In Vino Veritas

Episode 7

Life in the theatre took a new turn. I was approached by the stage manager who sounded me out about working the follow spotlights during the next series of evening productions.
Why not? the dosh would come in handy.
These lights were based on a simple principle. They consisted of two carbon rods (about 2cm diameter) which were aligned at an angle of about 45 degrees. The high voltage electrical current flowing between them produced a crater in the lower carbon,
which in turn was the source of a brilliant light. This light could go from a ‘pin spot’ to a full flood, depending on the lens control. The carbons had to be ‘fed’ as the burning continued , one praying all the while that the top carbon did not come loose and land in the bottom of the lamp holder. All of this was conducted under ferocious temperatures, you could fry an egg on the lamp case, or roast a finger or two.
The whole caboodle was mounted on gimbals, so the beam could be directed wherever one wished, at whatever size. So far, so good . Two ‘operators’ were needed to cover the whole stage. This background info. makes sense of the following proceedings.

The opening evening of Swan Lake was upon us. I already had
several shows under my belt, so to speak, so I was ready for this. My colleague for the evening was Roland. This dear fellow was a ‘chocoholic’ an addiction to this confection going back for years. At any point during the day his Mae West boiler suit contained up to 10kg of assorted chocolates. This soporific substance, I discovered, has no equal.
He was an electrician and his colleagues feared for his life when he seemed to be drifting off atop a 10 metre ladder re-wiring the spot bars.
Finally, we we both had headphones to get our orders.

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Swan lake proceedings got underway with a total blackout. The orchestra concluded the overture and I got my first instruction from the director.
‘With the smallest of pin-spots, pick up the male dancer emerging from the wings on the prompt side of the stage’ Fine. Done. Ditto to Roland to pick up the female lead on the other side. NOT SO FINE. At this precise point Roland fell asleep. In so doing, he relaxed his grip on the lamp. The pin-spot, getting bigger, then drifted up to the proscenium arch, up and up until it came to rest on the theatre ceiling.
By now the stage director was apoplectic. His screams could be heard in the back rows of the gods. Roland came to. Desperately, he tried to put things right. The band played on…..Until the conductors desk and those of the first violins were illuminated by a thousand watt spotlight as Roland valiantly tried to find the stage.
As is (or was) the case in music based theatre, the actors or dancers will sometimes follow the music to gauge their arrival. In this case the entrance of the corps de ballet took place in total darkness, as they spilled, literally, on to the stage. One wonders what the collective noun is for a tangled heap of swans. I still had the male lead in a pin-spot, his facial incredulity was the only thing to be seen in the whole theatre.
The stage managers voice rose equally in volume and pitch. Then, a top C and a deafening silence.
I got home early that night.

Cast Your Bread

Episode 1

Another scene. A desert island. The lone inhabitant (he had tried to sail across the Pacific in a very large yoghurt pot) was surviving, but only just. He had found enough to eat locally, but had saved up the tastiest bits of his sandals for a kind of culinary ‘Michelin Moment’. However, after some instinctive premonition he decided on a more modest seafood meal instead.

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Was there some kind of celebration in prospect, perhaps not unconnected with the world he had left behind? This was an immense loss, as powerful as life itself.
He gazed out to sea, this gap would never be closed….. nostalgia flooded in.
But wait. He sat bolt upright.

Ah…tricks, a mirage, a cliche even… Was that the light bouncing off the neck of a bottle?
A bottle that bobbled toward him? Did this bottle contain a tightly rolled scroll of documents? His sun- stroked neurones had led to a wandering mind more than once.
Our man was a fine string player in an earlier life. Could this vessel contain an autographed score of Beethoven’s Op. 132 string quartet? Music that the Gods could listen to but could never hope to write. Ever. His spirits rose.
He waded out to get the very real object. Yes, a scroll of papers was contained within.
As he gently extracted them, our man wept.
A moment to be savoured! The text was in English!
He settled down under his favourite palm tree and began to read. It was a review of a conceptual art show. It was headed ‘Beyond Aesthetics, Readings in cultural intervention’. There was pages of this stuff… deep, deep, joy!
Agog with anticipation, he read the following:

