to grow together, even if sectors and industries shrink?
I don’t want to simply mourn the presence of those who will no longer make their living in the arts. I want them to be present and I want to be with them. Lots of us, myself included, already don’t make a real living from the arts. I want to be honest about that and I want to be present too. I don’t have the answer, but I do know I want to be a citizen-artist even if there comes a time I’m no longer a worker in the creative industries. And yes I still know, we’ve all got to eat.
Society should value the arts enough to pay enough for them. But if it doesn’t, we can choose not to internalise its value systems. We can say that something is serious, thoughtful, well put together, skilful, beautiful, entertaining, important, or that someone behaves with respect and integrity, and not just call it ‘professional’. We can value the creativity of audiences, and participants, and people with other jobs or none, because they are also us and we are them. And if we ever get to throw them again, we can ask each other better questions at parties.
Thanks. But…
We’ve got the help we’ve been asking for, but is it a bit too late?
photo: Ian Espinosa
BAILOUT!
There. Got your attention. On 6 July, the government threw us a bone. A £1.5 billion sized bone. Finally, there was recognition that without some kind of financial help, cultural life in this country was quickly heading down the tubes. It just took a few venues going into receivership/closing, a million articles, and a zillion signatures to get to that point. No pressure. But – hey-ho – here comes the money! The “gift” might be a little late for some, but we are all now supposed to be doing the Grateful Dance.
Nope. Not here, anyway. Buildings will be saved and that’s good. The thought of swathes of the West End becoming a developer’s dream is the stuff of nightmares. Have a look at these incredible photographs by Joanna Vestey (here). Beautiful and tragic at the same time. But what about the people who inhabit these buildings? These are spaces that are normally humming with bodies – tech, front of house, costume, stage management, creatives, performers. These are the people who are last on the list to receive any benefit from the £1.5 billion gesture. Yeah. We said gesture. Because that’s what it actually feels like. “Grand gestures are one thing. Grand realities are another.” (Thanks, Brian. Perfect.) The reality is that there are still a whole mess of people waiting, struggling and waiting again. 70 % of the cultural workforce is made up of freelancers. That’s a lot. We’ve got until October to “enjoy” the government support scheme for the self-employed. Then what?
HERD IMMUNITY!
There. Got your attention again. Remember when the Prime Minister suggested that maybe we should all just sit around and get the virus and yes, some will die but we’ll be left with the strongest and the fittest? Remember that? Let’s all do a collective eye roll. There’s something of the “herd immunity” about this financial aid package. Who gets it? Who gets it first? Timing is key (as is the amount). Will it be enough and at the right time to save your staff, employ your creatives, save your building? Will there have to be a Sophie’s Choice?
As time goes on, it will be interesting to see how the “saved” venues choose to operate. Will things go back to the way they were? Is it possible that the immediate alleviation of financial concerns might allow for a different way of operating, going forward? It’s clear that government does not hold the arts in high regard. We have been begging – begging – for help. Wetherspoons got in there first. (Cue second eye roll). Call us crazy, but that speaks volumes. Volumes. We’re not wanted. Not valued. But we received a gesture. And it was late. And it was after Herd Immunity killed off the weak. It’s starting to feel a little like destruction by design.
When we started this blog, we said it was not about solutions. We suggested that, in coming together and sharing thoughts, emotions and opinions, there was a possibility that we might be able to find a way forward. Here’s our thought: what if, with the financial injection creating a cushion of sorts, we took this opportunity to NOT go back to the way things were? What if we took advantage of all that creatives have been doing in this lockdown and created a new way to perform arts? What if it wasn’t about dependence but independence? What if we didn’t have to keep begging? What if we didn’t go back, but went forward? Just a thought.
Untold Stories
Karen Van Spall is in the business of telling hidden stories - women relegated to the footnotes of music history. Now, with the pandemic enveloping alI and closing down performance, the quiet “gives us a chance to tell our own stories”.
I am a singer, that I know for sure but I will add writer and producer to my credits, although tentatively, as this is a fairly new creative adventure for me.
Having spent most of my professional life embedded in the established operatic canon, I became increasingly frustrated with rehashing the same old stories over and over. I really started to wonder about character status and how it was that the opera world exhibited the same, well-worn tropes time and time again. Surely in the 21st century it was time to uncover the other stories hidden in the background? Gender and race are still being used as shorthand to create a story framework. Perhaps this sits so deeply in the mainstream that most creatives in the field can’t see beyond it? Well, that wasn’t for me. I decided to forge a different path, still within established repertoire, but pulling back and taking in the bigger picture. I’d always wondered about the women in the lives of famous men. How did Minna Wagner feel about Richard’s anti-Semitism? How did Clara Schumann cope with a career, family, and Robert? What about George Sand and Liszt and Chopin and all the others? Pauline Viardot, why don’t we hear more about her? In their day, these women were often more famous and successful than their male counterparts but somehow have been relegated to footnotes in music history.
My first opportunity to write a show came in 2017 when Melbourne was hosting a Ring Cycle. There was a fringe like festival around the main event and I thought there needed to be something in the mix that spoke to Wagner’s dark side. I wrote “Wagner in Paris” the story of his early days in France told from the point of view of Minna’s illegitimate daughter (known to the public as her younger sister). From there Liszt and Chopin followed and this has become our Paris Trilogy. Excavating the stories of the women in the background of these men has been deeply satisfying! Now I receive commissions. Last year Percy Grainger came under the microscope and Berlioz will follow in 2021. Beethoven was in process of being dissected for his 250th anniversary when the Covid-19 lockdown began.
Now that everything has gone quiet, I am searching for what it is I really want to do in the next phase of my life. It was the perfect time to ask some questions: first, what exactly makes me happy and how do I pursue it? The answer was pretty simple - my wonderful family and they are right here and actually, that’s enough, the rest is just a garnish. The next question on the list is harder. What diminishes me and how do I avoid it? I have discovered that the niggling, negative inner voice that criticised everything I tried to make and do was in fact a loud bellowing, outer voice and lockdown has shut it out. Who knew? The compromises we make to find cohesion in a stressful environment are eroding so I’m not making them anymore.
Performers are generally employed to tell other people’s stories and the quiet that has come over our industry gives us a chance to tell our own stories – in every form. A beautiful blog that connects us, the novel you’ve always wanted to write, letters, paintings, conversations and debates, all of these things that will make a difference to how we come out at the other end and I hope we come out changed!
Glass half full
Sometimes it’s good to know that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. We threw some (nosy) questions at actress/singer Carole Stennett and she answered with grace - speaking of appreciation, taking it day by day and being grateful.
Who are you?
That is such a massive question and to be honest one that I'm still trying to work out lol.
My name is Carole and I am a black woman. A daughter. A sister. A friend and a believer in God. I am complexed yet simple, I have feelings as does every other human being. I could keep going but I'll stop there lol.
What do you do?
Professionally, I am a singer and an actress. I'm trying to understand what that means in this current climate. I like to think that my work brings joy and happiness into the world and I love the feeling it gives me knowing I can make someone smile, even if it's just for a moment. What do I do personally? I'm a glass half full type of person. I always try to see the positive in a situation (not always easy) I also try to see things from both sides to understand why people act the way they do. I'm all about the positivity, I have no room for drama, it's not good for my soul.
Why do you do what you do?
