The Homemade Issue by BELLYFLOP Magazine

BELLYFLOP VOL 1 N째1

The HOMEMADE ISSUE

A dive into Contemporar y Dance & Performance

About BELLYFLOP Magazine BELLYFLOP Magazine is here to make a splash into the ocean of performance (for now, the bit that runs through the canals of London). Started up as a lone enterprise by Louise Mochia, BELLYFLOP has now developed into a collaborative artist-led undertaking based at Chisenhale Dance Space. As a peer group, a generation perhaps, we are opinionated and this is what motivated an online platform for provoking debate and embracing contributorsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; subjective engagement at grassroot level. We operate with a DIY ethic through voluntary contributions from various artists, creating an artistic forum for debate where viewpoints (from scandalous to mundane) can be shared with other artists/practitioners/interested parties. It is BELLYFLOPâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s aim to bring visibility to an artistic community working outside of the mainstream, bringing exposure to the ideas and efforts of discerning individuals, as an active attempt to stimulate new perspectives and critical thought. Essentially BELLYFLOP revolves around the art of contemporary dance, however, we try not to get too pedantic about these things and focus on all areas of performance as and when we feel like it - you get everything from musings on the everyday life of the artist to musings on popular culture. On the BELLYBLOG you can locate random ramblings from the BELLYFLOP team and get the latest word on events, happenings and opportunities in and around London.

EDITO R-I N -CH I EF Louise Mochia COVER & L AYOUT DESIGN J unn Tseng Yean SPECIAL THAN KS TO J amila J ohnson-S mall, Rasmus H agen, Las se Kristensen, M or ten J osefsen & Chisenhale Dance S p ace

CREDITS Charlie Ashwell Zuza n n a B rzozows ka Sophie Cameron Wil Crisp Dolly Dewhurst-Marks Katrine GrĂ¸nbĂŚk Andrew Hardwidge Christa H olka Amy Ferguson Roberto Foddai Jamila Johnson-Small B ryony Kimmings Gillie Kleiman Kirill Kuletski Shelly Love Milkman Louise Mochia Luke N orton Eleanor Sikorski J u l e s Va r n e d o e J u n n T s e n g Ye a n

BELLYFLOP

06 BILL OF FARE 07 TWO HANDS ON THE DANCE UMBRELLA 09 REUSE RECYCLE 11 WHERE IS PERFORMANCE NOW: INTRODUCTION 12 WHERE’S PERFORMANCE NOW: DOLLY DEWHURST MARKS AND DANCE 16 THE FEATHERSTONEHAUGHS: DRAW ON THE SKETCHBOOKS OF EGON SCHIELE 18 WARNING: REAL NOISE APPROACHING 20 PISS ARTIST 26 ROBERTO FODDAI 30 NEW ART CLUB: THIS IS NOW 32 UNICYCLES, BULB HORNS & THE GREAT DMITRI 40 KLEIMAN AND THE BIG TABOO 44 KIRILL KULETSKI 49 TV DINNER 50 SHELLY’S LOVE 54 THEME TIME! ALTER EGOS

Bill of Fare: 27-28 Nov 2010 (not that you need to know what ’s on, because this weekend Chisenhale is the place to be!)

Move Weekend at the Southbank Centre

(tension/inter vention/restraint)

Performances: 'parades & changes, replays - re-interpretation of Anna Halprin' by Anne Collod et al., Sat 8pm (£12-£25) 'Low Pieces' by Xavier Le Roy, Sun 8pm (£17)

A 4 hour durational performance event taking place at the Arthur And Albert Studio (off Kingsland Road by the canal). They say, “(tension/intervention/restraint) is made up of a nationally and ethnically diverse group of individuals, spanning different continents of origin, different languages and multiple gender identification. We hope to bring the voice of potential, diversity and change through performing the ideologies we live.” Features: Bean (UK), Agnes Yit (Singapore/Malaysia), Malte Beisenherz (Germany), Poppy Jackson (UK), Jenna Finch (UK), Kiki Taira (Japan), Frank Homeyer (Germany), Lynn Lu (Singapore), Benjamin Sebastian (UK/Australia) Saturday from 3pm FREE

Performances for FREE: 'Sleep Walkers' (1968) and 'Striding Crawling' (1974) by Simone Forti, Sat 3.30pm Tania Bruguera (the one where the viewer becomes a performer), Sun 3.15pm Conversations: 'Transforming Time, Making Space' with Alva Noe, Yvonne Rainer, Siobhan Davies, Franz Erhard Walther, Sat 2pm (£7) 'The Politics of Movement' with André Lepecki, Bojana Cvejic, Xavier Le Roy, Tania Bruguera, Sat 6pm (£7) Anne Collod with Alain Buffard, Sun 11am (£5) Vera Mantero with André Lepecki, Sun 4 .30pm (£5) 'Choreographic Objects' with William Forsythe, Tino Sehgal, Janine Antoni and Stephanie Rosenthal, Sun 6pm (£7) Yvonne Rainer with Chantal Pontbriand, Sun 2pm (£5)

Stranger than Fiction - A monthly Celebration of Improvisation in Per formance Featuring: Tamara Ashley & Lilly Picts, Trumpet Creepers, action theatre group: Nuria Robinson, Shanty Sacco, Sofia Sanchez, Mark Rietema, Fernando Graca, Jaya Hartlein, Martha Brown, Juliana Brustik, Eva-Lotta Lamm & Sarah Kent, and Amaara Raheem & Jenny Hill. Saturday 7.30pm (doors open 7.15pm - may not admit latecomers) London Buddhist Arts Centre, Eastbourne House, Bullards Place, London E2 0PT £5 (including a drink)

Conversations for FREE: 'Blank Production or No More Autonomy, Part 1' with Mårten Spångberg, Sat 4pm 'Générique', Sun 12.15pm 'Blank Production or No More Autonomy, Part 2' with Mårten Spångberg, Sun 1pm

Live Weekends: Against Gravity at the ICA

Winter Warmer at Stoke Newing ton International Airpor t

- curated by Catherine Borra behind web-project Supercream and (among other people) nomadic art space The Centre of the Universe. They say, “Immerse yourself in Davide Savorani’s performance and explore Conrad Ventaur’s installation, watch intimate film screenings and premieres, submerge yourself into the landscapes of HTRK and more.” Saturday - Sunday from 2pm both days All events FREE except HTRK (£5)

STK presents music from two new groups to warm you up. They say, “Forgive the woodsmoked hippie tone, but that’s the feeling around here as the leaves piss off and the sun skives. Come down, get warm and compare woolen wear.” Sat from 8pm: Waverley Keys play at 9pm, and Marthas and Arthurs play at 10pm £3

TW O H A N D S O N THE TEXT Milkman

“ Since 1978, Dance Umbrella has been bringing new dance to London. We thrive on the dynamism and openness of the city and bring together artists and events which surprise and thrill audiences of all kinds. We commission, produce and present dance events and each year stage one of the world’s leading international dance festivals. Dance Umbrella opens out the dance experience by presenting a range of affordable and free-to-view events in unusual spaces. We also identify, nurture, support and showcase the most exciting talent in new dance, offering artists the benefits of long-term relationships and identifying the most appropriate platform for their work. Our Vision To become the world’s programmer of new dance.

most

exciting

Our Mission To bring brave new dance to London. Our Values OPEN Dance Umbrella is accessible, flexible and international in outlook. We are committed to collaboration and partnerships, creating and presenting the highest quality new dance. PASSIONATE We believe that everyone should experience dance. Dance Umbrella showcases and develops new dance trends, and fosters aspirations through performances and participatory opportunities of the highest quality. EXTRAORDINARY We celebrate the extraordinary in new dance: embracing diversity, supporting artists, championing the art form. “

On the one hand, it’s great. For a month dance is all over London and there is a big enough programme to accommodate established masters (sometimes translating as ‘current bores’) and new exciting work. They have the budget to bring people over from far off lands and the energy and conviction to fight for their visas when the United Kingdom of Great Britain gets a bit narky about letting more foreigners in. On the other hand it has some suspect aspects. Although I totally do not want to shit on a festival that comes to my town and brings me lots of dancing, they do speak about bravery, “championing the art form”, embracing diversity, showcasing and developing new trends – bold statements… The free stuff is always the things in ‘unusual spaces’ that aren’t so unusual any more and make me think that less value is placed on site-specific work and that all the important stuff happens inside. Talks happen squishing up in a cramped studio at The Place for two hours and trying to get a look at the speakers through the hair, hats and bald heads of the rest of the audience. NOT FUN. How about a whole day, in The Place theatre bar even, so that the discussion has time to grow and be valuable for all involved by going to unexpected places rather than be rushed. Instead of being an aside. Again, I feel like some sort of hierarchy is being imposed on me. It isn’t acknowledged that a lot of the audience for contemporary dance are other dancers/performers/artists (plus critics) and the festival could provide a great forum for investigating this issue instead of just putting dance outside and pretending the people whose way it happens to obstruct would watch dance otherwise. The images in the Dance Umbrella programme are often stereotypical ‘dance photographs’, perpetuating the limited opinion of dance those outside of the field often have. The Trisha Brown ‘Glacial Decoy’ image being the most annoying one for me this year. And finally, I have a bee in my bonnet about Betsy Gregory. I have seen/heard her host several post-show talks now (apparently a requirement of the Dance Umbrella programme?) and each time she completely defeats the object of the talk by Telling the audience what we thought. She tells the artists we all think their show was great and that they are fantastic and even if I disagree, I don’t want to challenge her! No way. She’s the Artistic Director of Dance Umbrella. And then I get into this awkward situation of feeling misrepresented and frustrated but unwilling to fight my corner and generally impotent and stupid. And I’ve even heard her heckle when she’s not been hosting the talk! (Overbearing?)

