NDT1: Locations Can Be Characters in Their Own Right

La Ruta ©Rahi Rezvani 2022 for Nederlands Dans Theater

'Someone walks alone/cutting the night into fragments of roads
The night is wounded/ bleeding through the cracks of a dream
Wounds scatter/ the breath of animals asleep/ the perfume of lilies
Eyes close and open/ night remains night’
Gabriela Carrizo

A little while ago I saw a programme of dance by the Nederlands Dans Theater (NDT 1 at the Sadler’s Wells Theatre, London). It was an evening of fierce athleticism, radical movement and provocative ideas. 

I was particularly taken with a piece directed by Argentine choreographer Gabriela Carrizo.

‘La Ruta’ plays out at night in fog beside a busy highway. There’s a glass bus shelter, which is occasionally visited by lonely strangers. There’s a workman in high-vis overalls repairing a junction box. We witness a road accident and a rescue. A seagull crashes against the bus shelter. Another workman comes along to paint some yellow lines. An irate woman falls out of a car with its headlights blazing. ‘F**k you!’ she cries, beating the bonnet with her handbag. She then desperately struggles to remove her trench coat. 

La Ruta ©Rahi Rezvani 2022 for Nederlands Dans Theater

The disparate cast stumble and spin, tumble and turn. And all the while they are accompanied by the incessant noise of passing traffic, by blaring horns, flashing lights and long shadows.

This is the stuff of a noir nightmare. And indeed from the outset we encounter curious characters that don’t seem to make much sense. A couple in kimonos; a man running about with a dead bird; a murderous thug throwing boulders. One poor soul has the heart of a roadkill deer transplanted into his chest. 

'It’s very difficult to organise a dream, because when you organise it, you wake up. When you take control of a dream, you understand that you are sleeping. This is why, to dream you need to be unprotected.'
Teodor Currentzis

Although we were witnessing a fragmented dystopian dream, the piece for me had a compelling coherence. It conveyed a strong sense of place: how it feels to be out late at night, by the side of a road, in the middle of nowhere. It suggested a desolate, unsettling world of loss and isolation; of violence and peril; of strange events and chance encounters.

‘La Ruta’ is bleak, surreal and curiously moving. 

I was struck by the way that this short 35-minute piece managed to mine a great deal from such a simple, ordinary setting. It prompted me to wonder whether, in the communications industry, we spend enough time considering contexts and environments. Do we settle for the commonplace and familiar, the stereotypical and cliched? Or do we create worlds that are vibrant and colourful; intriguing and evocative; rich with symbolism and emotion?

Surely locations can be characters in their own right.

'Come closer and see,
See into the trees.
Find the girl
While you can.
Come closer and see,
See into the dark.
Just follow your eyes,
Just follow your eyes.
I hear her voice,
Calling my name.
The sound is deep
In the dark.
I hear her voice
And start to run,
Into the trees,
Into the trees.’

The Cure, ‘A Forest’ (L Tolhurst / R Smith / S Gallup / M Hartley)

No. 426

Sleepova: Looking Through the Window and Into the Mirror

Copyright © Helen Murray 2023

‘I’ve got Haribo, Maoams, milk choc digestives – dark choc tastes evil - torch, first-aid kit, Swiss Army knife and brought my dad’s laptop.’

A little while ago I saw the excellent play ‘Sleepova' by Matilda Feyiṣayọ Ibini (The Bush Theatre, London). It shines a light on the lives of four Black 16-year-old girls, as they gossip, squabble, quip and debate in the security of their own bedrooms. 

‘Marcus Knight asked me to be his date… He’s the sixth pengest boy in Morrison Boys. He moved up six places, after he got his ear pierced and sorted out his BO.’

Shan has sickle cell disease and is endeavouring to enjoy a normal life. Funmi is smart, curious and interested in reconnecting with her Yoruba heritage. Rey is forthright, gay and privileged. Elle is a Christian with protective parents. 

‘My mum says, why should I be sleeping in other people’s houses when I’m not homeless?’

The girls discuss exams and job prospects, hair and make-up, ice cream and desserts. Their conversation is laced with slang, profanity and cultural references. Sometimes they can be direct, sometimes allusive. Sometimes they can be naïve, sometimes insightful.

Playwright Matilda Feyiṣayọ Ibini

‘Shan, GCSEs are just memory tests. What are we going to do with algebra, magnetism or river formations?’

Romance is quite high on their agenda, and two of the girls fancy Shan’s brother, Solomon (much to her discomfort).

‘I’d be all over him like cocoa butter.’
‘I’d be all over him like Christ’s love for mankind.’

