Interview One
On frames, frustration, and Worlds of Words
Okay, so I've got maybe three questions. We'll just go through what we're talking about the first one, and then when you feel like you've finished it, we'll move on. So the first question is, what do you think happens when you let your brain run when you're considering a text for a performance? Or writing a textbook performance? And do you ever do this? Or do you ever really do this? Does that make sense? Or do I need to reformulate?
Maybe reformulated just so I can understand fully what you mean, but I think I understand.
So when you're considering or writing a text for performance? Do you ever feel like you can get into what we what we would refer to as autistic long form? So could you let your brain follow the path it wants to follow? For as long as it wants when you're working on or thinking about a text for performance, as opposed to a novel text or something else?
I think that's a tough question. In a way, I think the way that my brain often works, like we said before, it's like I don't necessarily always enjoy generating text. You know, this first part of creating text where there was nothing before. That very first stage of making words on a page. I think that's probably the part that I struggle with, in a way. And so I think the answer is probably no. For performance text, because I think I have a habit, and I don't know if it's a bad habit, or a good habit, of sometimes creating almost a dummy text, for the first iteration. So the very, very first draft is almost a kind of dummy text, you know what I mean? It's a method of trying to get words onto the page, and then after the words are on the page, there can be a sort of habitation of those words. So they start to mean something. It can be different with a text that we’ve sampled, or with a text that you’ve written, of course, because I’m not dealing with that initial generation part of the process.
Which bit of the process do you feel like you get into your groove with?
It depends and it's always different. And I think one of the reasons why I'm really, really excited about this crystal memory palace idea, and also potentially the idea of, of talking, you know, to generate text, and then after using transcription software, is because it allows the engagement with the initial text to be more genuine. Do you see what I mean?
How do you mean more genuine?
So we'd be moving away from this creation of a dummy text. So what I mean by dummy text is just thinking, Okay, well, I'll just write anything. Do you see what I mean? I'll just write down anything. And then through the process, I know it will eventually be good. It's the same with writing a novel actually. I mean, when I'm very much in the flow of the novel, then the writing of the text becomes more enjoyable and becomes more meaningful. But, think, for me, there's a very, very big difference between writing where I'm manufacturing or conjuring text from nothing to improving or working with a text that already exists. It can often feel very frustrating. Maybe it's hard to explain, but it also feels like it’s a vital step. You know, that text has to be created. But sometimes I feel like it almost doesn't matter what that text is. Do you see what I mean? You have to have artifact There needs to be something in existence. And once that text is in existence, then the process begins. So it's almost like the creation of the initial text can sometimes be a dummy process, whereby any text is created. And then once that’s done, you can start to think about the artwork, and only then the writing starts. And even hearing myself say it, of course that's not quite true. It’s disingenuous to say that that's actually what's happening because because I don't mean it literally. I couldn't sit there and just say, you know, and be like, okay, well, we want to create a science fiction narrative, so I'm just going to tell you, I'm just gonna write down all the different kinds of bread I can imagine. Obviously, I don't mean it to that degree. But what I mean is like, in that initial stage, everything is mutable. So do you just try to get somewhere in the region of a starting place.
Yeah, I see what you mean.
Because often right from the first version, there are very often beautiful gems or rightness in the text, by which I mean, parts of the text that survive through all the processes and still exist in the bones of the final artwork. And very often I’ll hear a turn of phrase in my head, like delicious combinations of words, and they stick around. They’re present right from the beginning and stick around right to the end. That’s how we often make titles, isn’t it? The title comes first. I suppose I could also think about it like a sifting process. Like, all I really want to write down are these delicious turns of phrase, but then I have to somehow place them in a text that I know will eventually be edited out. And, I’m not always right! So sometimes I write something that I haven’t really thought much about, or don’t think is really very good, but you will read it and think it has something. So it gets left in and then I read it again and maybe realise it’s not so bad. Maybe it’s not the 25 % text where I would need to rewrite three quarters of it. Maybe it’s already a 75 % text.
So maybe the idea of a dummy text isn’t actually that helpful?
Hm. Good point … maybe another way of conceptualising the whole thing is by saying that until I finish writing the initial text, I have no idea how good it is. So it’s a blind process. I don’t ever sit there thinking, whoah, this is good.
So, thinking back to the question, is it that, actually, your strategy with this dummy text is a form of letting your brain run with the idea, and not get caught up in rightness for a while?
Maybe. That’s an interesting way of putting it. I think the only problem is that I don’t enjoy it much! Insofar as there is a voice in the back of my head thinking, this is crap. I don’t like it.
Is it important to you to be generating that initial text as opposed to working with a body of material, let’s say transcripts, or work written by someone else?
When I work with other people’s texts — and you’re the exception to this, by the way, because I feel like we are creatively embedded in one another’s processes — I don’t feel like I’m a creative driver of that work. I feel more like a facilitator. A polisher, or a helper. The editor, you know? And when I feel like that, there can be a politeness to the interaction with the text. It becomes much more like curation. Or at best, like making a patchwork blanket out of beautiful stuff that already exists. I feel like I’m not really connected to what the text wants to say, but only connected to how it says it. When I make my own texts, or texts in collaboration with you, then I feel like it’s all about what I want to say. It’s the main way I express myself, through words. And when I’m writing ‘blind’ — when I don’t know what is going to come out, I don’t know the quality or the quantity, I don’t know whether there’ll be anything good in there — it doesn’t feel so great, I guess.
How would you compare it to automatic writing or journaling? Do you feel it has similarities or is it completely different from that?
I feel like it’s different in that I don’t assign any kind of mystical or psychological or instinctual stuff to it. I don’t think of it as an exposure of the subconscious in any way.
I see. I guess I always thought of automatic writing as a kind of strategy, like, it’s not about considered composition, it’s about doing and then going back and sifting through it.