PO EM S ophie Cameron IM AGE J ules Varnedoe (chosen by Amy Ferguson)

REUSE RECYCLE I fashioned a second head out of recycled p ar ts of myself Reuse Recycle. The bits I didn’ t need – the hills of dandruff that snow on my shoes for example, To build a bet ter head A head that looks like Geoffrey Rush on good days And the Laughing Cavalier on bad . I made it out of shit and semen Like I saw on Blue Peter, S aved the suicidal pit hairs and pubes Ear raisins and midnight sleep drizzle H acked off a finger I wasn’ t using And bot tled up the heav y bev y barf And here it is – I ’m wearing my head now and I couldn’ t be happier! If you’re not using it Or it falls out of your body SAVE TH E WO RLD S ell it or shap e it into a second head!

WHERE IS PERFORMANCE NOW? INTRODUCTION TEXT Luke Norton

To me it seems that we are living in an interesting time for art. We exist, baffled in the shadows, of the greatest ever century of change; culturally, technologically and artistically. As the first decade of the new millennium draws to its conclusion, the age still feels young, perhaps embryonic, certainly transitionary. Modern art had its zenith some sixty years ago. Powerful, vast, bold and hopeful it looked at to the future with its shoulders squared, its eyes piercing, its mind clear and its lungs filled with crisp, cool air. We had postmodernism, the great equaliser, which decimated culture like a blender in a whirlwind. You could wear your Hall and Oates T-shirt to the ballet. You could glue a coke can to the Queen. The reactionary pissed Technicolor bile over every razor-sharp stainless steel cube and laughed a high-pitched guttural roar. The trouble is that eventually, everyone started laughing. The pissers found it funny. Some cubes found it funny. Those that didn’t, well they found the sight of other cubes slathered in rainbow sputum pretty funny. Those that didn’t get the joke started laughing for fear of looking like an idiot and the idiots found all the pretty colours very funny indeed. After laughing for what seemed an eternity, an age. Some people wondered what was so funny. They’d grown up in this undulating phosphorescent, primordial culture-soup, the sound of laughter ringing in their ears and lapping at their brains. To them that laughter was no longer infectious, the joke taken well and truly too far. The colours no longer seemed vivid and distinct. Instead they sat like a porridge of the mundane; colourless and bland. No longer a source of inspiration or entertainment. Merely a prerequisite of sustenance; things started to shift. And that is where I feel we are now. Confused, bewildered, hungry and new. All feeling (as I believe it is human to feel) the need for change, for progression. But unsure of the direction this should take. Unaware of a discernable ethos or overarching goal that might guide us. We are truly living in the dim twilight of our idols. And we should look to the wealth of brilliance; and talent; and profundity; and genius and inexpressible aptitude that has come before. And it should not fill us with inferiority. It should fill us with hope and pride and optimistic stoicism. And I feel that we will need it. For I believe that we will not be erecting the monoliths, we will not be screen-printing the stars and we will not have an enigmatic smile. Instead we will be making the cave paintings, telling the folklore and drafting the wheel for the generations to come. Now is the time for action. If you have something you want to make or do: do it now. Do it and show it to anyone who’ll take the time to look at it. Remember; inspiration is a fart not a breeze. It doesn’t blow in a particular direction and you don’t always know where it came from.

W H E R E ’ S P E R F O R MA N C E NO W :

D O L LY DE W H U R S TMA R K S & DA N C E

IMAGE Luke Norton

I know precious little about moving and even less about dancing. I’m sure that if you cut me open and rummaged through my bloody chest cavity with your fingers until you found a care instructions label; the words “Not designed for movement” would be broadly emblazoned across it. With this in mind I met dancer Dolly Dewhurst-Marks for an interview. Hoping that my naivety and ineptitude wouldn’t shine through.

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to create. Some people can only see someone on stage dancing. When people look at dance, a lot of the time they are only looking for things that are physically difficult. Things like stunt kind of work – that’s often more appreciated than a simpler style of dance. I’ve shown work to people who haven’t seen any dance before and their reactions have been ‘What? – I just don’t get it’. Because it’s a new art form it’s harder for people with no experience of dance to pick up on a lot of the subtleties of the medium. I think people can feel uncomfortable watching you as a performer putting yourself on show. If they’re uncomfortable with something then they are a lot more likely to think ‘I don’t understand it’ and then ridicule it; rather than thinking ‘I don’t understand it. But I want to.’ Maybe it’s just not evolved enough yet. That’s what makes dance really appealing in a lot of senses. It feels young. It doesn’t feel like there have been ages and ages of people doing it so much that it’s impossible to do something new.

Contemporary dance is often the subject of ridicule “if you’ll allow me to express through the medium of dance…” Why do you think that is? I think it has the potential to be misunderstood. I think you need to have had a visual connection with it; you need to have experienced it, which a lot of people haven’t. And like most things that people have little experience of, they get misunderstood and people don’t appreciate them. I mean people do it to all art forms; but especially dance. Do you think people are naive to the capacity of dance as a medium? Why do you think it is so widely dismissed? People often use ‘Art’ as a cover to get away with doing pretty much anything – I think that some things deserve to be ridiculed. I’ve seen some dance work that I think is too interested in being an idea. They’re trying to be so conceptual that in a way the dance itself becomes meaningless. What is stopping it from being respected? I think there’s a big thing about people only seeing dance in a social aspect rather than seeing the potential for what it can express. A lot of people don’t see it; they don’t think of it having the capacity to express emotions in the same way as acting, or language. I mean Art is a tricky one because it’s gone through so many changes … I think one day people might treat dance in the same way as they treat art. But it’s never going to be the sort of thing that people spend millions on because – this sounds awful – but I don’t think it has a lot of staying power.

What made you want to explore dance further than the rest of Britain’s healthy interest in nightclubs and Strictly Come Dancing? Firstly it was falling into something I found I could do. Secondly I think for me, when I’m making work I can make decisions (something I struggle with daily). I can know exactly what it is I want, which is a really nice feeling. I feel there is a clarity in what I am expressing whereas in a lot of other things; the way I speak, the way I write; my logic jumps. With dance it can stay in one spot. Also when you’re doing it, it feels really invigorating. I’m sure anyone would say that about the thing that they love to do. Whether it’s painting, or writing, or whatever, they’ll feel like that’s when they’re accomplishing something. It gives you a great amount of energy.

Because it’s something that you have to witness first hand, something durational? Yeah. I mean, right now I’m thinking about doing a filmed piece because I want something that will stay. With each performance a dance changes and I want to make something static. Even with film, I don’t know if you can ‘fix’ it in that way. I feel like dance is quite young compared to a lot of art forms especially because in most people’s lives dance is purely a social thing. To try and get away from this social aspect is very difficult. Do you think that it is because with other art forms; writing or painting for example; that people are distanced from the practitioners through the medium itself? Whereas in dance, you are right there – physically in front of them.

How different is the dancing that you are interested in from the sort of dance we, as a nation, truly love: ballroom? Pretty different. The stuff I like doing is not about appreciating the aesthetics of it – which is one of the reasons modern dance began in the first place – to get away from the aesthetic traditions. When I watch those programmes I do appreciate the difficulty in the routines. I think that’s what people enjoy about the programmes: watching people struggle to learn the dances. Do you feel that you are given the opportunity to create a new aesthetic? Do you think that you are able to make something new that is beautiful and meaningful with contemporary dance? Definitely. Definitely. I would hate it if everything we were trying to do was a constant backlash. It would just be … grotesque. I think you can still have a beautiful meaning. When I make work, I still look at it and I think ‘that looks beautiful’’. Not for the aesthetic appeal that dance has already been defined as having but for what it means.

Do you think there’s some kind of awkwardness there? I imagine people could find it awkward. I remember this one experience when I was performing in a pub and people in the crowd who didn’t understand it started jeering. I’m sure you could get that with anything but I think there is something about your physical presence, something about you being there. There’s no fourth wall in a way. You’re dancing but you’re still you. And I don’t think everyone is ready, or able to take that in or absorb what you’re trying

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learn what interests me. But as a general rule, when I’m performing, they’re always important. Without it who are you expressing anything to? The relationship between the performer and the spectator is the most important thing. You can be an artist and not show anyone your paintings: but a performance artist? It’s fundamental.

A beauty in expression? Yeah. Which contemporary dancers do you admire? Pina Bausch is probably the person who’s had the most impact on me. She was one of the first expressionist dancers. She always interested me in the way she confronted the audience. You’d have these beautiful, almost landscapes, showing connections between where bodies are standing in a space, backdrops. Setting a beautiful scene and just making the audience confront it. I’m not necessarily interested in shocking people, or forcing them to watch, or do something but sometimes I just want to say ‘Watch it, you might get something out of it’. I want to push people somewhere. But I don’t want to overpower them. I want them to be willing to be pushed. Sacha Waltz is a German choreographer. I see some of Bausch’s stuff in her. I like her because she has SO much discipline. She did a piece called Korper where the dancers worked for eighteen months on being able to pick each other up by their skin. What I enjoyed about that wasn’t that it was shocking; it was the perseverance. Perseverance she had in an idea. Probably not even knowing if it was possible to do. Spending that long just on doing one thing, it’s absolutely amazing.

