David Shrigley: Brain Activity *****



Photo: Linda Nylind



Brain Activity at the Hayward Gallery is David Shrigley’s first major UK exhibition, but it really should have come sooner. Shrigley is known for his humourous drawings (The Essential David Shrigley) however this exhibition features sculpture, photography, animations and more in what begins to feel like a never-ending showcase of talent that has been deprived of limelight for far too long. Literally hundreds of works of art are crammed into this space, separated into rooms which tackle the grand narratives of our time: relationships, death, sleep and less obviously, misshapen things.

The first room is Headlessness, the first thing you see is a headless ostrich. Baffling? This opening draws you into Shrigley’s world where he wants you to imagine the stories behind the exhibits, answering any questions you’ll inevitably have, yourself. His style is simplistic, almost childlike and you do find yourself reverting to a childlike mind-set as Shrigley toys with your worldly preconceptions. A small structure of the word ‘IT’ hides in the corner of one room, leading to the obvious question, “What is ‘it’?” Shrigley’s paintings mock art; if art is something that you feel then surely Shrigley is expressing it better than anyone by painting ‘FUCKING HELL’ angrily across a page in green paint by a screaming red stick figure. If this isn’t clear enough then the drawing captioned ‘Museums are full of crap’ should illustrate the point. The light-heartedness of Shrigley’s work counter -plays the ideas behind it so that your brain works on two unlikely levels at once using puns, contradictions, euphemisms with as much significance as the material.

I’m aware that my descriptions make Brain Activity sound somewhat trivial. The truth is that Shrigley toes the line between philosophical and nonsensical and this is what makes his work so refreshing. If anything compelled me on a more personal level, it would be arguably Shrigley’s most famous work: a taxidermy dog holding a sign which says ‘I’m dead’. As if it were fate, before I went in to this exhibition a Jack Russell terrier just like this one happened to leap into my arms for a cuddle. The lifelike quality the dead dog possesses is disturbing, horrific even considering the unsentimental irony applied to it. So that the comedic quality of Shrigley’s work is suddenly turned on its head, and life feels like nothing but ‘a prequel to extinction’.

In a literal whole other world, a section of the exhibit is populated by hundreds of insects, made from uniquely shaped pieces of metal. Thousands of little legs – the stuff of a lot of our nightmares, and yet they appear so human; working together, alone, having sex. The only way to escape the room is through an insect sized hole in the wall. Shrigley communicates with the spectator directly in every room. The relationship room in particular lent a particularly dark undertone to something close to the skin; the animation ‘New Friends’ involved a square being cut brutally into a circle by a community of his circular shaped friends. Enforcing this is ‘Swords and Daggers’, which were carved in wax with a potato peeler before being cast in bronze.

There is a skill to Shrigley’s purposefully crude art, and his ability to communicate so much with just a pencil and paper. It feels okay to live in an ugly world if we can laugh at it. The problem with reviewing this exhibition is that I cannot condense ideas like Shrigley can. Brain Activity made me feel as if my brain had suddenly woken up from the coma of only using the usual 10%. This exhibition forces you to think about the life, the universe and everything; until I thought my brain might explode – in a good way. But contemplating it makes no difference to life, the universe, and everything, which is at the taxidermy heart of this absurd exhibition which celebrates futility, not the answers to the grand questions it poses.

To B Or Not To B?

As I write this, I’m watching Tom Ford’s Oscar nominated A Single Man: as artsy fartsy a film as you can get without watching The Artist. And I wonder, who on earth has the right to decide whether this deserved an award or not? I would have given best picture to this, not Hurt Locker – but they didn’t; I would have given best picture to Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, not The Artist – but they didn’t. And then this nightmare came into clarity in my mind’s eye: even at that far off level of professionalism, beautiful things (the term ‘art’ is far too pretentious, it entails the silly, impossible question of ‘what is art?’, the labelling itself a form of grading) will always be reduced to a grade: winner, loser, not even nominated = A, B, whatever. I’ve already begun making a nightmare out of my dreams because of the dreaded marks for my first term writing portfolio.


