As You Will Like It

As one of the Shakespeare plays I am less familiar with, it was the idea of the evening as a whole that attracted me to the Cambridge Shakespeare Festival production of As You Like It at Girton College, Cambridge, rather than purely the theatricals. However, the play turned out to be possibly the best part.

Set in the beautiful quad in Girton College, the stage was simplistic; a sheet in a tree was pretty much it. The actors used the green space, the paths between the audience and the college buildings in a way which effectively involved the spectators.

The eclectic group performed the story; full of farce, pretence and forbidden lovers (unlike Shakespeare) impeccably. The story, which is mildly challenging to follow at the best of times due to the disguise element and the fact that  Shakespearean troupes usually play multiple characters so it is hard to distinguish whether they are masquerading as a different person or are actually meant to be a different person, meant it took a little while to distinguish and retain the knowledge of who was who. This wasn’t helped by the vast spread of picnic and beverages which was brought out by one of our group during the opening.

It was a brilliant cast, all in all; the more serious characters complimenting the more jestful. I thought no-one covered both sides of this coin better than Phoebe, whose distainful rebuttal of Silvius and goofy attraction to Orlando was hilarious (and the latter, understandable). Orlando was also performed very well; an entertaining and believably depiction of a love-struck teen. Or as believable as it can be when the story rests on the plausibility of a man not recognising the woman he loves in the flimsy guise of a forest-dwelling boy.

A fabulous evening. Beautiful setting, great acting and a good picnic. Exactly as I like it (barf).

(Last performance tomorrow, go - http://www.cambridgeshakespeare.com/programme/as-you-like-it/)

Mouse Mystery

I am absolutely baffled as to how this scene, which I just discovered in my family kitchen, came to be...

I am forced to mull ... Has the cat has become more nimble-fingered and able than I thought, and learned to make her own dinner? Or is a member of my family capable of cruel rodent-murder, all in the name of a sick joke? 

I'm not sure which is scarier.

Port Eliot 2012

When it came to the Thursday that I usually go to Secret Garden Party, I was questioning my decision to go to a relatively low-key literature festival in Cornwall. Partly because I love Secret Garden Party, partly because about half of the people I’ve met and are related to in in my life were going, partly because Port Eliot meant a four hour train journey after work on the Friday. All things considered, it was a curious decision - but one that paid off. 

When we arrived into St Germans, the little wooden station in Cornwall, I was bracing myself for taxi queues, people queues, every type of queue. In reality, there was almost no queue at all - nothing during the short walk from the station to the site, and very little once there. This pill was sweetened by our pals coming to meet us, with a bottle of Prosecco and some plastic glasses on hand. From there we made our way to our “bell tents” - something which is no nearer resembling a tent as I know it, as it is a bell. With tea lights lit and talk of lobster in the chilly air, I realised this would not be a festival as I know it. Thoughts of Secret Garden grew fainter. 

After a cracking first evening watching legendary DJ, Gaz Mayall, and wandering about the exciting and surprisingly dry site, I had the coldest night of my life. Tent space is not one’s friend in terms of keeping warm, apparently and the word “glam” in glamping is refering solely to aesthetics. It was of those mornings you are a bit suprised to gain consciousness due to the alcohol consumption and Arctic climes weathered in the previous twelve hours. Anyway, gain consciousness I did - to a sunny morning with The Guardian (my mother, no not really - the actual Saturday Guardian...and my mother) and Eggs Benedict. I was struck, when drinking Prosecco doing the crossword in the sun in front of the beautiful aquaduct, that I am on the brink of being too old for having life changing experiences in the portaloos in Abbots Ripton (site of SGP, and not really something I’ve done but an acquaintance). And not really too old, but appreciating the finer things in life seems like a more pleasant prospect - and the finer things in life no longer measurable in grams. 