‘During the past two decades the breakdown in humanist metaphysics has radically transformed theories of the production and reception of art. Humanist fallacies of the individual as an essential self have been deconstructed by post- structural explanations of the formation of subjectivity through language and its representations.
The art object is no longer conceived as an autonomous, transparent device reflecting the unmediated intentions of its maker, but read as a visual text ‘read’ through the lens of the cultural fabric which furnishes the meanings encoded in art.
Roland Barthes’s famous dictum that ‘the birth of the reader must be at the cost of of the death of the author’ has suffered an overly reductive interpretation as simply entailing the impossibility of originality, which has been used to justify the supposed futility of attempts to generate new imagery. Abandoning the modernist pursuit of
‘Making It new’, reactionary artists now gratuitously ‘quote’ existing images. But as Jean Baudrillard commented, quotation is never a goal in itself… the play on second and third degree quotes…. is a pathological form of the end of art, a sentimental form’.
If, as Barthes wrote, ‘a text’s unity lies not in its origin but…….’

At this point, (about 10% of ‘beyond aesthetics’), our man drifted off…. perchance to dream… about what I wonder?

See ‘cast your bread’ episode 2

Formula Fun 6

Episode 6

On his way back home, so to speak, Mumbles came to an abrupt halt. ‘What the….’
He gazed at the far pavilions… or, more accurately, the chaste ivory- tinted beauty of a series of conical buildings. ‘Bastards!’ he hissed, ‘let’s hope they have a lovely time GLAMPING in their sylvan slums. ‘See if I care’.   He did.   But worse,  by now he had lost his way. Not difficult with about 50 square hectares of tented terrain to navigate. Where was the bloody flag?
Calling Paul on the mob was the last card to play. This episode would go into buddy mythology and be wheeled out at every opportunity. NO, he will search. After passing the same fire hydrant 5 times he had to summon help. Pulled out mobile, and there, reflected in the screen in the distance was a tiny flash of canary yellow. Deo Gracias! It was a beautifully restored Lotus Elan with German plates. He had passed it on his way to seeing his Eastern European chums. A re- creation of his original position was required… a real test for his Malbec and Shiraz soaked neurones. A sigh of relief was matched by a lengthening stride.
Paul had his dinky little chef’s hat on when Mumbles arrived.
He was putting the fishing touches to some bacon baps which had been cooked on his small gas stove. Of course he had his microwave and his ‘CampAGA,’ but he liked to blend in with his fellow campers in the great outdoors. Things got a bit difficult when it came to hot drinks. ‘All the rooibos you can drink’ he announced cheerily. Mumbles eyes ablaze with apathy. One of the  jewels of his liquid  iconography was a 50cl mug of piping hot Ethiopian Arabica, just thin enough to drink but not thick enough to plough. Baps great.
After breakfast F1 practice beckoned. A huge column of humanity shuffled towards the entrance gates. Very young, young, middle, old, male, female, infirm.
A Petronas pilgrimage. Reminiscent of Lourdes or the Camino de Santiago.
Practising terrific. On the limit. An ear-splitting world. Pauls response was measured, expert. Mumbles embraced every bit of this alien culture, so wished his 10 year old grandson could have been with him. Stunning. 

Next… Another teensy tent problem….

In Vino Veritas

Chapter 6

Meanwhile, still back at the theatre, painting scenery continued. By now I was familiar with the whole set-up . In a long narrow-ish studio, the huge back- cloths were attached to stout wooden stretchers. A gap between the floor and the wall, (together with the aid of an electric motor), meant they could be raised and lowered as and when. Painting the flats and other props was very straightforward.
If one imagines about 200 ice-cream cartons filled with every tint, tone and high colour imaginable, the whole approximating the range of a High street DIY paint retailer, then they were occupying a central table. They were maintained, in exemplary fashion by Steve, the splodger… hardly a flash job description. All water-based, of course. …the colours, not Steve.
Work proceeded well on the Viennese hell. Endless drop shadows, highlights, reflected lights, marbling, wood graining, cast shadows, all the usual old tricks of trompe l’oeil orthodoxy cascaded down. Rather similar to sucking boiled sweets.
BUT WAIT. I was admiring the job I had done on some alcove encased temptress and then became aware of a fellow admirer. A delicious exchange followed.