I consider myself lucky (or perhaps, in a parent’s eyes, copping out) to be studying something I love with creative writing (although I’m placing all arts subjects involving a creative project under an umbrella generalisation here). Did you spot the blackened word in the otherwise positively phrased sentence above? No, not parents. ‘Studying.’ Of course there’s a wealth to learn from studying other’s work but can you honestly study ‘how to’ something? Whether it be writing, composing, or performance etc. – let alone mark it.

Obviously, to a technical extent you can: the comma goes here, act it in the style of this practitioner. I won’t say must for undoubtedly there are those who didn’t study their craft yet are hailed as the best in their field. But beyond a general check for competent knowledge about conventions, how can you mark the arts without creating a weirdly communist breed of ‘correct’ (I can’t help but use the word now, sorry) artists? It’s a form of censorship in a sense which is purely paradoxical. In a recent interview for IdeasTap, playwright David Eldridge said ‘there’s no right way to write a play...do this workshop, learn this structure...it doesn’t work like that: writers need treating in as...individual a way as possible.’ And I forgot about feeling guilty for doing things my way.

Although my contention is obvious, I’m not bitter about my first marks of university, elements of the feedback seem fair enough. But following the results, I heard this phrase resonate amongst my peers ‘they just didn’t seem to get it’. Do they ever? My eyes aren’t your eyes. So we come to the obvious point: art is subjective, possibly too subjective to be called good or bad. It took years for Joyce’s Ulysses to be published, but now it’s heralded as one of the greatest books ever written. Looking at the marketing criteria, I can’ help but see a vicious circle in which you can’t get an A for originality, without getting a substantially lower mark in structure or language, and vice versa.

In an age where achieving originality anymore seems impossible, I would argue that nurturing creativity should come before restraining it to a marking criterion. I have increasingly found myself using this phrase, ‘you have to sell your soul for an A’. Reading this back, it sounds a little on the Faustian side of overdramatic, but it earnestly feels that way. If (I feel I should slap my wrist every time I use this word) ‘art’ often holds a mirror up to its creator, then doesn’t marking it suddenly seem not just difficult, but perverse? Take art – as in paintings etc. – for example; before appreciating whether the composition of a painting is perfect, I ask myself whether I identify with it.

Of course whether you identify with a piece of writing, the interpretation of a character, the phrasing of a musical line, doesn’t, or at least, shouldn’t influence the mark. But does it influence whether one ‘gets’ it or not? This is what worries me.

I’m not presuming I can change the whole educational system with one article – I always accepted a degree as the easiest way into the industry. But in writing this, I can exercise my voice without getting panic attacks over whether it’ll receive above a B; and isn’t expression of ideas what it’s all about?

A Quick Rant: Fringe Theatre and The Price We Pay For Quality



Picture from: http://wetheatre.co.uk/pitchfork/quotes.htm

I have seen a lot of shows in these first two months of 2012 and without a doubt, the best things I've seen have been fringe productions. Being so enamoured with Theatreland, I'm lucky enough to know where and how to get cut price tickets for the West End shows, e.g. I got £2 tickets to ‘The Madness of King George’ through Masterclass at the Theatre Royal Haymarket, and £15 tickets for ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ at the aforementioned theatre. The thing is, with all due respect, I didn't rate these shows very highly at all and yet they sit comfortably on their West End laurels able to cut ticket prices in full knowledge the theatre's label of 'West End' has a pulling power all of its own to fill the hundreds of seats. A West End production to me, now feels something of a safe one.

