"I believe that despite the enormous odds which exist, unflinching, unswerving, fierce intellectual determination, as citizens, to define the real truth of our lives and our societies is a crucial obligation which devolves upon us all. It is in fact mandatory. If such determination is not embodied in our political vision we have no hope of restoring what is so nearly lost to us – the dignity of man."
– Harold Pinter
Harold Pinter, playwright, actor and activist, died on Christmas Eve. Pinter's art of dialogue touches realism in a way conventionally handled dialogue does not: language as a haphazard cloak to cover our nakedness, thrown together in utter disregard for clarity, "the real truth" or intellectual precision. I remember his infuriating No Man's Land in London, with its slippery truths, playing a role he'd written, and being shocked that the play was no more clear in performance. I learned something important about his intentions, his strategy. I remember working on The Dumb Waiter with Willi Gudlat and Carlos Stockhausen at the Friedenauer Kinderheim, and discovering its raw power and terrifying questions. I remember reading the haunting Mountain Language, borrowed form the British Council library, and missing the Berliner Grundtheater production. And I remember watching The Birthday Party with my Mum, her eruptive laughter at a breakfast of "fried toast", fascinated and horrified by its bathroom mirror truth.
Eartha Kitt, performer, died Christmas Day. I remember seeing her performance in the Sondheim musical Follies in Berlin at the Theater des Westens. She sang the unforgettable "I'm Still Here". I saw the production, and studied her performance, several times. I noticed she reinterpreted the song each performance. One night she was trailing measures behind the conductor for the verse, deliberately, easily manoeuvring the descending stairway, only to catch up in time for the chorus; another time, she spoke the song as patter for almost the entire performance; another night she sang with strict adherence to rhythm and pitch. I learned something about interpretation and artistic process, the play between control and risk, structure and freedom. I remember her signature growl, her striking features and geometric contortions.
I salute both of these artists for their courageous contributions to the theatre, the art of performance, and the way we can imagine the world. Each generation finds its language, in art and politics, and writes its credo. Both Pinter and Kitt participated defiantly and gloriously in that process. I will remember them.
Goodness gracious. I can't even describe the fabulousness of my day.
"performing at the Fates"! And the reason is: because they're saying FEZ! Not Fates (as in Greek mythology Fates) It took me far too long to realize that FEZ is also not a word, and the Z is therefore not an "s" sound, but a "ts" sort of sound.
"Ich bin von Kopf bis Fuß auf Liebe eingestellt." 
Today we ventured out to Theatre Arts Guild where Austin Reade gave us an introductory workshop on lighting design and operation. Bill VanGorder and Joe O'Brien were there to lend a hand as well. 
He talked through some of the basic elements of designs, walked us through basic equipment and then let the Academy group get their hands dirty on the board, creating and running lighting cues. End result, four young performers eager to learn more and at least a couple who want to have a kick at designing for the Four Actors/Apocalpse shows for Berlin. yay!
During the original work on Apocalypse, we were working on the idea of Icarus as Everyman, an iconic character representing you and me as we try to work our way out of the labyrinth that is our world today. What is the truth, who do we believe, why are we trapped and confused, and is there a different way?
Through our lives, layers of "no" and "can't" are added. Our lightness is burdened by experience. Our faith in the possibility of possibilities is weighed down, or even obiliterated. Icarus falls into the sea. End of story.
James Draper's Lament for Icarus from 1898: Icarus, semi-nude, his wings vast, thick and powerful, the beautiful youth draped across a rock, held up by angelic sea-nymphs, the Nereids. 
Four actors. Three days. Two scripts. Sarah Stanley - with Jenny Munday sitting in. Talk and exploration. Discoveries, dead ends - or are they - more questions. More talk. More investigation. Some on the floor, some around the table. Bruised knees, but no bruised egos. Yay!