With a school prom approaching, the girls consider whether they should all attend together or take a date.

‘I want to go with Jonah Asamoah in year eleven. I like how his first name rhymes with his surname…He’s really cute. He has dimples, his afro’s always neat and he has braces...When he smiles it actually sparkles, like he’s wearing jewellery but on his teeth.’

As the play progresses the characters have to deal with sexual awakening, sickness and bereavement. They navigate romantic journeys, ideological differences and parental rifts. We see how their friendship is constantly challenged and yet endures.

‘So I’m seeing this new guy Malachi. We met at McDonalds. He works there and he gave me a free McFlurry.
‘Couldn’t give you a free burger? Cheapskate.’

It’s often observed that, while some dramas hold up a mirror to our lives, helping us to see our everyday behaviour in a different light; others help us peer through a window into other people’s worlds, introducing us to cultures and experiences far from our own.

‘Look, the only advice I give straight girls who date boys is never pay for anything. Until society addresses the gender pay gap, make him pay.’

‘Sleepova’ had half the audience looking in the mirror. They were young Londoners laughing along with the jokes, singing along with the tunes, recognising the dilemmas, references and vernacular. The other half of the audience – me included – were peering through a window at a fascinating, charming, mercurial sisterhood.

‘I told him we need to take it slow. Not had a boyfriend before and I don’t want to rush it. Like let me do some research first.’

It struck me that this was a particularly powerful cocktail: combining an audience of insiders and outsiders. It certainly created a vibrant atmosphere in the theatre. Perhaps it’s a dual effect that drama should aim to achieve more often.

‘I’ve been erasing histories for so long, the government doesn’t even know who I really am.’

Inevitably Shan, Funmi, Rey and Elle end up having quite different experiences at the prom.

‘I wish we took more pictures man, I don’t want to forget this night, hashtag nopain, I’m not even tired man.’
‘I can’t wait to get dementia so I can forget this night forever.’

Nonetheless their friendship continues to sustain them with emotional support, laser-sharp wit and occasional words of wisdom.

‘Funmi, I won’t lie to you, it’s going to get worse before it gets better, and then it’s gonna get even more worse, then it might get a little better and you think you’ve finished before it gets worser.’

'I hear every word they talk.
Tried not to care at all.
I know it's frontin’,
Don't know me from nothing.
Still learning to shake it off,
I know I can take it all.
I know they frontin'
You know they frontin', bae.
So if you hear that rah-rah-rah about me,
Talking all out the side of they mouth about me,
I beg you, don't listen.
I beg you, just hear me.
Believe me.
Trust you can see through it all,
Believe through it all,
Breathe through it all.’

Kehlani, ‘Everybody Business’ (C Munoz / C Hugo / K Parrish / K Price / P Williams / S Carter)

No. 425

Don’t Do It Yourself: Why Dogs Trump Pigs at Problem Solving

A little while ago I read in The Times (‘Forget Fido’, 23 January 2023) about a study that compared the problem solving abilities of dogs and pigs.

Both species are considered highly intelligent. Pigs outperform dogs on certain tests and so may be slightly smarter. (In one experiment, for example, pigs were more adept at using a joystick to control a cursor to hit a target.)

Recent research carried out at Eotvos Lorand University in Hungary (published in the journal Scientific Reports) has considered dogs’ and pigs’ broader analytical and communication skills when interacting with humans.

Scientists put 13 pet dogs and 11 miniature pet pigs in a room with their owners and an out-of-reach box containing their favourite food. The animals were then shown that only a human could open the box. 

In the test the dogs animatedly looked back and forth between their owner and the food, securing their help in accessing it. The pigs, however, just stared at the food and got frustrated. 

The researchers concluded that, while pigs may be more intelligent, dogs have the edge in problem solving, thanks to their superior talent for communication. 

'Pigs do not often use visual signals, perhaps partly because of their poor visual acuity - poorer than that of dogs and humans — or due to anatomical restraints such as the rigidity of their neck.’

In my years running a Strategy Department I found that the most intelligent Planners were rarely the most effective at their jobs, or the most successful in their careers. 

My more cerebral team members tended to try to solve problems themselves. They’d shut themselves away with data and research - burning the midnight oil, beavering away in isolation - struggling to crack the code on their own.

The Planners that thrived were generally more resourceful and extrovert. They had emotional as well as rational intelligence, and so sought allies and assistance; provocation and stimulus. 

'I'm not the smartest fellow in the world, but I can sure pick smart colleagues.’
Franklin D Roosevelt

The lesson here is that, when confronted with a knotty strategic task, we should not endeavour to do it all ourselves. We should collaborate to solve. 

