After a smooth tech rehearsal, I came to performance day relatively calm. The set, though a little tricky to get up, looked just how I wanted it to; the exception to this being that we couldn’t get the bookshelves to hang straight. However I actually preferred the affect the uneven look created, the slight distortion, to me, seemed to capture the idea that although I had tried my hardest to organise my thoughts and arrange them in this neat library, there were still peaks and troughs in my train of thought; uncertainties and imbalances picked up in the not-so-neat lines of my set. After some rehearsal time with Martin and alone in the space, I was still struggling last minute with lines and nerves so we went up five minutes late.

When my audience entered, I was pleased to find them responsive to my casual greetings and that the house was full. Although the performance started and went well overall, I lost my lines not long into the piece. However, I was able to recover them, and although some of the script was skipped, I kept to my cue lines and was able to run the Bertha section in its entirety, unintentionally skipping a portion of the final section, but finishing as planned. My audience was very supportive and I think engaged throughout, despite the issue with lines. I was disappointed that I wasn’t able to deliver the piece as I had intended it; although not quite as eloquently or smoothly as I had hoped, I do however believe the general idea and themes I wanted to touch on were received successfully by my wonderful audience.

 

The process of creating this solo piece has been incredible; more than I ever thought it would be when we first embarked on this journey, as a little class of 6 at the start of the year. I thoroughly enjoyed the whole process and I think I explored the area thoroughly and successfully. Seeing a variety of shows at the LPAC and researching various artists in class opened my eyes and mind to the multifaceted multitude of solo performance and performers. I think my development throughout the module was progressive; I first thought I would create an introspective, entirely autobiographical piece but am pleased that, through class discussion, practical exploration and research in equal measures, I eventually created a more outward-facing piece that was, hopefully, relatable and intellectually stimulating. I was glad to have the opportunity to intertwine and build upon both the English and Drama sides of my degree and explore and inform the latter through the former.

Overall, I couldn’t be happier with my decision to take solo as my final undergraduate module, I couldn’t have asked for a more lovely, supportive and inspirational class with which to work or indeed a similar teacher for us all.

Hello, it is nice to see some familiar faces! I know you’re not all used to this whole, performance thing but it’s just me, Natalie, Natty, Hi. So this is just me talking to each of you, I’ll also be Performing, but it’s still me under it all. Now that you’re all here I’m supposed to tell you a story. That’s, kind of the point of this whole thing; me being here, you being here. (All of this (gesture at set) will come into it a bit later, it’s my way of processing things.) But the whole, construct that we’re working with means that you’re going to listen to me, whether you enjoy yourselves or hate every second is kind of by the by, that’s down to you as much as it is down to me. But, enjoyment aside, I have 10-12 minutes of your attention, give or take. And when I realised that, suddenly this felt like a pretty serious responsibility, that is, actually telling you a story. I mean, which story do I tell, whose story is worth telling, what story do you want to hear, why do I need to tell it? Do you want my story?  It’s probably not all that different from yours, I mean, we’re all on the same page here, our chapter titles will have been almost identical, I little variation in actual content and character count but essentially the same story arc has led us here. And now, now we’re faced, not just with a new chapter but an entirely new sequel and I’m questioning, everything. What I have/n’t learnt. What I have/n’t been taught. What I know. What I can and should do with that knowledge.

How do I mould all of that into 12 minutes of story? Sure, at this point in my life I’ve read a fair few…

If the Great Library in which we stand, some call it the universe, contains all. Every story that is, has been and will be exists within this great library for I declare that the library is endless, infinite. Though today we stand in just one of an endless number of rooms. Temple touch Here, each is constructed just as this one is, with six sides and four bookcases each holding 32 books of 410 pages, each page of 40 lines each line of approximately 40 letters, standing side by side, on every side, and one on top of the other, each with a single square shaft through which one can glimpse the others, continuing on from one another endlessly, and so know the limitlessness of the great library.

There is no combination of characters one can make that the divine library has not forseen, for the Library is total, perfect, complete and whole. For every rational line or forth-right statement there are leagues of senseless cacophony, verbal nonsense and incoherency. The certainty that everything has already been written, annuls us.

What redeems this gesture round room is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea

because, I miss the way geometry of belief made me feel safe.

All I know now is, everything is not as it’s sold. The past, present and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present.

We do not grow chronologically, along a straight path. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are made up of cells, layers, constellations. And the more I grow, the less I know.

If there is a limit to all things and a measure

And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness

If we cross our bridges as we come to them and burn them behind us so we have nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and the presumption that once our eyes watered. What else can I say but the truth?

 

When I am dead, compassionate hands will throw me over the railing, my tomb will be the unfathomable air, my body will sink for ages, and will decay and dissolve in the wind engendered by my fall, which will be infinite.

 Do I dare disturb the universe?

 

I’m off track, rambling, miles from the story you came to see,

 

Had I skill in speech to make my will quite clear.

 

I want to know, why is it that we simply know and ‘love’ and remember the stories we are told we must read, Those stories and simply accept them as the ones we should in fact read, without question?