Because it's fun :-) I wake up each day grateful that I get to do something that I love, sometimes it doesn't even feel like work. It can feel like I'm going to hang out with friends. There have been shows where I've had just as much fun off stage than I've had onstage! I think working in the corporate world before becoming self-employed in an industry that I adore, has allowed me to appreciate what I do that much more. I think if you enjoy what you do, it makes you more well-rounded as an individual. That applies to all aspects of your life. Enjoy what you do and it won't feel like a chore. Don't get me wrong, you still face challenges but I feel you have more fight in you to deal with them.
How did you do what you do?
With tenacity and hard work. It hasn't been easy or straight forward but it has definitely built my character and helped shape me into the woman I am now. Continuous self-development has helped me to discover new things about myself and keep my craft fresh. Of course there have been moments where work has felt monotonous but you push through and find creative ways to bring excitement back into a piece. 'You learn something new every day.' That's one of my favourite sayings lol. I also think it's important to say that I took a chance on myself. I didn't want to have any regrets when I looked back on my life so I decided to take a risk, leave the security of my 9-5 job and pursue a career in performing arts. I had made the decision in my head that if it didn't work out, at least I had tried and I wouldn't be left thinking 'what if".
What are you without it? (potentially)?
To be honest, I don't know if I can be without it. Music is such an intrinsic part of my life. I'd be heartbroken without it in some shape or form. I love performing on a stage. I love exploring characters and I love the opportunity to storytell. I also love the fact that performance brings me out of my shell. A lot of people make assumptions about me based on the box they have put me in and a lot are surprised when they see me perform as their assumption does not match reality. I love the freedom performance affords. If I were without it, I guess I'll just have to perform to myself?
Where/how are you in the present situation?
I am currently in London, working on home improvements, reading, cooking, attending webinars, meditating and gardening. So the usual things, lol. I am well and taking everything day by day. There have been times where I have felt helpless, especially now with the heightened conversation around racism. I find I'm constantly having to justify why my life matters. Why as a black woman, wanting equal rights needs to be explained at all astounds me. It's not just an American issue but a world issue. I think the fact that we are in lockdown has just brought it to the surface. Sometimes, for my own sanity I have to step away from social media, the news, even misguided acquaintances who don't believe racism is a problem and just surround myself with the things that bring me happiness. That tends to be music and the people I'm close to. I feel I have always appreciated what I have, but I'm that much more grateful for my support system now.
How will you do what you do or did (if you're still doing it)?
I'm finding creative ways to still perform and express myself online. I've been involved in a couple of projects, I am still auditioning and hopefully things will start to pick up soon. I've been fortunate that I've been able to use this unplanned break to reflect and work on myself and carry out tasks that I've been putting off due to lack of time. I've also learnt the value and importance of rest. It's as important as working.
What can we do?
Keep asking those in your circle if they're ok, keep checking. Keep being positive. 'United we stand, divided we fall'. Sometimes it can feel that because it doesn't affect us directly it's not our problem, but if we can support one another and show unity, that's a step in the right direction. I'm thinking about race relations as well as the support that is needed for the theatres due to the global pandemic when I say this. If we can start to see change in the decision makers, legislation, have open and honest conversations, then we'll start to see change in our world.
All of life contained in a single room.
Is there a positive to a pandemic? Amidst a world shut down and with protests growing every day, composer Dominique Le Gendre reflects on the gifts of isolation and solitude
Photo: Maria Nunes
“Well, they must have done something.” Few of us can easily surrender our belief that society must somehow make sense. The thought that the state has lost its mind and is punishing so many innocent people is intolerable. And so the evidence has to be internally denied.
I’d like to be able to claim to have written the sentences that follow the statement in inverted commas but no, it was Arthur Miller, in the New Yorker of October 14th 1996 in an article describing why he had written The Crucible. His play, written in 1953 about the Salem witch trials in the Massachusetts Bay Colony between 1692-1693 was in fact an allegory for McCarthyism.
My name is Dominique Le Gendre. I’m a composer. I’ve spent the last 14 weeks mostly in my room.
Getting back to the opening paragraph, the past few months of Covid-19 in the UK have convinced me that the state has lost its mind. The murder of George Floyd has cruelly placed this blog’s opening sentence in a gigantic neon reminder of the average response to the indisputable facts of decades of police brutality towards black people in North America and here in Europe.
“How you doing in lock-down?” we ask each other on the phone, in text messages, WhatsApp pings and Facebook posts. To be frank, my lockdown has been great. And here’s my selfish why.
Just before lockdown, my days and weeks were filled with lists of tasks to be completed by such and such a date, submit application x for funding, schedule some meetings, follow-up on that meeting last November, email so and so and diplomatically work in a - have you had any further thoughts about my proposal? All of which is familiar to every artist, producer or person involved in creating and selling their own and other people’s work.
I do two things: I compose music and I run an arts charity. The charity is an arts organisation called StrongBack Productions that I founded with a colleague, Patricia Cumper in 2013. Since May 2018, I had been running StrongBack singlehandedly, guided by a board of five formidable women. December 2019 ushered in an unexpected and timely gift of stability thanks to a donation from a generous benefactor. This also made two things possible: sharing the administrative work and sealing a great partnership. This April, we welcomed a sharp, on-the-ball young graduate as our administrator and June 2020 marks one year that StrongBack has been partnering with Speaking Volumes Live Literature Productions.
March 23rd, the official start of lockdown, was the day I submitted our Arts Council England application to tour StrongBack and Speaking Volumes’ current project, Come On In, Life Journeys. The application that had taken months to prepare was for a year-long tour of 7 literary festivals, 5 arts venues and 3 community centres starting in September. Sharmilla (Speaking Volumes) and I were looking forward to touring our 6 poets and musicians who had created song-poems inspired by conversations with staff and participants from Loughborough Farm, The Baytree Centre and Herne Hill Train Station, all in Lambeth. We were proud of the extraordinary and moving portraits that had emerged from these six very different artists paying tribute to the everyday lives of ordinary people.
Six days later, there was an email from Arts Council England alerting us to the suspension of all applications until further notice due to Covid-19. Now, with the silence enforced on an entire nation, my internal spotlight could finally focus sharply on my music. And what actually was happening with my music?
On April 18th, there should have been a concert at LSO St. Lukes of Diasporic Quartets in which my string quartet Le Génie Humain would have been performed. The concert had been curated by composer Des Oliver and was to feature performances of string quartets by Philip Herbert, Daniel Kidane, Tunde Jegede, Des and myself. I had been looking forward to the concert because it was finally a chance to be heard, in good company and to let the long list of industry professionals I’ve been trying to make contact with for years, know that there was something for them to attend. By the time Des alerted us to the postponement of the concerts, I was lost in orchestration.
Le Génie Humain was mutating into a work for orchestra; what I had imagined as a two-movement work is still, for the time being, a dense one movement work that asks the whole orchestra to play as a solo instrument, and not always predictably nor at the same time. The piece is a meditation on the desire of the human spirit to transcend its earthly bonds. It’s inspired by a couplet on the base of a statue by a 19th century French sculptor Emile Louis Picault which reads,
Esclave sur le sol oú l’étrient la matière,Son esprit dans la nuit va chercher la lumière. A rough English translation of this would be: Earthbound, enslaved to matter, such is our plight, Through darkness, the human spirit will search for the light.
By May 21st, I had scanned all 25 manuscript pages and emailed the full score to Leo who typesets my scores. A few days later George Floyd happened. And the world erupted.
