Hannah Nicklin

Disquiet Volume

This is just a quick reaction to one of the three pieces I went to see in London last Saturday. Blogging has gotten slack as things are a bit hectic at the moment as over the next 3 weeks or so I will be writing chapter 2 for the PhD (The Soundwalk and the City, since [I might as well pretend] you asked); as well as jaunting all over the place. Jaunts include the Debbie Pearson/Chris Goode Word Festival double bill, 3 pieces at ‘Mezze‘ in Leeds, Mapping the City in Hull, taking part in the As Yet Impossible Symposium (which I’m incredibly stoked to be invited to) in Manchester, an Ontroerend Goed piece at WAC, a two day hardcore/punk festival in Lincoln, a new format/writing session in Lichfield and the exciting possibility of charing a ‘Making Future Narrative‘ event in my home city (that last one tbc). Plus meetings with various folk about exciting things future-orientated. It’s properly awesome, but I’m struggling for time a little bit. And should probably take a break… er. Sometime.

Anyway, I saw 3 things in a Massive Theatre Day with the lovely Megan Vaughan; Little Eagles (RSC, new play, Space, Communist Russia), Chekhov in Hell (Dan Rebellato, described very well by @danielbye as a ‘satire on the grotesqueries of our culture’. Funny, but ultimately defeating) and the London Word Festival audio/library piece The Quiet Volume.

I by no means am going to talk fully about the piece, but I did want to note one particular aspect of my reaction to it because it’s interested me, and has me thinking a bit. It was actually the piece that I enjoyed and engaged with least, and this is a kind of attempt to try and learn from what it was that had that effect:

1) I cannot stand ‘sticky’ voices – that horrible sound you get from a cloyingly dry mouth. Intentional or no, the piece had two voices (the second much worse) whispering stickily in my ear for half an hour which made me feel pretty ill-disposed to their story.

2) The lack of bodily autonomy (it was only really my head and hands that moved) made me feel pretty trapped by the piece.

3) I was recovering from a migraine, so it was difficult for me to focus very easily on words, and especially to scan passages of writing quickly, both of which were required by the piece. Continue reading…

And the Sky – #1on1fest

Image shared by SkyD on Flickr via a CC license

Thought I’d throw some brief reactions to BAC’s One on One Festival,  which I was very glad to finally get to on its last day – this Saturday.

Firstly, I love BAC. It’s the only arts centre I’ve ever felt like I belong in. This may have something to do with the kind of work I’ve experienced there – all buried away in different corners of the building, asking you to explore it – but either way I need to get back and see more things there. In fact on that note I just popped them in google reader (RSS link here) – take note theatre companies, have a blog, and mention stuff you’re doing there, a feed is a brilliant way for people to find stuff out without you bending their ear about it (Twitter, usually).

OK, so, for those not familiar with the #1on1fest format – basically it’s an awful lot of pieces of theatre/performance/intervention/experience for one. Or occasionally two. But mostly one. For this version of the festival I picked a set ‘menu’ of 3 piece (one main, two sides), but could also ‘do’ one of 10 extra pieces around the building, ranging from posters appearing throughout the building which suggested progressively scenes for two people to play out, to a couple of tin cans on a piece of string for you to ‘phone in’ famous movie lines from, and a mysterious message about the ‘loveliness principle’ which gave you a series of clue to follow if you called a certain number.

I chose the ‘out of body’ set menu. I write an awful lot about immersive things, I kind of felt myself interested in intimate or single-person experiences to transport rather than immerse. Here’s what I got:

You Only Live Twice (But Die Once) – Kazuko Hohki

This played pleasantly with sound. Introduced (after removing your shoes) to a light, minimalist space, you lie down on a futon and voices speak to you from a radio, and inside your pillow. They can hear you reply. Unfortunately there was a lot of noise bleeding in from outside so I never quite drifted into the world of the piece. This meant the payoff (SPOILER, SKIP TO THE NEXT PARAGRAPH IF YOU DON’T WANT IT) of your being woken by a lady ninja above your head, didn’t quite hit it. For me, female eyes looking through a space in black fabric says ‘burqa’ before it says ‘ninja’. This may be a British thing, or it may have been I never quite left my British body behind well enough for it to work.

And the Birds Fell From the Sky – Il Pixel Rosso

This was my ‘main’. A piece using video played into a visor, 3d sound in headphones, and the effect of sprayed whisky, brushes of hands, and the sitting down on a vibrating car seat to create an out-of-body (or in-another’s-body) experience. Continue reading…

I Was Nearly Arrested for Wearing a Scarf

I was asked on Monday by @quietriot_girl to talk to @DAaronovitch about the brief moment when I was threatened with arrest on the day of the March for the Alternative. It was fleeting, and the officer and I were both firm but polite, so I hadn’t really thought about putting something down about it. Especially when compared with wider, more serious betrayals by police officers, the conflation of UKuncut with the Black Bloc, mass arrests for peaceful occupation, and the general media hullabaloo that typically follows such a large protest.