 

Clearly no one expects to discover anything. And yet, I think, therefore I am, I wonder how it is then, tell me this, if every story has been written why hasn’t every tale been told?

What if I could tell you a story that you had never heard, for you had never sought to find it?

 

This is my goal, methodological composition distracts me from the present condition of humanity because you see Everyone cares what everybody thinks but nobody cares about anyone. If that wasn’t the way we wouldn’t have this story, but it is and we do and it is time to tell it. Though One must be careful of books, and what is inside them, for words have the power to change us…

 

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They say when trouble comes, close ranks. And so the white people did.

But, we were not in Their ranks…

When I asked her why so few people came to see us, she told me that the road from town to the Estate – where we lived – was very bad and that road repairing was now a thing of the past.

My father, visitors, horses, feeling safe in bed          all belonged in the past

 

One morning, my mother’s horse was lying under a tree, he was not sick, he was dead

I ran away and did not speak of it. I thought if I told no one it might not be true.

“Now we are marooned” she said. “Now what will become of us.”

She tied my plaits with string; there was no money for ribbon.

I got used to a solitary life.

 

Until Mr Mason

I was a bridesmaid when my mother married Mr Mason and Everyone came to see them. There was music and laughing and dancing

**Dance?! He didn’t come here to dance, he came to make money. The big estates are going cheap.**

**A fantastic marriage and he will regret it! She is not like the English girls, she will put up a fight.**

They were happy.

She road into town with him for he brought more horses. She showed him the hidden roads through the hills…

He took her to parties and they held them too for he repaired the house and brought the staff back again

And I, was sent away to school…

 

When I returned, she had been sent away too.

“Your mother is looked after there, she is, very, unwell”

I did not speak of it, I thought if I told no one it might not be true

“You may not visit”

I got used to a solitary life.

Until Mr Rochester…

 

Mr Mason introduced us…

“I have asked some English friends to visit us here, you won’t be dull? I want you to be happy, secure, I’ve tried to arrange it. We’ll talk about it later.”

-Say nothing and?-

When at last we met I played the part I was supposed to play, for better or for worse

 

He did not like our honeymoon house, hidden from view by the trees.

I have seen to everything, arranged, everything. We shall not linger long here. You will be most at home at Thornfield, Bertha.

But what about, happiness I thought at first, is there no happiness? There must be. Oh, happiness, of course. Happiness, well.

He liked the rum, very much, and the maid, even more so.

If I told no one it might not be true.

 

**The marriage made him a wealthy man but now his father and brother have died he’s inherited everything – Some people are fortunate.

If you imagine this gentleman is the devil you never made a greater mistake in your life. I knew him as a boy, as a young man, he was gentle, generous, brave. His journey has changed him. **

 

It is always cold here, in this room, cold and grey, with its locked door hidden from the passage by a tapestry…

There is one window, high up, you cannot see out of it.

There is not much else here. Everything is made of cardboard.

Please take me away from this place where it is so cold and grey, I think I am dying.

If I told no one it all might not be true

I am very unwell

It isn’t like it seems to be.

 

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Where is fantasy read, in the heart or in the head? 

Don’t ask me.

I wouldn’t know the difference anyway.

She didn’t actually say all this.  Not like I can.

But for a moment, I can make you care about her, even if she’s not real.

She was lost in her longing to understand.

 

So it goes.

 

I’m starting to understand things: It’s is not about telling the truth.

It’s about telling the version of a story
that gets the most reaction,
the one that flows the best,
But I can hear the inhalation of truth in between breaths of poetry.

Maybe the truth

Isn’t supposed to rhyme so well.

Because aren’t we all unfinished?

Don’t we all need a little editing?

Aren’t we all waiting to be proofread by someone?

Aren’t we all praying they will tell us that we make sense?

 

All the real people? They’re really not real at all.

That’s you, this is me, we are. We are.

Take a deep breath and listen to the old brag of your heart; I am, I am, I am.

You have to carry on living because the world doesn’t stop for any of us.

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft, animal of your body love what it loves.

 

My heart beats and breaks. A successive machine that doesn’t know when to start or how to stop. But I think it will keep on going. My heart beats and breaks, but I think I will keep on because I have so much to give.

I have spread my dreams under your feet.

Everything changes. You can make A fresh start with your final breath, say goodbye to a way of life you thought you had designed. But what has happened has happened. And the water You once poured into the wine cannot be Drained off again. What has happened has happened. The water You once poured into the wine cannot be Drained off again.

At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.

I am cheered by that but must leave you with this and urge you to remember; it is not as it seems to be.

 

From the very start of the module, I started collecting text; song lyrics, poetry, quotes from tv shows and films, even quotes from conversations around me in real life. The more lines I collected, the better they seemed to fit together, and the harder it seemed to interject lines I created myself. I therefore made the decision to create my text using predominantly other people’s words. This also felt ideologically representative of the issues I was touching on around authorship and authority when it comes to the written word.