Every voice that had ever quivered ..they must have done something, was finally being answered by voices in unison across the globe. Voices that for decades had been stifled were suddenly being given the floor. Most self-respecting institutions have rushed to confess their failings and declare their promise to do better; even right-wing newspapers have surprised us by an air of contrition. Those institutions that have remained silent have been roundly and openly criticised. The State has demonstrated how lost is its mind in the only way it knows: We are the best! And in just four weeks, four centuries of slavery and its legacies have crashed into the present with the force of asteroids hitting the earth, toppling what we never imagined would fall, showering the ignorant with testimonies.
So what now? Lockdown was imposed for a reason that cost thousands of lives and will change lives and livelihoods for a long while to come. That reason, Covid-19, is still with us and depending on who you are, you can interpret its presence and effect in metaphorical terms, Biblical warnings of pestilence, in plain old epidemiologic factual terms; nature’s reckoning or free- for-all-in-a-state-that-has-lost-its-mind. Nobody knows what the future holds and who or what will survive. Safe inside my room, my world remains intact even if my credit rating looks set to fail.
StrongBack, like everyone involved in live performing arts will continue to wait until it’s safe to go outside. Arts Council Emergency funding means we can survive till next spring and…fingers crossed that an application to film our Come On In performers will indeed allow us to make beautiful filmed song-poems for online access. The sustained rude awakening of formerly deaf institutions following weeks of protests means that I can send that email without worrying about being too diplomatic: about that project I mentioned in November, the one about the season of composers of the Caribbean…
At a profound level, from the confines of my room, the protests have been cathartic, vindicating the choice I made 40 years ago when I left Trinidad aged 19, wide-eyed and boldfacedly declaring I was going to be a composer. Growing up in Trinidad and in the Caribbean had made it possible for me to believe that I had a right to stake my claim. I had grown up in my own land where the notion of ethnic minorities would elicit mostly puzzled looks. I carry in my DNA, the blood, the languages, the culture and the traditions of my pre-Columbian Carib ancestors with those who came after from Africa, Europe and Asia mixed with the fiery energy of a young independent country.
Forty years of life in Europe, most of that here in London have slowly and steadily been eroding my dogged determination to be heard as I want to be heard. The reality for me is that the only alternative to doing what I do, is a few blocks away through the automated glass entrance of Sainsbury’s. That erosion, unlike the one affecting the UK coastline, is not permanent.
And while I have little reason to believe this present government is the one that will usher in meaningful change that allows us to work together towards a future with respect, equality, consideration for our planet and justice at its heart, I know that things will not be the same. What we CAN do as artists, friends and people with integrity, is to insist on accountability, demand equality, press for the spaces where we too can be seen and heard and show that our difference is equal to all differences…just different.
Sideways collaboration
Composer James Garner has not been letting the grass grow under his feet. He writes about investing energy into the new - after all (as we all know) “artists are creative and tenacious by virtue of their very profession”.
Photo: Gordon Scamell
Soon after the UK’s theatres went dark and the inevitable lockdown was subsequently imposed, family, friends and colleagues began to ask you...
“So, are you managing to keep busy?” The implication being...
“Are you really doing anything now?”
As a freelance artist, this is your all-time favourite work-related question to receive: always fun to answer, even during a global pandemic. If a career in the arts didn’t already require enough energy in repeatedly proving your worth or relevance, you’ve now found yourself dressing up your quarantine with a light smattering of bullshit. Just to paint the illusion of activity and assuage any genuine concern.
“Well, I’m still teaching so that’s good. I’m getting back to yoga too.”
A lie.
“And I’ve also been wanting to brush up on my French, so I’m planning to revise that next. Reading a few interesting books too...”
You bought five books and were barely six pages into any single one of them. But it sounded good, so you waited for them to smile or respond encouragingly.
“What about you?”
Now, I apologise. I’ve projected this scenario onto you, the reader. Sorry, but I know I can’t be the only one who has felt this way at some stage over the last few months. Up until quite recently, I had been feeling anxious, unusually strongly and on most days. With the performing arts sector plunged into literal darkness, it’s very sensible to assume that the push for productivity subsides. But self-pressurising is a pattern that is hard to escape, so when I wasn’t pursuing an effortful programme of self-enrichment, I was making lists of jobs to get done. Update CV, email so-and-so, talk to website designer, research material for future operas, email some more, sing, practise piano, more emailing... I don’t think my investment in the news or the attention economy added positively to the overall effect.
I hadn’t expected to feel like that under lockdown, given that (on paper) it isn’t so radically different to my usual lifestyle. I’ve worked as a composer, musical director and educator for five years now, so I’m used to spending a lot of time at home, albeit without the backdrop of a pandemic. After the first month or so of confinement, I managed to ease into a gentler quotidian rhythm and, crucially, I dropped any expectation of when normality would return. I know I’m not the only artist who has found this period complicated and for some it may have even felt welcome; several of my more prolific friends had reached burn-out around the time that industry activity stopped. But now, I can honestly say that I’m enjoying lockdown. There are days where worry bubbles to the surface, but music helps, moving helps, being mindful helps.
Still, from a bird’s eye view, our artistic and cultural landscape is rapidly dissolving and this is hugely distressing to anyone who works in the arts and heritage sectors. At the beginning of the year, the BBC began cutting jobs. Fast forward five months and we’re processing news of further job cuts at the BBC, the potential loss of BBC Four, the introduction of mandatory visas for EU artists visiting the UK, as well as announcements declaring the insolvency of several regional theatres. I have to admit it was particularly upsetting to hear about the historic Leicester Haymarket, my childhood theatre, which after suffering financial strain in the early 2000s and standing derelict for years, was recently reopened only to swiftly fall into liquidation a few weeks ago. It goes without saying that we really cannot stop demanding an emergency investment package from the UK government – it is paramount to bolstering our cultural infrastructure against obliteration.
But there is also power in action. Kick-starting “big” theatre is seen as the main priority by some, however I really don’t believe the answer to securing our diverse ecosystem is found in simply engineering an economically viable, socially-distanced West End. To quote something the brilliant Michael Mori (Artistic Director of Tapestry Opera) encouraged recently, we should “invest our energies in what can be done”. I think this can apply to all artistic entities, big or small, as well as individuals like me. I’ve had contact with several organisations in the UK and abroad that are conceiving brilliant work at this time, as well as planning for the future. In the last month, I’ve discussed everything from remote outreach projects and blended learning programmes for young composers, to digital partnerships and adapting opera for radio. About a week ago, Patrick Hansen (Director of Opera McGill at the Schulich School of Music) unveiled exciting plans for a totally remote autumn semester and using methods pioneered by Mori, his programme will workshop scenes from my opera-in-progress, Much Ado, which is slated for a theatrical premiere in 2022.
I’ll wrap things up: artists are creative and tenacious by virtue of their very profession. Despite monumental challenges, I’ve seen substantial proactivity and it is accompanied by a growing feeling that protecting our intricate artistic ecosystem must involve reimagining it. For many organisations and venues, the window of opportunity we have is time-sensitive and I worry that complacency will ultimately be detrimental. What we, both artists and gatekeepers, can do is use this moment to consider engagement more enthusiastically than ever before. We can collaborate sideways: seek out mutual support and bridge the voids between our own often isolated sectors and sub-sectors, from theatre and opera to dance and cultural heritage. And we can plan radically: to invent, as well as restore.
http://www.jamesgarnercomposer.co.uk/
Rise up and make the case.