Yeah! I think that shows we have a different understanding of the term automatic writing! Because that’s definitely what I do. I think when I’m writing, I often write to see what’s there. It feels a bit like digging. Do you see what I mean? I dig a bit and then see what’s there. Are there pebbles? Stones? Bits of ceramic? Pins or nails? Is there anything interesting? What happens when I take something with promise and clean it up? But I want to be clear that I’m not claiming the initial words come from somewhere mystical, or some kind of collective subconscious or even my own subconscious. That would be disingenuous. I think what it comes down to is learning to enjoy that initial phase of text generation. I don’t really know if I’ve answered the question … I think where my autistic brian comes into the equation is this recognition and creation of pattern. So very often, it feels kind of like I am making a weaving. And the initial phase is shearing the sheep and all I have is a big pile of fluff on the floor. It’s not even thread yet. Do you see what I mean? But then when you make the thread, you just end up with a lot of thread all over the floor. I think the autistic long form thing comes in with understanding that you can create an extreme depth of narrative, where there is a feeling of something ‘clicking’, where something can happen at minute 48 of the piece and I feel there is a resonance with something that appears right at the beginning. That’s when I’m in my flow when I start to create a weaving where all the parts of work resonate with all the others. It’s the same with writing novels. It’s when the parts of the story start to resonate against one another that it’s interesting … You know, I think, thinking about access and kindness, one of things I would most like to do is generate a bit more respect in myself for these processes of freeform writing that don’t feel satisfying to me. Find value in them and realise that’s it’s also good creative work.
It made me think, like, obviously, it's a different level of polish, but I wonder how different the text you read to me today is from, for example, texts by cultural thinkers and critics, people like Anna Vujanović and others who work in terms of grappling with an idea and talking about it and formulating or creating metaphors or analyses of it? Texts like that can also have this kind of sketch quality, because of the exercise nature of them. But still, they can be saying something very, very clear. So I was imagining if you got to present a version of that kind of early text to peers, you know, live in Berlin. It would be interesting to me.
I think with that text, what I was trying to do was allow the association to happen, so allowing the shifts in association to happen, you know? So it starts as a research text but then I move into allowing myself to be more colloquial, or allowing myself to be angry, or allowing myself to be indiscreet. Actually, I think there's one thing I'm noticing while doing this, and it’s allowing the degree of extra thought that's coming in, like, you know, oh, there's condensation on the windows, I need to get a cloth and wipe it, oh, actually, those photo frames look really nice together, I wonder if, you know, I wonder if the frames around the door would look nice that color. And then we’ll have the coloured doors inside. So we don't have white and white, you know, and trying to match the picture frames to the door frames, and then, you know, suppressing the urge to stand up and go and look at the thermometer. Because I'm really curious to see if this room is warmer than the thermometer in the dining room. Do you know what I mean? There's all of this extra extra brain stuff that's going on that gets disciplined and edited out. There are degrees of struggle to not have those extra thoughts going on. And then there's moments when the thoughts are just like little extra fireworks. And then there's other moments where I'm like, oh, you know, I'm actually less than 50%, in conversation with you. So I’m noticing the gradation of the sides of the beads of condensation on the window ledge and, and the colors outside and then wanting to be outside and then actually thinking that it's quite warm, and then thinking, Oh, my feet aren't cold anymore. And do you know what I mean? So there's, there's, there's all that stuff? Which I don't know if that's part of autistic long form, I don't know. You know, how much other people have all that stuff, all of that.
Yeah. And that makes, we don't necessarily have to go into that in depth now. But because it'd be good to ask the other questions as well. But I think it's an interesting thought to examine that more. To see if those diversions can become artistically useful or playful. It sounds like you are writing with fewer filters?
I think one of the ways it feels to me is like when I’m in a space, it's like, the various objects in the space call to me, you know, so I will look around, and then there's condensation. It says, hey, look at me, look at my shape. And the same with colors and textures. And you know, all sorts of things are calling to me. So I'm performing in a very — by performing I mean, like having this conversation — in a very variable distracted, noisy environment.
Beautiful. Let's move on to the next question. How much have do you think you have tried to fit your performance work into expected frames? How important do you think this framing is to the success of the work?
I feel like I don’t really know what theatre is! Do you know what I mean? I feel like I constantly don’t really know what the word means. I feel like there are moments when we make work and I kind of catch myself performing and I hate it. I see it on video and I find it excruciating. It’s like, oh I’m using my performance voice. Or I notice I’m kind of flaring my nostrils as I speak, talking in a particular way. It’s a recognition of contrivance. Just recording this conversation creates it, at moments. It’s not the same as you and I talking because there is a listener, even if it’s just Quick Time making the recording. And that is enough to change it. It makes it performative. I think in a lot of our performance, there is an attempt to deconstruct the performative on that very level of … well, wouldn’t be beautiful for you and I to be on the stage and to talk to one another as though nobody else was there? I think that’s a goal. It’s also like the dance I did in Karelia with the leaves, you know, it was very choreographed and ended up being very similar to itself each time I performed it. So it was very self-conscious and performative, and very, very contrived in a way. But there was also an attempt to dance as though I was just dancing for myself, just to be full of the dancing and not let the self-consciousness and performing for the audience get in the way. There was a letting go. But that’s also interesting because I remember the conversation with Lea Martini, who said, oh, she was wondering if it wouldn’t be more interesting if I could release more into the movement in a choreographic kind of way, but then felt it was actually more itself the way it was, with all my non-dancer limitations. And going back to writing, I think my writing is best when it's uncontrived. When I’m not really writing in the sense that it’s a complex act of performance for an audience. This feels like quite an important point. You can write a text that is designed to be read, so, this text, too, will be read. And you can have an audience in mind and you can say what you kind of think they want to hear. So, the fact that it will be read gets in the way, somehow, of how the text is written. The self-consciousness is there right from the beginning. Or, you can attempt to write as an act of creation. You write the reality into being. I guess you could say the same thing about photography. So Juliana took these beautiful pictures that are on our wall. Did she take them thinking how they would look in the frame on someone’s wall? Or did she take them just wanting to create something beautiful that didn’t exist before? There’s a subtle difference to when you create an artwork that is created to be looked at, or when you create a text that’s created to be read aloud. OR a performance to be considered. There’s like this light dusting of wankiness all over everything. It’s because you’re already creating the frame it will sit in anticipatorily. You’re anticipating the frame. And that brings up thoughts with it like; how will this be conceived? How will this be received? By the audience? The viewer? The reader? It creates this hope and this fear, like, will the audience think; wow this is great, or, wow this is bad? Or, wow that’s a beautiful piece of work. I think for me there is a real effort to undo that. Sometimes I feel a bit conflicted because it’s like received wisdom, especially in writing circles, that you should always know who your audience is and consider them from the get-go when you write a text but I actually disagree with that. Often. You know? At the risk of talking mystical bollocks, it’s like if you can into this space of like, no, I just want to engage in an act of pure creation. I just want to create a written world. So it exists. Not so someone can read it and think it’s clever. In that case, the idea of what audience even is can get a bit metaphysical. It’s like, you create an artwork that is its own audience because it is alive. It becomes a living thing.
