Mudlarks International Complicité residency

Full text:

I Remember, Mudlarks International Residency 2023

– Form borrowed from I Remember, a 1970 experimental memoir by American artist Joe Brainard

 

I remember Stroud train station, unknown faces and trying to guess who else was part of the residency.

I remember the taxi driver driving so fast it felt like he was saying ‘I know these roads and you don’t.’

I remember seeing old trees and a house almost as big and almost as old.

I remember the desk next to the window and placing three carefully chosen books one on top of the other on the left-hand side, and my laptop centre.

I remember lying on the bed and feeling a sense of space, like my body and mind could spread out for the first time in a long time.

I remember meeting X and feeling excited to meet someone who thought so visually and who seemed to never rush. We sat on a large tapestry-covered sofa and our conversation was so slow and so thoughtful that I could hear my own breath.

I remember little pots of various yoghurt-like puddings. Yellow one day. Red berries the next.

I remember X telling me about their practice and noticing how they smiled when they spoke about hanging from some kind of hoop and spinning very fast.

I remember laughing a lot at dinner about what animal it would be best to take to war. I googled whether it was possible to ride a giraffe.

I remember thinking later that in a war I would probably hide. Therefore, tortoise.

I remember X with glasses on, almost flying off the chair in response to the words she read aloud from her laptop.

I remember the moment of silence before anyone spoke.

I remember how deep the bath was and how the net curtain covered the window.

I remember X moving a lot in his chair as he named his real feelings about the topic nobody wanted to hear about.

I remember X asking for an extension lead, and then when I asked what for, they said they had an image of being wrapped up in wires.

I remember shouting ‘this is my kind of devising’ as I ran up the stairs to find wires.

I remember texting while walking on a forest path and looking up to see a man in an orange shawl leading a bare-foot woman. They both moved so slowly looking up at the trees. I put my phone away and then took it out again.

I remember church*. First Witney Houston, then Hot Chip. I was conscious of my heart rate. I hadn’t danced for two years, since covid.

I remember X saying, ‘there’ll always be different ways to worship.’

I remember headphones on, sunlight through the window and writing for the first time in a long time.

I remember wondering why I’ve always felt I didn’t quite fit in the theatre world, or any ‘world’.

I remember feeling like an artist again.

I remember the way X’s voice shook on the words ‘personal call’.

I remember not wanting to go to bed because there was so much laughter.

I remember a phone call to Denmark to connect to my mentor and the conversation feeling unusually easy.

I remember the words ‘you can’t throw a brick through a window if you can’t get out of bed’ and ‘selective humanitarianism isn’t humanitarianism, it’s racism’.

I remember asking if X ever felt worried about being a ‘white saviour’ and her response about the importance of people being witnessed. She told a story about a beach, a boat arriving and a cigarette.

I remember knowing what I’ve known for a while: it’s the everyday that means the most.

I remember X’s face when she realised a snail wasn’t the gift that X wanted.

I remember feeling old.

I remember falling asleep on the last day on the window seat and waking up to see X and X sleeping too. X on the sofa. X curled up on the floor under a blanket. I felt safe and happy. Artists asleep in the same room.

I remember X not wanting to talk about that particular play and seeing in that resistance months of exhaustion.

I remember overhearing a phone call about large venues, sick cast members and 14-hour days, and thinking how a residency around rest was perhaps the only place it could happen without that world crowding in.

I remember the colours and shapes of X’s access document and how uniquely her they were.

I remember X and I buying a bottle of wine for everyone.

I remember liking X’s jumpsuit.

I remember everyone leaving and me walking in the rain.

I remember thinking that talking about making art is very different to actually making it.

I remember feeling like I’d found and lost my tribe.

*church is when you throw your body around to a tune of your choice