Countertenor Andrew Watts issues a call to arms. Read his words about turning our energies towards a new version of art and culture.
My name is Andrew Watts. I was singing opera, concerts and recitals throughout the world until Covid-19 bought a temporary pause - I hope that it will be temporary - to my activities. I am also Professor of Singing at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama and this part of my working life is now online. I play the piano, the clarinet, saxophone, flute and harmonium.
These days my singing and performing activities are confined to my studio at home whilst teaching or in the shower when I let rip under the hot water simply to check that something is still alive in my throat. I have noticed that I have no less enthusiasm and am re-inventing my own singing which I hope will hold me in good stead going forward once theatres and concerts halls re-open and I am invited back in.
I always considered myself very realistic about the prospect of losing the performing part of my life. I do not feel the need to bombard the internet with videos of myself singing from my home although some of these posts have buoyed me along the way.
As I get older, I think about what the future will look like. As singers, we are fully aware that we have a “shelf life”. During this pandemic I did not know how angry and frustrated I would be without any performing outlet. Cut off in my prime perhaps? The sense of frustration is further compounded by watching our musical institutions and organisations grapple with what is described as the “new normal” or as they simply bury their heads in the sand waiting for “normal“ to return. A lack of clear guidance from our government has made any ongoing planning very difficult. We simply do not know where we stand. Is this still lockdown? Was there ever really a lockdown? Who is in charge of what? A cultural commission without involving leading musical figures speaks volumes on how this present government sees us in the creative arts and especially in music.
We can not wait any longer. We have to take things into our own hands and rise up and make the case that culture, art and music is a vital part of society and community. We need to make our collective voices heard and try new approaches knowing that we may fail but we can succeed. This is the perfect moment in time to re-invent and re-imagine the whole landscape of art and culture. We need to demand that as a society and community we are able to lay the foundations for a new version of art and culture as we, the artists, see it. We must be a force for exquisitely well-crafted and artistically led programming with far reaching diverse inclusivity. There are no half measures for this anymore. We need action and we need to be doing it now.
It is going to be an almighty uphill struggle and one that we will have to endure for years. That said, it will leave a tangible and lasting legacy for generations to follow.
I Move
You can feel the energy - the vibrancy - throughout this post. Ingrid Mackinnon speaks of moving and dancing - past, present and future.
photo: Gabriel Mokake
I am a black woman. I am a movement director, choreographer, rehearsal director and educator. I was born and raised in Canada and now live in London with my husband and son. I work across the dance and theatre sectors, within a variety of different contexts. You will find me teaching modern dance technique in a university setting one day and the next day I’ll be in a rehearsal room movement directing professional actors for a theatre production. Sometimes wearing these different hats in one day. After having worked as a professional dancer, I feel extremely fortunate to still be working as an artist in my current capacity. Actually I don’t know if fortunate is the right word, as there has been loads of hard work, focus and drive mixed with a sprinkling of luck. I say this because I know that I can be modest about the work I do and as a mode of self care, I am beginning to honour myself with positive reflections on just how far I’ve come. Hello, my name is Ingrid. I have a BA in Kinesiology from Western University and a MA in Movement: Directing & Teaching from Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. Welcome to my Ted Talk. Ha!
My Jamaican mother enrolled me in dance lessons when I was 3 yrs old. The dance studio very quickly became my second home. I loved every moment of being there, learning new things and performing. Ah, it felt so damn good! I tell you, most dancers and movers will understand the feeling you get from connecting through movement. For me, it’s never really been about being the best, it has been about that high you get from connecting. I’ve quite literally been moving and grooving my way through life. I use movement as a form of mediation, as an emotional imperative for life. Hey! Especially in our current COVID-19 lockdown landscape, you can find me either dancing in my kitchen or moving/dancing with my students on a Zoom call. It feels like such a gift to move and enable/empower others to do the same. Kinesthetic learning is an important aspect of my work and my life. When my mental well being begins to wobble, it’s normally as a result of not having moved my body in a meaningful or expressive way for a while. If you want to learn a lot about me, just put on a really soulful piece of music. Trust me, I MOVE!
Currently, I’m coming to terms with how the world as we knew it almost imploded! Like most artists, as well as many other professions, I lost so much work in the blink of an eye. I was awestruck by the fragility of our performing arts industry. The grief is real. But we move, press on. Forward motion is a must, the only option really unless we are happy to watch it all dissolve. I know I’m not. I believe in community. The strength of the collective. Another initiative I have in my spare time is MoveSpace. I’m co-founder of this platform for movement practitioners to share and connect. I have put some of my energy into rebuilding this community. Small pebbles in the ocean but the ripples can be seen and hopefully felt.
Then the spotlight moved to Black Lives Matter after the horrendous murder of George Floyd was captured on video and spread across the globe like another virus. As a black woman, this conversation about racial inequality has always been spotlighted. In fact, the spotlight never dims. The trauma of unconscious bias, being on the receiving end of endless microaggressions and the nonstop questioning if my success is a result of tick box initiative. Well. It's a lot. But guess what? I move. I move, and it lands me in my body and all is well if only for a brief moment. It may sound idealistic but it’s what I do. I. MOVE. I channel my ancestors, my beautiful mother and a few of my favorite dance teachers. And I move...
What I want to do What I need to do What I love to do
Talking to Trevor A Toussaint was a treat - honest, true, passionate and uplifting. Enjoy.
Who are you?
Well, that’s quite simple – I’m Trevor A Toussaint. But, I am much more than that. Who am I? I am a father. I am a son. I am a brother, I am a cousin, I am an uncle. I am many things. I am a man of colour. I am a black man – a ‘displaced African’, who cooks (vegan!), who practices martial arts. I am also a man who acts and who sings and who writes and directs. I am many things.
What do you do?
At this time, I am doing decorating in my house, with my partner and my kids. I am learning to play the guitar. What I do for a living is act. I am an actor. I am currently a regular on the British soap Hollyoaks, on channel 4 – which is a blessing. It gives me regular work and gives me a regular paycheck. At this juncture, with the lockdown, I haven’t been at work for 8-9 weeks now. I write. I’m currently in the process of writing two plays – one about a cathartic situation around my mother, who passed away seven and half months ago. And the other play is about painting and decorating, because I literally just finished painting and decorating with my partner. I don’t recommend painting and decorating with your partner. I just finished painting and decorating our bedroom, which we swapped with our boys, and our boys’ bedroom, which they swapped with us.
Why do you do what you do?
Well, in terms of acting, I do it because I fundamentally love acting. I love creating characters. I love telling stories. I’ve always been love with telling stories and creating a character and finding out who a character is. My mainstay in acting has been theatre. Recently, I’ve discovered that I’m not a bad TV actor (!) – which I never thought I stood a chance in. I don’t want to do anything else. I keep thinking I want to do other things. I write because I need to write. I act because I need to act. Why do I sing? Because I open my mouth and I sing!
I do what I do because it nourishes my soul, because it feeds me. I don’t know what else I would want to do. I love cooking. I want to open up a restaurant one day – a vegan restaurant. I love cooking as much as I love acting, singing, martial arts, writing, directing. This is what I want, need and love to do.
How/why did you do what you do?