So that's the kind of trying to do something slightly at odds with expectations, but within the frame of a performance. So maybe, to use the framework of a performance, but create a world or a text that's trying to not be so aware of its own performativity.
Yeah. It's like a refraction. You know, I think sometimes, when you create things for consumption — which is what we're talking about really isn't it, if you take a photograph for someone to look at, or you, you know, you create a tapestry for someone to look at, or a painting or a candle, or a book, or anything — if you create it for someone to look at, you get this immediate reflection. So immediately in the act of creating it, you're immediately imagining yourself as the consumer of the work. You see? You're immediately thinking like, oh, how would I feel as the audience or the consumer. I don't think there's anything wrong with that. You know, that's how you make sure that you're creating stuff that people want to consume. But I think through that process, you create that tiny distance of like, create reflect consume. And that's big enough a distance for the ego to get involved. For unhelpful questions to get in, like, does this make me look stupid? Is this good enough? Do I sound smart? Is this is this naive? Is this cheesy? Are the edgy people going to laugh at me? Do you see what I mean? And that distance is like a boomerang. You know? You throw out the boomerang and it comes back, and it comes back covered in something. Do you see what I'm saying? It comes back covered in doubt and self questioning. And because you sending out a boomerang, it has to fly through the air of how does the world see me via my artwork, whereas I think if you can just throw it like a Frisbee, you know, close your eyes and throw a frisbee and then who knows where that's gonna go, you know, it's like, doesn't matter if it comes back. You know? I think it's very unfashionable to admit to making or to want to make art that’s self-indulgent, you know, quote unquote. But I also think that there's this balance. Make the art that you want to see. Make the art that asks to be made.
I wouldn't necessarily term that self indulgent, It sounds like from this answer, and what you were saying before, almost like, you have various tricks, maybe that are there to try to interrupt the typical self awareness when working?
I wouldn't say it’s self awareness, I say it's self doubt. So maybe this thing of like, Yes, I'm trying to get into a mode way, where you're not looking at the reflection too much, which maybe it’s about working collectively as well, because you because you share that self doubt with somebody else. Actually, it can be kind of eradicated a bit. If somebody says, No, it's good. It's good. There has to be trust, doesn't there? Trust that what I have inside me as an artist, or that what comes through me as an artist has value. Do you know I mean? And if I want to make a piece about pink unicorns, I'll make a piece about pink unicorns? And try not to get caught up in; is it cheesy Hallmark? Or like, is it too low? I think the worst work that I've ever seen, it's the work that self consciously tried to be high. Elevated, you know? I think we use that word a lot; I feel really elevated. But I don't think elevation comes from the attempt of elevation.
Yeah.
And I think there's a real irony as an artist, it's like, when you try to make good work, you can get so caught up in making good work, that there's no room to make good work. Or, you know, when you try and be authentic, you just you just create a facsimile of what you feel authenticity looks like. So I think it's like you constantly have to trick yourself out of that. You know, and I'm sure it's the same for Amber when she sings, you know? If she tries to sing with a beautiful voice, she sounds like someone trying to sing beautifully. And that's not the point. You know, because when you listen to someone trying to sing beautifully, that's not the same as someone singing beautifully.
What modes of writing and creating do you think could become more accessible for the way in which your mind works? We're talking here more specifically about the writing and then creating, rather than being on stage or in the venue or on tour, etc. So accessibility, about mind accessibility for creation, rather than the physical structures of the industry.
I think we've talked about this a lot. And I think this is already formulated. So it's not a new thought. But I think it's about understanding that the work exists in the body, and exists in the mouth, and exists in the heart and in the belly. Because I think many people do, maybe I'm wrong, but I think many people do have this feeling that the body is kind of like this undisciplined soup region, where there's, you know, there's inspiration and there's flashes of brilliance, but you have to, you know, stick a tube in, and then pump that soup into a laptop, and then organize it with your rational brain into something that's dignified enough to be considered product. And I think this reliance on the externalization of creativity into the laptop, into written form, is something that has … I remember really vividly at one point, I can't remember which piece it was on, when I said it's like, I really want to skip where we memorize the text. Because I feel like you know we invent something. And then we write it down. And then we pretend somebody else wrote it, and then we learn it. Do you see what I mean? And there's almost there's this there's this divorce between recognizing that we wrote it. Do you know what I mean? So it's like to learning to read the written version of the text is isn't even the thing. It's a reflection of the thing. A version. It's like describing the photograph of the landscape, and not the landscape itself. Yeah. And I think what can happen is that, we'll be like; Oh, we've written this beautiful text, okay, well, we write it down, we print it up, then we will go into the rehearsal room, and we'll use it as though it was written by John Steinbeck. And we learn our own words externally, like actors. There's other processes going on as well, because we're free to edit the text, and we remember that we wrote the text and all those kinds of things, but I think it's kind of like removed, somehow. I want to know if we can get to a way of working where we know that these ideas are our ideas. And that’s the artwork, and it's kind of like, can they exist in a way that they are presentable, but not fixed? You know, this talking about crystal memory palace, this being able to know what it is you want to say, but not having to crystallize it into the form of a text that's printed up and learned. I think what's really, really interesting is that the end result could be very, very similar, actually, you know, because you could get to the point where you're like; oh, well, the reason I always say the same thing is because I always want to say the same thing, you know, the desire has become crystallized so clearly or so, so completely that I want to say the same words every time because they're the right words to say.
I mean, I guess we did that. To an extent more in the conversations in dogs of love. Yeah, because the conversations were structured, but they were not learned in the same way as the poetry was learned.
But I still felt with the conversations in Dogs of Love still feel like I was trying to get towards the best version we did on that rehearsal. Do you see what I mean?
Yeah.
And, I think it was harder with that, because there was a pressure of time with the score. Because we knew we had to be out of the conversation at a certain time. And so that made the kind of maneuvering through the conversation quite, you know, they felt like the bends on the road are quite tight, you know, between two big valleys or something. And I think certain parts were very handheld, they were very controlled, you know, like getting in and getting out. It's like getting in and out of a swimming pool. You can't just jump out of the swimming pool like a jumping fish, because you're not strong enough, you know, you have to climb up the ladder.