A prime example of what I'm talking about with Fringe theatre is 'Don't Stray From The Path' which I reviewed a few weeks ago. It wasn't perfect, but was innovative and exciting which more than makes up for that. After a series of West End disappointments, it feels like the time to finally really explore the edgy brilliance that seems only reserved to Off- West End venues – yes: the non-commercial stuff. Alas no! Indeed there’s a wealth of wonderful things to see on the fringes of Theatreland, calling out to my bones like some strange, internal, thespian magnet…yet unfortunately productions of this calibre are obviously costly to put on; and thereby, put me out. There is a wealth of discounts open to me in the West End, particularly the option of dayticketing, but not off-west end which saddens me immensely. As a student, I simply can’t afford to fork out up to £30 to see a fringe show, however much I’d like to.



Picture from: atgtickets.com



Now some off-west end venues like the Royal Court or the Arcola have schemes whereby the tickets are considerably reduced on certain days. I have been dying to see The Pitchfork Disney (just look at all the amazing reviews it’s had in the above poster) but couldn’t make it to the ‘Pay What You Can Tuesdays’. But for The Leisure Society at The Trafalgar Studios, tickets begin at £26.50. When did this inflation happen? Sure, this is just another post about the cuts made to Arts funding I suppose, but considering the quality of a large majority of the off-west end productions I’ve seen, my feelings are that in an ideal world, in order to keep daring, relevant theatre alive, I would prefer to see West End and Off-West End drama swap places. And so by placing productions like these in full view of a widening public eye, we might remember the possibilities of theatre, and fund it through bums on seats (more than just a hundred). When will it be okay to take small shows into big venues? Or better yet, make the small venues which have done so much for theatre, into the big thing.

P.S. If anyone knows of any discounts for ‘The Leisure Society’ – please, please, please let me know!

The Sunshine Boys: Danny DeVito and Richard Griffiths in the West End!

Looking forward to this! Thea Sharrock is to direct Danny DeVito and Richard Griffiths as the ageing vaudevillian team Willie Clark and Al Lewis in Neil Simon’s award-wining comedy, The Sunshine Boys. 

Kings of comedy, Willie Clark (Danny DeVito) and Al Lewis (Richard Griffiths) aka The Sunshine Boys haven’t spoken to each other in years.  When CBS call for the vaudevillian greats to be re-united for a nostalgic History of Comedy, past grudges resurface as they take centre stage once more.   Ageing ailments aside, can this legendary double-act overcome their differences for one last show?  Old rivalry and vintage hilarity abound in Neil Simon’s classic comedy of showbiz and friendship.

The Sunshine Boys takes over the Savoy Theatre from Legally Blonde from the 27th April for a strictly limited run. Regular readers will know that I've been on a mission to find a truly laugh out loud comedy, could this be it? I've got a lot of faith in Neil Simon and with a cast and crew like this - how could it possibly go wrong? Roll on April!

Tickets are available from http://www.sunshineboystheplay.com/ or by calling 0844 871 7687

P.S. Won't it be nice to have some celebrities in the West End who haven't won a talent show but have talent! *This is not a reference to The Wizard of Oz...

Don't Stray From The Path ****

Photo: electric pedals

Don’t Stray From the Path devised by The Wonder Club is a part of the Old Vic Tunnels’ Vault Festival, and exemplifies the exciting performance Vault aims to celebrate combining theatre, music, circus, puppetry and more. The Wonder Club paves your way into this imaginative reworking of the Red Riding Hood Fairytale as a promenade performance.

The Old Vic Tunnels are a must see venue if you haven’t been yet; a storage space previously used by British rail, it has come on since it first opened. I used to usher for the Old Vic Tunnels whilst it was still a damp labyrinth but for Vault it has been transformed into a series of much more intimate spaces for individual shows. Wandering around this series of eclectically decorated rabbit tunnels, it still hasn’t lost its deliciously dark charm.

Wonder Club use this space to its fullest extent, paying intense attention to detail. It feels as if one has walked into a surrealist painting. You enter a distorted version of a magical forest, each element of it an artwork in its own right: a miniature house hangs suspended with holes in which you can poke your head, women dressed as rabbits sway ceaselessly and silently before carrots with tear stained expressions, a man shouts advice at you working up a sweat on a stationary bike...it is all as perverse as fairytale worlds really are. The things to discover are endless, and then you realise: no wonder red riding hood strays from the path.