The actor Timothy Spall went to the same school as me – Battersea County School. And I remember watching him doing a performance of the Wizard of Oz, playing the Cowardly Lion. I was 10 and our primary school was invited to Battersea County School to see a play. This happened every year – they put on a big spectacular. This was back in 1970-71. Anyway – Timothy Spall was on stage and he forgot his lines. I’ll never forget this moment – watching this young man, forgetting his lines. Looking at him, standing there in the middle of the stage and then saying “Fuck it! I forgot me lines!” And then he ran off stage, came back with a script, said his lines and, with great aplomb, threw his script over his shoulder and carried on. There was an enormous cheer in the auditorium. What I remember was his confidence, his bravado and his sheer exuberance of life. And I remember thinking – I want to be like him. There was this young man. He swore –back in those days, if you swore at school, it was a big thing. And he was just so confident in what he was doing, it was just an amazing thing to watch. I wanted to be him. I didn’t want to be him, but I wanted the confidence that he had. I wanted to be able to do what he did, and I thought – whatever it is that he does, I want to do it. And it was acting. I fell in love with acting there and then. I happened to have a teacher at school called Jenny Buckman who went on to become the head of drama at RADA. She ran a theatre company called Common Stock, which I went to a couple of times during the summer. I really loved the way she taught drama and her love of plays. I remember doing Of Mice and Men with her and thinking – I love this. I just love doing this. I just love being on stage. Loved the lights, the audience, creating a character, learning lines. The excitement, the thrill, putting on a costume for the first time, seeing the set for the first time. I just… ahh. I can’t begin to tell you the depth of wonderment – telling the story and then the audience reacting – feeling their reaction. Yes!
What are you without it?
I am still Trevor. I’m still a father, I’m still a son, I’m still a part of society, I’m still a black man. I’m still a lovable, caring, supportive human being, with foibles. I’m still all of those things. Without my acting? I’ve never really thought about what I would be without it, because it is what I do. I’ve had many different other jobs, but I’ve always come back to performing. I suppose, even more than an actor, I am a performer. Potentially without it, I am a different version of myself. And I don’t know what that version would be, to be honest. Could I live without doing what I do? Yes. Of course. Because I am a survivor. I’ve survived many crises in my life and I would find something else to throw myself into with equal aplomb and love.
How/where are you in this present situation?
I started off in this present situation trying to do. And I don’t know what I was trying to do. I was reading scripts for the show that I’m in and then I stopped because it was a pointless exercise because I knew I wasn’t coming back any time soon – the scripts I was reading would be null and void. I started off maniacally trying to exercise and then I got ill. And I was ill for approximately three weeks and I came out of that realizing that I don’t particularly have to do anything, so where I am now is trying to be. The decorating with my partner – it’s not been an easy process. It’s been quite challenging for both of us. I’ve discovered a lot about myself. I’ve discovered that I’m quite needy and I need people to tell me if I’ve done well. I like for the work I’ve done to be appreciated. I’ve discovered that I can be quite intolerant at times. I’ve discovered that I have a controlling streak. I’ve discovered that I like to people please. It’s not all negative – I’ve discovered that I am a hard worker and I will start a job and go on until it is finished. I have dreams and I have aspirations, things I want to accomplish.
This present situation has taught me that I am enough. I am enough.
I’m with my family in Brixton. I am physically well. Mentally - challenging. Spiritually – growing. I am in a state of uncertainty of not knowing what the future holds. And I’m trying to keep it in the present as opposed to looking back to the past with longing regret or longing to have or longing for. I’m in a state of flux. I have no idea where we’re going throughout this pandemic. The world is changing - has changed around us. At the moment, I’m seeing that we’re slowly heading out of lockdown. It’s interesting to see people queueing constantly for everything and keeping away from everybody – social distancing. And then it’s interesting to see people not conforming to any of those maxims, those laws, those legislations. People have seemingly had enough. People seem to want to get back to what is considered normality. But that doesn’t mean that it is normal for everyone.
I am in a place where I refuse to be governed by fear. I am a survivor from many different things. I am a recovering addict and I have survived many traumas in my life. I’m at a point where I no longer want to be ruled by fear, because my life was always fear-based. I’m in a place of flux, of uncertainty, of not knowing what’s going to happen in the future. But, at the same time, I am at peace with that uncertainty and that flux and the not knowing. Because, not knowing is okay. I just have to be in the present and try to keep myself in the moment.
I connect to what I do, I believe in what I do. And that’s not just the acting, but in all things. I do things with an open heart, a willingness to learn, a willingness to give my all, with as much honesty as I can. I do it with the support of others. By turning up every day and being present. By embracing what I do. With the ability to shift and to change and to learn and to be flexible. And when I say it’s not just connected to acting - for example, I’m now doing this blog, and I’m doing it to the best of my ability. I’m doing it with truth. It helps me and if it helps me, it helps my family. I do what I do with love and with compassion for myself. That’s really important.
What can we do?
I’m answering this question after having witnessed the murder of George Floyd. What can we do? We can connect. We can unite. We can speak out. We can embrace. We can support. We can love. We can be outraged and we can say enough is enough. We can grow. We can stand up for ourselves. And I’m not just talking about black, here. What can we do as people of colour? Right now, we can heal. We can heal each other. We can embrace each other and want the best for each other. We can look at the similarities and differences between us. We can realize that we are human and our lives matter. We can chant that from the rooftops. We can hold hands across the universe. We can remember our ancestors. We can blog, talk, film, sing, compose, walk, embrace, sit, meditate. Connect. We can do whatever we need to do to heal this world.
What do you consider your future to be in this pandemic? How are you coping?
I’m coping by embracing my family, by talking to my partner. By meditating, by reading, connecting with others, by my self-help recovery program. I am coping by sharing and listening. By writing. There’s no one way.
I don’t know what my future is. I have no clue. I’ve been asked if I’m ready to go back to work – I am. I know it will not be what it was in the past. I know that I’ve shifted in my thoughts about where I was and what I’m going to be. But I don’t know what that shift looks like in reality. It can’t just be about turning up and looking good, or trying to be part of this culture of instant – Instagram, insta-Facebook, insta-this, insta-that. I’m an old dog, you know! I’ve got no clue about what these young people are doing. But I know there’s got to be more than just the shallowness of it. What you two are doing is wonderful. You’re giving us space. Acting will still be a part of my future because, as I said before, I cannot not do it – it is what I do. Writing is definitely going to shape my future. What stories will I write? What stories will I want others to see?
What was ‘performing’ before?
Before, performing was a connection. In some ways, it was a validation, looking for approval. I don’t think that’s what it is now. Teaching and learning and the need to tell the stories. The need to connect to others – on a physical, spiritual and emotional level. That’s what performing was for me. It was also me connecting to myself and finding myself and challenging myself and knowing myself. And I think all of those things apply now. Less so the seeking validation and looking for approval. Less of that. That’s not the reason for performing. It’s connection, building, empowering plus the freedom and empowerment of others. And there’s room for all of this.
How do you see performance going forward?
Live performances? Going forward, with what we’re living through now? Difficult. It will be interesting to see how theatres and concert halls work. What will a ‘performance’ mean? What are we trying to say, if anything? There is room for just “entertainment”. And there’s room for building and growth and connection and love. I think all performance is about connection. That symbiotic relationship between the performer, audience, the house, the building, the people who are front of house, the people who are upstairs in the offices, the people who run the buildings, the people who keep the buildings open. You know – one of the most beautiful experiences I ever had – I did a show called The Harder They Come. And one night, we got it. I mean, we got it on other nights, but this one night, we got it. What I mean by that is, we knew, that night on stage, that every single person in that building (and not just talking about the audience), every single person in that building at Stratford East, at that moment in time, when the curtain went down, we GOT IT. It wasn’t a press night, it wasn’t a preview. It was a show. And everyone felt it. There was an electric buzz, atmosphere, feeling – connection – that happened in that theatre that night. It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life.