But I think it's an interesting question, and I think it’s something we should stay with. I mean, it's also that thing of, I guess for me, there's something about not liking improvised work that much, because it has this flavour to it that I don't appreciate, because I think it can become hyper performative. Like we talked about in the previous question, I think you can have this real flavor of performative. And also, I think that sometimes the ideas are not clear at all.
I’m really not talking about improvisation At the risk of sounding metaphysical about it. It's like, understanding the desire so strongly, that you do the thing anyway. Do you see what I mean? So it's like, acting, in a way, what we're talking about is acting. You know? And imagine that, it's kind of like, as an acto you have this thing where you walk in, you change the day on the calendar, you put the kettle on, and then you make a cup of tea and you sit down and you drink it. There's three main ways of doing that: the first thing that you might do is you envisage it as a movie in your head, and you follow the steps to recreate that movie in your head. The second way is you learn it, you know? You learn it as a score. Step by step. So you have this arising. Okay, now, I've done this, I have to do that. The third way is that you just want to do it and you do it. Perhaps the third way is less precise, or not precise enough, but maybe if the desire is true enough, the actions will always be the right ones even if they are different each time. I guess what I'm talking about is like, you know, is trust, understanding that the artwork is something that I bring into the room in my body, and it's there anyway, whether I like it or not. It's just there. It's not something external that I'm trying to learn or manage. Because sometimes I feel like the little kid out of Matilda, you know? There's that performance feeling of trying to cram this entire chocolate cake into your body without being sick. Without your body rejecting it because it's this alien presence that you're trying to wrap yourself around. It's like the sex toy that's too big. Do you know what I mean? You're desperately trying to get it in? And you can't, and it won't. And there's this feeling like you can't wrap yourself around it. And I felt that way sometimes in our performances, you know? Like, oh, I don't know how I'm going to assimilate this bigness of this. And then I think there's other times, like in Karelia where it was much easier, when I was just kind of like, oh, what I do is the right thing, because the performance is what I do. And so I think it'd be very, very helpful for me to strategies of being like, okay, the performance is in here already. And strategies to bring it out painlessly. Rather than feeling like there is this enormous pile of rocks sat on the ground in the rehearsal room, and somehow in six weeks time I have to eat them all. You know, and that's how it can feel to me. It definitely felt that way with The Crossing.
Yeah, that was very hard.
Do you have another question? Are we done?
It’s not really a question, but the other day, something came into my head again, during this conversation. I remember, a long time ago, when we were doing that residency where we first met Lea, you articulated this idea of A World of Words. And I think the other one was the World of Images. But it might have been something else, World of Bodies or something. And we kind of had this distinction between things we saw happening, and then like, worlds that were made up by words. And I just wondered if that maybe, is a useful thing in any way when we're thinking about these kinds of performance strategies, or relating back to access and ways of working. Thinking about that today, I was wondering if maybe crystal memory palace is a world of words. But jumping is a world of image, and that they're actually discretely separate from each other.
I think it's interesting, because the way I would differentiate is the world of words is about symbols. Labels. Signs for the thing. Do you see what I mean? And I think what I was referring to with the world of words was where the symbol obscures the thing. Do you see what I mean? So it's like, you look at a lamp, and you see the word ‘lamp’ and it can come to the point where you don't actually see the lamp anymore. You just see the concept of lamp, which is a word, you know? And it makes me think of the time my mum made the lamps, you know, with lampshades, and candlesticks. It's like, are they lamps or not lamps? I think it's really interesting to notice that my mum was like, oh, a lamp is something that looks like a lamp that's used as a sort of space-filling decorative object. Whereas for me and my sister, we were like, it doesn't light up, you know, so it’s not a lamp. But the point is that the functioning lamp and the decorative lamp, they're both labels and symbols that stand in for the lamp that even if it's mass produced and identical in every way, shape, and form to 100,000 others in 100,000 other homes, it's still unique. You know, and so I think what I would say is like, I want the World of Real Things to flood up and push words out of us. Do you see what I mean? So I think it's like when you're writing fiction, or when you're writing performance, you can, you can just write, you can write all of the symbols. Like; a man walked into a pub. And you're like, Well, what man? What pub? Was there another man with a dog sat next to him in the pub? What kind of dog? What was he drinking? How did it smell? It's like, every pub is different. Every man is different. Every dog is different. Every drink is different. You know? I think what can happen is that the words can take over. And they become enough. Do you see what I mean? When you're writing, you can just say things like, it was snowing, and then that becomes enough. And you don't actually think about what does snow smell like? How about when the flakes move up instead of down, and not always the same. There's that kind of snow, that's huge, or there's that kind of snow that's just tiny, tiny crystals. When you’re using words there is a danger that you just use words and there is nothing behind them. And so it becomes trite. Do you see what I mean? You basically have a quality where everything is just a symbol for something, like having to squint to see the real thing behind it, or maybe there is no real thing behind it. Oh, this is a mountain. This is a, you know, this is a day I am a person, I am feeling sad. And actually one of the problems is that it there's nothing behind that, you know, I mean, in the mountain is just a cardboard cutout mountain like in that, you know, in that book that Anna gave us, you know, the picture dictionary is that is nothing more complicated or problematized or inspiring or live than that. And I think that when we’re jumping, the interesting thing is that you have to struggle to put the words onto it. So it becomes wordless. So I think I think to have these moments when we have to just be on stage. Or there's times when we're not on stage, and the stage is being itself in a wordless way. Then it doesn't matter how wordy the audience is, none of the audience sit there saying ‘stage’ to themselves over and over again. It's a stage, I'm looking at an empty stage. Once you've said to yourself, it's an empty stage. What else is there? As a performer you have to do more than just these kind of soap opera narratives like so-and.so is sad because they were cheated on by whatsisface. These narratives that exist in the words and there's nothing behind them, there's no complication. You start with the words and you get, you know, it was snowing, it was a thick snow, but then if you really see it, or remember it, or create it, you know it was a snow where some of the some of the snowflakes were going up instead of down. It was the kind of snow that tickles your nose when you breathe it in. The words are best when they are doing badly, in a way, when they are trying to describe something they can’t fully describe. Because then the audience feels there is more. You give them these crude Lego brick words, but they feel there is more complexity behind them. And so I think, I think you're always trying to create the reality that pushes the words out. You know, so this world of images or this world of sensation, or this world of being pushes the words at us and then those words get pinged across, out of our mouths at the audience, as an attempt at transmission.