Bubbling beneath the sense of wonderment is the cautionary tale. Your individual journey is interrupted occasionally by Red’s story, told in an extremely post-modern way. Red (besides the narrator-like character) is the only other speaking actor, and feels extremely forced, forcing what we’re very aware is a script into this world without a fourth wall. Don’t Stray From The Path toes the line between narrative and reality, as these characters which walk amongst the audience are aware of the performance scenario and their sense of conscious: the Wolf could eat an audience member rather than Red for example. It is a disturbingly revelatory comment made by Wonder Club to know that although the huntsman may be an ordinary audience member, any audience member could also be the wolf. The ensemble transform from entrancing women suspended gorgeously in mid-air to primordial creatures, which reflects the lesson learnt about the nature of humanity here.

Don’t Stray From The Path opens with a narrator like character gauging the audience response to pieces of advice; ‘Don’t talk to strangers – pass it on!’ exemplifies the ironic tone this production possesses. More significantly, it reflects the evolution of the cautionary tale i.e. that nowadays we don’t listen to advice like this. Admittedly, I was drawn to the bluesy, sensually played Wolf before I was aware of his character, which considering the connotations of his character, exemplifies the flaw in this contemporary attitude to advice. Yet altogether the threat which breathes in each separate element is never wholly realised. A sense of climax occurs as the Wolf chases Red using the actors and set in a thrilling interlude set against a palpitating song mainly consisting of the word ‘run’. But from here, the denouement is unfulfilling, the story strays from itself. Although the level of audience engagement is high, this isn’t taken advantage of; what this promenade performance is missing is simply an ending.

Don’t Stray From The Path really exemplifies the transportive quality of theatre that we love to become immersed in, and this show possesses a greater magnetism than the majority of naturalistic theatre we’ve become accustomed to watching. It’s a shame that this sort of theatre is still kept ‘underground’ because Don’t Stray From The Path was an eye-opening experience, not just a show. The Wonder Club has a diamond in the rough here, that only needs some polishing to shine for what it’s worth.

Do We Go To The Theatre To Cry?

It occurred to me recently that when I go to the theatre, I am much more likely to give a show a five star review if it if it makes me cry. I will admit immediately: I am a weeper; and therefore this is no mean feat. Still it raises the question: why have I come to expect a good show should move me to tears?

Myself being no fair judge alone, I asked my friends the same question and received basically two responses: either they are absolutely, most definitely, not criers. Or, yes they do expect, or at least relish the power of theatre to move.

An observant point was made about theatre itself as an art medium being to some, more moving than film, due to the intimacy of the space. I recall myself, crying onstage during a devised performance, and marvelling later at how apparently this was all the catalyst needed for the audience simultaneously to also burst into tears.

On reflection however, this was what I would call an extremely sentimental piece: something written in order to make an audience cry. The immortal themes of tragedy it seems, will inevitably make audiences cry: death, illness, loss etc. We’re identifying with human feelings which we all share, so no wonder several theatregoers I spoke to mentioned the cathartic nature of theatre. As with all art, we connect with it on a personal level, recalling our own feelings in relation to the characters in a revelatory communal experience. Yet on another level, it is something selfish a critic should perhaps consider. Simply because I connect with a play personally, I may give it five stars whereas another critic who doesn’t is just as liable to give it only one star.

