Going Home and other such adventures

“Hoping to go see this next month in London: The prayers of Peter Brook | Stage | The Guardian,” the Facebook status read. Emil Kang had popped up on my news feed by chance.

"Peter Brook? Like The Empty Space Peter Brook? Like the acclaimed genius artist and director Peter Brook? The one who changed experimental theatre? Peter Brook!?" My mind ran fast, my fingers faster.

“Really? Because I just might join you there…” I wrote in response.

I was half-way serious.

A few days later I get a reply. Emil informs me that if I’m serious about going to see the show he might be able to get me a ticket.

I become completely serious.

Well, not completely serious. I might have let out a school-girl style squeal.

Several series of e-mails later, travel plans are made and I find myself with a plane ticket to London.

*******

Then, the other day I finally got the chance to Skype with Emil. It was the follow up to an e-mail I had sent back in November following an artistic crisis-near-breakdown. I was frustrated because all of my searches for collaborating artists had been proven futile. I couldn’t find an outlet anywhere. This lack had made me realize just how important art and performance were to me and all of this culminated in one long e-mail to Emil (who I hadn’t really seen or spoken to since my Freshman seminar with him, a couple years ago.)

Fast forward a few months to now and our conversation found me in a lot better state [artistically]. I told Emil of how his response to my e-mail, the personal development I was experiencing, along with my experiences in London and Portugal all led me to create the theatre collective here. I think he was more proud of me than I was of myself.

We talked future possibilities, current musings, and parental concerns. Emil told me the story of how his parents threw a wine bottle at his head when he told them he didn’t want to be a doctor, instead pursuing a career in the arts.

We agreed that there would be more time to discuss these things in London. And then he gave me a few things to consider in the mean time:

Get feedback on my work. “It’s not very good to get to 50 and find out you stink.”

Keep searching for more ways to do what I’m doing but further it. Look to do it in different ways. The same idea, but in different ways.

Push myself to work with my weaknesses as well as my strengths.

*******

Today I drudged up some of the essays I wrote for the performance class in which I had Emil as a professor. Some of them were pretty terrible. And they certainly made me surprised that Emil remembered me in a positive light.

Always growing, always moving. My perspective on performance has certainly altered since that communication performance course in which I first came into contact with Peter Brook. I remember feeling confused reading "The Empty Space" and thought it was interesting, but maybe just a bit weird.

At the end of the semester, we had to get into groups and write a performance piece. I didn't really understand the whole idea of performance as something other than traditional theater and wrote this really terrible mini-play. (Trust me, I just reread it. It's awful.)

Our professors stretched us and helped us change it into something that, if I remember correctly, was half presentable. But I do remember feeling frustrated during the process and complaining with my group that the professor didn't make any sense.

But then, when it came time for all the groups to perform, I remember clearly this one performance. I can't remember what it was about or what exactly they did, but I remember this red piece of cloth that they used throughout the piece. And I thought it was one of the most beautiful things in the world. And it was beautiful because I couldn't figure out why it was so beautiful. It just was. And I didn't have to make sense of it.

*******

Now, this week, the collective is going to the street. To start to make beautiful things that will probably make little sense. Or will make the sense that people decide to place on them. Or perhaps we'll come up with a sense of our own.

In a few weeks I’ll be heading to London. To watch beautiful things crafted by a man who at first made no sense to me.

And now I finish with a sentence that will try and be a summary of all these things in my head. But this sentence isn't coming, so I'll just throw out a few words.

Pursuit and passion and perform and play and pushing and prayers and peter

and I think I somehow got stuck on p's.

I just had my fortune read by Abuela. She took the Spanish playing card deck and passed them out on the table.

Apparently I'm going to:
Have change that I won't like.
Fight with a girl over money.
Get invited out to drinks by a married man who I'm going to like.
Do very well in the University.
Receive a really nice present.
Have a special someone who is going to ask me to live with him. Apparently he's a really good one. But I'm not sure about him.
Go to a wedding and meet a man there who is going to make me think.
Have a phone call about love.
Fight with my parents about something.
Go on a trip that I won't like.

My madre had hers read. She recieved something she didn't like. "Mentiras," she said.

"Mentiras," Abuela says to me. "Mentiras ella dice. Pero vas a ver que va a pasar."

That was awesome. So awesome that I danced and hummed my way home. Well half-danced. Okay. It was just a little skip here and there and I let my arms swing.

Pardon my holding off on writing about Portugal so that I can write about tonight.

First, a bit of background.

When I came to Oviedo, I was determined to find a theatre group I could be a part of. That was going to be my way to grow roots here. In fact, I remember setting a Facebook status that went like this, "Just sent messages to 17 theatre groups in Oviedo asking if there was anything I could participate in. Determined."

Well, for all my well-intentioned determination, I ended up with a few "no thanks" e-mails and a lot of no responses.

Then I thought my chance came when I found out that there was a University Theatre group that had a casting. A friend of mine told me that he had negative experiences with the group, but I went anyways. The casting was fun, and I was just thrilled to get to be on a stage again. Afterward, I talked with some of the members and felt even more hopeful. One, two, three months later I get my first response from them: an invitation to participate in a theatre course. The cost: 280 euros. So much for that.