That's a very neat way to stop.
I think so too.
Maybe reformulated just so I can understand fully what you mean, but I think I understand.
So when you're considering or writing a text for performance? Do you ever feel like you can get into what we what we would refer to as autistic long form? So could you let your brain follow the path it wants to follow? For as long as it wants when you're working on or thinking about a text for performance, as opposed to a novel text or something else?
I think that's a tough question. In a way, I think the way that my brain often works, like we said before, it's like I don't necessarily always enjoy generating text. You know, this first part of creating text where there was nothing before. That very first stage of making words on a page. I think that's probably the part that I struggle with, in a way. And so I think the answer is probably no. For performance text, because I think I have a habit, and I don't know if it's a bad habit, or a good habit, of sometimes creating almost a dummy text, for the first iteration. So the very, very first draft is almost a kind of dummy text, you know what I mean? It's a method of trying to get words onto the page, and then after the words are on the page, there can be a sort of habitation of those words. So they start to mean something. It can be different with a text that we’ve sampled, or with a text that you’ve written, of course, because I’m not dealing with that initial generation part of the process.
Which bit of the process do you feel like you get into your groove with?
It depends and it's always different. And I think one of the reasons why I'm really, really excited about this crystal memory palace idea, and also potentially the idea of, of talking, you know, to generate text, and then after using transcription software, is because it allows the engagement with the initial text to be more genuine. Do you see what I mean?
How do you mean more genuine?
So we'd be moving away from this creation of a dummy text. So what I mean by dummy text is just thinking, Okay, well, I'll just write anything. Do you see what I mean? I'll just write down anything. And then through the process, I know it will eventually be good. It's the same with writing a novel actually. I mean, when I'm very much in the flow of the novel, then the writing of the text becomes more enjoyable and becomes more meaningful. But, think, for me, there's a very, very big difference between writing where I'm manufacturing or conjuring text from nothing to improving or working with a text that already exists. It can often feel very frustrating. Maybe it's hard to explain, but it also feels like it’s a vital step. You know, that text has to be created. But sometimes I feel like it almost doesn't matter what that text is. Do you see what I mean? You have to have artifact There needs to be something in existence. And once that text is in existence, then the process begins. So it's almost like the creation of the initial text can sometimes be a dummy process, whereby any text is created. And then once that’s done, you can start to think about the artwork, and only then the writing starts. And even hearing myself say it, of course that's not quite true. It’s disingenuous to say that that's actually what's happening because because I don't mean it literally. I couldn't sit there and just say, you know, and be like, okay, well, we want to create a science fiction narrative, so I'm just going to tell you, I'm just gonna write down all the different kinds of bread I can imagine. Obviously, I don't mean it to that degree. But what I mean is like, in that initial stage, everything is mutable. So do you just try to get somewhere in the region of a starting place.
Yeah, I see what you mean.
Because often right from the first version, there are very often beautiful gems or rightness in the text, by which I mean, parts of the text that survive through all the processes and still exist in the bones of the final artwork. And very often I’ll hear a turn of phrase in my head, like delicious combinations of words, and they stick around. They’re present right from the beginning and stick around right to the end. That’s how we often make titles, isn’t it? The title comes first. I suppose I could also think about it like a sifting process. Like, all I really want to write down are these delicious turns of phrase, but then I have to somehow place them in a text that I know will eventually be edited out. And, I’m not always right! So sometimes I write something that I haven’t really thought much about, or don’t think is really very good, but you will read it and think it has something. So it gets left in and then I read it again and maybe realise it’s not so bad. Maybe it’s not the 25 % text where I would need to rewrite three quarters of it. Maybe it’s already a 75 % text.
So maybe the idea of a dummy text isn’t actually that helpful?
Hm. Good point … maybe another way of conceptualising the whole thing is by saying that until I finish writing the initial text, I have no idea how good it is. So it’s a blind process. I don’t ever sit there thinking, whoah, this is good.
So, thinking back to the question, is it that, actually, your strategy with this dummy text is a form of letting your brain run with the idea, and not get caught up in rightness for a while?
Maybe. That’s an interesting way of putting it. I think the only problem is that I don’t enjoy it much! Insofar as there is a voice in the back of my head thinking, this is crap. I don’t like it.
Is it important to you to be generating that initial text as opposed to working with a body of material, let’s say transcripts, or work written by someone else?
When I work with other people’s texts — and you’re the exception to this, by the way, because I feel like we are creatively embedded in one another’s processes — I don’t feel like I’m a creative driver of that work. I feel more like a facilitator. A polisher, or a helper. The editor, you know? And when I feel like that, there can be a politeness to the interaction with the text. It becomes much more like curation. Or at best, like making a patchwork blanket out of beautiful stuff that already exists. I feel like I’m not really connected to what the text wants to say, but only connected to how it says it. When I make my own texts, or texts in collaboration with you, then I feel like it’s all about what I want to say. It’s the main way I express myself, through words. And when I’m writing ‘blind’ — when I don’t know what is going to come out, I don’t know the quality or the quantity, I don’t know whether there’ll be anything good in there — it doesn’t feel so great, I guess.
How would you compare it to automatic writing or journaling? Do you feel it has similarities or is it completely different from that?
I feel like it’s different in that I don’t assign any kind of mystical or psychological or instinctual stuff to it. I don’t think of it as an exposure of the subconscious in any way.
I see. I guess I always thought of automatic writing as a kind of strategy, like, it’s not about considered composition, it’s about doing and then going back and sifting through it.