The weekend flew by in a perfect daze of Prosecco and sun - with a spattering of talented authors, bands, comedians and fashionistas. Favourites were probably Mary Katrantzou - who gave an inspiring talk and explanation for her infamous prints, and preview of her new Port Eliot dress. Also, fiddly troupe, Maniere des Bohemiens (http://www.porteliotfestival.com/performers-2012/maniere-des-bohemiens-2/), they did an awesome set on the Saturday evening which had the whole eclectic and varied clientelle up and dancing. Comedien and gentleman rhymer and his posse, Mik Artistik's Ego Trip (http://www.porteliotfestival.com/uncategorized/mik-artistiks-ego-trip-2/), had crowds in hysterics with his clever and mischevious songs. Marcel Theroux's quiz on Saturday night was a blast also. And then there was the talks about Greek Philosophy, myriad other talented folk, and interesting people around to talk to. 

(not my image - from crisandcros.com)

My favourite reaction to an event was a pal coming back from speaking to the race horsing monks (or somethign similar): “What. The. Fuck?” He had written “gold is power” in their book of thoughts though, so I fear he didnt get what was intended out of the experience. 

The grounds were beautiful, the people - performers and watchers - were gracious and great, the stalls were interesting, the weather pulled through incredibly - as was visible by the freckles and sun burn on our faces when we drove into West London horribly early on Monday morning. There is nothing like pre-Olpympic traffic to bring one back down to earth, but the memory of the weekend kept me relaxed and happy for days to come. Topped up by the news that Secret Garden had been a bit of a wash out.

(Individual reviews to come...)

Sophie Morgan at Bloomsbury Art Fair

Bloomsbury Art Fair 2012 was a great affair; an eclectic mix of beautiful art and photography in Goodenough College on Mecklenburgh Square. 

Though the level of talent being exhibited was truly fabulous, one artist in particular caught my eye. It was initially the paintings of water that captured my attention; having focused on Hopper and water in my A-Level art, I appreciated that depicting water is no easy feat. The painter was Sophie Morgan. 

I spent some time looking at her interesting and beautiful pieces; in an incredible range of media - pencil drawings, blind drawings, paintings. It was only after a few minutes that I realised Sophie was in a wheelchair. In the way I think everyone does, I was immediately curious as to what lead to this. I did not realise her story (http://sophiemorgan.com/about/) would be so incredible. Every time I think about it, I want to cry. It does not seem, however, that Sophie has dealt with what life has thrown at her in this way. That doesn’t stop one wanting to cry - but it becomes not out of sadness for her but for utter incredulousness at her unerring bravery.

I think Sophie’s story struck a chord with me (as it probably does for all, for a variety of reasons) as I have sisters at that stage in life. Furthermore, I have felt on that brink of the next “stage” having recently finished university. I find it very easy to get too wrapped up in the banal trials and tribs of day to day life but in the same way a friend’s death last summer did, Sophie’s story gives one perspective. It feels silly to beat yourself up about not managing to write a blog post everyday, to be irritated at smashing a face powder, at an expensive phone bill. It gives you a shake up and is inspiring in a way that catches in your throat every time you think about it.

Radio preferences

I love Radio 4 but it just seems to be people constantly moaning at the moment. 

The “Graduate Special” the other day was ludicrous. Some graduate-lings talking about not getting replies to emails or feedback to job applications. Forgive me, scoffing at your naivety but the sooner you stop being so weedy, the sooner you will be in my position - a cynical radio listener scoffing at the next round of graduates.  

And don’t get me started on Olympic feed back ... people moaning about queues for food! When do you not have to queue for food? Whether it is to receive someone’s mother’s fish pie or at a fast food emporium. I mean, Olympically-speaking I am impressed. The opening ceremony looked good to me. I like the English ability to laugh at one’s self - although I agreed that the rest of the world must think we are completely bonkers. To be honest the fact that none of those cycling birds fell over will keep me going throughout the inconveniences of the next month. 

If you want something a little more upbeat, switch occasionally over to ABS80s. Absolute 80‘s, which will “keep you up to date” - as IF that would be your radio station of choice if you wanted to stay on top of your world issues. The funniest bit about the station is their “no repeat guarantee”. True, no song is played more than once a day, but come midnight it is exactly the same songs, day after day. Still good though.