Based on that, would you carry on dancing if there were no platforms for live performances: if there was no scene so to speak? Yes because where’s dance going now? The most interesting work I’m making now is not in that kind of environment. I think I’m veering somewhere towards a more inter-disciplinary art form. People like Skip Theatre, they do performance evenings but they also do a range of different things. They combine music, live acts, art exhibitions, and performance. They put it all together and it’s a really exciting time. I’d definitely keep making work even if there wasn’t somewhere for me to perform it. There’s so many different ways of showing your work now. It doesn’t have to be in a performance space. It can be anywhere. I’m not searching for a group of people who already know a lot about dance to criticise my work and tell me whether or not I’m on the right path. But having said that it is good to be in an environment where people are willing to watch performances, where they are a lot more open to these things. I don’t know if I’d have done the performance on the Southbank on my own.

Can you describe some of the performances that you have been a part of? I did one called Light Intervention for twelve months. We performed once each month on a different area of the Southbank. We had these huge electric torches and the idea was that people leaving work, people going home, were walking along the Southbank and they’d see something that they had never seen before. And just for a fleeting second, or for a minute they do see it. They might never see it ever again. It’s nice, these coincidences. Sometimes there were five of us doing it, sometimes there were twelve, depending on who was available. It was a really interesting one to be a part of because it was such a long progression. We did some performances in club nights and at performance nights but it kind of felt wrong when we did that because it wasn’t made for that.

It’s different with the public performances though, because you’re cold calling aren’t you? You’re basically phoning up people’s houses asking if they want double-glazing. Cold calling! I’m forcing it on them? You are. You’re standing on the Southbank preaching the dogma of contemporary dance. It is and it isn’t. The stuff I want to do almost demands the spectator to be aware of my presence. I think if you are going to perform in an area where it’s not designated for performance, or where you’re not necessarily allowed then you have to take a much more sensitive approach. When we had our torches we’d go up to people and shine the light on their feet - rather than shining in their eyes or anything. It’s much less aggressive. These mixed art nights are good because people come with a lot more openness. They’re a lot more likely to watch a performance and maybe appreciate it. They don’t necessarily have an understanding of contemporary dance but they’re a lot less likely to walk off and turn their back on it.

What intrigues me about more abstract forms of dancing is that the whole process of performing becomes much more of a dialogue between performers and spectators. It’s not the sort of dancing that is necessarily a talent; that you could do in your bedroom. It is a much more of a case of devising something for the sake of being performed. There is more urgency and enquiry in it. How important is the role of the spectator to you? I’m in a struggle. Very important. But then right now, maybe not important at all. I think at the moment in my creative processes they aren’t the most important thing to me, but I think that’s more to do with where I am; still trying to

What do you love about dancing? I love how it makes me feel. I do it because I couldn’t imagine not doing it. I don’t know if that’s a cop out of an answer. Since learning that this is what I can do and knowing how it makes me feel I don’t know if I could keep my sanity without

D O L LY D E W H U R S T- M A R K S & D A N C E

it. It makes me feel like I am learning something; committing to something that I really think about a lot. Putting myself in quite a vulnerable position but that being really nice. Really liking that sense of risk and vulnerability it puts me under. It’s kind of painful but you feel like you’re learning and you’re growing when you do something like that. Have you got any performances or projects coming up in the future? This filmed piece I’m working on at the minute. I’m just deciding whether it’s going to be wholly on film or if I’ll mix it with live performances as well. I’ve become a bit of a recluse, which I really shouldn’t be. I’m too young to be this lonely, reclusive performance artist, but I think I need to take some time to come to terms with everything that I want to say as an artist. At university there’s a great community, but you’re always feeding off each other. So much so that I don’t feel I had enough time to myself to refine my ideas. I keep writing down these ideas that I want to do for a group piece but that means asking a lot of people to do a lot of stuff for free. It’s a horrible time when you feel you haven’t quite got to a place where you are ready to perform something. It’s a struggle. As a vegetarian, if contemporary dance were a vegetable, which vegetable would it be? That’s a hard question… maybe Purple Broccoli. Have you seen Purple Broccoli? Not on the stage, No, not on the stage…

THE FEATHERSTONEHAUGHS:

DRAW ON THE SKETCHBOOKS OF EGON SCHIELE TEXT J amila J ohnson-Small & Loiuse Mochia IM AGE Featherstonehaughs (altered by Louise Mochia)

JAMILA JOHNSON-SMALL This piece is like pulling crazy faces in the mirror or doing the really bad dance that makes you feel super fucking badass (until somebody catches you). I love the unashamedness about Egon Schiele’s work and this piece. At times the Featherstonehaughs look like a boy band, at others like they are posing for a catalogue or slithering salamanders or super seedy like the guy in the corner who you suspect is crazy and whose eye you do not want to catch or someone a bit shifty and anxious as hell about it. I like the presentation of the neurotic side of the male and the lack of rigidity in their portrayal of masculinity. It’s a relief from men in dance fighting to prove that they are still powerful, virile creatures despite pursuing such a girlie career as dancing. Get over yourselves. Thank you, Featherstonehaughs. On one level it was very confrontational, but the dancers challenged the audience with what? A spasmodic jerk of the head timed with the clash of a cymbal? Brilliant. This blend of seriousness and absurdity seemed to acknowledge the impotence and silence of dance and in doing that managed to harness the power that the dancing body does have. Section followed section and it did feel a bit relentless, but I could have watched this all day. I loved the music, its volume, the thick atmosphere it created and the way that it seemed to possess the dancers’ bodies. Let me say again, I really loved the music, it was comforting and surprising and intricate and calming... it had as many layers as the choreography. The lighting was great - florescent strip lights arranged in a square on the floor that the dancers had to constantly negotiate in their stepping sequences. I love stepping and a lot of the choreography was of steps. They made walking seem like a bloody witty thing to be doing. The lighting changes were well-timed and lit the dancers from different angles making them seem at times grotesque, elegant and menacing, drawing me in and then letting me relax. It was really nice when the lights went out and you could only see the outlines of the suited figures with their hair in different stages of spikiness (due to the sweat and movement having disrupted it) and sticking up at different angles. (I don’t really want to talk about the body suits with bulbous red willies painted over the guy’s packages but they do deserve a mention) Maybe not so ‘out there’ as it might have been twelve years ago but whatever! Lea Anderson’s keeping it real and a bit queer. I well liked it.

LOUISE MOCHIA “The Featherstonehaughs were formed in 1988 and were then the only all-male dance company in Britain” it says in the programme notes. We’re now twenty-two years later, and I feel like they more or less still are - the only all-male dance company in Britain. Watching Lea Anderson’s six ‘sons’ made me really appreciate the way a tall (four out of six, the two Asian guys were, I guess, normal in height), lean, young man in big shoes and a colourful suit, moves his limbs, steps over fluorescent lights laid out on the ground forming one big square, or makes himself small or big or fixes his hands and fingers and body in that obvious Egon Schiele manner. They were dancing. Posing. Not performing tricks, which they supposedly can only do because they’re men, no none of that. It was men dancing, not showing off. Ah, relief. Pleasure. I’m feeling bored with watching only boys lifting girls (or girls lifting boys for tokenistic reasons), or boys flying from one side of the space to the other – boys being ‘boys’, as they’re so often asked to be. Yes, this was a different breed. Anderson’s breed. And still a very unique one. The two Asian guys. I wondered about them. They seemed to do everything together. What was Anderson trying to say with this? I mean, the erotic duet on the mattress that started out as a trio? Did they just look good together? Same height, same hair, same ethnicity. Doubtful, this is more likely to be where Schiele and narcissism comes into the picture. (Lea, if you ever read this, let me know if duh! is what you’re thinking) It was a gig. A live music gig. A live dance gig. But where was the applause between the sets? The glass of red wine in my hand? The couch? Ugh, how very ‘bourgeois’ of me to request this, I know, but I felt even more so having to sit very straight in the auditorium, not really able to move my head to the music, chuckle (out loud), or enjoy a drink simultaneously. Yes, I could have just done that, but it would have made me feel very self-conscious, as opposed to everyone doing it - so that I wouldn’t be the ‘eccentric’ odd one out. I prefer when Anderson presents her work in more pub like settings, it’s just, otherwise, a strange setup. Detached. I like when I’m given the space to both concentrate and let go. I think it’s a healthy way of digesting. But I have to say, I thought the music was monotonous – unchanging and possibly a little boring to listen to (I also have to say, I was the only one in my group of people to think this, and that I really did find both the music and dance very exciting in the trio that came after the foxy scene with the mattresses – one I’m possibly avoiding in this review, however, I keep referring to it!). Where was I? Ah, the music and too much letting go. I didn’t realise that in fact it was the complete opposite; a friend later told me about all the rhythm changes that constantly had been going on, and that the music would have been difficult to count for the dancers. Did I try to count it myself? Admittedly, no. And I think it shouldn’t, but this information does influence my perception of the performance; if it’s that complex, surely it deserves my appreciation? This is always the fucking question.

WARNING: REAL NOISE APPROACHING TEX T & IM AGE Wil Crisp

the record turns the different electrical devices spurt on and off - producing mechanical noises orchestrated to resembles electronic dance music.