Yeah! I think that shows we have a different understanding of the term automatic writing! Because that’s definitely what I do. I think when I’m writing, I often write to see what’s there. It feels a bit like digging. Do you see what I mean? I dig a bit and then see what’s there. Are there pebbles? Stones? Bits of ceramic? Pins or nails? Is there anything interesting? What happens when I take something with promise and clean it up? But I want to be clear that I’m not claiming the initial words come from somewhere mystical, or some kind of collective subconscious or even my own subconscious. That would be disingenuous. I think what it comes down to is learning to enjoy that initial phase of text generation. I don’t really know if I’ve answered the question … I think where my autistic brian comes into the equation is this recognition and creation of pattern. So very often, it feels kind of like I am making a weaving. And the initial phase is shearing the sheep and all I have is a big pile of fluff on the floor. It’s not even thread yet. Do you see what I mean? But then when you make the thread, you just end up with a lot of thread all over the floor. I think the autistic long form thing comes in with understanding that you can create an extreme depth of narrative, where there is a feeling of something ‘clicking’, where something can happen at minute 48 of the piece and I feel there is a resonance with something that appears right at the beginning. That’s when I’m in my flow when I start to create a weaving where all the parts of work resonate with all the others. It’s the same with writing novels. It’s when the parts of the story start to resonate against one another that it’s interesting … You know, I think, thinking about access and kindness, one of things I would most like to do is generate a bit more respect in myself for these processes of freeform writing that don’t feel satisfying to me. Find value in them and realise that’s it’s also good creative work.
It made me think, like, obviously, it's a different level of polish, but I wonder how different the text you read to me today is from, for example, texts by cultural thinkers and critics, people like Anna Vujanović and others who work in terms of grappling with an idea and talking about it and formulating or creating metaphors or analyses of it? Texts like that can also have this kind of sketch quality, because of the exercise nature of them. But still, they can be saying something very, very clear. So I was imagining if you got to present a version of that kind of early text to peers, you know, live in Berlin. It would be interesting to me.
I think with that text, what I was trying to do was allow the association to happen, so allowing the shifts in association to happen, you know? So it starts as a research text but then I move into allowing myself to be more colloquial, or allowing myself to be angry, or allowing myself to be indiscreet. Actually, I think there's one thing I'm noticing while doing this, and it’s allowing the degree of extra thought that's coming in, like, you know, oh, there's condensation on the windows, I need to get a cloth and wipe it, oh, actually, those photo frames look really nice together, I wonder if, you know, I wonder if the frames around the door would look nice that color. And then we’ll have the coloured doors inside. So we don't have white and white, you know, and trying to match the picture frames to the door frames, and then, you know, suppressing the urge to stand up and go and look at the thermometer. Because I'm really curious to see if this room is warmer than the thermometer in the dining room. Do you know what I mean? There's all of this extra extra brain stuff that's going on that gets disciplined and edited out. There are degrees of struggle to not have those extra thoughts going on. And then there's moments when the thoughts are just like little extra fireworks. And then there's other moments where I'm like, oh, you know, I'm actually less than 50%, in conversation with you. So I’m noticing the gradation of the sides of the beads of condensation on the window ledge and, and the colors outside and then wanting to be outside and then actually thinking that it's quite warm, and then thinking, Oh, my feet aren't cold anymore. And do you know what I mean? So there's, there's, there's all that stuff? Which I don't know if that's part of autistic long form, I don't know. You know, how much other people have all that stuff, all of that.
Yeah. And that makes, we don't necessarily have to go into that in depth now. But because it'd be good to ask the other questions as well. But I think it's an interesting thought to examine that more. To see if those diversions can become artistically useful or playful. It sounds like you are writing with fewer filters?
I think one of the ways it feels to me is like when I’m in a space, it's like, the various objects in the space call to me, you know, so I will look around, and then there's condensation. It says, hey, look at me, look at my shape. And the same with colors and textures. And you know, all sorts of things are calling to me. So I'm performing in a very — by performing I mean, like having this conversation — in a very variable distracted, noisy environment.
Beautiful. Let's move on to the next question. How much have do you think you have tried to fit your performance work into expected frames? How important do you think this framing is to the success of the work?
I feel like I don’t really know what theatre is! Do you know what I mean? I feel like I constantly don’t really know what the word means. I feel like there are moments when we make work and I kind of catch myself performing and I hate it. I see it on video and I find it excruciating. It’s like, oh I’m using my performance voice. Or I notice I’m kind of flaring my nostrils as I speak, talking in a particular way. It’s a recognition of contrivance. Just recording this conversation creates it, at moments. It’s not the same as you and I talking because there is a listener, even if it’s just Quick Time making the recording. And that is enough to change it. It makes it performative. I think in a lot of our performance, there is an attempt to deconstruct the performative on that very level of … well, wouldn’t be beautiful for you and I to be on the stage and to talk to one another as though nobody else was there? I think that’s a goal. It’s also like the dance I did in Karelia with the leaves, you know, it was very choreographed and ended up being very similar to itself each time I performed it. So it was very self-conscious and performative, and very, very contrived in a way. But there was also an attempt to dance as though I was just dancing for myself, just to be full of the dancing and not let the self-consciousness and performing for the audience get in the way. There was a letting go. But that’s also interesting because I remember the conversation with Lea Martini, who said, oh, she was wondering if it wouldn’t be more interesting if I could release more into the movement in a choreographic kind of way, but then felt it was actually more itself the way it was, with all my non-dancer limitations. And going back to writing, I think my writing is best when it's uncontrived. When I’m not really writing in the sense that it’s a complex act of performance for an audience. This feels like quite an important point. You can write a text that is designed to be read, so, this text, too, will be read. And you can have an audience in mind and you can say what you kind of think they want to hear. So, the fact that it will be read gets in the way, somehow, of how the text is written. The self-consciousness is there right from the beginning. Or, you can attempt to write as an act of creation. You write the reality into being. I guess you could say the same thing about photography. So Juliana took these beautiful pictures that are on our wall. Did she take them thinking how they would look in the frame on someone’s wall? Or did she take them just wanting to create something beautiful that didn’t exist before? There’s a subtle difference to when you create an artwork that is created to be looked at, or when you create a text that’s created to be read aloud. OR a performance to be considered. There’s like this light dusting of wankiness all over everything. It’s because you’re already creating the frame it will sit in anticipatorily. You’re anticipating the frame. And that brings up thoughts with it like; how will this be conceived? How will this be received? By the audience? The viewer? The reader? It creates this hope and this fear, like, will the audience think; wow this is great, or, wow this is bad? Or, wow that’s a beautiful piece of work. I think for me there is a real effort to undo that. Sometimes I feel a bit conflicted because it’s like received wisdom, especially in writing circles, that you should always know who your audience is and consider them from the get-go when you write a text but I actually disagree with that. Often. You know? At the risk of talking mystical bollocks, it’s like if you can into this space of like, no, I just want to engage in an act of pure creation. I just want to create a written world. So it exists. Not so someone can read it and think it’s clever. In that case, the idea of what audience even is can get a bit metaphysical. It’s like, you create an artwork that is its own audience because it is alive. It becomes a living thing.
