Peter Pap

I am back at my family home for the Christmas break.
Back to Newcastle.
Geordie Land.
The Toon.
Where even in the depths of winter, when earth stands hard as iron and water like a stone... You can still see girls walking home after a night out with no coat and no shoes.

I feel like I have stepped out of my MA bubble.. "Oh yes, there is life outside Central".

Since getting back to Newcastle I had completely neglected my studies, research and practice. I had become wrapped up in the Christmas world of food, drink, family and festivities. Yuck. I suppose it's good to have a break but I do find it 'oh so easy' to completely forget that I have work due in. Shit.

As a child my parents always used to take me to see the Northern Stage's Christmas productions. They were a far cry from the glittery soap-star pantos that spring up all over the place at Christmas. Northern Stage always seemed to put a really different twist on Children's classics. Their productions had a dark edge to them, a bit of black comedy thrown in and really imaginative sets and costumes. Performances to delight children and adults. I remember seeing performances such as 'The Snow Queen' and 'Grim Tales' as a child and being completely immersed in the world created in front of me on stage. I suppose Northern Stage (Formally known as The Playhouse) really inspired me at a young age to want to pursue a career in theatre.

So as much as I hate to admit it I was full of a disgusting festive delight when my Mum surprised me and my sister with a trip to the Northern Stage's Christmas eve matinee production of Peter Pan. I was excited to jump back into eight year old Lizzie (a place where I like to be) and run away to Never-land. I had complete faith that N Stage would take me there. However I was bitterly disappointed.

The set was brilliant, with audience facing audience and a long raised stage in the middle. The simple furniture of the Darling's bedroom was manipulated to form every other scene in the script, which gave the whole piece a feeling of make believe and child's play, which worked very well. Yet the piece lacked feeling.. I went away feeling nothing, nothing at all. Their was no emotion, feeling and N Stage's usual 'edge'. I felt like there was too much emphasis on the movement and choreography, which was done perfectly by Ballet LORENT's Liv Lorent and no thought into the real underlying emotions of J M Barrie's writing. When we saw Mary Darling alone in the empty children's bedroom I saw no real feeling of loss, worry... a mother beside herself with grief over her missing children. In fact the emotion was down played and light hearted as if she wasn't really that bothered at all. The world we live in now is full of missing children, child abuse and pedophilia. I am not saying that the children of Newcastle should be directly confronted with these issues but there is not one mother in the audience who wouldn't have been emotionally attached to Mary's character if played with real emotion and dark undertones. When Peter comes back to the bedroom years later and expects the heavily pregnant Wendy to run away with him once more... Where was the genuine excitement to see Peter? Where was the fleeting feeling of "If only.. But I am no longer a child"? In fact when Peter ends the first act by accepting death Wendy might as well have shrugged her shoulders and said "Oh well, never mind". Not one of the actors had any spark, any life. The piece was flat. Dead. Empty.

I wanted to give the actors some vocal coaching and some energy. I wanted the audience to be involved... I wanted to see the children of the audience really believe they were in Never-land. There could have easily been a live local band on stage to create atmosphere and to entertain the audience through the dreadfully slow scene changes. Where was the Geordie charm of N stage? Where was the dark edge? What set this performance aside from the usual Christmas tat? Nothing. It could have been everything.. but it was nothing.

After the show when my Mum's friend said to me "I'm sorry to interrupt love, but I really have to go now... So much to do before tomorrow... and your Mum still needs you to go buy some sprouts" I realised that I had been performing a live review of my theatrical disappointments for over an hour. When I do this I usually always feel like a bit of a cockhead... But this time I didn't care... Maybe it was the five festive glasses of wine I had just drank... I don't know... But as I walked through Newcastle city centre to find some last minute sprouts I dramatically looked up into the night sky and promised to the Christmas stars above that if I didn't do anything else worthwhile with my life I would always try to make good theatre.

Christmas day is over and sods law... I have the flu. Yet at least now I am back to 'Thinking Theatre'. Right, now about that Visual essay...

Miss West can't help but Doodle

I doodle ALL the time. It’s not an excuse but I can’t seem to function without doing it. Listening to a lecture without doodling? Nothing goes in. There is no assimilation of information. So really… In my case doodling is actually helping me absorb lectures. That’s what I tell myself anyway.