In 1966 Steve Reich looped a sample of a black youth saying ‘come out to show them’ non-stop for 13 minutes with just a weird phase pattern to keep it interesting. Thirty years after these initial sound experiments all across Europe every weekend there were warehouses full of people spazzing out for hours on end to music directly influenced by Steve Reich’s brand of minimalism.

These two examples illustrate a general trend in contemporary sound art, including works by Nicolas Anatol Baginsky and Bjoern Schuelke, where practitioners are eschewing traditional instruments, loudspeakers and amplifiers in favour Real Noise.

Just as models walking down catwalks in Milan with peacocks gaffer taped to their faces somehow translate into a stylish new pair of sunglasses available in high street stores - so too do the weird unreasonable antics of the sound art world eventually work their way into popular culture. Because of this, by examining contemporary sound art it is possible to gain an indication of how the function of sound is changing within society - and an idea of what popular music might be like in a couple of decades time.

This trend within the art world is just the tip of the iceberg. There is growing disillusionment with the current state of popular sound. A sentiment of discontentment is spreading, induced by the flat half-experiences produced by digital sound, subwoofers and supertweeters. People have started to remember that there is something more to listening; something which can’t be found in an ipod, or a night club. For the advancement of Real Noise and the facilitation of the Real Noise revolution, premises must be seized, be they derelict buildings, warehouses or fields, Real Noise sound sources must be located and brought to the new venues where they can be combined and orchestrated into mechanical Real Noise sound systems. These will be able to match the power and volume of modern digital sound systems made up of signal processors, amplifiers and loud speakers, but they will far surpass them in their complexity, depth, integrity and immediacy. The Real Noise revolution will begin in earnest as soon as Real Noise sources are brought together in one place with people hungry to experience complete sound.

In the summer of 2008 David Byrne dissolved the boundary between sound source and venue when he created Playing The Building. He attached striking and vibrating mechanisms to the pipes, pillars and beams of New York’s Battery Maritime Museum transforming it into a giant musical instrument. Members of the public were exposed to haunting wails, booms and clanks from all around them as they wondered around and had the option of playing the building themselves sitting at the keys of a customised pump organ. Later that year the Japanese sound artist Ujino Muneteru featured mechanical sound sculptures called Rotators in a high profile exhibition at Toko’s Studio Depp. The Rotators are made up of three, usually heavily modified, domestic electrical appliances all conducted by a Rotator Head (A DJ turntable customised to rhythmically operate three electric switches). As

We are on the cusp of a new era in listening. The man on the street is ready to plunge into Real Noise - he just needs somewhere to begin his journey.

S OUND S YS T EM 20 30: AN ARTIST’S IMPRESSION OF WHAT A REAL NOISE SOUND SYSTEM MIGHT BE LIKE.

A. Sound the alarm - A variety of alarm bells, car horns, smoke detectors and door bells are attached all over the walls of the venue. They can be turned on and off manually or in a programmed pattern using one of the Rotator Heads.

H. Howling - These large men located at the back of the venue have dogs on leads. By giving the dogs bear hugs the men cause them to make a howling noise. The men with dogs also double up as bouncers and drug dealers.

B. The Power - Chainsaws and belt sanders are hung around the venue and can be controlled by plungers in the control panel.

I. Diesel - Two levers operate the accelerators of the diesel engines located on both sides of the venue. The engines can tick over (thump, thump, thump) or they can be revved hard to make a roaring noise. Exhaust fumes are channelled outside through pipes.

C. The blades - A dial allows the ceiling fans to be turned up to high speed. As well as producing a bassy ‘wurring’ noise they also create exhilarating gusts of cool air.

J. The Green Man - The bleeps of the dance floor’s pedestrian crossing have adjustable volume and tone.

D. The Grind - Axel grinders and circular saws produce ear splitting screams and showers of sparks.

K. Fog horn - The pressure of this powerful air horn can be controlled to produce various effects.

E. Pipes - Vibrating mechanisms are attached to the building’s water pipes, which can be manipulated to produce clanks, drones and bongs.

L. Boiler - The boiler has many different kinds of valves attached to it which all produce different sounds. M . Jets - High pressure water jets hit different sized metal plates inside the dance floor’s water channel.

F. The washing machine wall - Washing machines of many kinds are piled up in one corner. This can be turned into a vibrating, wailing wall of kinetic carnage at the flick of a switch. G. River sluice gate - By pulling on this chain you raise the sluice gates allowing a river to run through the trench in the centre of the dance floor - this can be manipulated to produce anything from a soothing tinkle to a furious roar.

PISS ARTIST S E X I D I OT A RT I S T TO S P E N D YO U R M O N E Y O N S E V E N DAY D R I N K B I N G E

TEXT Andrew H ardwidge IM AGE Christa H olka

P I S S A RT I ST

people, not everyone, some people I just didn’t even bother, that sounds really bad, and after that I was retracing those relationships as in thinking about them. I spent a lot of time going over them. It was quite emotional, some really horrible memories and difficult things to deal with and then some really lovely things that I was actually glad I’d given myself time to think about. I’d actually started going out with someone new at the beginning and now I’ve been going out with that person for about a year. So it’s such a weird show, because it’s talking about having sex with loads of people when I’m in the middle of having a really beautiful relationship with someone. Horrible, it’s horrible.

How are you? I’m alright. You have a new show called ‘SEX IDIOT’, can you tell us about it? It’s about the fact that I found out I had a sexually transmitted disease, a common, normal, sexually transmitted disease! And I decided to retrace my sexual footsteps with it, using it as a kind of “where did it come from” story. It was my first sexual health check, ever, so it could in theory have come from anywhere. I went back and the research and development period was basically me retracing everything and the material that came from that is what the show is. It’s little vignettes of work made in the attitude of retracing your sexual footsteps.

What does your partner say? He’s really cool about it. He’s an artist as well. He does think I’m a bit… He says “why do you have to make work that’s so honest and stuff, why can’t you just paint or something.” He’s a visual artist, but he doesn’t make work from his own autobiography. I think some people find that quite hard, but I’m up there going “well I shagged this person” and he’s like “oh my god”.

And it’s a cabaret show? I guess it’s a kind of cabaret. My producer calls it car-crash cabaret. It’s not really cabaret in that it’s not strip tease but in the true sense that it’s a mix of genres all under one compared roof. It’s songs, poems, dances, stories, acts all tied together. It’s a solo show, do you have any collaborators? I do, I have a costume collaborator David Curtis Ring. He makes all the costumes, which are extraordinary. I say I want to be a sexy matador and he makes it for me. Then the other collaborator I have is a designer to do all the visuals and the marketing. I find the whole thing, the whole package is really important. Oh and I had a mentor, Stacy.

Has your mum seen it? Ha, yes she has, she loves it. ‘Has my mum seen it’. Ha! What’s your favourite thing someone’s said about your work? Someone asked me this the other day, but no one ever really says anything to me. Stacy my mentor always says things like: “you go girl”, I think she thinks I’m really fierce, which I like. Lots of people say I’m brave, I find that a real compliment. I find blokes don’t really like my performance. They always look completely terrified when I’m saying stuff. Women have come up to me after the show and said… well there’s a part in the show where I talk about losing a baby and they say “oh I lost a baby too” or “I was with a guy who was exactly like you described” or “I had a boyfriend that used to bully me like that guy bullied you.” I find that people connect to all sorts of different things that you wouldn’t imagine. I like it when people feel like they connect with it. At the moment it’s not finished so it hasn’t been reviewed, but when it gets to Edinburgh it’ll naturally get loads of reviews and I’m completely terrified. If someone says it’s crap I will literally find them and kill them.

The costumes are pretty incredible. Yeah, they’re amazing. David makes stuff for Lady Gaga as well. A friend of a friend of mine. You mentioned a mentor – so was the piece part of a scheme? Yeah it was part of something called Escalator, which is the East region Live Art development scheme, so Suffolk, Norfolk, Cambridgeshire, all those kind of quite rural areas in the East. They have Escalator to support performance art because I guess it’s quite rare there really. It was six months, they paid me some money just to take some time out and try something out. So basically the arts council funded me to talk to my old boyfriends. And what was that like? It started out that I just emailed a lot of people saying ‘this is what I’m doing’ – actually first of all I was quite intrigued to know where I had got it from and it was about four months in that I did find out where I’ d got it. So after that I spoke to a few

Ha! Do you like other artists’ art? I like dance, I work in dance. I do like a lot of art. I feel like a bit of a phony because I like to go home and cook my dinner and watch the tele, I’m not someone who goes to all the openings,