'Talent wins games, but teamwork and intelligence win championships.’
Michael Jordan

One can’t read about the Eotvos Lorand research without feeling some sympathy for the pigs. How frustrating to be outwitted by a less intelligent competitor. I too suffer from a stiff neck and poor eyesight. On reflection, this explains a lot.

'When somebody reaches for your heart,
Open up and let them through.
Because everybody
Needs someone around,
Things can tumble down on you.
You discover,
When you look around,
You don't have to be alone.
Just one lover is all you need to know
When you're feeling all alone.
You might need somebody,
You might need somebody too.’

Randy Crawford, 'You Might Need Somebody’ (Nan O'Byrne, T Snow)

No. 424

After Impressionism: ‘Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?’

Edouard Vuillard Portrait of Lugne-Poe 1891
Memorial Art Gallery of the University of Rochester (New York)

I recently attended ‘After Impressionism,’ an excellent show tracing the development of modern art between the last Impressionist Exhibition of 1886 and the outbreak of the First World War. (The National Gallery, London until 13 August)

The exhibition considers how artists at the dawn of the twentieth century were inspired by the Impressionist spirit of revolution and renewal; and how innovative creative thinking subsequently blossomed across Europe in new cultural hotspots - Barcelona, Berlin, Brussels and Vienna.

Impressionism was characterised by the quest to capture the fleeting moment; the reality of the world around us - with swift strokes of the brush and colours true to the artist’s experience. 

In the wake of this radical movement, Cezanne explored the underlying structures in nature - in landscape, portrait and still life – applying planes of colour that laid the foundations of Cubism. Gaugin went beyond representation of the natural world, using symbolism to convey personal memories and mystical experience. Van Gogh employed bold outlines and ever more intense hues that were charged with emotion. Seurat turned to science to translate light into colour through small dots of complimentary tones. Bonnard and Vuillard flattened their images, giving tranquil domestic scenes a decorative quality.

Vincent Van Gogh - Enclosed Field with Ploughman, 1889

During this period artists looked beyond Europe for inspiration, drawing on Japanese woodblock prints, Polynesian carved objects and African masks.

The creative community thought deeply and debated avidly about the direction they should take with their work. Artists conferred with like-minded modernist writers and formed groups with cool names like the Twenty, the Prophets, the Wild Animals and the Secession. They wrote essays and published journals; held dissident exhibitions and launched radical manifestos.

‘We are tired of the everyday, the near-at-hand, the contemporaneous: we wish to be able to place the symbol in any period, even in dreams.’
Gustave Kahn ‘La Response des Symbolistes’

Hilaire-Germain-Edgar Degas - Combing the Hair ('La Coiffure'). National Gallery, London

The result of all this upheaval and questioning was a period of stunning creative output, diverse in style and approach. At the exhibition you can see Cezanne’s ‘Mont Sainte-Victoire’, a majestic landscape reduced to geometric shapes; Klimt’s ‘Hermine Gallia’, a society lady shimmering in white chiffon; Degas’ ‘Combing the Hair’, an intimate moment all aglow with intoxicating orange. Gaugin presents us with the patriarch Jacob wrestling with an angel, observed by bonneted Breton women. It’s a woozy, dreamlike image. Munch’s ‘Death Bed’ reveals grief in the raw. Mondrian races towards Abstraction before our eyes. And in Ramon Casas’ ‘The Automobile’ an elegant woman drives a car directly at us, headlamps blazing. It is as if she is hurtling towards the future.

‘With faith in growth and in a new generation of creators and those who enjoy art, we call all young people together, and as the young that bear the future within it we shall create for ourselves elbowroom and freedom of life as opposed to the well-entrenched older forces. Everyone who renders directly and honestly whatever drives him to create is one of us.’
German Expressionist Manifesto

Ramon Casas i Carbó - Car. 1902

The exhibition suggests that people working in the creative industries should be arguing, discussing and debating ideas. We should be pioneering new perspectives and practices; experimenting with new partners and inputs.

It prompts us to reflect on our craft: Can we describe what makes our work different? What defines our generation’s outlook and output, in contrast to what has gone before? 

One of Gaugin’s paintings of 1897-8 was entitled ‘Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?’ Perhaps we should be asking the same questions.

'If you could read my mind, love,
What a tale my thoughts could tell.
Just like an old time movie
About a ghost from a wishing well,
In a castle dark or a fortress strong,
With chains upon my feet.
You know that ghost is me
And I will never be set free.
As long as I'm a ghost, you can't see.’