So that's the kind of trying to do something slightly at odds with expectations, but within the frame of a performance. So maybe, to use the framework of a performance, but create a world or a text that's trying to not be so aware of its own performativity.
Yeah. It's like a refraction. You know, I think sometimes, when you create things for consumption — which is what we're talking about really isn't it, if you take a photograph for someone to look at, or you, you know, you create a tapestry for someone to look at, or a painting or a candle, or a book, or anything — if you create it for someone to look at, you get this immediate reflection. So immediately in the act of creating it, you're immediately imagining yourself as the consumer of the work. You see? You're immediately thinking like, oh, how would I feel as the audience or the consumer. I don't think there's anything wrong with that. You know, that's how you make sure that you're creating stuff that people want to consume. But I think through that process, you create that tiny distance of like, create reflect consume. And that's big enough a distance for the ego to get involved. For unhelpful questions to get in, like, does this make me look stupid? Is this good enough? Do I sound smart? Is this is this naive? Is this cheesy? Are the edgy people going to laugh at me? Do you see what I mean? And that distance is like a boomerang. You know? You throw out the boomerang and it comes back, and it comes back covered in something. Do you see what I'm saying? It comes back covered in doubt and self questioning. And because you sending out a boomerang, it has to fly through the air of how does the world see me via my artwork, whereas I think if you can just throw it like a Frisbee, you know, close your eyes and throw a frisbee and then who knows where that's gonna go, you know, it's like, doesn't matter if it comes back. You know? I think it's very unfashionable to admit to making or to want to make art that’s self-indulgent, you know, quote unquote. But I also think that there's this balance. Make the art that you want to see. Make the art that asks to be made.
I wouldn't necessarily term that self indulgent, It sounds like from this answer, and what you were saying before, almost like, you have various tricks, maybe that are there to try to interrupt the typical self awareness when working?
I wouldn't say it’s self awareness, I say it's self doubt. So maybe this thing of like, Yes, I'm trying to get into a mode way, where you're not looking at the reflection too much, which maybe it’s about working collectively as well, because you because you share that self doubt with somebody else. Actually, it can be kind of eradicated a bit. If somebody says, No, it's good. It's good. There has to be trust, doesn't there? Trust that what I have inside me as an artist, or that what comes through me as an artist has value. Do you know I mean? And if I want to make a piece about pink unicorns, I'll make a piece about pink unicorns? And try not to get caught up in; is it cheesy Hallmark? Or like, is it too low? I think the worst work that I've ever seen, it's the work that self consciously tried to be high. Elevated, you know? I think we use that word a lot; I feel really elevated. But I don't think elevation comes from the attempt of elevation.
Yeah.
And I think there's a real irony as an artist, it's like, when you try to make good work, you can get so caught up in making good work, that there's no room to make good work. Or, you know, when you try and be authentic, you just you just create a facsimile of what you feel authenticity looks like. So I think it's like you constantly have to trick yourself out of that. You know, and I'm sure it's the same for Amber when she sings, you know? If she tries to sing with a beautiful voice, she sounds like someone trying to sing beautifully. And that's not the point. You know, because when you listen to someone trying to sing beautifully, that's not the same as someone singing beautifully.
What modes of writing and creating do you think could become more accessible for the way in which your mind works? We're talking here more specifically about the writing and then creating, rather than being on stage or in the venue or on tour, etc. So accessibility, about mind accessibility for creation, rather than the physical structures of the industry.
I think we've talked about this a lot. And I think this is already formulated. So it's not a new thought. But I think it's about understanding that the work exists in the body, and exists in the mouth, and exists in the heart and in the belly. Because I think many people do, maybe I'm wrong, but I think many people do have this feeling that the body is kind of like this undisciplined soup region, where there's, you know, there's inspiration and there's flashes of brilliance, but you have to, you know, stick a tube in, and then pump that soup into a laptop, and then organize it with your rational brain into something that's dignified enough to be considered product. And I think this reliance on the externalization of creativity into the laptop, into written form, is something that has … I remember really vividly at one point, I can't remember which piece it was on, when I said it's like, I really want to skip where we memorize the text. Because I feel like you know we invent something. And then we write it down. And then we pretend somebody else wrote it, and then we learn it. Do you see what I mean? And there's almost there's this there's this divorce between recognizing that we wrote it. Do you know what I mean? So it's like to learning to read the written version of the text is isn't even the thing. It's a reflection of the thing. A version. It's like describing the photograph of the landscape, and not the landscape itself. Yeah. And I think what can happen is that, we'll be like; Oh, we've written this beautiful text, okay, well, we write it down, we print it up, then we will go into the rehearsal room, and we'll use it as though it was written by John Steinbeck. And we learn our own words externally, like actors. There's other processes going on as well, because we're free to edit the text, and we remember that we wrote the text and all those kinds of things, but I think it's kind of like removed, somehow. I want to know if we can get to a way of working where we know that these ideas are our ideas. And that’s the artwork, and it's kind of like, can they exist in a way that they are presentable, but not fixed? You know, this talking about crystal memory palace, this being able to know what it is you want to say, but not having to crystallize it into the form of a text that's printed up and learned. I think what's really, really interesting is that the end result could be very, very similar, actually, you know, because you could get to the point where you're like; oh, well, the reason I always say the same thing is because I always want to say the same thing, you know, the desire has become crystallized so clearly or so, so completely that I want to say the same words every time because they're the right words to say.
I mean, I guess we did that. To an extent more in the conversations in dogs of love. Yeah, because the conversations were structured, but they were not learned in the same way as the poetry was learned.
But I still felt with the conversations in Dogs of Love still feel like I was trying to get towards the best version we did on that rehearsal. Do you see what I mean?
Yeah.
And, I think it was harder with that, because there was a pressure of time with the score. Because we knew we had to be out of the conversation at a certain time. And so that made the kind of maneuvering through the conversation quite, you know, they felt like the bends on the road are quite tight, you know, between two big valleys or something. And I think certain parts were very handheld, they were very controlled, you know, like getting in and getting out. It's like getting in and out of a swimming pool. You can't just jump out of the swimming pool like a jumping fish, because you're not strong enough, you know, you have to climb up the ladder.