I recall the most recent shows which have made me cry: Lovesong, and Matilda; two immensely different pieces of theatre. I would probably consider you heartless if you didn’t shed a tear at Lovesong. Its focus upon the unspoken being communicated physically primed it to be an exemplary tearjerker. As the audience fill in the silences with their own meanings, within the context of the piece, the suffering of the characters becomes unbearable to watch as if we are watching ourselves. At the other end of the spectrum, a musical. Matilda is probably the most delightful musical in London at the moment and so all it takes is a little girl’s story to turn what was a beaming smile upside down. Significantly, I have noticed with musicals that I can cry even if it’s an awful story, as personally music most definitely elevates the keenness of my emotional response. Of course a plot interspersed with song and dance is not only engaging on several levels, but simply easier to watch; so it is no wonder we may cry more often at the musicals. This begs the question, if we assume musicals are the more popular viewing choice over a play, is this because the sum of its elements are more likely to leave us in tears? By proof of the sheer popularity of musicals, has it become an expectation to pay for tears on top of tickets to feel we’ve received value for money?

Whether we like crying at the theatre or not, after writing this I no longer believe it is necessary in order for a show to deserve five stars. For example Jerusalem, a play which people camped overnight to see and travelled to Broadway and back, was in no way sentimental. But masterfully written to balance both the comedic and tragic in pure characters; a play which seemed so hard-hittingly real that it was experienced more than it was simply watched.

We might conclude that the most important dimension to emotional engagement is the appreciation of theatre as a form of escapism. One could argue that theatre requires greater suspension of disbelief than film, being more limited in its conventions; but if it is a well written and performed piece which absorbs the audience, then being a tear jerker should be neither here nor there to appreciate it.

Lovesong ****

Lovesong is the physical theatre company, Frantic Assembly’s latest venture in collaboration with writer Abi Morgan. Of course, an established playwright in her own right, but more notable for her work in film and tv, this has notably influenced the unique style of Lovesong.

Lovesong tells the story of one couple at the beginning and end of their lives together. This pure form is perhaps what makes it such a tearjerker, it takes just five minutes to fall in love with these lovers, which is important as you’ll be in tears within ten, floods by the end. The ushers even offer boxes of tissues after the show, due to popular demand, I was told. The formula is played with cleverly; the crossover between times is achieved seamlessly so that the characters seem like time travellers in this haunting exploration of memory. Of course, at the centre of this is Frantic Assembly’s gorgeous choreography. Everyday objects become triggers for this action; the actors emerge out of wardrobes or fridges sharing the same look of longing they hold for their lover with their younger counterpart.

The movement possess an entrancing fluidity. Refrains are used, the physical familiarity of lovers couldn’t be more apparent than in this choreography. I admit I shouldn’t have been surprised by the elder actors’ physical prowess, yet I feel they deserve an especial mention – perhaps they aren’t as sharp as the younger couple, but this ensemble wouldn’t leave the same impression without their rekindled energy working together with the younger couple’s. It lends a love which has grown old with the characters, a sense of eternal youth.

A production like this is dependent upon the marriage of movement and writing. But, Morgan achieves something altogether very different with silence. The silence is established from the beginning as being as vocal as any words which two people that know each other inside out could share. As a result, I feel the audience response is injected with something of them; we each hear something different in the silence.

It is an achievement to compel an audience to focus upon the little things like this, a quality I would relate more to film or television. Seemingly aware of this, the play opens with a projection of the title, almost like a title sequence. The play itself stands alone so well, I question the necessity of this device. The flight of the starling flock is a sweet metaphor, present throughout all the years they’ve lived there, and will remain after they’ve gone, almost like a child reminding us of their enduring sadness to have not had one. Yet I find it somewhat patronising that they feel the audience requires this visualisation aid, when we have sensibility enough to imagine the memories being recalled.

Otherwise, the production values work effortlessly with the play to create something which can only be described as beautiful. Their ‘lovesong’ is never heard in the absorbing soundtrack, remaining a private thing to them. Hensel’s design, a stage carpeted and coloured with leaves, could be used to greater effect, but focuses and binds their memories immortally to their garden. Graham and Hogget had a wonderfully lucid vision directing and choreographing this play which has been achieved with the craft of an artist, the brush strokes lingering in your mind’s eyes, long after you’ve dried your eyes.