Gordon Lightfoot, ‘If You Could Read My Mind'

No. 423

Somerset Maugham on Reason and Passion: ‘I Don’t Offer You Happiness. I Offer You Love’

W Somerset Maugham, 1957. Photograph: Jane Bown/The Observer

A little while ago I saw ‘The Circle,’ a splendid 1921 play by W. Somerset Maugham. (The Orange Tree Theatre, Richmond until 17 June)

‘I suppose it’s difficult for the young to realize that one may be old without being a fool.’

Maugham is rarely performed nowadays. Perhaps his writing is a little too polished, his characters a little too aristocratic, for modern tastes. Nonetheless, he was a sharp, witty wordsmith with an eye for the nuances of social attitudes and cultural change, and he has been described as ‘the missing link between Wilde and Coward.’

‘England seems to me full of people doing things they don’t want to because other people expect it of them.’

‘The Circle’ considers the compromises of marriage and the consequences of love. In a lightly humorous way, it asks us to reflect on the true nature of happiness.

‘Man is a gregarious animal. We’re members of a herd. If we break the herd’s laws we suffer for it. And we suffer damnably.’

The action takes place at a Dorset country house where Arnold Champion-Cheney is preparing to meet his mother, Lady Kitty, for the first time since she ran off with her husband’s friend Lord Porteus 30 years ago. 

‘I don’t mean to bear malice, but the fact remains that she did me the most irreparable harm. I can find no excuse for her.’

Arnold is a somewhat stiff fellow, who serves as an MP and is primarily interested in politics and furniture.

‘It always makes me uncomfortable when people are effusive.’

Oivia Vinall and Chirag Benedict Lobo in The Circle, photo by Ellie Kurttz

Elizabeth, Arnold's wife of three years, is, by contrast, a romantic. She rather admires Lady Kitty for sacrificing her social standing for love, and she has engineered the reunion.  

‘When you’re loved as she’s loved, you may grow old, but you grow old beautifully.’

Elizabeth is beginning to find life as a rural MP’s wife terribly tedious, and she is falling in love with Teddy Luton, her husband’s friend, a charming businessman visiting from Malaya.

It looks like history is about to repeat itself.

As the drama plays out, it transpires that the Champion-Cheneys' guests are not quite the idyllic couple Elizabeth has imagined. Lord Porteus is grumpy and combative. Lady Kitty is selfish and frivolous.

‘My dear, her soul is as thickly rouged as her face.’

Nonetheless Elizabeth is convinced that her relationship with Arnold is redundant.

‘A marriage without love is no marriage at all…When two people are married it’s very difficult for one of them to be unhappy without making the other unhappy too.’

At this point Lady Kitty speaks out for her son, warning Elizabeth that infatuation fades.

‘It breaks my heart to think that you’re going to make the same pitiful mistake that I made… One sacrifices one’s life for love and then one finds that love doesn’t last. The tragedy of love isn’t death or separation. One gets over them. The tragedy of love is indifference.’

As Elizabeth oscillates between fidelity and romance; reason and passion; staying and going, Teddy makes a desperate plea for her to start a new life with him.

'But I wasn’t offering you happiness. I don’t think my sort of love tends to happiness. I’m jealous. I’m not a very easy man to get on with. I’m often out of temper and irritable. I should be fed to the teeth with you sometimes, and so would you be with me. I daresay we’d fight like cat and dog, and sometimes we’d hate each other. Often you’d be wretched and bored stiff and lonely, and often you’d be frightfully homesick, and then you’d regret all you’d lost. Stupid women would be rude to you because we’d run away together. And some of them would cut you. I don’t offer you peace and quietness. I offer you unrest and anxiety. I don’t offer you happiness. I offer you love.’

I was quite taken with Teddy Luton’s speech. 

We spend a good deal of time nowadays reflecting on happiness. We survey the most ‘liveable’ towns and cities, the most agreeable countries and cultures. We calculate and calibrate our own personal satisfaction and wellbeing. We create happiness indexes. The assumption is that all of our decisions, in life and work, should ultimately add up to a higher level of contentment.

Yet perhaps happiness is not all it’s cracked up to be. 

‘There is no more lamentable pursuit than a life of pleasure.’

If we narrowly judge careers against a set of logical contentment criteria; against an imagined goal of enduring happiness, we may end up pursuing a path that is ultimately unfulfilling. Sometimes there’s reward to be found in struggle and challenge; in passion and devotion; in ‘unrest and anxiety’.

Perhaps we should seek a job we love rather than one that makes us happy.