Damien Hirst: A Retrospective

Amongst flurries of scathing and adoration, Damien Hirst is exhibiting his retrospective works at the Tate Modern until 9th September.

The exhibition demonstrates his ongoing obsession with the most dark and real areas of life, and the reason why he attracts so much controversy.  

From shock-inducing maggots and bleeding cows heads, to floating beach balls and stinking giant ash trays; the exhibition is a bombardment on the senses. 

It is interesting to perceive Hirst’s interest in values and beliefs, religion and science, appreciation for colour and nature, and his all too well-documented obsession with death and money in one all-encompassing exhibition. 

Whatever you like, their is something here for you. Shock factor? You will not be disappointed; from clowns discussing death, to dead animals in all stages of maggot-covered decay. Colour? Hirst’s spin and spot paintings which celebrate and control colour, respectively. Nature lovers? Hirst exhibits the cycle of life in an incredible way (think, pupa to live butterflies), and his works, such as “Doorways to the Kingdom of Heaven” which is a triptych of stained glass-looking windows made of butterfly wings, appreciate the beauty of nature.

Throughout the eleven rooms, there was the niggling quotes of recent Hirst-haters in the back of my mind. I was torn between mulling over the ongoing “What is art?” debate; especially when I saw an escaped fly from “A Thousand Years” in a different room, and feeling equally scathing towards quotes such as “I try and say something and then deny it”.

Go and see what you make of the exhibition and Damien Hirst, "one of the most important and highly regarded artists of his generation", for yourself - in the Tate Modern until September 9th 2012.

(Written for Insider London ages ago - http://insidertrends.squarespace.com/insider-london-tours-blog/)

Yoko Ono at The Serpentine

I went to the ‘Yoko Ono: To The Light’ exhibition when I was at a loose (and poor) end today after a luncheon meet ended an hour or so early. From Lancaster Gate the little walk across Kensington Gardens was very pleasant, and I found The Serpentine with relative ease (not thanks to the labyrinthical trail of maps and signs, that are about as helpful as that stupid scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz).

As someone who thinks, predominantly, of Ono as John Lennon’s wife (I don’t think I am in the minority), I was interested to see her artworks - especially after some pretty scathing reviews. I find that a very interesting prospect; like seeing a film a friend has walked out of. 

The exhibition was interesting. Using a variety of media, Ono tests the boundaries between “the artist and the viewer”, and the interaction between the viewer and the art in the gallery space. This may have been more effective had it not been exhibited in England. The extent of the interaction I witnessed was an old woman walking over a piece of fabric (which I don’t even know if she knew was there); to which a man said: “You are the first person I’ve seen treading on that fabric”. Presumably he was making reference to the title of the piece: “Fabric to be trodden on” (or something similar). I don’t know whether this was just some elderly chat-up line, instigated by her renegade actions, but it did make me aware of how totally un-interactive everyone was being. Maybe this was due to the fact that one isn’t allowed to interact in any tactile way with the works, as was confirmed by Michael Glover of The Independent. 

The much talked-about pieces of performance art, “Cut Piece” (1964 and 2003) - which involved Ono sitting and audience members cutting her dress - were interesting. I, maybe wrongly, assume that the earlier ‘Cut Piece’ were not filmed in England as the concept of sexual domination seems only to be being normalised with the recent publication of “Fifty Shades of Grey”, let alone 1964 which was when the piece was performed. 

The films showing were conceptually interesting and impressive for their time. With subjects varying from kissing, to ‘Bottoms’ and nipples (granted, not a terribly varied selection), they were compelling - mostly due to the fact that John Lennon features in them. The abstract poetry gracing the walls in the same room also made for an interesting read. 

The wish-tree was a nice finishing touch; with predictable things like “world piece” which, for me, emphasised the obviousness of some parts of the exhibition in an irritating way, but with others, for example; ones about ill family members and “I wish for a smaller chin” which evoked warmer emotions towards the writer.

All in all, it was an interesting and thought-provoking exhibition; which I would recommend highly to others, although not one’s that are too artistically snobby.