To do this, I printed every line of text I had found, and cut them up. Which, eventually, gave me this;

          

 

          

 

I then reassessed the text I had, though some editing and removing had been done during the cutting process, and reordered it so that the ideas flowed on, one from the other;

            

 

I felt this was not only the most appropriate way to collate my script, but an enjoyable and interesting one; seeing all my different thoughts and feelings, in the words of others, laid out before me and being able to organise them into a coherent progression was both satisfying and soothing. This was then re-typed and had the introduction and Bertha sections added to it, resulting in my final script.

• Set

I have already written about wanting to create a room from Borges, The Library of Babel. Here follows the photo documentation of the various aspects of doing so.

This is my initial sketch, made directly from Borges’ story;

 

To create my own version of this room, I sectioned off the lower part of Studio 2 with the curtains and a row of black flats, in order to create an intimate, enclosed space.

In each corner of this space, I suspended ‘bookshelves’ of sorts; three flat rectangles of cardboard, parallel to the floor, covered in tape and spray-painted silver to create a cold, metallic look – adding to the dystopian feel of the space, hung with, silver spray painted, string from the scaffolding to hover approximately 4 feet from the floor.

On these ‘shelves’ I made cardboard stands with printed images of rows of identical books, I liked the regimented, slightly surreal look of having identical, leather bound, cold blue covers;

To represent the limitlessness of the ‘infinite’ library, the endless continuation of room upon room, I stood a metal frame in the centre of the space, acting as the ‘air shaft’ from Borges’ story, and placed an image of that same frame reducing in size to just a few pixels. I also suspended one of these from the lighting rig, directly above the one on the floor to create the idea that the room in which we all stood was in an undetermined space within the Great Library.

 

Overall, though the reality of creating this set was at times frustrating, I was happy with the final result. However, I unfortunately do not have any photographic documentation of the final result, as I did not have time to take any pre-show shots, and by the time I had returned from receiving my post-show feedback, half of the set had already been dismantled by the technicians.

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• Lighting

I felt that lighting was really important for creating the right atmosphere, from when the audience entered, to representing different portions of my script, to the final blackout.

Firstly, we created a corridor of light that led the audience to the performance area; this decision was made as, although I did want to greet my audience, I wanted to remain in the curtained off space for the entirety of the piece.

The main wash was inspired by Borges’ description of the library’s light being, ‘unceasing and insufficient’; the lights were therefore kept at 30%. I also wanted to be on the same level with my audience for the opening and close of my performance, therefore the light covered the whole space for these sections, including the audience, uniting me with them.

To represent the progressive isolation and deterioration of Bertha’s mental and emotional state, I decided that the Bertha section should begin with a full, front-facing spotlight. This aimed to distinguish the ‘performance’ section from the ‘Natalie talking’ sections. This front spot came down to 70% at the next stage of Bertha’s journey, with an added downward spot at 30%. This aimed to create different shadows and amplify the change in mood. The next point of deterioration triggered a switch to 30% front-facing spot, 70% downward spot, increasing the shadows on my face. For the final point, where Bertha is locked alone in the attic, the front-facing spot was removed completely, with just the downward spot remaining. This meant the shadows on my, or rather Bertha’s, face were dramatically distinguished, the aim of this being to show her depressed and dehumanised state.

For the final scene, the wash lights came back up, reuniting performer and audience. This scene ended with a total blackout as ‘Natalie’ implicitly threw herself down the airshaft.

I had previously shared my ideas for the ‘Bertha’ section of the performance with the class and had received positive feedback on the chosen text, simple expression and moments of character change. How to distinguish between the ‘Natalie/Curator’ character and then the ‘Bertha’ character was questioned. I decided to do this simply with light; creating a spotlit ‘stage’ for the Bertha portion as opposed to broad lighting, including the audience, for the ‘Curator’ sections surrounding it.

 

Martin suggested that I explore the distinction between the ‘curator’ – a quirky, obsessive librarian who inhabited Babel’s library, and ‘Natalie’ as my true persona / the performer. Eventually, the curator slipped away and it seemed that I would instead take on a characterised version of myself for the non-Bertha portions of the performance. It was at this point that I decided my costume should be a simple, grey shirt-dress; something plain and colourless seemed fitting for Bertha, whilst the grey also seemed to fit the cold, dystopian library. However, I added a touch of Natalie to my costume by wearing thick, woolly, slightly holey, grey knee high socks, pooled around my ankles; a trademark comfort when I’m around the house.

 

By our final session as a whole class, I was feeling fairly comfortable with the majority of my script, except for the introduction. How should my audience enter and how should the piece actually begin? It was at this point that Martin and the class suggested that I go further than being ‘Natalie the performer’ and try just being Natalie. After all, I had always felt the need to address the constructedness of the performance, for I would know all of my audience and they would know me, and so know that I was, obviously, performing. I also reconsidered the technique used in creating the script for Major Tom; telling stories off the top of your head and transcribing the result. This led me to combine some earlier text, documented in the ‘Introductions…’ blog post, with some direct address to the audience in which I would speak as Natalie, tell them that I would at times also be ‘performing’ some text through the Natalie they all know and taking on an entirely separate character too.