‘Look’, said our leader, ‘um…hmmmm…this is rather good….ummm ..’
He glanced at his watch…’could you do a few more?’ I glanced at his efforts. Rather me do them than him, I thought.
‘No problem , I said, you go and have a rinse or 3 with your mates and leave the alcoves and little darlings to me.’
Not a lot was said, but it was hugely significant.
Theatre mythology is also huge; Quasimodo, phantoms, ghosts, creaking woodwork, strange meanings, wobbly stairs, all of that.
I usually arrived first in the morning to get the studio opened up.
Up the creaking stairs. I grabbed the handle of the ancient door. Resistance. Push then came to shove.
The door opened a bit to reveal a pair of shoes stuck underneath.
Why the hell would somebody?….. A closer look. There were legs in those shoes.
According to the coroner, the death must have been agonising. Huddled in the foetal position, Steve had tried several exit stratagems, but lethal photographic chemicals had been most effective, at God knows what agony.
To complete the theatrical… because of rigor mortis and the narrowness of the stairwell, his body had to be put in a sling and lowered down on a rope.

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One reflected upon previous conversations with Steve, but there was no indication of what he was thinking. More entry into the world.

 

Formula Fun 5

Episode 5

The facilities

The campground was bedecked with recognition flags, a sort of pre-dawn Agincourt.
Mumbles took careful note of the nearest markers as this trip was now attended by some urgency. After an eternity he spotted 2×200 metre queues in the distance.
‘Early birds for the racetrack’, he thought. Quick re-think. Why are they all carrying wash bags and towels? He pressed the distraction therapy button as he joined the queue.
The woman in front made Rubens’ females look anorexic. Boy, was she a bonny baby.
He gazed down at her equally huge washing-up bowl. Hmmm… muesli, porridge, full English, toast, muffins, marmalade, tea, coffee, milkshakes and loads more. Lucky them. They chatted.
During the course of this, Mumbles remembered that his dwelling was described as a two person tent. He fancy – flew again. What would happen if he and mega- cuddles got a bit pally and decided to have a coming together? His little tent would become a geodesic dome or a kind of vast jelly mould which bounced around quite a lot. Such was his amusement at this image he laughed out loud. ‘Sorry, hay fever’, he explained to his concerned new best friend.

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What also hastened the departure of his amusement was the awareness of a look- alike Sumo wrestler beside him. Said wrestler’s tattoo display would rival that of any Maori chief.
His bling bracelets and bangles was topped off with a little diamond skull which held his pony tail in place. ‘Meet Crusher’, said cuddles, ‘a gentle giant’.
The amenities block turned out to be a model of efficiency. Staffed entirely by non- Brexit people , it was in a constant cleansing mode. Marshals directed traffic and wash- bag wounding non existent. Refreshed and relieved, Mumbles began the long journey home.
And then he heard it, them,….a load of 600 Hp engines splitting the morning air…
Mumbles head filled with keen anticipation… up to his point, a truly endangered species.

Episode 6. Breakfast at Paul’s,..racing!!!!

Formula Fun 4

Episode 4

Evening meal and so to bed…

Time for some food! In one of his epistles to the Ecclestones, St Paul outlined the cosmopolitan nature of the Silverstone cuisine. It seemed to mirror exactly the range of food available in Collins Street, Melbourne. Alas, Dodge City would cover it. Still, the food was hot and, deepest joy, the beer was cold. Mumbles would have settled for a couple of glasses of sandwiches. Back now for a good night’s sleep.

Mumbles air bed was perhaps a tad over-inflated. Any sudden movement would result in the occupant being catapulted on to the floor. This was compounded by contour problems. The air bed ridging was identical to that of a frozen deeply ploughed field in February – and about as hard. If you got stuck in the ridges, move v e r y s l o w l y .
After a while and a fair bit of bruising, the mantle of sleep started to weave a magic…then…O MY GOD!! Please say it’s not happening to me!
It was four to the floor Migraine Music, conveyed through a Nuremberg sound system. Mumbles needed a fix. AAAAAGGGHH! It was in Paul’s microwave, drying off.
Music died at about midnight, but with sublime synchronisation it blended into a raging storm. Rain hurtled down. Tent kept dry…but!
Mumbles off into a fitful sleep. CRAMP! At 3 in the morning. Involuntary spasm. Catapulted to the floor. Hits the side of the tent. That’s when a tent sheds water…on the inside. It runs down your neck and back. Jump to the other side to avoid it and it runs down your front. ‘Why did I skip RE classes’? mused Mumbles.
Grey morning arrived at last. Mumbles final labour presents itself. How to get fully dressed in a sitting position without touching the top or sides of the tent.
Seventy something bones and muscles have serious articulation problems. Back howls in protest. Eventually emerges from his cozy chrysalis. Grabs his rain soaked towel and sets off to THE FACILITIES!