Apparently doodles also indicate what is going in the subconscious.
Doodles in the centre of a page can mean the doodler is extrovert and in need of attention. Doodles at the top of the page show confidence and an abundance of ideas. If the doodle is next to the title, the doodler thinks they are incredibly important. The left hand side of the page indicates nostalgia and feelings for the past and the right hand side is a need to express the doodlers dark secrets and thoughts. Chains can indicate troubled relationships. Circles represent a need to find unity and peace. Clouds equal a happy person. Eggs, a new idea.. Blah blah blah.

I doodle my tutors. I doodle the ‘subject’ I am listening to. I doodle my tutors realistically, as children, in unusual scenarios and most recently naked. I have not uploaded the naked images.. but maybe I will?

What does this mean about me?

My Mother's Christmas letter 2009

Happy Christmas!

Here you go.. The annual West girls Christmas letter! Even though it makes Lizzie and Amy cringe a little!

2009 has been a positive year. Lizzie started her MA at Central School for Speech and Drama in September. She lives in North London and is shares a three bedroom flat with her friends. It is hard work, challenging, and long hours, but she loving it all the same. She has to write a blog on her progress as a theatre practitioner... If you have any bouts of insomnia and fancy a browse... www.chimneyweeps.blogspot.com

Amy is in her second year at Leeds Uni doing Sport Leisure and Culture; she is also enjoying her course. She has a part time receptionist job.

I couldn’t wish for two more thoughtful, kind and loving girls, and I am very proud of them. We are extremely close and look after each other. They came home to surprise me on my birthday.. I had no idea at all! It was a lovely weekend.

I am still involved in two dance groups, a Morris team and a Rapper team which I practice once a week. At Rapper we use two handled swords (not very well I may add) but enjoy it. I go to a wonderful yoga group once a week also, which is fantastic for stress-relief and relaxation. There are some lovely people who go, and I have made lots of new friends. Also I am a (fair weather!) cyclist, and enjoy rides with my friends when possible. This year we went to Holland for a week. Myself and seven others cycled all the way from Newcastle to the seedy red light district of Amsterdam. We went all over Holland enjoying the sights and indulging in the local prostitutes. It was fantastic apart from my friend Chris falling off her bike and having her arm in plaster half way through the week.

Friends and family are always very supportive and I value their friendship. It is coming up to four years since Alex sadly passed away, where has the time gone? We are having yet another ceilidh on the 30th January 2010 in his memory. The money we make will go to Cancer Research and the Clara Vale conservation group (where Alex ashes are). Last year we did really well raising about £500 for each charity. We have made a facebook group to support the event if any of you have been dragged into the social networking world like I have! It's sometimes the only way I can check up on the girls! Even if it is just full of drunken nights out! The facebook group is called The Annual Alex West Memorial Ceilidh.

Hope you are happy and well and that 2010 is a good year for you. Treasure each day, as it is a gift. May you have a wonderful Christmas and happy New Year! Love and God Bless.

Extract from 'Ode to a Chocolate Yule Log'

Die in my intestines and don't insult me. You are digestible and will be digested I assure you.
Because I consume you. Festive food. You do not consume anything.

Back to Butoh

Hello Butoh. I have missed you.

Imagery Butoh workshop with Marie Gabrielle Rotie.

My three favourite images from the workshop..

1.) Your hair is lush. It's made of Seaweed.
2.) There is an alien inside your body and it is eating your internal organs.
3.) Your body is made of dust and it will crumble at the slightest touch.

"The Puppeteer within you will enhance your life" (Penny Francis 2009)

After a bad day at school I wasn't looking forward to yet another lecture/demonstration. However as soon as Penny Francis entered the room my spirits lifted. She literally had a a twinkle in her eye. She was Mary Poppins-esque. She talked about her trade as if she was talking about an old friend. How long they had known each other, the experiences they'd had together, the high lights and low lights of their friendship and all with the care and respect that an old friend would deserve. It was bloody fantastic.

I have always been interested in Puppetry. I have dabbled in the past.. But Penny Francis reminded me of what a full time art Puppetry is. The skill involved is obvious. A true Puppeteer is almost invisible - all of their life and being is projected into the puppet. So, in that way all the work, effort and skill can be overlooked and outshone by the puppet. I couldn't wait to get stuck in. Penny's love and devotion made me want to..

