Fleet Footing

I’m so excited about this new project with composer Catherine Kontz. It’s been brewing for a few years, and we are extra-pleased to be funded by the PRSF Women Make Music award, and supported by Tête à Tête – launching as part of their Opera Festival 2018.

The project is an audio dream guiding you along the lost River Fleet, from its source on Hampstead Heath to where it meets the Thames at Blackfriars. There’s text (both spoken and sung), binaural recording, found sound and music, as well as small performative actions that the listener can choose to take part in whilst they walk the route.

Print artist Rowanne Anderson (Rowan Tree Print) is making us a rather beautiful map to help people find their way and show them where the listening points are.

Lots more info lives over on Catherine’s site, which is also where you’ll find the album and map to download from July 27.

Writing on the Walls

I facilitated a workshop for Doctoral students and other guests at Brighton University as part of a two-day programme exploring Undisciplined Methods. Drawing on Lynda Barry and various other automatic writing, meditation and improvisation techniques, the workshop enabled 20+ people from a variety of academic and practice backgrounds to co-operatively create a large-scale drawing. The workshop allowed everyone to make marks in an uninhibited way, responding to the materials, the space and each other.



Landscape Poetry Experiments


I’ve been looking for ways to get away from the page or screen with my writing, where it gets a bit precious and fiddly. Whilst in the Welsh hills, I thought I’d try out some ideas about text in landscapes. The results are below – it’s an interesting start but I’d love to get back out there and with some different materials and work at different scales. I used rolls of greaseproof paper for this, which was sturdy enough when wet, and pleasingly translucent under the water. It was too windy to try anything with the 16m poem I wrote out; this one-line piece was about 6m long and already quite unwieldy and fragile in the stiff mountain breeze.

Pictures almost entirely by the ever-patient Timothy Bird.

Julius Caesar at the Donmar Warehouse

I’m not a reviewer, but I felt compelled to record my response to a recent theatre experience.

On going to see Julius Caesar at the Donmar Warehouse this week, I felt a strange mixture of excitement and dread. This play means more than the sum of its parts – as Clare Booth Luce pointed out once, a woman who fails does not fail only for herself, she fails for all women. I knew this production was being judged not just as a performance of Shakespeare, but as some kind of landmark for all women in theatre.

The reviews I had skimmed beforehand mostly pointed out the same flaw; that the prison setting, the play within a play framework, was distracting and reductive, and that it did not allow for the epic scope of Rome and State that lies at the centre of the text. I prepared myself for disappointment. That disappointment did not come.

That the play has some flaws, I do not dispute. Others have written better words than I can about the nuances of the various performances. (For what it’s worth, I found Harriet Walter and Cush Jumbo were both gripping, excellent, fierce and compelling). What I really want to talk about is the play within a play and what that meant for me. I’m no Shakespeare buff, and certainly no purist. I don’t know Julius Caesar particularly well as a play, though I know the story well enough from the dozens of television and film versions that have crossed my path over the years. What I found here was something else, something fresher and truer to me, as a female arts practitioner.

Bunny Christie’s stripped-back set and the use of basic props, no special effects, no big budget fireworks, left the text to stand by itself. In the hands of Walter et al, it came through loud and clear. The design also worked for me as a mirror to the general attitude towards women in theatre – the poor siblings of grand men of words, we do not have the bass notes to declaim and bellow, so we must be more creative. Mark Anthony’s speech was riveting, magnetic, because Cush Jumbo cannot resort to the cheap tricks used by the likes of David Calder (who’s King Lear raged like a mad bull across the globe stage a few years ago, tiresome and one-dimensional). The performance interrupts and disrupts itself as the prison and the prisoners impose their will on each other. Mostly though, for me, this setting made stood as a subtle but potent statement about the position of creative women, and of women in the performing arts particularly. After two hours of powerful and exciting work, after being so gripping and so gripped, after really truly proving that Women Can Do Shakespeare (as if we should have to prove anything in 2013, but there you go), after giving the text clarity, potency and passion that I’ve never experienced before, the cast must form an orderly queue and shuffle off into their cells, into the margins once more.

The setting was helped along by some excellent sound design – the room rang with a tinny reverb, leaving the text hanging in the atmosphere just for a moment. As the prison tannoy burst in on the action, it destroyed the illusion of one play, but drew so much out of the other, highlighting the response made by people like Charles Spencer, whose article about the play was not so much a review, as an exposé of his own misogyny. Watching this production in the light of the abuse thrown at Mary Beard, effectively told to shut up because she is not ‘attractive enough’ to hold a valid opinion, and other more or less vile responses to high profile women, it is hard not to read the disruptions, the undermining action of the inmates who titter behind the screen as Brutus and Cassius play out an emotional scene, as an illustration of how women’s voices are ridiculed and scorned despite the importance of what we are trying to say. Those who hurl the abuse, who want their women submissive, weak and Victorian, won’t ever be converted to an appreciation of the likes of the raw, energetic, angry people on this stage, and so we are left making work that preaches to the choir, repeating performances over and over to ourselves.

And these women are angry. The device that allows the actors to have a double layer of performance means that we see them affected by the play as our contemporaries. Harriet Walter is left shattered by her experience. We recognise her as a human, solid, real. We get two plays here, intertwining so effectively. We care about these women, about what has been imposed on them. Julius Caesar is clearly so important to them that we must solve the puzzle, we must engage and care about what they are doing. Ancient Rome means little to me, but watching these characters slug it out together, that means something more. Here these women battle to keep hold of their ideals, their power or their status, fighting both the state and their cellmates, and themselves.

There is much talk, when approaching old texts, of making it relevant. Each company approaching a classic must look for their own relevance. This group of people have, wuite validly, interpreted it thus. It is true that this production does not portray the epic scope of Ancient Rome, but it’s not like we’ve never seen that before. History is full of male-centric epics. This play is about something more profound: our own internal Romes, the points at which we all sacrifice something for an ideal, or sacrifice the ideal for our own selfish reasons. Each of us has a Julius and a Brutus inside. What this play is really talking about is more complex, more difficult and more compelling than a bunch of long dead men in togas. This is a play about us, here, now, demanding to be heard and demanding to be released from the echo chamber of marginalisation.

Haiku Fortnight

I’m currently taking part in a Haiku Fortnight Challenge. For two weeks, I’ve been writing a Haiku a day. Here are the results so far:


Shifty pigeons and

Spider-light threads drift through the

Incontinent sky



A tanker slides past

I hear engines through my feet

Thames talks in tremors



An aeroplane, high,

Passes, scars the perfect blue

As the wind changes



Wake up to birdsong

The clean morning, dew laden

Washes me with light.



Absolute silence,

A long low inkblot of trees,

Broken by birdwings



Trains clatter above

Bright flowers shake fragile heads

Trembling defiance



Small dogs chase pigeons

Boats nose into the ebb tide

A summer swan song



Light against my palm

The leaf, promise fulfilled, keeps

Ochre remembrance