However @kmachin and a couple of others asked me to put this up on my blog, as opposed to Twitlonger, because it’s more easily linkable. So here you go, don’t ever let it be said I don’t pander to public pressure.

I was approached by a sergeant Hanna (pictured right) while I was walking along Oxford street with #anticutsleeds folk after the march (early evening; cold!) and asked to remove my pink scarf covering my mouth and nose under section 60 of the Criminal Justice Act, or I would be arrested. It was quiet, with just a few stragglers walking around. Most of the ‘action’ was then happening about 5 minutes away at Fortnum and Mason. I replied that I thought I couldn’t be required to remove clothing, and he explained that special measures in the CJA which can be signed into effect by a senior officer allow concealing one’s identity to be an arrestable offence. You can (a later google found out) be imprisoned for a maximum of 51 weeks for doing so.

I asked if I could take a picture of his I.D., and he reminded me that I was still wearing my scarf. I remarked that we had a similar name, and removed my scarf. We smiled at each other slightly ironically, and I moved on.

The encounter was brisk, but polite. Why is it notable? If I have nothing to hide, why not show my face? Because our criminal justice system should not require me to prove my innocence – not by what I wear or any other means. Reasonable suspicion, and the burden of proof; semper necessitas probandi incumbit ei qui agit – “the necessity of proof always lies with the person who lays charges”* those are the principles by which we consent to be policed.

These powers of removing items that obscure identity were plainly brought in to enable their FIT officers (plenty on the ground) to get clear coverage of everyone – to build up a picture of regular protestors to target. For that same reason I believe the #ukuncut lot were arrested whilst the black bloc were running amok causing much more media-friendly trouble – for their phones (all confiscated); their networks. Continue reading…

Fierce

I thought I’d throw down some quick thoughts from the two pieces which have stuck with me most from my day at Fierce Festival on Wednesday. Fierce, if you don’t know, is a Birmingham-based festival of live art, plus lots of lovely words like ‘supernow’ and ‘hyperlocal’. Which actually, it kind of is. Fancy that.

Symphony of a Missing Room (Lundahl & Seitl):

Symphony was, in the simplest terms, the augmentation of the Birmingham Museum and Gallery with sound and light*. An experience begun and ended as a group, but that very quickly evaporates into a binaural audio wandering-for-one (extremely effective in the acoustic environment of a museum); then vanishes into bright blindness as goggles – through which you can only really distinguish shifts in the light – obscure your vision. You are guided on journey by a voice, and by the touch and brush of warm hands.

Symphony reminded me of the best of my childhood dreams, always about behind, under, through. I had this particular dream (I tried to write the book of it aged 9, it had an illustration, and everything) that on a certain night, running in the dark through the big creaky barn-house that was where I grew up, I would take the stairs, but it would be a set I had never walked down before; a set of stairs that took me to another time, or another place. Symphony was like that feeling, like striking across a playing field with dusty knees and stripy dress in summer, but also knowing, knowing, it was a spindly bridge across the fiery lava pits guarding some treasure.

The piece played with your trust, but pleasurably so, the guide was both reliable and flighty; easily scared off, but as you moved – guided by the touches of numerous hands – you never felt lost.

It began curiously, with slowings-down, reveals, and the constant question ‘is this a part of it?’ – it was in this very beginning question that I felt the piece was its strongest, it’s most taught. The blind wanderings through the secret door (to find the missing room) were almost magical (though left to go on a little too long), and at the last you are left lying on a piece of carpet, as regular museum-goers walk quizzically around you – feeling how I always imagined the humans in a Midsummer’s Night’s Dream feel as they wake up; back in the real world, with a sensation of having tripped across worlds, but never having left that spot.

Unfortunately the main voice grated a little for me (kind of like a fairy that you want to swat). I’d have also like to have seen it play a little more with physical sensations, of rushing air, water, or the smell of tree bark, and to weave in the male voices a little more sense-fully. But these are minor, and probably quite personal gripes. Mostly it was transporting, mostly I felt like I was in a secret room hung with cobwebs and adventure, mostly it was a journey that didn’t fill you in as a character, or part of a narrative, but that asked quiet questions about perception, buildings, and the spaces we travel between life and art. A fracture of a fairy tale, that you slip through for a moment. Continue reading…