In raising questions about marriage and the conventional understanding of fulfilment, Maugham was somewhat ahead of his time. ‘The Circle’ was booed on its opening night. But I suspect he would have reassured himself that he was ‘merely a very truthful man’.

‘I never know whether you’re a humorist or a cynic, Father.’
‘I’m neither, my dear boy; I’m merely a very truthful man. But people are so unused to the truth that they’re apt to mistake it for a joke or a sneer.’

'My thoughts go back to a heavenly dance,
A moment of bliss we spent.
Our hearts were filled with a song of romance
As into the night we went,
And sang to our hearts’ content.
The song is ended,
But the melody lingers on.
You and the song are gone,
But the melody lingers on.’

Annette Hanshaw, 'The Song Is Ended (but the Melody Lingers On)' (Irving Berlin)

No. 422

Trying To Be Cool About It: An Overheard Altercation with Fabien

© The artist's estate. Photo credit: Fry Art Gallery

‘Right, Fabien, I’m not having this conversation.’

A bald chap with a backpack and casual business attire had just boarded my busy train at Waterloo. He was talking loudly into his phone and was somewhat vexed.

‘If he asks me if I’ve spoken to Fabien, I’m gonna say no.’

I obviously couldn’t hear what Fabien had to say for himself, but the man felt he had some explaining to do.

‘Look, he told me to cc her and so I did. There was nothing I could do.’ 

He was clearly struggling to make his point.

‘I understand you, Fabien, but you don’t understand me. I told you: Matthew is uncontactable and Ainsley is panicking. All I’m asking you to do is not lie.’

There was a good deal of repetition and exclamation. And the conversation finished unsatisfactorily.

‘I’m gonna stop there, Fabien. You’re still not getting it.’

The man hung up and slumped back in his seat.

‘F**k!’

 An uneasy atmosphere lingered in the train carriage. 

The brief altercation had embraced deception, indiscretion, inconsistency and anger. I found myself wondering whether the events that prompted the dispute had merited all this emotion. 

'Anybody can become angry - that is easy. But to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way - that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.’
Aristotle

Sometimes in the world of work, we let people get under our skin, we get hot under the collar. I once kicked a bin over because a package had not been delivered. I regretted it immediately, realising that only a rare few look good when they’re annoyed - Marlon Brando, Joe Pesci, Jack Nicholson, for example. When I kicked that bin I came across more like Norman Wisdom.

We ought to take our jobs seriously. It’s only by doing so that we can extract any satisfaction from them. But we should be aware that intense concentration and a narrow focus can result in a disproportionate response to setbacks. The blood pressure rises and the red mist descends. We can’t help getting irritated and indignant.

'The greatest remedy for anger is delay.'
Thomas Paine

It’s always best to take a breath and count to 10. The issue at hand probably doesn’t matter that much. And if it does matter, then it deserves a considered, calculated reply. We should ‘try to be cool about it.’

Perhaps that’s what the irate bald man should have said to Fabien.

'I'm trying to be cool about it,
Feeling like an absolute fool about it.
Wishing you were kind enough to be cruel about it,
Telling myself I can always do without it,
Knowin' that it probably isn't true.’

boygenius, ‘Cool About It’ (J Baker / L Dacus / P Simon / P Bridgers)

No. 421

Maliphant: Challenging the Hierarchy of Creation

Russell Maliphant’s ‘Vortex’ © Roswitha Chesher

A little while ago I attended a performance of ‘Vortex’ by the Russell Maliphant Dance Company. (Sadler’s Wells Theatre, London. Touring England until 29 June.) The piece represents choreographer Maliphant’s response to the work of abstract expressionist painter Jackson Pollock. 

‘I didn’t want to make a piece that was literally about Pollock, that said this is his life. ‘Vortex’ is more tangential than that. It’s about energy, paint, gravity, form, physicality.’

‘Vortex’ begins with a single dancer in front of a large canvas that glows gold at his touch. The canvas is then tilted and athletically scaled. It becomes a spinning stage on which a performance is played out; a screen onto which spiralling silhouettes are projected.

The team of five dancers twist and turn, roll and rotate - gracefully, elegantly, hypnotically. They skip around a metal bucket swinging from the ceiling. They pirouette alongside a beautifully billowing silk sheet. They sway under a cascade of falling sand, tracing circular patterns on the stage as it settles. And all the while lighting designer Ryan Joseph Stafford bathes them in ligneous stripes, radiant pools and flickering shadows.

It’s a compelling piece.

Russell Maliphant’s ‘Vortex’

‘Philosophically, personally, I like calm.’

Maliphant is known for creating fluid, smooth, circular movements, and in this context we are reminded of Pollock’s process and product: his bold, physical painting technique and his emotionally expressive, colourful canvases. 