I was frustrated. But an inkling of a thought wandered into my head. "If you see a need...do something about it." But what could I do? I didn't have the resources, didn't even know of anyone else who wanted to do theatre...I had a lot of good excuses. I started entertaining the idea of taking the bus to a random city and doing solo performances just as a creative outlet.

Then I went to London.

And something about being in London gave me a little bit of perspective and even more determination. By the time I got to Portugal, I was decided. I was going to make my own group. Even if it was just me, practicing in a space once a week, I was going to do it. I had to.

A few days after I got back from Portugal, I was sitting in a cafe writing about collective versus individual identity, a topic which was broached in a bar in Portugal as I debated with a 60-something year old man. And I began to think about the beauty within a collaborative, and how you can make something that couldn't have been there before. My foot started tapping on the ground in impatience. I needed a performance collective. Here.

But where would I find the space? Who would do it with me? Could I really just start my own?

The next day I was having lunch with my friend Sergio, who started and runs Partycipa, an activist organization focused on combining creativity and play with social action. They work a lot with kids.

And somehow the subject of performance and street action comes up and I become a bit animated and launch into my idea for an experimental performance group.

He offers me a space. I just have to pick a date.

And now, a week later, I am sitting in my kitchen having just hurriedly eaten some chicken* and I still have a bit of a post-performance afterglow.

Well, to be fair, I didn't perform tonight. But we got started.

There were seven of us tonight. Only two had ever done anything remotely related to theatre.

In a rough combination of English and Spanish, I led us through some warm-ups (samurai, lion/lemon face, shake down), some games (museum, instant protest), some exercises (sound circle, partner mirror, partner and group curve/angle) and then a body relax/energy focus cool down.** I wanted to start on Viewpoints/Flow today, but ran out of time. And that might have been a bit ambitious.

And it was beautiful. Already people were making beautiful moments together. Realizing the potential that they had to create.

It was energizing. It was perfect in its imperfection. It was a start.

And we also have next week.

So I 1/3 skipped, 1/3 walked, and 1/3 danced my way home.

______
*With garlic, lemon, and a balsamic syrup. Good times.
**To Sigur Ros, of course.

As I settle in to write, I am eating the last of my Christmas tree Little Debbie cakes. Don't worry, I have a box of the Valentine ones awaiting me.*

The truth is, I've procrastinated on writing this. Mostly because the thought of condensing my London and Portugal experiences in an entertaining written form felt daunting. And so I just didn't.

But, with a little bit of late night/early morning energy, my arms and back sore from my first day back to climbing for weeks, and that over-sugared-kinda-sick feeling I always get after I eat a Little Debbie cake, I will just tell a few stories, and for tonight, just about London.

As I walked into the house I was staying in**, I was immediately greeted by a lovely smile and a, "Would you like some tea? Go upstairs and you can put your things down and I'll put the tea on." Hours later, watching English sitcoms and eating snacks and chatting, I felt like part of the family. I was laughing. A lot. Plus, I found out that I was now only two degrees of separation away from the queen.

The tea became a habit.*** We passed a few evenings with the fireplace, cozy sofa, late night TV, and Bilbo, the dog, comfortably sitting on my lap. And with the cold and the snow outside, I couldn't really be bothered to move.

Not to say we didn't venture outside in the cold. We were in London. We had to.

We did the typical tourist things. Actually, I'd say we did all the tourist things. You know, the palace, the big clock tower, this other tower, museums, etc. Which, to be honest, never really does much for me. It feels like I'm just checking things off a list. Not to say these things aren't beautiful or interesting or that I wouldn't want to see them, it's just not what makes a trip for me.

So when we went to see the Globe Theatre, I decided to do something different, and put up my slackline for a few, very cold, minutes.

Now, the highlights reel:****

+Climbing inside a castle.

+Diversity! Different types of people! Lots of different languages! And people don't look at you strange if you're not from there!

+Food on the street. Bagels! Fish and chips. Wild mushroom risotto.

+Brick Lane Vintage Market.

+Snow patterns with feet. And playing in that snow with Heather.

+The room in the Tate Modern on the fluxus art movement. It was this tiny little room and most people just walked right through it but a quote on the wall caught my eye and then I spent the next 32 minutes in there reading everything. Completely beautiful.

+Christmas party at Victoria Wood's house where I talked about classical music with high school boys and sang Christmas carols with Andy Serkis.*****

+Johnny's swing/jazz/blues/funk band. And when we [accidentally] went to his show at a Christmas party at a home for mentally handicapped people. We danced anyways.

+Theatre. Lots of theatre. Pantomime, murder-mystery "Rope", The Comedy Store Improv, and "Hairspray." And, I have to mention that for three of these, I have Mr. Edis to thank for getting us in/getting us cheap tickets. Man's got connections.

+Exclaiming, "You gave me a stocking too!" when I found the thing hanging on my door after breakfast and then promptly ran downstairs and gave Mrs. Edis a hug.

+A nordic cafe where I tried gloog. New favorite hot beverage.

...and that was London. More or less, at least.