That’s what I would like to see, going forward. And I don’t know how that’s going to be accomplished. I have no clue.
What is the purpose of performing? Connection and growth and love and support. Engaging. Life. It’s an integral part of us.
Blessings and Protection. To everyone.
Feeding the Soul
Conductor/composer Christian Baldini has not stopped during this pandemic. He has continued communicating, communing and making music - sharing what he loves most.
Photo: Lilana Morsia
My name Christian Baldini. I was born in Argentina, with an Italian father and an Italian/Lebanese mother, and I've been living in the US for almost half of my life now.
I'm a musician. I compose music and I conduct orchestras and opera. I love working with people. I love finding ways to share with others what I love the most. Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of being a conductor is that you serve as a catalyst, inspiring, unifying a vision, finding common ground and building trust with whomever you are working with.
This COVID-19 pandemic has turned the world upside down. There is nothing normal about it. What we were used to doing is no longer possible. And we don't know how things will be when the pandemic emergency ends, and when it goes back to "normal". And how will this new normal be? People are struggling. It is impossible to be indifferent to all the suffering that is going on in the world, and I can only hope that a vaccine, cure or treatment are found soon, and that a sense of normalcy will be restored for the sake of so many people.
I am a Professor at the University of California, Davis, where I teach conducting, composition and I conduct the symphony orchestra. Obviously there is no orchestra at the moment since we can't rehearse or meet in person. So I am teaching my students remotely. As there is no orchestra, I have come up with an alternative plan, to invite the orchestra students into the "kitchen". I have done a series of interviews with many wonderful artists such as violinist Judy Kang, conductors Donato Cabrera and Ilan Volkov, principal cellist of the CBSO Eduardo Vassallo, concertmasters Holy Mulcahy and Corine Brouwer, San Francisco Symphony violinist Chen Zhao, Alexander Technique Instructor Noel Hearn and opera star Michelle DeYoung and Washington National Opera Artistic Director Francesca Zambello. You can find the interviews in my YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/user/00musicvideos
I miss making music very much. So shortly after the quarantine started I performed remotely the end of Messiaen's Quartet for the End of Time with the wonderful violinist Judy Kang. Here it is. With my orchestra in Sacramento (California), the wonderful Camellia Symphony, the musicians and I recently performed remotely from the safety our homes the very end of Beethoven's 5th Symphony. It was what we felt we needed to do, to give our community and ourselves some comfort during these difficult times.
I also came up with a little fun project researching 42 different conductors doing the opening 21 bars of Beethoven's 5th Symphony. The results are here with a video and Medium article.
Things have changed. I'm not really doing what I was doing. All my concerts in California have been canceled. My guest conducting trips to Argentina and Brazil have been canceled. I still have an upcoming tour conducting in Chile which I assume is also going to be canceled. Finalizing the seasons 2020-21 for my two orchestras have been heartbreaking. I'm so excited about these programs and guest artists, but.... are we going to be able to actually perform them? I have tried to compose and I could not do it. The last piece I composed was a violin concerto called Unequal Freedom, which premiered in February 2020. It is a very political piece, advocating for more awareness and change about the current political situation in North Korea.
What can we do now to make things better? I am trying my very best to remain positive and to help those around me as much as I can. Eventually, this too, shall pass. And of course I am worried about people who are struggling, losing jobs and hurting. I am also concerned about the arts organizations, especially in the US, where there is very little government support. As a society, we must remain strong, positive, but also vigilant. We must be ready to help. Music feeds our souls like no other art form does. It accompanies us and enhances our lives in every moment, from dancing to healing, from mourning to celebrating. Without music, our lives would be much poorer. Let's hope for a peaceful and safe reactivation of our essential needs and activities. Music making (and/or listening) is undoubtedly also one of our human needs; it is not a luxury.
To find out more about Christian Baldini, visit www.christianbaldini.info
Photo: Arnaldo Colombaroli
It’s all up for grabs.
Director Adele Thomas has had a journey fuelled by curiosity. But with that, is the acknowledgment that success is fragile - “delicate as spun sugar”. She speaks of her own battles and barriers and invites us (and the industry) to take a risk. Read on…
It was the first day of tech when the pandemic shut us down.
I’d been making a psychedelic piece of music theatre for National Theatre Wales, site specifically located in a miner’s welfare hall in the valleys.
In the car on the way to the venue the choreographer, Associate Director and myself wondered how long into its full run the show would last. Three weeks? Two weeks?
By tea break, we wondered if it would play beyond its first weekend.
By lunch, we wondered if the show would ever see a live audience.
By dinner, we were closed before we’d even opened.
5 weeks rehearsal, 6 months of planning, a live band playing 27 songs, a 5 day fit up at the venue, over 150 costumes, 2 hours of amazing psychedelic animation, an entire team who learned to heal for the show. Gone.
It felt like standing next to an implosion. Next to negative space.
Of course there was no question: it was exactly the right thing to do. Of course the most important thing was to protect the health of the team and the potential audiences and no one was going to question the implementation of an effective public health strategy in an unprecedented time of crisis.
The strangeness of the climate in which the show was shut meant that there was no space to grieve or mourn the loss of all that work. We all just felt numb. The show became a ghost.
Making live art – opera or theatre – is an ephemeral and temporal endeavour at the best of times. Now, we’re all waking up to just how precarious the whole industry is in a stark and rather immediate way.
I am an opera director and I came to directing opera in a massively tangential way. I was raised in a working-class steel town in South Wales. My school had a “bare minimum” approach to the arts, but even that tiny chink of light was enough to set me on my way. I am horribly aware of the fact that that if I’d been of school age today, with arts education being eradicated from the curriculum, I would probably be working in the steel works.
The formative art education of my youth came mostly from obsessively watching MTV and the local rugby club panto. Music videos brought together what are still my favourite things: fantastic costumes, acting, dance and storytelling, ground-breaking visual art and, of course music. I would imagine whole narratives to my favourite albums and obsessively refine how I would realise them in performance. In my mind, that is, and in my bedroom.
The other big influence, the rugby club panto, was a four-hour long stagger through the vague plot points of a classic fairy story, packed with dance routines and songs, local in-jokes, a tanked-up audience and an even drunker cast. For a fiver you got all that plus some sandwiches and entry to the raffle. The experience of those nights surrounded by slash curtains and charring Regal Kingsize, I now realise, formed how I make work today. The panto gave me my devotion to theatre and opera as a truly communal experience. It should always be generous and warm, open hearted, both funny and moving, both deep and playful: you should always give the audience a great night out.
Then I discovered youth theatre and went to a fantastic arts college outside of my town, ran away to London and then went to Cambridge University where I saw my first opera. It was Ariadne auf Naxos starring the one and only Jessye Norman and I was an immediate convert. But it took me another 15 years to actually get to work in opera.
I directed plays when I graduated but couldn’t get a foot in the door with a single opera company. I suspect that a 22 year old mod with a broad Welsh accent was probably not the typical demographic of your average opera intern. But I suspect that the reason lies more within the systemic issues rife in the industry that favour young people from privileged backgrounds. Even very recently I was told by a staff director that they had worked for years for no pay to get into opera staff directing. This is the dangerous precedent that separates those who can from those who are the most talented. In any case, without 5 years of unpaid assisting work under my belt (I couldn’t afford to work for free), I had no chance of getting into opera.