In an interview after the show Maliphant offered a definition.

‘What is choreography? The interaction of the figure, the light, the movement and the space.’

I pondered this concise articulation for a moment, before I noticed that it didn’t include music. Maliphant had consciously omitted what many would imagine as a foundational component of dance. He explained that music was important to him, but it did not come first - changing the hierarchy of the creative process was central to his approach. 

I think that – curiously - creative people can sometimes be quite conservative in their outlook; somewhat set in their ways. Too often they are constrained by the inertia of their own assumptions; by the straitjacket of custom and convention. We would all benefit from occasionally reordering standard practices; challenging technical hierarchies; setting aside our methodological habits. 

Because if you want to change the product, you should try changing the process.


'Well, I've been afraid of changing,
Because I've built my life around you.
But time makes you bolder,
Even children get older,
And I'm getting older too.

Oh, take my love, take it down.
Climb a mountain and turn around.
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills,
Well, the landslide will bring it down.’

Fleetwood Mac, 'Landslide' (S Nicks)

No. 420

Dancing at Lughnasa: When ‘Atmosphere Is More Real than Incident’

From left, Bláithín Mac Gabhann, Alison Oliver, Louisa Harland and Siobhán McSweeney in ‘Dancing at Lughnasa’ © Johan Persson

‘Look at yourselves, will you! Just look at yourselves! Dancing at our time of day? That’s for young people with no duties and no responsibilities and nothing in their heads but pleasure.’

I recently saw an excellent production of Brian Friel’s 1990 work ‘Dancing at Lughnasa.’ (The National Theatre, London until 27 May.)

This ‘memory play’ is shot through with nostalgia and wistfulness. It asks us to consider how we reconstruct our own past; and how our recollections are as much forged from atmosphere as incident.

A middle-aged man Michael Evans recalls the summer of 1936 when he was a young boy living with his unmarried mother and four spinster aunts in rural Donegal.

Oldest sister Kate, a teacher and the only wage earner in the house, is prim, devout and worried about how to make ends meet. Joker Maggie sings popular songs, tells riddles and smokes Woodbines. Chris, Michael’s mother, is dreamy, romantic and prone to depression. Quiet, thoughtful Agnes, in wraparound apron, takes particular care of wellington-booted, ‘simple’ Rose.

‘When are we going to get a decent mirror to see ourselves in?’
‘You can see enough to do you.’
‘Steady on, girl. Today it’s lipstick; tomorrow it’s the gin bottle.’

The sisters babble, bicker and bake soda bread on the large iron range. They tend to their pet white rooster, fetch turf and pick bilberries by the old quarry. They reflect on old friends and missed opportunities; on family secrets and whether to attend the forthcoming harvest dance. 

Justine Mitchell & Siobhán McSweeney. Photo by Johan Persson

‘This must be kept in the family, Maggie! Not a word of this must go outside these walls – d’you hear? – not a syllable!’

Humour, discipline, determination and faith sustain them through what are clearly tough times. Their world is on the cusp of change. The school plans to lay off Kate due to falling rolls, and a new factory seems likely to deprive the two younger siblings of the little money they earn knitting gloves at home. Even the civil war in faraway Spain threatens to impact on their lives.

‘Even though I was only a child of seven at the time I know I had a sense of unease, some awareness of a widening breach between what seemed to be and what was, of things changing too quickly before my eyes, of becoming what they ought not to be.’

Through it all the women lift their spirits by dancing to their unreliable wireless (fondly referred to as Marconi). To the fast heavy beat of a ceili band, one by one they break into a jig. Knitting dropped, feet stomping, arms, legs and hair flying - they sing and shout and spin and turn. It’s a wondrous sight of wild, raucous, almost pagan, abandon.

‘I had witnessed Marconi’s voodoo derange those kind, sensible women and transform them into shrieking strangers.’

‘Oh play to me, Gypsy, the moon's high above,
Oh, play me your serenade, the song I love.
Oh sing to me, Gypsy, and when you are gone,
Your song will be haunting me and lingering on.’

Gracie Fields, ‘Play to Me, Gypsy’ (K Vacek / J Kennedy)

Brian Friel. Image courtesy of RTÉ

Friel was in his early sixties when he wrote ‘Dancing at Lughnasa’. It was based quite closely on his own upbringing. What’s striking about the play is that not too much happens. The sisters have to tend to their brother, who has returned from missionary work in Uganda suffering from mental illness. Chris must navigate occasional visits from Michael’s charming but feckless father. And Rose goes walkabout. In a concluding speech Friel explains that his recollection of this distant time is constructed more from mood than particular events.