P I S S A RT I ST

whereas my partner is. I go and see a lot of things with him, a lot of visual art, which I like a lot because it’s so far removed from what I do. I really love live art and performance, I’m a huge fan of it and there are a lot of amazing people that I really like. For example….. um…. Well at the moment I’m really fascinated with live art and dance, with how they’re beginning to shift and move together. So my favourite thing I’ve seen recently was a woman called Iona Kewney, who used to work a bit with Ultima Vez and she does a contortionism act and she only recently discovered that she could do it, she’s really rock ’n’ roll and really anti skill, really not a circus freak. I love her. Is there an art form that you just don’t relate to? I guess dance. More normal dance. I just find it a bit boring. Great that dance is your answer to both. Yeah it can be really exciting and there are so many interesting things about it, but it also can be completely rubbish. I’ve never known an art form to be so polar. I spend my whole life with dance at the moment, I love companies like Curious, anything that makes me feel like I don’t know what’s going to happen, that makes me feel ‘oh my god I’m going to vomit’, ‘I’m going to cry’, ‘oh no I might get hurt’. I like music, I’m really into music. I like every art form. Except for boring dance. Have you ever performed for other people, choreographers, or directors? I’m not a dancer! I would never… That would be absolutely awful, I can’t bend, I can’t touch my toes. In the early stages of being an artist I performed with Blast Theory and for a couple of other people, but I’ve never really been interested in doing other people’s work. I don’t think of myself as an actress, I think of myself as an artist. I think I’ d find myself going “this is rubbish, I don’t want to do that, I want to do this”. What do you like more then, your art or other people’s? Mine! Mine, I think you have to love yours the most. I always make things asking myself “would I like this?” If you feel like it’s boring, change it. It seems as though your life functions in your art, how do you find your art functions in your life. I find I write a brief like for a scientific experiment – ‘this is what I’m going to look at, this is what happened and this is what the show is about’ and then go into the subject. I wrote the text about sexually transmitted diseases and finding out where I got it, and then you think for the last year that’s what I’ve been doing. I wrote it with such gusto and now it doesn’t always fit into my life very well. I have to section it off in a little part of my brain and then open that can of worms when I go into the studio. I’m learning how to do that more – it’s hard though, isn’t it.

[ I find that people connect to all sorts of different things that you wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; t imagine. I like it when people feel like they connect with it. ]

P I S S A RT I ST

Is there something that you hope it means to people when you put it together? I’d hate it to be self-indulgent. If you’d said to me at the beginning “So what would be the worst thing someone could say about you?” It would be self-indulgent. That’s my worst fear. If someone thinks that it’s just me ranting about myself, I mean why would anyone want to watch it.

What was the hardest thing about it? Actually making it has been amazing, it’s been really amazing – the hardest bit is probably selfishly dredging up emotions, the second hardest thing is how it affects my real life relationships with people that I still know. And the easiest? Making it. Yeah, it came really quickly. I mean I just love it, when I’m doing it I just love it. I’m struggling with one tiny bit at the moment, it’s the end and the last bit I need to figure out. But I find making it quite mathematical, I decide on what I want to do with the audience and then work from that. So I might want them to vomit then fall over backwards, I’ll work back from that. So I’d say “at this point I need them to feel some sympathy or some kind of empathy then I’ll do this”. That was easy. It was the easiest bit, making it.

Brave, if that’s your fear, to tackle something so personal. I wanted to try and make it accessible to everybody else. And somehow, I think by being honest, I mean it’s an honest account of someone’s life, then people can feel like they see themselves in it, or they relate to a certain part of it with their own dirty laundry and I’m just here telling everybody my own. It liberates people; they think ‘wow she’s a complete bitch, so I’m alright’ or ‘god love, that’s nothing’. It’s a show that kind of unites people and the next piece of work I’m making is similar, I think that’s just what my work is like, that’s what I want it to be about.

I wanted to ask you about glamour. You’re a pretty glamorous person, and there was your other work ‘Celebrity Ville’ that occupies similar territory. Do you like glamour? I like glamour…. I feel there’s a big question mark over whether that’s anti-feminist or not. I like glamour… but in a sort of cheesy, tacky almost piss-take-y way. And yes I like sparkly things, but I think I’m being funny with that. If I want to be a sexy matador it’ll always be the most ridiculous and stupid matador that’ll make me look stupid, rather than wanting to be the hottest, sexiest bitch and have everyone fancy me, it’s completely different. So I like glamour but in a bit of a shitty embarrassing way.

So you know what the next piece is going to be? Yeah, ‘Seven Day Drunk’. It’s about being drunk for seven days. It’s a durational piece; I think I’m obsessed with alcohol. I make work better when I’m drunk or hung over. If I go to the studio and I’m really organised and really sober and I get in at 9 o’clock, I don’t get anywhere. But then I get pissed and I’m like ‘Fuck I’ve got to write this all down’. So I’ve been asking more artists about it recently and there are artist like Jimmy Hendrix, Keith Moon who all had a big thing with drink, Ernest Hemingway was a complete piss head as well. There’s a kind of ongoing history of drink and drugs for artists, and I’m interested in that, and what everyone’s obsession with alcohol is, what does it do to you to make you think you’re so fucking amazing, you know?

Do you like Lady Gaga? Owh…. I can’t decide. ha Owh……. I didn’t like her at the beginning because I found her songs quite annoying. Then I listened to her album and thought that’s genuinely quite a good solo album for a young woman and I really like her costumes and I’ d really like it if it was all her writing the songs and designing the costumes, but the more I hear about it and read about it’s actually not. It’s all a big publicity machine and I thought that might not be the case. So now that I know that I don’t think I do like her, it could have been so sweet.

I know. So that’s what the focus is. My plan is to spend seven days drunk in three different cities and before that to collect a lot of people’s, from the local areas, stories, as well as collecting a lot of stories from celebrities, and then somehow make vignettes out of them. It’s about other people and a community experience. You know when you meet a drunk person the movement of them is so lovely, imagine taking that as a movement and turning that into a choreography. So I just need to get some people to pay me to get drunk, the arts council are going to be like ‘Nooo way!’ But then I think it’s got value because it’s something everyone knows about.

So where do you locate the value in your work? This is a question that I’m battling with at the moment. I’ve been having conversations about whether people should be given money to be an artist. I think yes they should, obviously because I’m an artist, but what’s the value of it? The only way I can see that I can put value on my own work is to say “if you want to programme my show, it takes me one day to rehearse, one day to travel with all the scenery, my time costs this much.” I don’t think anyone else should have to think it’s worth anything at all. I don’t expect people to go “it’s amazing, it’s so valuable.” If they don’t like it, they don’t like it.

Maybe that’s exactly the type of transgression they can handle. You can see it in The Sun now - SEX IDIOT ARTIST TO SPEND YOUR MONEY ON SEVEN DAY DRINK BINGE Ha! Maybe you’re right.

ROBERTO FODDAI w w w.robertofoddai .com

NEW ART CLUB: THIS IS NOW

TEXT Eleanor Sikorski & Gillie Kleiman IM AGE N ew Ar t Club

ELEANOR SIKORSKI Tom Roden and Pete Shenton are N ew Ar t Club. A duo with tangible chemistry and differences bet ween them, which, when put together, keep the show tripping for wards . Tom has the cool, Pete has the madnes s, Tom has the comic timing, Pete has the imagination . This is N ow is a funny show (they are billed as either comedy, dance or both dep ending on the venue), which is, at best, a surprising, physically rooted, multi-layered and warp ed collage of memories and, at worst, p antomime. The best and worst are both embraced to (somehow unidentifia ble) good effect. I ’m thinking that not being a teenager of the eighties will hinder my enjoyment of the show – it being a trip down a very eighties themed memory lane (my research for my eighties costume is a very American themed google search of Madonna and The B reakfast Club) – but it seems that my memor y of a south London primary school in the nineties is close enough to keep me included in the fun . Although, what is Caramac? That reference p as sed over my head . The piece is as loud and gaudy as printed leggings but it is also a decent study of nostalgia and sentiment. What do we really mis s? Old school terrorism? B roken hear ts? It seems so! This is now gestures towards the weird and dark but stays sweet. Maybe sweeter than neces sary and I disagree with the duo joke that they are too rude for kids, I feel that actually the show would in fact be very suited to a young audience (were it not for the decade in question). I wanted darker humour and weirder dancing . Maybe the hint of it was enough . H owever dark or weird or not, thankfully they do know how to laugh at themselves . And the music did put me in the right mood for that disco.

GILLIE KLEIMAN N ormally I don’ t much like going to The Place. I mean, I go, because I like or hop e I ’ ll like some of the work that is presented there, but I invaria bly fe el alienated, even if I ’m with a bunch of friends or there to write a bout the p erformance. It ’s a kind of cold snootines s that I exp erience, although am very much aware that this is my deal because lots of p eople like it just fine. Last night began a new era in my understanding of The Place. My friends and I walked into bar to the sounds of the 8 0 s disco to which we (O K, they) had be en looking for ward . The normally sterile sp ace was transformed into Club Tropicana, or p erhaps a version that the 1983 youth club mentioned in the p erformance might have had a go at. It was mega . A handful of p eople had even come dres sed for the occasion; my favourite, for authenticit y, would have to be Eddie Nixon, the theatre director of The Place, dres sed in a white suit with slicked back hair, à la Duran Duran . Ever y dance show should welcome its audience with a p ar t y, in order to fill even the most cynical, hardened dance -goers (that ’s me!) with a sense of celebration and anticip ation, and ever y programmer should dres s up according to the p erformance she or he’s presenting . It se ems a shame that I ’ve be en comp elled to write more about the environs of the p erformance than of the work itself. Don’ t get me wrong, I ’ve be en a fan of N ew Ar t Club since seeing their fa bulous The Visible M en a few years ago, a fantastic evening that confronts the audience with their autonomy or the lack thereof, but I found myself looking for the same gentle clevernes s in This is N ow. That ’s not to say that there weren’ t moments of the same kind of self-realisation that The Visible M en had provoked: the terrorist dance, where the t wo choreographer-dancers execute a gun-toting choreography wearing balaclavas and ask us to clap along, made me consider my own ethics in relation to the memor y of war and violence. I was uncomfor ta ble, but that ’s precisely what I needed in amongst all the laughs . And the laughs were plentiful, from star t to finish, from oldfashioned sex jokes to the wonderful a bsurdit y of watching grown men do English countr y dancing with t wo imaginary children and Sister M ar y, an imaginar y nun . The best joke, for the dance sav v y mas sive, was the O -level dance Tom Roden recup erated for us 2 7 years later, in the full knowledge that GC SE, A-level and even degre e students are still learning the same ol’ modern dance rubbish of yester year. Yes, I had a wonderful time – my belly’s still hur ting now – but I think that dance can, and should, do more than amuse me on a S aturday night.