Sitting in Stansted Airport with about 6 hours to kill, I had a little time to think. I had felt like a part of a family for the last 10 days and it was lovely. I also was able to communicate fully, and even have my personality come across in conversation (!) something I had really missed the months prior.

But London also inspired me.

After the improv show at the Comedy Store, we went out for drinks with some of the players. And I got into a conversation with one of their wives. She asked me about what I wanted to do after university, and I, for the first time in a conversation like this, told her that I was thinking about pursuing the arts in some form.

"Oh you should!" she replied.

"I hope so," I laughed. "I'm just not sure how..."

"Well, have you thought about going to a school of the arts?"

I hadn't.

"There's a lot of one-year programs you can do, and can get a grant for. In fact a friend of mine..."

She went on to tell me of this friend who started out in visual art, then progressed to installations, then performance...all within this one program.

I was intrigued. That conversation, combined with being surrounded by art in so many forms, and the exhibits at the Tate...it has all made me start to think. About new possibilities. And about acting on them. Now.



______
*Thanks, Mom. And Lydia. And Lisa. But I think mostly Lydia. I heard you had to sacrifice these for me. After flaunting your own over Skype, I guess it's the least you could do.
**I was staying with the Edis family. How did I end up there? Heather Johnson made me come to London for Christmas. She met Chris Edis while studying abroad in Italy. Chris lives in London. His family decided they would love to host a random stranger in their home for Christmas. I was the lucky random stranger.
***I never realized that the stereotype of the English always drinking tea was actually true. But I don't think I've ever had so much tea in one week. And I loved it.
****I seriously hate having to do this. But it's the only way to say all I want to say and not be overwhelmed.
*****You know, Gollum in LOTR? He also had an appearance in 13 going on 30...

It snowed in Oviedo last night. I opened my window, leaned out, and caught some in my hand. Legs pressed up against the heater, I watched the flakes fall.

Then today the postman brought a package from my Mom. I opened it while skyping with her.

Everything was individually wrapped.

A picture Ebby drew.*
Praline Pecans.
Shortbread Rounds.
Spiced Apple Cider Mix.
North Pole Pals Chocolate Penguin.
Butterfinger.
Heath Bar.
M&Ms Minis.
Trident White Spearmint.
Tic-Tacs.
Starbursts.
Skittles.
Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.
Little Debbie Nutty Bars.**
Charcoal Pencils.
Drawing Pencil Set.***
North Face Winter Gloves.****
Note from the Secret Snowflake.

It feels like home.


__________
*Apparently the line across the top of the smiley faces is hair.
**I forgot these existed and almost started jumping up and down when I saw them.
***It's a nice and neat little kit. I love kits.
****For snowball fights.

Gracias a Su por el video :)

We were 15 Spaniards, 1 Puerto-Rican-American, 1 French guy, 1 Argentinian, 1 German, and 2 Americans. And everyone was hungry.

With good reason, of course. It was almost time to eat Thanksgiving dinner.

The cooking marathon had started the night before...baking pies* until 4 AM in an oven that seemed unreasonably slow. We watched episodes of Big Bang Theory to keep morale high.

And then it was an early morning to:
Bake the turkey
Make sweet potato casserole
Fret about the turkey
Make the tomato-herb gravy
Check on the turkey
Make the stuffing
Name the turkey**
Make the not-quite-cranberry-sauce***
Take the turkey out of the oven and realize that it's beautiful.

A few Spaniards stopped by to check on our progress and sample our food. "Wow, Americans do know how to cook!" one responded, after a bite of stuffing. This was Thanksgiving - of course we know how to cook.

Next came the mission of transporting everything to the flat where the feast was to take place. Nothing spilled, and no one got burned. Success.

We arrived, gave the dishes some finishing touches, and all sat down at a very large table. And we ate.

For the majority of the dinner, I was far too tired to begin to engage in the rapid-fire Spanish conversation. So I just sat back and smiled and watched everyone else smiling and laughing and chatting. And I was happy to see everyone else so happy. This was Thanksgiving - eating too much and talking too loudly.

Later I informed everyone that we had to go around the table and say what we were thankful for. Naturally, since it was my suggestion, I had to start. I don't like being put on the spot when I have to speak in Spanish...so I began...

"Pues...voy a decir gracias para estar aqui, en Espana..."

They cut me off. I knew it had been a cop-out.

"Vale..vale...digo gracias para que todas las cosas no se quemaron."

Juan pointed at my sweet potato casserole that might have gotten a little burned on the top. I laughed.

Then slowly, and very rowdily, we went around the table and everyone got a chance to say something. This was Thanksgiving - making crude jokes coupled with sentimental quips.

After dinner, before dessert, we went outside and attempted to teach American football. It was an interesting venture, and I think what everyone enjoyed the most was the strategy-planning huddles. Team Pavo won.****

Back inside we had some pie and played a game. Then it was cleanup time. And we boxed up leftovers for later. This was Thanksgiving.


_____________
*2 apple, 1 pecan. And yes, the crust was made from scratch, of course.
**Sheldon
***We went crazy trying to find cranberries and couldn't. So we used red currants instead. Different, but I liked it.
****My team, naturally.