'There is one memory of that Lughnasa time that visits me most often; and what fascinates me about that memory is that it owes nothing to fact. In that memory atmosphere is more real than incident and everything is simultaneously actual and illusory.'

In the communications business we, quite appropriately, spend a good deal of time constructing narratives. Stories are powerful vehicles for messages; for conveying features, benefits and rewards. But do we sufficiently attend to atmosphere – to the mood, spirit and feelings that we wish our brands to express? Surely atmosphere provides the fabric for enduring recollections.

As ‘Dancing at Lughnasa’ demonstrates, you can convey a great deal without recourse to specific incidents, actions or narratives – and sometimes without using words at all.

'When I remember it, I think of it as dancing. Dancing with eyes half closed because to open them would break the spell. Dancing as if language had surrendered to movement – as if this ritual, this wordless ceremony, was now the way to speak, to whisper private and sacred things, to be in touch with some otherness. Dancing as if the very heart of life and all its hopes might be found in those assuaging notes and those hushed rhythms and in those silent and hypnotic movements. Dancing as if language no longer existed because words were no longer necessary…'

'Twas on the Isle of Capri that he found her
Beneath the shade of an old walnut tree.
Oh, I can still see the flowers blooming round her
When they met on the Isle of Capri.
She was as sweet as the rose at the dawning
But somehow fate hadn't meant it to be,
And though he sailed with the tide in the morning,
Yet his heart's on the Isle of Capri.’

Gracie Fields, 'Isle of Capri’ (J Kennedy / W Grosz)

No. 419

‘Why Are All These People Here?’: A Provocative Question at the Sydney Opera House

I have recently returned from my first trip to Australia. 

My brother Martin and I thoroughly enjoyed the sea and sunshine; walks and views; fresh food and robust wine. We visited museums, galleries and surf clubs; vibrant markets, friendly pubs and the hallowed MCG. We spotted wallabies, kookaburras and brush turkeys; drank piccolo coffees, sipped Coopers from schooners and paid at the bar. It struck me as a country of progress and positivity; optimism and opportunity.

On one occasion we were standing outside the Sydney Opera House, admiring its splendid ceramic-tiled shells. How magnificent to see this familiar building up close.

An Indian tourist approached and asked to have his picture taken. Once we had obliged, the young man had another request.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Of course. What is it?’

‘I’d like to know: Why are all these people here?’

‘What do you mean? Why are these people in Sydney?’

‘No. This place, here.’ He gesticulated at the clusters of sightseers wandering around the building’s forecourt. ‘I asked the Security Guard and he doesn’t know.’

We hesitated for a moment.

‘Well, this is the Sydney Opera House. It’s an architectural masterpiece. It’s one of the wonders of the modern world.’

‘Oh. Thank you. I see.’

The tourist nodded gratefully at our explanation, though he still seemed a little perplexed.

'I think, at a child's birth, if a mother could ask a fairy godmother to endow it with the most useful gift, that gift should be curiosity.’
Eleanor Roosevelt

We spend a good deal of time nowadays describing in great detail the trends and fashions that are impacting our world. We have reams of data, stacks of statistics to prove our points and evidence our observations. But I wonder if we spend enough time endeavouring to comprehend the underlying forces driving change, the truest cause. Do we sufficiently stop to enquire: ‘Why are all these people here?’?

We know from the relentless enquiries of children that Why? can be challenging and disarming. It is a simple question, but it takes us to the most interesting places – particularly when it is repeated.

The Toyota Motor Corporation used to ask Five Whys of a technical fault in order to establish its root cause. They believed that only after Five Whys did one arrive at the real issue, and by this method they found that product problems often derive from people and processes.

'The basis of Toyota’s scientific approach is to ask why five times whenever we find a problem … By repeating why five times, the nature of the problem as well as its solution becomes clear.' 
Taiichi Ohno

We stood talking to the Indian tourist for a little while longer. It transpired he was over on holiday from New Delhi. Not far from Agra and the Taj Mahal, we thought. Perhaps that’s why he seemed so unimpressed.

'How many times do I have to try to tell you
That I'm sorry for the things I've done?
But when I start to try to tell you,
That's when you have to tell me
Hey... This kind of trouble's only just begun.
I told myself too many times:
Why don't you ever learn to keep your big mouth shut?
That's why it hurts so bad to hear the words
That keep on falling from your mouth.
Tell me
Why...
I may be mad,
I may be blind,
I may be viciously unkind.
But I can still read what you're thinking.’