"...Dance with your coat stand, chat to your old teddy, flirt with your best overcoat or curse the devil in your computer." (Penny Francis 2009)

A Puppeteer can create life. A Puppeteer can bring an object to life in a second. The possibilities are endless, and exciting. After the lecture demonstration I went home feeling like I was a eight years old again when my closest friend was a toy dog called Bun. I remembered Bun tap dancing. He often used to tap dance, I don't know why but that's just what he used to do. His feet were made of plastic compared to his soft toy body so they used to make a satisfactory noise on my bedroom floor. The object's material and existence informs it's character and personality. He was also French, again I am not sure why, there just must be some French in his stuffing. He was bought for 10p from a car boot sale, so he must of had a bit of a past. Maybe a sordid French romance? Who knows. When I got home and I was unwinding in front of the T.V I spotted my housemates toy monkey. A present from an ex-boyfriend the monkey had little monkey boxer shorts on and a dirty expression. After years of silence dirty monkey told my housemate exactly what he thought of him. He was obviously still loyal to the ex-boyfriend.

Miss West can't help but giggle

It is fair to say that I have really been enjoying my movement classes, although it’s taken me a while to fully immerse myself into them. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no stranger to movement studies, in fact I consider it to be one of my skills. It’s just that your body has a habit of forgetting… When you haven't done a class for a while… Basically... Movement classes can make you look like a bit of a twat. You have this strange out of body experience where you almost float above yourself and see what you look like: A bit of a twat.

Last week when prancing around in my leggings, embodying the Earth and the sky, smelling an imaginary desert flower and painting a rainbow none less, my thoughts were drawn to the Geordie chefs who I used to work with, before moving to London.

"You do theatre?" They would say. "Do you dance arooond like a tree an that?" They would tease.

So when doing just that, (being a tree) in week two of term, Miss West couldn't help but giggle. During every movement exercise I'd imagine the Geordie chefs of Cafe 21 in Newcastle standing at the back of the class. I couldn't stop giggling.

When on all fours pretending I had a pencil stuck up my bum, and drawing my favourite picture (to loosen up my vertebral column) I literally almost had a wee. How could I take this seriously anymore? How could I make the most out of these exciting classes? I was doomed to look like an immature Geordie out of control. Something I have come to get used to.

BUT- During a lesson in which we applied Sarah Kane's Crave to a developed movement sequence (that we created through exercises) we created something so real and powerful that it stuck in my head for weeks after. Sarah Kane’s brutal and hard hitting words of loss, love and desire… un-questionably a strong piece, had never been something I personally liked or connected to. Yet with eight people in one tiny movement space, experimenting with movement almost entirely instead of words, I was actually moved. Not even a hint of a giggle.

Actions speak louder than words.
Actions speak louder than words.

I am not going to stage a version of Crave, nor would I want to but when you experience a real moment of, dare I say it? Beauty… In a workshop- It just reinforces the importance of drama games, exercises and play. Without them performance can be shallow.

Movement games can make you feel like a twat as can drama games. Yet, embracing the twat within you (In my opinion) is a huge part of being a performer.

It’s what I like about being a performer.

So just like finding your 'inner child' as being an important part of play,
I think finding your 'inner twat' is important too… I think?!

BUMP

After a night on the beers,
With my Central peers,
I fell asleep on the night bus (again).

When the bus screeched to a halt,
I shot forward with a bolt,
And smacked my head off the pole.

Drunk and alone,
I started the walk home,
With a big fat bump on my head.

Now I have no idea why,
But I started to cry,
And sing a Bob Dylan tune.

“One more cup of coffee for the road,
One more cup of coffee 'fore I go
To the valley below.”


I created a scene quite dramatic,
Not only as a Bob Dylan fanatic,
But as a piece of street theatre right there on the road.

So maybe it’s only in pain,
That your insanity becomes sane,
When the bump caused the drama to spill right out.

Hello November 2009, this is me.

Listen cockheads,
It's taken me a while to get here. Its taken me sometime to get here.

Said Erica, my therapist.