In my childhood I was ambitious for love, and attention. This drew me to performance. After a decade of dance shows and karaoke in the living room I entered secondary education. And there I really discovered the theatre. Zoe Ann Parker.
There was once a woman named Zoe,
my hero, like yours David Bowie.
She taught us many things in Drama.
Unfortunetely not how to be a sarcastic llama.
She encouraged my love for story telling and did not shame my lust for stage.
At the end of secondary education we had a task to write direct and perform a piece of performance art. Nothing had felt so natural. The water flows in the cavities.
My love for imagery progressed with my love for music. And by the time I was 16 I had already created a narrative with the soundtrack of my favourite albums, in my head. It was all stuck in my head.
Between 16-18 I studied at the local college, as Zoe had left the sixth form drama studies and no longer taught at that school I saw no need to stay there too. The freedom of college was to my discovery, like most wonderful things, a gift and a curse.
(I didn’t realise how much I had to say)
I can say that my art tutor Debbie was the most driven to help me obtain the grades aswell as develop me as a conceptual artist. She allowed me to work with taboo subjects and gore, she was lenient with my absence and most of all she spoke with me caringly. I was the only student in my year to studie the combination of a-levels that I had. And this meant that my lessons were in solitude from my peers. Wether this had a positive effect on my education, I guess I’ll never know.
In my last year of studying I became a personal assistant of the most interesting woman I had ever met and worked on my own artistic projects outside of education. I wanted independence.
But still the theatre, the theatre kept me, until I was introduced to the Cabinet of Dr Caligari and the works of Jan Svankmajer. My love for creation in physical sculptures and setting, combined with my ideal form of bodily performance (that a like butoh dance and the philosophies of Artaud), all captured, rythimically like a dance, in film. I saw the possibilities of my daydreams to come to life. All with film. Unfortunately, as the crucial excuse goes, I did not own a camera or a computer. And so films were rare in the beginning. The theatre remained and at any given chance I had convinced others to lend their equiptment, time and knowledge to me. I wanted to go to film school. I wanted to go to a art school. My a-level results were not addiqate, I was dusted off without a peak at my portfolio. Films didn’t get written, I hadn’t performed for a year. I began to loose the confidence. I felt inferior and incompetent. Slowly I was surround by those who never knew my art and it felt forgotten under cleaning houses, pouring pints and wanting to but being to shy. Then I was asked to audition for the antagonist in a independent pub performed piece of theatre. And then it happened, I wanted to perform again, I wanted to e surrounded by performers. I wrote my application to drama school. I wrote a play, we created a space, we assimilated my inner vision at a pop up night club. It felt fucking good. It was hard work, but my contentment and satisfaction was boiling. I didn’t need to apply to that or this internship to secure a living wage I rediscovered the theatre.
Drama school auditions are brutal. Especially when you hate being told what to do.
My audition at RCS, shed some light.
They asked questions.
The gentleman sat opposite me told me that I speak and seem to think like a director. I rejected this I wanted to act.
But, when I returned home, I began writing the film that’s been waiting for me. I just wrote.
The image I’ve drawn, how does this relate?
Thats my head in an empty pool. Those are my tears filling the pool.
All in all, my metaphor, well, I guess I’d of just been stuck at the bottom of that tiled grave if I hadn’t started the lengthy process of filling it.