TEST Nottingham – Creative Reflection by Miranda Laurence

  • 0

Bright orange leaves. Hills. Red bricks. Blue sky, sun shine, white clouds.

Steep stairs. White bright space, large table. Bright people.

 

Room with no chairs, black floor, large windows. Projected image on the wall.

A circle on the floor of people sitting.

No introductions, chair in the middle.

Collecture.

Who are all these people?

 

Sun on the floor, wide white tea cups.

Pen and notebooks.

 

Midwives, art teachers, audiences. Photographers, toolboxes. Collaborator, collecturer.

Desire, seduction.

Planting mirrors. A car with lots of mirrors. Take the car away.

 

Richard Serra, catching lead.

Yvonne Rainer, no manifesto.

Mierle Ladermann Ukele, keep the home fires burning.

 

Writing NO

Writing TO

Writing I AM

 

Lunch

 

Criss-crossing, gathering words, collecting, writing. Poetry. Exchanging, frantic talking, writing. More poetry.

 

Contamination

 

Lind Stupart, queer witch.

 

A spell. What? Why? Too tired.

 

Red pigment spilling out, leaving a trail.

Gathering tea.

Singing a song. Talking to the neighbour.

Laughter.

 

On a beach, some clowns and jugglers.

Safe space for gender-non-binary

 

Night night.

 

Coffee. Good Morning.

Naming what was here yesterday. ‘In the space’

 

Finding sunshine spilling in the windows. People melting. Difficult music playing.

 

Imagining places we work, fitted into the room we are in.

 

Maps. Drawings. Paper and pens. Spread across the room. Concentration and sunbeams.

 

A mist of dancers. A heavy room. A pathway of safety. Lots of beds. Train journeys. Armchairs. Bookshelves of prison.

 

Two teams. Who’s in mine? Do they want me?

 

Getting hungry.

 

Make a piece in the space, make it ours. Clear it out, set it out. Choreograph, agree, write a list. Run around. Run, run, close the cupboards and windows. Lead the people through actions. Behind curtains, close curtains, in the corner. Walk, talk, run. Mist on supine faces.

 

Imagine scents that aren’t there. A chair, on top of a cupboard.

A journey behind the curtain. Seeking out the sun in a chair.

 

A last collecture. Terry Castle, Susan Sontag. A blast from my past. What is this about? I don’t have anything to say…. I don’t have anything to say. I say something. I don’t really have anything to say.

 

Sunset and train time approaching. Hasty goodbyes and march to the station. Left with questions. Who were all those people? Will we meet again?

 

What keeps reappearing:

In the room/out of the room.

Maintenance art – keep the home fires burning.

Giving language. How that changes things ‘in the room’.

Can there be movement with dramaturgy?

 

Miranda Laurence November 2017

20171111_122502

  • 0

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.