U N I CY C L E S , BULB HORNS AND THE G R E AT D M I T R I TEXT & IM AGE Katrine Grønbæk

We didn’ t really have any worries about the plan . Even though figured out in the early hours on a random S unday morning with too much alcohol in the blood and no sleep, it all seemed so clear; S outh Africa was waiting ahead of us . H ours before coming to this decision we coincidently bump ed in to an old friend when joining a private p ar t y somewhere. We had a nice chat about travelling and she made the proposal of the night: why didn’ t the t wo of us, hungering for adventure, go to Cap e Town to join a local circus school? H er auntie worked with the circus a couple of years ago and she was quite sure that they would welcome t wo reckles s souls with arms wide op en . We had a final toast to a bright future before swaying home with our heads full of ideas of how circus life would be like. I for my par t imagined loads of animals, an orchestra playing old-fashioned circus music while an old fat sprechtailmeister presented the nex t act coming up . I ’m sure that my travel comp anion too was tumbling with her own odd illusions about circus life and thus an unspoken agreement arose bet ween us; this was the chance not to mis s, therefore buying the tickets before even get ting a hold of the circus was so ver y easy. We were convinced that ever y thing would lead us to the world of circus . Well, predicting what was coming our way would be somewhat imp os sible. We found a circus for sure - not the least bit what we exp ected - far bet ter, never theles s . Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you: The S outh African N ational Circus School!

U N I N C Y C L E S , B U L B - H O R N S A N D T H E G R E AT D M I T R I

Slow day. During school holidays, the circus had a stand where people could try out the different circus gear. B ut on this cer tain day busines s went slow and we had nothing bet ter to do than paint each other’s faces like animals and afterwards take turns playing games on the mobile phone.

The circus artist Marlin poses for the camera . All dres sed up like a 18th century Dutch admiral for this evening’s special occasion: a fire show in one of Cape Town’s strip clubs . The circus was hired for a lot of different gigs . J ust a week before this shot, we picked up Marlin from a job at some kid’s summer party. Dres sed like a clown, walking around on stilts, he was handing out lollipops to the children . Tonight, he is ready to entertain sex-hungry grown ups sporting latex clothes and bottomles s panties . Marlin, a chameleon in show biz .

U N I N C Y C L E S , B U L B - H O R N S A N D T H E G R E AT D M I T R I

The Great Dimitri caught in the final preparations, minutes before the culmination of the show: Man in a bottle. N o wonder his act was the main attraction: a full grown man, dres sed in a super tight techni-coloured unitard and lubed up in vaseline, squeezing his way into a 5 0 cm tall bottle through an A4 size opening accompanied by a fierce techno beat. Once in the bottle, he would stay there while the audience counted down from ten, and then, gently and delicately work his way out again, this time accompanied by Greek guitarist Mikis Theodorakis . First time you saw the stunt, it left you breathles s . S econd time, it left you laughing with tears rolling down your cheeks .

This boy means trouble. Ivor was a charming kind of fellow, who could get away with most things . B ut still, whenever the p olice was around he would get a ner vous look in his eyes . And indeed Ivor was no angel; he usually star ted his amusing anecdotes with the same words: “one time, when I went stealing . . .” Of course he didn’ t always succeed with his exp editions, thus the circus could never really rely on him before a show. Ivor’s adventures also explained his low salar y - most of the money he earned in the circus was used when the Great Dimitri time and again bailed him out of prison .

U N I N C Y C L E S , B U L B - H O R N S A N D T H E G R E AT D M I T R I

Our favourite clown Bles sie. H e was a real natural with his long gangling body and mis sing teeth, combined with a perfect timing . It was impres sive how the artists could replace those mis sing at a performance. I suppose this ability was crucial for the show, as some of the guys weren’ t exactly reliable attendance -wise. Trouble in H annover Park, police, and drugs, often left les s time and energy for the circus . Still, these were the circumstances and it seemed as if Dimitri had a solid grip on his troops .

B ackstage during a show. The tent in which we had all the costumes and gear was always a colourful jungle of make up and wigs, cool drinks and crisps, stilts and honk horns . In other words: total chaos . B ut in some strange way every thing was in fact in its right place, and although the show always started an hour late (due to ‘ technical problems’), all acts went surprisingly well . In the picture my travel mate Thilde is taking a rest in bet ween her two performances as clown and African dancer.

U N I N C Y C L E S , B U L B - H O R N S A N D T H E G R E AT D M I T R I

Roxanne and Robyn ready for the final act: fire ring and African dancing to the beats of Black Eyed Peas . Ivor attacks the beauties from the left. Roxanne to the right is the oldest daughter of the Great Dimitri and circus mama Nicky. We are dealing with a quite serious circus kid . This girl was practicing circus stunts more or les s from the minute she was born, and, of course, she rode to school on an unicycle. Speaking of having circus blood running in your veins .

B ehind the yawning African dancer, is circus mama Nicky keeping a close eye on stage. At the age of seventeen, Nicky was a promising figure skater from Sheffield . B ut falling in love with the Great Dimitri, while he was touring Europe with various circus troupes, made Nickyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s skating career go other directions . She joined the circus and has been in the busines s ever since. That story is 5 0% Danielle Steel, 5 0% Shakespeare, and 10 0% true.

U N I N C Y C L E S , B U L B - H O R N S A N D T H E G R E AT D M I T R I

J amecy, the king of Cool. We didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; t get to meet him that many times, since he was a rare bird in the circus . B ut he did let us know that he considered himself a designer, that his mother did his braids and that it â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s better to stay single.

The trampoline was the hang out spot. We spent dozens of hours waiting for costumers, selling tickets, consuming lots and lots of cool softdrinks, crisps and candy, watching sunsets - and then, finally hit home late in the evening .

KLEIMAN AND THE

BIG TABOO I NTERVI EWER Louise Mochia IM AGE Zuzanna B rzozowska

You’re so fat when you went to school you sat next to everybody. If hot air makes a balloon go up what ’s keeping you down? I wouldn’ t say you’re fat but you have more pounds than the Bank of England. You’ve heard them all before, fat jokes are everywhere. But where issues like disability, gender and racism get a lot of attention in dance, obesity is still a big untouched taboo. Gillie Kleiman refuses to accept that. In her one-woman show ‘Ophelia is Not Dead’, she makes sure the audience has no way of escaping the unspoken.

In your show you’re very upfront about your obesity. Often when I perform in straight forward British Contemporary Dance, people are thinking “oh she’s a fat dancer!” So what I thought I could do is, instead of them thinking that, I can just think it for them and then they can do something else. You beat them to it? I think that people get trapped in this guilt trap of like “she’s a fat dancer, oh I shouldn’ t think that, that ’s not PC!” and then they’re really busy with that in their spectatorship, and instead I just thought I can say it and then they can watch and be interested in this body moving because it ’s interesting and why not. Well, your tactic works . Was it the idea behind the piece from the beginning? No, that wasn’ t where it came from originally. The piece has been through so many transformations . The only thing that stayed from the very first version is the manipulation of the belly. It started of at university with this idea about the body, but it was more to do with eating. I ate on stage and played cards and was trying to make a connection between eating and playing. It wasn’ t very good. But that didn’ t stop you from working on it. No, because of this Live Art organisation in Newcastle. They have a platform once a year and they basically take anyone and they’ll give you a little bit of money for expenses and a small fee, so I thought I could do that. Then I performed it in like a club situation and realised I kept performing it

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in cabaret situations anyway, so I decided it could be a cabaret. Then I would have probably stopped working on it if it weren’ t for a project with the collective I’m in, called ‘Embassy Of ’, so I needed to work on it more and did that at PAF in France. I presented something also quite different, but it had more or less the same components as now, the jokes, the song and all the little dances, but I got really confused and tried to make it really theatrical. That didn’ t work at all it was horrible. But I was also really hungover in that performance.

That ’s just wrong. But I did like this part of the piece very much. It was so funny and you did look incredibly hot. I didn’t want me to comment on my body though. I didn’t want there to be a “she loves her body” or “she hates her body” thing, but at one point it really was a ‘she loves her body piece’ and I didn’t mean it to that’s just how it came across. Do you love or hate your body? Of course I’ d prefer not to be obese. Some of it is just comfort. Like doing yoga, some of the positions are literally impossible and I find it really hard to stretch because in some of the positions I can’ t stretch my lower back because I can’ t put my body on my legs, even though I have the flexibility to do so, but I don’ t have the space. So things like that, and of course also clothes shopping or fitting into seats and all those things .

I worked on it some more and performed it in Bristol in a live art platform, and in Salzburg at an ‘Embassy Of ’ meeting, and then I applied for FreshAiR back in the Spring. I didn’ t really know what FreshAiR was and I thought it was just one of those really big platforms where everyone is invited, but it was quite selected so I was quite surprised.