Annie Lennox, ‘Why'

No. 418

Berthe Morisot: ‘Wanting to Capture the Smallest Thing’

Berthe Morisot - Young Woman Watering a Shrub

'It is important to express oneself... provided the feelings are real and are taken from your own experience.’
Berthe Morisot

I recently attended an exhibition of the work of Berthe Morisot. ('Shaping Impressionism' is at The Dulwich Picture Gallery, London, until 10 September.)

Morisot was a pioneer, a founding member of the Impressionist movement. Constrained from painting in public, she created works of private reflection and quiet calm. She teaches us to treasure brief moments and small gestures, stillness and restraint.

‘My ambition was limited to wanting to capture something of what goes by, just something, the smallest thing.’

Morisot was born into an affluent family in Bourges, France in 1841. Her father was a civic administrator, her mother was related to the Rococo painter Fragonard. Since the art schools of the time were closed to female students, she was taught privately by tutors who included the landscape painter Corot. Copying works in the Louvre, always chaperoned, she met Renoir and Fantin-Latour; Degas, Manet and Monet, and became part of a lively artistic set. Manet painted her portrait on at least 11 occasions, transfixed by her intense gaze, her dark hair, eyes and dress. 

'Dreams are life itself – and dreams are more true than reality; in them we behave as our true selves – if we have a soul it is there.’

In 1864 Morisot began submitting her work to the Paris Salon. In 1874 she married Manet’s brother Eugène and participated in the first Impressionist exhibition. She went on to exhibit at all the subsequent Impressionist shows, except that of 1878, when she was recovering from the birth of her daughter, Julie. 

'Real painters understand with a brush in their hand.’

Berthe Morisot - In the Apple Tree

Whereas the male Impressionists often painted the bustling life of the city’s streets, cafes and clubs, Morisot was restricted by her class and gender to domestic scenes. Her work captured women and children at home and in the garden: secluded private moments, intimate interior lives.

Morisot’s sister Edma waters her shrubs in her long white day dress. Two girls play at catching a goldfish in a basin. Madame Escholier regards us with her clasped hands resting on a writing desk. A young woman in a glamorous silk gown inspects herself in the mirror as she adjusts her hair, a precious instant of tranquility before the night ahead. Here’s Julie perched on the bough of an apple tree; Julie playing the mandolin; Julie toying with a pet chicken in her lap at the feet of a tired young maid. (Julie appeared in nearly 50 of Morisot’s canvases before the age of 12.)

'A love of nature is a consolation against failure.’

Morisot didn’t have a studio, painting instead in the living room and bedroom. Her brush strokes were loose and light, quick and free. One critic dubbed her ‘the angel of the incomplete’. She certainly had a knack for capturing the fleeting moment. 

Social norms may have prevented Morisot from painting grand public scenes. But she made a virtue of this constraint and was quietly resolute. 

'I do not think any man would ever treat a woman as his equal, and it is all I ask because I know my worth.’

Berthe Morisot - Woman at Her Toilette, 1875/80

She demonstrates the subtle force of the informal and intimate, the personal and private; the emotive power of ‘the smallest thing.’

In 1893 Morisot lost her husband and her hair turned grey with grief. She painted Julie dressed in mourning black, staring straight at us, a greyhound at her feet and one hand planted firmly on the sofa. 

Two years later Morisot contracted influenza while nursing her daughter. Aware that she was fading fast, she wrote a letter of farewell to the 16-year-old.

'My dearest little Julie, I love you as I lie dying; I shall still love you when I am dead. I beg of you, do not cry; this parting was inevitable. I would have liked to be with you until you married – Work hard and be good as you have always been; you have never caused me a moment's sorrow in your little life. You have beauty, good fortune; use them well. I think the best thing would be to live with your cousins in the Rue de Villejust, but I do not wish to force you to do anything… Do not cry, I love you more than I can tell you.’

Morisot died soon after. She was 54.

Berthe Morisot - Julie Manet and her Greyhound, Laertes, 1893

'A cigarette that bears a lipstick's traces,
An airline ticket to romantic places,
And still my heart has wings.
These foolish things remind me of you.
A tinkling piano in the next apartment,
Those stumbling words that told you what my heart meant,
A fair ground's painted swings.
These foolish things remind me of you.
You came, you saw, you conquered me.
When you did that to me,
I knew somehow this had to be.
The winds of March that make my heart a dancer
A telephone that rings, but who's to answer?
Oh, how the ghost of you clings!
These foolish things remind me of you.’

Ella Fitzgerald, 'These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You)’ (H Link / H Marvell / J Strachey)

No. 417