But I think it's an interesting question, and I think it’s something we should stay with. I mean, it's also that thing of, I guess for me, there's something about not liking improvised work that much, because it has this flavour to it that I don't appreciate, because I think it can become hyper performative. Like we talked about in the previous question, I think you can have this real flavor of performative. And also, I think that sometimes the ideas are not clear at all.
I’m really not talking about improvisation At the risk of sounding metaphysical about it. It's like, understanding the desire so strongly, that you do the thing anyway. Do you see what I mean? So it's like, acting, in a way, what we're talking about is acting. You know? And imagine that, it's kind of like, as an acto you have this thing where you walk in, you change the day on the calendar, you put the kettle on, and then you make a cup of tea and you sit down and you drink it. There's three main ways of doing that: the first thing that you might do is you envisage it as a movie in your head, and you follow the steps to recreate that movie in your head. The second way is you learn it, you know? You learn it as a score. Step by step. So you have this arising. Okay, now, I've done this, I have to do that. The third way is that you just want to do it and you do it. Perhaps the third way is less precise, or not precise enough, but maybe if the desire is true enough, the actions will always be the right ones even if they are different each time. I guess what I'm talking about is like, you know, is trust, understanding that the artwork is something that I bring into the room in my body, and it's there anyway, whether I like it or not. It's just there. It's not something external that I'm trying to learn or manage. Because sometimes I feel like the little kid out of Matilda, you know? There's that performance feeling of trying to cram this entire chocolate cake into your body without being sick. Without your body rejecting it because it's this alien presence that you're trying to wrap yourself around. It's like the sex toy that's too big. Do you know what I mean? You're desperately trying to get it in? And you can't, and it won't. And there's this feeling like you can't wrap yourself around it. And I felt that way sometimes in our performances, you know? Like, oh, I don't know how I'm going to assimilate this bigness of this. And then I think there's other times, like in Karelia where it was much easier, when I was just kind of like, oh, what I do is the right thing, because the performance is what I do. And so I think it'd be very, very helpful for me to strategies of being like, okay, the performance is in here already. And strategies to bring it out painlessly. Rather than feeling like there is this enormous pile of rocks sat on the ground in the rehearsal room, and somehow in six weeks time I have to eat them all. You know, and that's how it can feel to me. It definitely felt that way with The Crossing.
Yeah, that was very hard.
Do you have another question? Are we done?
It’s not really a question, but the other day, something came into my head again, during this conversation. I remember, a long time ago, when we were doing that residency where we first met Lea, you articulated this idea of A World of Words. And I think the other one was the World of Images. But it might have been something else, World of Bodies or something. And we kind of had this distinction between things we saw happening, and then like, worlds that were made up by words. And I just wondered if that maybe, is a useful thing in any way when we're thinking about these kinds of performance strategies, or relating back to access and ways of working. Thinking about that today, I was wondering if maybe crystal memory palace is a world of words. But jumping is a world of image, and that they're actually discretely separate from each other.
I think it's interesting, because the way I would differentiate is the world of words is about symbols. Labels. Signs for the thing. Do you see what I mean? And I think what I was referring to with the world of words was where the symbol obscures the thing. Do you see what I mean? So it's like, you look at a lamp, and you see the word ‘lamp’ and it can come to the point where you don't actually see the lamp anymore. You just see the concept of lamp, which is a word, you know? And it makes me think of the time my mum made the lamps, you know, with lampshades, and candlesticks. It's like, are they lamps or not lamps? I think it's really interesting to notice that my mum was like, oh, a lamp is something that looks like a lamp that's used as a sort of space-filling decorative object. Whereas for me and my sister, we were like, it doesn't light up, you know, so it’s not a lamp. But the point is that the functioning lamp and the decorative lamp, they're both labels and symbols that stand in for the lamp that even if it's mass produced and identical in every way, shape, and form to 100,000 others in 100,000 other homes, it's still unique. You know, and so I think what I would say is like, I want the World of Real Things to flood up and push words out of us. Do you see what I mean? So I think it's like when you're writing fiction, or when you're writing performance, you can, you can just write, you can write all of the symbols. Like; a man walked into a pub. And you're like, Well, what man? What pub? Was there another man with a dog sat next to him in the pub? What kind of dog? What was he drinking? How did it smell? It's like, every pub is different. Every man is different. Every dog is different. Every drink is different. You know? I think what can happen is that the words can take over. And they become enough. Do you see what I mean? When you're writing, you can just say things like, it was snowing, and then that becomes enough. And you don't actually think about what does snow smell like? How about when the flakes move up instead of down, and not always the same. There's that kind of snow, that's huge, or there's that kind of snow that's just tiny, tiny crystals. When you’re using words there is a danger that you just use words and there is nothing behind them. And so it becomes trite. Do you see what I mean? You basically have a quality where everything is just a symbol for something, like having to squint to see the real thing behind it, or maybe there is no real thing behind it. Oh, this is a mountain. This is a, you know, this is a day I am a person, I am feeling sad. And actually one of the problems is that it there's nothing behind that, you know, I mean, in the mountain is just a cardboard cutout mountain like in that, you know, in that book that Anna gave us, you know, the picture dictionary is that is nothing more complicated or problematized or inspiring or live than that. And I think that when we’re jumping, the interesting thing is that you have to struggle to put the words onto it. So it becomes wordless. So I think I think to have these moments when we have to just be on stage. Or there's times when we're not on stage, and the stage is being itself in a wordless way. Then it doesn't matter how wordy the audience is, none of the audience sit there saying ‘stage’ to themselves over and over again. It's a stage, I'm looking at an empty stage. Once you've said to yourself, it's an empty stage. What else is there? As a performer you have to do more than just these kind of soap opera narratives like so-and.so is sad because they were cheated on by whatsisface. These narratives that exist in the words and there's nothing behind them, there's no complication. You start with the words and you get, you know, it was snowing, it was a thick snow, but then if you really see it, or remember it, or create it, you know it was a snow where some of the some of the snowflakes were going up instead of down. It was the kind of snow that tickles your nose when you breathe it in. The words are best when they are doing badly, in a way, when they are trying to describe something they can’t fully describe. Because then the audience feels there is more. You give them these crude Lego brick words, but they feel there is more complexity behind them. And so I think, I think you're always trying to create the reality that pushes the words out. You know, so this world of images or this world of sensation, or this world of being pushes the words at us and then those words get pinged across, out of our mouths at the audience, as an attempt at transmission.
That's a very neat way to stop.
I think so too.