How do you deal with it? There’s lots of really false education about obesity and how to deal with it and why it occurs . I think this healthy living five a day agenda is not going to tackle obesity at all. That “you can be healthy no matter what size you are” or “you should love your body” big beautiful women kind of fetishism, I don’ t buy into any of those things at all. I don’ t think it ’s good or healthy to be obese, but people are, I am and that ’s a fact, and it ’s concrete and it ’s material.

Sounds like a nice chance. Yes . I didn’ t really want to come down for the mentoring, but Lois Weaver called me and kind of insisted and offered to pay for the train ticket, so I was like ‘‘okay’’. And then I worked with Stacy Makishi, who looks like Edna from The Incredibles . She’s amazing and I had a brilliant time and the piece still had all the same parts and almost in the same order, but it was just different. Just really different.

So isn’ t that what you’re trying to communicate through your work? No, because then I’ d just do some activism. I think it ’s more about the moment of performance and I’m actually wondering whether the audience will commit themselves to watch. I don’ t have a “by the end of the performance you should know”. It ’s more a question like, will people laugh at the jokes or will people laugh at the Jamaican inspired dance, where a completely different thing comes into your mind. Or will people laugh at me shaking my belly, or will people be shocked by the splits, because fat people aren’ t flexible in people’s minds . It ’s more of a question mark?

What is going through people’s minds you think when they watch you? What reactions are you going for? I think some audiences just want everything or just one thing. So if it ’s funny it ’s funny and I’m going to laugh, if it ’s sad I’m going to feel sad. And that ’s it. But I think people wonder if they’re laughing at the jokes or if they’re laughing at me. And then there’s this tension between wanting to laugh, because this is all stupid and the jokes are funny in this kind of stupid joke way, and not knowing whether to laugh. So I’m interested in those kinds of tensions and how to make the audience aware of their own spectatorship in relation to themselves .

It ’s true there are many presumptions like that. Still, in dance fatness is kind of the last taboo. Yes, because disability is hot. If you’ve only got half a leg that ’s cool, we can handle that. I still think it ’s often done in tokenistic and not very helpful ways to be agenda of disability studies . And women choreographers is still a bit of a question mark, but you can have anorexic artists and anorexic performers - it ’s fine. But there are overweight artists out there, there are obese dancers, some really good ones, but it ’s still seen as a special thing, as something slightly out, and I think while we keep saying “oh it ’s not

It ’s clever because it works exactly like that, I was in the audience wondering like mad. Where did you get the jokes? I looked on the Internet. I thought about what happens in a cabaret and there’s always like a comedian or a host to tell jokes, so I started to try and do stand-up, but it was awful, I was embarrassed. So yeah, I just googled the jokes and told them. For all the fat songs I just put in fat or big into Spotify and there are amazing songs about fat women especially in reggae culture and they are such degrading, awful songs .

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a problem”, it will remain a problem. I sometimes wonder whether it ’s only relevant to a dance audience, whether it ’s slightly masturbatory in that way of like dance talking to dancers, but I kind of think it ’s not.

and he was kind of negative about the work . He said my delivery wasn’ t good, that I should change the jokes because they’re not funny. I thought well… yeah they’re not. And he said I should do some proper dancing, he said ‘‘if you’re criticising dance then you should show that you can really do it.’’ But if I’m saying I don’ t want dance to be a demonstration of a technically honed body, that ’s supposed to be more expressive than other people’s, then why would I do it?

Would you say that ‘Ophelia is Not Dead’ is kind of selftherapeutic? In some kind of self-indulgent psychological way I needed to do it, for me to say to myself that the issue is there rather than pretending that it ’s not, that physically I won’ t be able to do certain things, but that that ’s okay. Less therapy in terms of like solving issues in my own life, and more professionally acknowledging that there is an issue in my profession. Of course it would be silly to say that artists, any artist just picks a topic that he thinks is really important to work on and works on that. Of course it ’s because it intercepts with some interest of yours . I’m interested in it because I live it. I don’ t want the piece to be self-indulgent, but to some extent there were some things that were important for me to do to overcome a certain barrier. To shake my belly on stage was horrible the first time I did it.

You wouldn’ t. What interests you about dance? Part of what dance can do is related to kinaesthesia, not just image or audio, but this other sensory level and I never thought I’ d be interested in that because I’m such a die hard conceptualist, but I really am interested in what happens when we move. And I wonder if someone else could feel as if they had more belly or bigger legs, it ’s probably not possible, but I’m still interested in the power of kinaesthesia. Another thing I’m really interested in is notions of community dance in Britain. In British dance community dance is a massive part of the dance landscape, it ’s the way that most people got interested in dance and it ’s also employment for many dancers . I started to wonder about these relationships between community and professional and community and amateur and what those things are. I realised that community dance is not necessarily that which represents a community, but that which produces a community. And I’m interested in how that can happen in a theatre. This notion of communitas, the feeling of being on that liminality of being yourself as an individual but also the sensation of being part of a group. I’m anyway interested in amateur dancers and dancers of different kinds and what we expect, what we allow ourselves to watch, how far do we allow ourselves to be interested.

I suppose you do feel quite exposed, but I didn’ t actually get the impression that you were uncomfortable with it. I wanted to make it as watchable as possible. Not an entertaining “I want you to keep watching”, but literally “can you watch this body, can you hold your gaze?” I could. Have you thought about performing naked? There have been artists especially in Live Art and also visual art paintings and photography of naked fat performers, and when I first started working on this piece, I showed it to someone who was like ‘‘well of course the best thing would be if you were naked!’’ And I have thought about that. But I think that whether or not is a different question, but people are shocked by the obese body, and I think shock is not an interesting mode of spectatorship. Somehow I get the impression that shock makes the liveness disappear. If I was to be naked I would somehow be rendered as an image not as a person, and I prefer to be with the audience, to be together.

It ’s funny how we prepare ourselves . Yes, when you go to see professional dance you expect something. You’re paying so you should get something, achieve something by the end of the night. But in community dance most of the time people go to see it to support the people who are dancing. And that ’s a completely different spectatorial agenda. You’re not assessing, you’re not necessarily interpreting in the same way, but you’re there to support the action that ’s happening.

Good point. Maybe it ’s also in terms of comfort of the performer, which is always tricky making a solo piece because maybe you want something choreographically, but you don’ t feel quite comfortable enough to do it as a performer.

Unconditionally.

What feedback do you get? I had a meeting with the director of Dance City, the dance agency in Newcastle, where I performed the piece before,

KIRILL KULETSKI w w w.kuletski .com

TV DINNER TEXT Charlie Ashwell

Has anyone noticed a change in Jamie Oliver? For those of you resolutely telly-celibate (and I wouldn’ t blame you), Oliver is the golden boy of celebrity chefs; well he was, back in the days when he would zip around London Town on his retro scooter, bantering with greengrocers , feeding coriander to Brian the camera man and rustling up superlatively pucker nosh for his mates . His eat-with-your-fingers enthusiasm had us all tearing stuff up, plonking it in a blender and gleefully wazzing it into a pulp. It was liberating; a culinary nip-out-formilk-in-your-dressing-gown revolution. Food and art and love for everyone. Beautiful. Fast forward to these dark days of Con-dem governments, Nobel Peace Prize oppressors and the general inappropriateness of happiness (I am, at this very moment, about to murder the two women cackling incessantly in my train carriage; may they choke on those Pringles); these are the days of Yuk; they are times of Boo; of unstoppable Bah Humbug. And lo and behold, our little Oliver Twist is at the end of his big-smoke tether. In his latest series of clipped, thirty minute vignettes, ‘Jamie’s 30 -minute meals’, tiredly he cleaves a romaine lettuce and tells us we really should know better by now; any idiot could do this, he says . Do yourself a favour and get a proper chopping board, for god sake, before the entire nation dissolves into a useless pile of obese, unemployed idiots . He doesn’ t say exactly that of course, but you can see it in his eyes . And who can blame him for being a little exasperated? He tried to turn America to the cause of healthy food and they nearly ate him. Poor Jamie. And it ’s not only Oliver who’s fighting a losing battle. What about Ai Weiwei’s turbine hall of seeds? A little bit of ceramic dust and health and safety paranoia collapsed like a wet blanket on a work of art that had the rare potential not only to delight but to provoke debate; to talk both profoundly and with a joyous lightness of touch about the essential and/or imposed anonymity of humankind. I mourn its absence along with the death of The Naked Chef (Oliver’s cheeky noughties pseudonym). So why all the sad faces? (There’s a royal wedding coming!) Pre-recession, we reluctant middle classes quietened our guilt by buying Ecover and planting carrots on the windowsill (or rather fantasised about planting carrotsthat ’s virtuous enough). We were only too happy to use energy saving light bulbs and flush the toilet every other day. The earth’s imminent meltdown was actually a kind of cathartic nightmare, soothed by sunny, planetsaving friendliness . Cheerfully we bought second hand clothes . I still buy second hand clothes- what a hippie. But this is 2010, all grown up. In the era where politicians’ bank accounts shrivel as fast as their dignity, suddenly this is the real end of the world. Jamie Oliver has sold his soul to Sainsbury’s (obviously he needs the money so he can afford a plot of land big enough to feed all his bizarrely named children); he’s failed in persuading America, and vast amounts of the UK for that matter, to eat salad and now he sulkily demands we put in a little effort and buy some goats cheese. The causes of food and art and love, alas, are apparently lost; lost to people’s incessant schedules; lost to the shadow of The Recession. Must art remain forever in the shadow of money? My brother and I are miles apart and yet very similar in our monetary habits . He makes lots of money and spends lots of money. I make very little money and spend very little money. It all amounts to the same thing, really; except that I do art and he does business . Who is more middle class? - probably me, with none of the money and all of the guilt. Yes, I use Ecover. Though slightly hurt by Jamie’s recent disenchantment, I remain hopeful; for food, art and love. All about the grass growing in the cracks in the pavement, I plough on; middle class and skint; making a little and spending a little. Perhaps when you start saying big things like Weiwei, there is the potential for big loss . And maybe that big loss is worth it to have said the big thing. In Con-Dem UK, we may be waning a little materially, but ideas are expanding. There’s something in the air in this chilly, sunny city at the moment that ’s getting people on their feet. People are thinking, commenting, acting and reacting. I like it. Pull on your woolly hat and go and march about something. Before it rains .

SHELLYâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S LOVE

INTERVIEWER Louise Mochia IMAGES Shelly Love*

Shelly Love originally trained to become a dancer/choreographer, but somewhere along the way, she got fed up with it and picked up a camera to shoot some amazing backwards films. Her unique style quickly caught on and her nine short films are screened internationally and continue to harvest awards and prizes. BELLYFLOP talked to Miss Love about the hard work of an artist, finding inspiration and the world of dreams. *Images from The Forgotten Circus

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just like in dance where the ideas are always moving and changing. Also, I doubt everything I do, as I said I don’t find making work easy and that’s because I’m very self-critical, I have to feel that I mean what I’m saying, so yeah if I didn’t have deadlines I would just keep changing and doubting and maybe not getting anything made, so it’s really really key to be forced sometimes.

Have you ever felt incapable of making work? I think every artist has something to say about feeling blocked or not being able to make work. Personally, I don’t find making work easy, I’ve always had to work very very hard, and all the way through my twenties I felt disturbed and frustrated because I had all of this energy and I didn’t know where to direct it. I got to a point as an adult where I kind of realised: I have to do something with this, because otherwise I won’t function very well. The camera has allowed me to work closer with my imagination, so I’m just glad that I found the vehicle. I don’t necessarily know if it’s the right one, but it’s a vehicle and it allows me to be creative.

But when you have to force out those ideas isn’t it hard to keep the artistry in your work? Yeah, I have felt that compromise quite a lot when I do music videos, and have actually learned that sometimes you have to think this is a job and other times this is art, because a music video is a job that you’re making for another artist and a record company.

So, how are you creative? I don’t sit down and create a full story in my head, write it, storyboard it and the whole thing. What I naturally do is that I work in the moment, a bit like when you’re devising choreography, but most filmmakers don’t work in a devised way at all, they write a story, a script, they make a storyboard - to work in a devised way is very unusual within film. Even on the shoot I’m devising to a certain degree.

So you have to respect that. Certainly, and they won’t respect you, if you don’t respect them. As soon as you put your work in the industry and you have a client it becomes about what the client wants and you have to deliver that, so I think it’s just being realistic. You know, I’m not going to go out and make a really horrible cheesy cheesy cheesy piece of work... hopefully. But sometimes you have to compromise because you need to earn a living, and if I can do a job within the industry that may not feel great, but on the other hand give me a few months off where I can concentrate on the work I want to do, and ultimately that’s what drives me, then it’s fine. It’s the only way for me right now.

You’re the odd film director - do the people you work with/for know about your background in dance? Within the filmworld they don’t know me as a dance maker they know me as a director. That’s what they accept me as. I still get work as a choreographer, but I almost feel like I don’t have that label anymore and when I make work for the camera it’s dance film or it’s arguably not dance film because there’s some movement in there, but it’s not necessarily dance film. I do feel I’m an artist, a creative person, rather than a dancer, choreographer or director, or just one thing.

Change of subject. Do you daydream a lot? Of course. Are you kidding me? No. Nope. I have very powerful dreams in general, and that realm of the imagination and dreams is something I’m really interested in, something I like to delve into - it excites me. The fantasy and psychological world is something that I will continue to work with, because it’s exploring that other place. And the fact that a lot of my work is manipulated in some way, like I’ve changed the speed or the direction of it or something, it’s instantly an altered state - it’s not in the real world and there’s something about that language which expresses something psychological or fantasy based.

Your ideas, where do they come from? The way I get ideas is usually from an image or a color, or things that I collect and put together, which becomes a starting point and I just expand from there - I do feel a bit like a magpie sometimes. But sometimes nothing happens for weeks and I don’t feel anything and then suddenly I’m walking down the street and loads of ideas come spilling out of me - like a door opens and everything just spills out. That’s the way that I personally work, which is really difficult because to function in the real world and to work within an industry that expects you to come up with ideas quickly, which is what I’ve been doing in the past few years, means that I have to force ideas out all the time. I find that really challenging, I find it painful, I don’t sleep very much, but I have to kind of stay with something until the idea comes out. But you know, your creativity comes out of you when you’re inspired and you can’t always be inspired... although if I don’t have a deadline I get lost. I need to have a deadline otherwise my ideas continue growing and adapting

Yeah, that’s the thing; to me your work is very much a mix between fantasy and reality... An example is ‘Little White Bird’, where I researched and explored the ideas of a child’s imagination, both the dark side and the light side of the imagination. In the wholehearted happy naïve world there’s also this awareness of the other and of fear, so when I worked with 7 year-old Willow we talked

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together about our dreams and daydreams, and she would describe something very light and cheerful and then suddenly introduce a whitch or a goblin and then be really scared, which grabbed my imagination. It was a very playful process and the piece that came out of it in the end was quite dark, but also very light and beautiful - and that signature, that style seems to be in most of my work. How was your imagination when you were just 7 years old yourself? When I was little my mum went to work nightshifts at the hospital and my dad used to let me stay up late, and that was in the 70’s and there was a lot of quite odd and surreal tv on at that time, and I saw a lot of things that affected me, not in a bad way, but creatively it became part of my language. My imagination at that time could be quite dark, and I was very scared sometimes - I watched ‘The Shining’ when I was only 7 - and now if I watch a horror film I’m terrified, but it interested and still interests me, I don’t want to not look. But that’s the way I see life as well, I’m very conscious of how amazing it is, but also the reality - it’s about what you choose to see and I’m not scared to go to those places and look at those things, because I think it’s just part of exploring your own nature as a human being. Nice.

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THEME TIME!

ALTER-EGOS 1. Hunter S. Thompson – Raoul Duke Drug-addled craziness. Thompson loved guns and drugs and apparently shot himself in the head whilst on the phone to his wife with his son next door. Fuckery. Portrayed by Jonny Depp in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (I think the book is better). Depp also narrates the docu-whatever Gonzo. 2. Charles Bukowski – Henry Chinaski One of my favourite writers and the protagonist of many of his novels and other writings. Chinaski is a drunk, womaniser with no respect for authority but somehow manages to be one of the most honest and engaging characters in any of the books I have read… Played by in Matt Dillon in the film adaptation of Factotum.

TEXT Milkman 3. Mary Anne Evans – George Eliot 19th century English novelist who gave herself an ambiguous name so she could get published and be read and respected rather than disregarded as a woman. She wrote Middlemarch and Silas Marner and The Mill on the Floss. 4 . David Bowie – Ziggy Stardust The iconic glam-rock persona. Check those legs! Brought back to life by Jonathan Rhys Meyers in Velvet Goldmine, a teenage rock music fan’s must-see film (includes Ewan McGregor and Eddie Izzard)

5. David Bowie – Aladdin Sane 6. David Bowie – Thin White Duke His rather dapper Station to Station-era identity. 7. David Bowie – David Jones His actual name. 8. Brian Warner – Marilyn Manson There was a rumour that he had two ribs removed in order to be able to suck his own cock and that comes up pretty high in a google search, still. This is he circaMechanical Animals album cock-less in androgyne form. This caused a bloody scandal back in ’98.

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9. PJ Harvey Her songs often tell stories with the voices of various other characters (see: Hair, Me-Jane, Is This Desire?).

10. Sacha Baron Cohen – Ali G One of those things I don’t want to find funny… He put Staines on the map. 11. Jennifer Saunders – Edina and Joanna Lumley – Patsy (Absolutely Fabulous) These two are worthy of several images and constant watching of Absolutely Fabulous.

12. Don Draper – Dick Whitman (Mad Men) Big-shot ad man who stole an identity to get there. Tee. He manages somehow to be charming but people who wear suits all the time kind of make me suspicious (I know he isn’t real..). 13. Dave Lizewski – Kick-Ass Marvel ‘super’hero. I found the film very funny. Sam Taylor-Wood’s young baby-daddy Aaron Johnson plays Dave Lizewski aka crime-fighter Kick-Ass.

14. James Howlett aka Logan – Wolverine This could be a long list but I like Wolverine enough to not mind making it a short one. Another character from Marvel Comics (cartoon and movies). A note: X-Men Origins: Wolverine is actually not that bad… 15. Self-Made Man – Norah Vincent She lived for a year as a man. Always wanted to read her book ‘Self-Made Man’ (but maybe not to pay for it).

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