Then Oliver Mears came to see a show of mine at the Globe and he asked me to make a Cosi Fan Tutte for the company he then ran, Northern Ireland Opera. The minute we started rehearsal it was like I’d finally come home. I’ve been very lucky to have had the most fun every moment I’ve directed opera. I love the singers, I love being completely immersed in music all day. I love collaborating with the conductor. I just feel like I’ve arrived where I need to be.
The paranoia of this moment is that having worked so hard to finally make opera that now it will all disappear. That’s probably not true, and of course I will get to make work in the future. But doubt is not entirely rational and it has a hunger that grows the more it gnaws away at you. I had a full, organised diary right up to 2023 and now big holes are appearing as work gets pushed back and even projects the furthest away in the distance are being rethought and reassigned. I long for some of that middle-class confidence to ride this out, but I come from a background hardwired to view work as unstable and wrought with the powerlessness of being a small thing within a big industry. All of my future employers are being really supportive and clear. But it still feels like whatever successes I have had are built on foundations as delicate as spun sugar.
Like so many people all I can do is wait and try to cling on to hope that the work that I have already invested so much of myself, my time and my thought into will get to actually see an audience. And know that live performance will always, always exist, whatever the industry of the day looks like.
In the meantime, I have been an active part of a number of freelance taskforces representing theatre and opera workers. Buildings were dominating the narrative of the recovery of theatre and opera and I realised that no one was standing up for the hundreds of thousands of people who are the driving forces in making the work happen. For this industry to survive we all need to act now to protect artists as well as infrastructure. The wig makers and carpenters, designers, vocal coaches, directors, singers, répétiteurs, dressers – all of them. I also set up a group for Welsh theatre makers as they were being ignored in the national conversation, and I have just started work on supporting directors who are in the early stages of their careers as we face a whole missing generation of brilliant artists.
This is a time of immense rupture. While I wish for none of the human tragedy, the death and the hell of what we’re going through, so much about the way we live in the future is up for grabs. And that’s so exciting. Brexit and this terrible pandemic could leave the industry risk adverse and fearful, but wouldn’t it be brilliant if instead we emerged into a braver and more equal future? Wouldn’t it be a triumph if the opera world re-thought the pathways into the industry to allow for more and better artists? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if opera houses worked out how to throw their doors open wider and embrace diversity a little harder? That’s what I’d love to see happen, so maybe we need to spend this strange between-time pushing for that.
Adele Thomas
Time for a change
jcomp/freepik
The Cambridge dictionary defines the word ‘tradition’ as “a belief, principle, or way of acting that people in a particular society or group have continued to follow for a long time, or all of these beliefs, etc. in a particular society or group.” British traditions are many – tea (especially in a crisis), queueing, Sunday roast dinner, the pub for a pint, talking about the weather (incessantly) and, oh, so many more. Tradition is a thing here. The be all and end all. Held on to so fiercely that you can see the veins bulging.
Tradition keeps one’s culture close. It is a marker of one’s identity. Fish and chips are a British tradition. Poutine and ice skating are Canadian traditions. Carnival is a Trinidadian tradition. All of these are also cultural markers of identity. Common identity means belonging. Common traditions mean common identity means belonging.
Tradition in the arts is strong. Tradition in arts in the UK is strong. (Confession: I – Devilishly – as a Canadian, have yet to really get to grips with panto and “He’s behind you!” and why everyone gets so excited about it. “It’s TRADITION!”. Um. Okay.) Traditional venues, traditional productions, traditional audiences, traditional hiring, traditional choices of performers. All held on to for dear life. All recognizable and therefore, comfortable. Safe.
The thing is – tradition doesn’t always invite inclusivity. Attempts to inject something different, something new are often met with “we don’t do that” or “it’s not what we do, here”, Frustrating and disappointing. Understandable, though. Who would welcome a change to one’s identity? That’s some scary sh*t.
But, let’s consider this – we are (at the time of writing) in the midst of a pandemic with no discernable timeline. The arts world is currently on a forced hiatus. Whatever your identity or culture or tradition, we’re all kind of in the same boat. As we sit (making sourdough bread, safely, with masks on), we have the best view of our world (supposedly?) disappearing and with front row seats, watching the ensuing panic. British theatre “on the brink of ruin”. Seasons at the Met, Glyndebourne, Royal Opera House are cancelled. Proper end-of-days stuff.
It’s a PAUSE. In the grand (see what I did there?) scheme of things, it’s a breath. And with this breath, comes the levelling of the playing field. We’re ALL in the same boat. When this all starts up again, there is an opportunity to start from the same place. There is an opportunity to create new traditions. Note – we didn’t say change tradition. This is an opportunity to have the decision makers reflect their society. This is an opportunity to tell the stories of everyone who lives around us (newsflash – different cultures exist and live among us…). This is an opportunity to have performers that represent the society around them. This is the opportunity to have an audience that sees themselves on stage and hear their stories told.
Going back to the “way it was” is an easy option, maybe even a lazy one. Yeah, it worked. For some of the people, part of the time. This Pandemic Pause and the time to reflect, gives us a chance to truly move forward. Not sideways. Not backwards. “It’s tradition” doesn’t work anymore. Change the dance steps. Why not challenge instead of pander to the fear? We speak of a “new normal”. Let’s emphasize the new.
Always moving forwards…
Don’t stop - just pause
Renée Salewski is a doer. Teacher, coach, writer, singer, director - stopping is not in her vocabulary. The opportunity to press “pause” hasn’t passed her by, either. We talked about talking a breath, watching and listening.
Who am I? I’m Renée Salewski. I’m a Canadian, cis-gendered female, who lives in Toronto and spent much of my grown up life in the UK. In broad terms, I create. So – I write, direct. I sing and act, thereby interpreting people’s work, which is still part of being a creative, I think? I teach, I mentor, I parent. That’s basically what I do, when you say “what do you do?” – and you’re thinking about the verb that describes what you do. Then my brain went to – “and I endeavor to take care of myself”. That should count… but that’s not really the descriptor that we tend to use when we’re telling people about ourselves, in a formal setting. I drink coffee, I drink cocktails and I eat good food!
In the arts – I’m a creative. I try not to describe myself as being anything, but doing things – so I appreciate the question about what do you do.
I find myself watching a lot and not particularly worrying about the hows, the whys, the whens, but the eventuality of just having something to say. When people have something important enough to say, they’ll find a way to say it. Especially when it comes to a live presentation. If it’s something that is going to be impactful and done in the way that that person expresses their creativity, what they want to express will be done live and in front of people – whether that’s five or fifty-five. I find myself thinking a lot about that and at what point am I going to be thinking - this is something I want done in front of others and here goes!
How am I going to make that work? If I’m directing a project, how do I make sure my artists are safe? I find myself pondering how to get back to people experiencing live things in a safe environment, but also, how do we artists work together? Because it’s one thing to say – oh, people need art, they need their audiences – but that can’t be the be-all. My need or anyone else’s need to have our work seen or our voices heard cannot come before the safety of the artists who are going to interpret that work. And at the same time, there is the need of those artists to create and to find a way for everyone to come together…
It’s also important to remember that change is a wonderful thing. I’m not going to say that this is any sort of “yay”, I’m not going to say that this is some sort of wonderful blessing – not in any way. But – remember - this is what the arts do – they tell stories. This story is going to get told. How it gets told remains to be seen and in what form. You know – maybe I’ll be hiring some strapping young people to pull my cart around and go from house to house! Travelling theatre from house to house! I have no objection to that!
As a teacher, teaching on line is not proving an issue for me or my studio. We are doing very well. I think a lot more care needs to be taken around the mental and emotional health of the people I’m working with and their careers and how they’re feeling. If they don’t feel like singing, do you encourage them to sing, do you push them to sing? Or do you let them do what they need to do? And when you are caring for twenty or more people in that way, you start to wonder if you should devise some sort of an emotional checklist system for them to check in easily. For the most part, my studio is made up of young graduates. I find myself quite concerned with how they’re coping and what I can do to guide them through this.
There is a tendency in this time to go “ohhh – this is the PERFECT time to work on this and that and you have ALL the time…” Do we really, though? I know I have less time. I have two ten year olds at home to homeschool, on top of teaching, on top of my partner working full time from home. It’s actually a busier time for me. I know, for a lot of people, they’re very busy creating at home and putting things out there. If that’s giving them a sense of purpose and a sense of forward movement in their lives, they should absolutely be doing that. If they’re doing it out of a sense of desperation, to just keep things moving and to stay visible, then I get a little concerned. You can’t help but see it all – it’s just all out there! You start wondering – I actually start wondering - is everyone alright? It’s very difficult – do we press pause? Everyone is going to be different.
I was supposed to sing yesterday for my building and I practiced and I was excited and it was just for fun. I’m singing songs that I don’t normally sing, because – why not?! My allergies said otherwise. I decided that with all the teaching I had to do in the week, I would not sing. Even though it was a two minute song. I said to my partner – “Augh! It’s only two minutes!”. He said – “if you were one of your students, would you tell them to sing?” and I said no, I’d tell them not to bother and to sing a couple more next week or something. But I felt guilty, because this is something that we’re all doing and I’m going to stand on my balcony and not contribute? If it were a concert and the voice cut out five minutes before, you’d probably just take some steroids and do it. I’m not going to take a bunch of steroids to sing on my balcony. I didn’t sing. But this wave of guilt and emotions – what is going on? It’s just a two minute Strauss song!
I said yes to these balcony concerts because – at first I thought it would be something to cheer people up. I was very careful to choose songs that were full of coloratura and happy and not in any way languid. My next door neighbour, who’s 97 now - I think I do it just for him because it makes him happy. I see these posts saying “when will we ever perform again?!” and I think – I’ve actually sung more in front of people since this started than I have in forever! I’ve learned more new songs for a reason!
There are certain neighbours who really love the music that we’re presenting and t makes them feel better. And I’ve really enjoyed learning songs. I’ve made a point of learning songs that I’ve loved too much to sing and just singing them and not worrying about it. And actually having a really nice time doing it. So – that’s why I do that and will continue to do that. It’s not just “something to do”, it’s something really fulfilling. It’s a real sense of community – our building has really come together. Neighbours are coming out on purpose, masks on and distancing. We went to the front of the building and cars stopped. There are certain things that wouldn’t have happened that are happening now.
To my point earlier about showing up in front of people’s house to do a play, or the concert or the one-act opera or whatever – what’s to say that that can’t be part of the “solution”? Things being shutdown sucks but they’re shut down for a reason. And they will resume when it’s okay for everyone. Not when it’s okay for someone’s bottom line.
I think I’m going to get a lot better at film and directing remotely – just for now, I’d say. I think that is something I can to offer to people – if people are going to continue to make all of these videos from home of themselves singing, well, it’s an opportunity for them to work through that whole character for that aria and maybe direct those snippets for people. I would really like to do that with people. And even duets, when they’re doing things remotely – we can sort out eyelines, we can pass things to each other. As we’ve seen from those amazing stunt videos, it’s very doable to this very well, even when people are just “farting around”! I’m going to have to - no, I choose to develop a new skill set. Direct remotely and coach people from home.
I don’t feel as if I’ve stopped. I feel as though some projects that I was excited about are not going to happen for a while. I haven’t stopped. It’s different. I’ve been pretty stoic about the whole thing and naturally so, because I do feel that – as I said earlier – it’s going to be the job of the people who want to tell it, to interpret all this and have it reflected in all their future work. Especially if this has been something that has affected them. I think it’s something that is going to be reflected in everyone’s work. But, if you don’t take the time to be there and notice it and you’re busy scurrying around, just trying to be out there, you may not notice it. So, I think, if I have stopped, it’s to experience and try to understand what other people are going through, so that I can accurately reflect it.
What she said…
Sequester Fest or What I’ll Do This Summer
Eric Stern wears a lot of hats - composer, conductor, music arranger, music supervisor. He is also an associate professor of composition at Berklee College of Music. Because who needs to sleep? Read about his relationship with teaching and, more important, his relationship with his students.
Let me first say, I’m not complaining - which is unusual for me. I’m a championship complainer. During the current crisis I’m uncharacteristically in a “count my blessings” mode because I realize I’m simply inconvenienced. I’m not sick, I’m not unemployed (really!) and I have a family that hasn’t killed me after weeks of co-confinement. My wife and I are both college profs, and when we transitioned to teaching arts and performance classes online, the task was initially daunting. It still is, to a degree. The essence of musicianship is togetherness. If you don’t like working with people, be a painter or a novelist. Music requires presence, synchronicity, proximity, inspirational interaction. But slowly another reality became clear. My students, even though they shared my doubts and frustration, came to rely on the consistency of our classes together. Despite everything the majority of them were there in my Zoom windows every class, in contact with each other - and on schedule. The regularity, once boring and off-putting, became a treasured asset in times of uncertainty. We passed prerecorded videos back and forth, shared screens online, listened to performances, discussed technique, stylistic traditions, score preparation - anything you can do that doesn’t require synchronicity. I learned a new term: latency. I always thought that had a dire psychological implication, but I now know it’s the “lag” in internet transmission that keeps you from working together, singing along, discussing minutia, doing anything in real time. It’s the thing that makes you long for being in the room together and not miles - or even continents away. Still, I’m grateful. I have a job - for now - and I got to spend all that time with students I care about, talking about the things I love, and holding virtual hands with them during an increasingly perplexing time.
School’s out now. I don’t teach in the summer, but I’m already gearing up to continue remotely in the fall, even though no decision has yet been made. I’m also orchestrating, working on music file conversions for the college (long story…) and reading. Reading! I’d almost forgotten what that was.
Oh yes, I’m also trying very hard not to read the papers or watch the news. I haven’t been terribly successful; I have a subscription to online editions of the New York Times and the Washington Post. I have to remind myself not to linger on the news channels on my radio when I do the dishes, even the BBC World Service. The menace of the virus is nothing compared with the terror that is our president and the people who support him. The virus may thin our ranks. The current administration (with the complicity of a significant portion of the American populace) could literally wipe us out. That’s the stuff that keeps me awake at night. No matter what your politics, there can be no doubt we are careening into an uncertain future ill-prepared, unwilling to heed the advice of those with knowledge, and putting our “faith” in the unsubstantiated view that nothing horrible can happen to us because God is on our side. Four years ago we had an intelligent, thoughtful and thoroughly well-meaning president that somehow was a “disaster” according to so many. Now we have this.
All I can say is thank goodness for music - and for my students. I’m not sure I could have made it without them.
www.ericstern.net